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glowingbadger · 1 year

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Okay uhm so awepgowegjpoi I'm posting an OC smut piece for the first time cause a couple of you said you were okay hearing about OCs a bit (don't worry this is still a 99.9% fandom blog lmao) and I just got this whole scenario so badly stuck in my brain that I literally couldn't think about writing anything else until I finished it, so... to the two or three of you out there who read this, I love you and I hope that someone you like consensually kisses you on the mouth.

background info crash course:

setting: Pokemon cyberpunk dystopia (you heard me) Though I will admit that for this piece in particular, since it's smut, the actual Pokemon stuff really takes a back seat lmao

Shaeleigh: an up-and-coming Pokemon trainer. She's a somewhat spoiled young woman, but with a good heart. While very conventionally attractive and feminine (character illustration here), she has very unconventional tastes in both Pokemon and men. Her greatest goal is to open a private shelter for unwanted and retired Pokemon, which will require a huge amount of money, experience and clout.

Professor Shoot: the young and somewhat quirky professor responsible for overseeing Shae's progress, along with her fellow trainers, Mooey and Steig. Shae is desperately in love with him, despite the obvious obstacles involved in pursuing him.

Terry: a monstrously strong man who can literally wrestle full-grown Pokemon; he's a powerful and respected gang leader, more of a warlord in the rough and chaotic underbelly of the city. Despite this, Shae deeply respects his sense of honor and individual freedom.

The Smut vvv

The worst of it all was that he had kissed her back, if only for a few precious moments. Shae had gotten to feel him lean towards her, cup her face in his hand, part his lips for her tongue. Sensations that she had longed for, that she knew she would never be able to wrest from her memories. And then, he’d pulled away.

“We- I…” Professor Shoot was breathless, holding onto her shoulders while resolutely avoiding her gaze, “I can’t.”

She tried to move to him, to touch him.

“But, Professor-”

“Shae, please.”

He raised his eyes to hers once, briefly, then cast them low once more.

“I’m sorry. You- you’re a trainer under my care, and with my position as a Professor- the League, they would-”

“It’s fine.” Shae cut him off. Numbness buzzed through her limbs, radiating from her chest. “It’s, y’know, totally fine,” Shae laughed, shrugging, “Sorry, Professor, that was, uh, really stupid of me, wasn’t it.”

Don’t cry. Not here, not now. Hold it in.

“Shae…” his hand reached toward her, and this time, she took a step back. He looked hurt, and in a horrible, savage way, she was glad. She wanted him to carry at least some small fraction of this feeling.

“It’s fine,” she repeated, “I get it. I’ll, uh. I’ll stop bugging you.”

Don’t cry.

Shaeleigh barely remembered ordering the Autocab. She remembered going to get picked up even less; her limbs all felt distant, separate from her somehow. Her body was nowhere, untethered and yet so, so heavy. Her mind was everywhere, and she hated it. Now, in the back seat with only the automated driver up front for company, she felt that perhaps she should cry. But she couldn’t. She considered, too, that she could hold one of her beloved Pokemon close and let them bring her some amount of comfort. But she quickly realized that she didn’t want any of them to see her like this. Shellder and Raticate had both seen her cry before- but they had never seen her hollow.

She kept recalling those sensations. The professor’s hair was soft to the touch, clean and smooth. His tongue tasted of berries, and the detail had made her smile into their kiss when she’d noticed it. His lips were soft, his body so much warmer than anything else in those sterile offices lining the League’s headquarters.

“I can’t.”

The knife twisted in her heart at the thought. She needed to escape the things stuck to the scraped and raw surfaces of her mind- the good, the bad, all of it. All of him. She needed something to supplant these thoughts, exorcize him from her body’s memory. For as long as his were the last lips that had touched hers, she would be trapped by this feeling.

[I want to see you.]

The words glowed harshly back up at her from the vintage smartphone in her hand, a finger hovering over ‘send’. It was idiotic, possibly even risky. What kind of person goes running from the rejection of their professor and into the arms of a criminal? Shae’s lips pressed together. She could just go back to the apartment she shared with Mooey and Steig. There was no telling how much either of them would even understand about her feelings. Just because she trusted them with her life didn’t mean they needed to listen to her gut herself empty.

Shae thought of Terry. Strong, honorable, straightforward. He could make her forget, even if just for a little while. So she pressed send, and soon after, received an address in reply.

The autocab dropped her off in Octant Six, on the building’s thirtieth floor landing, which left twenty six more to descend to her destination. It was deeper than most citizens of Omnia would ever find themselves- deep enough to cross into the Sprawl, where manmade landscapes lay in near total disuse, suspended in the space between the present and past. Shae’s brother had always claimed that, before society built upward, these places were bustling hubs- shopping malls and massive school campuses and apartment complexes all cramped up together like bodies squeezing into an elevator. Now, they were more akin to ruins. Shae had always taken for granted that they’d been long abandoned, but she knew now that those on the fringes of society made their homes here. Those who fell between the cracks, between skyscrapers and skybridges, landed in the Sprawl.

Her wedge heels tapped lightly on the bare concrete floors down the hall. She wasn’t even certain if anyone lived in the other apartment units she passed, but she felt self-conscious of her own footsteps regardless. She tried to walk confidently, like her father had always told her. Head up, eyes straight ahead, steps firm. But when she double-checked the apartment number at the end of the hall and knocked on the door, the sound was hesitant, delicate.

Terry opened the door to her while pushing his long mane of dreadlocks over his shoulder. It only then occurred to Shae that she’d never seen him fully out of his power armor before. The sight of him in close-fitted black under-armor strangely made him seem all the more sturdy and imposing. His bare musculature was a sight to behold, and she noted the way the fabric hugged tight across his chest and shoulders with particular appreciation.

“Shaeleigh.” his voice was low, yet she felt it reverberating through her. He wore a strange, knowing expression, “I had not expected to see you so soon. Come.”

He gestured her inside, and Shae followed with her stomach flipping restlessly all the while. She only took a moment to glance around her surroundings. It looked how she expected it to look- mostly. Sparse, utilitarian, a box of raw building materials with an old-fashioned mattress bed in the far corner, a cramped shower behind a cracked door, and a stove that might have been pilfered from a restaurant that went out of business a decade or two ago. She only briefly glanced over the rack holding his bulky power-armor upright near the door, flanked by the cement-laden crossing sign sledge that served as his weapon. The sight might startle someone who hadn’t met him as the brutal warlord, the uncompromising force of nature that he was. Shae was simply impressed at the relatively bloodstain-free state of them.

Here and there, an object would stand out like it had been sloppily collaged into the room. A well used, but plush and luxurious armchair rested beside an end table that had clearly suffered at least one half-repaired broken leg. On that table sat a set of pristine liquor glasses- real glass, by the looks of it, not the usual synthetic blend. A vibrant, hand-painted image of the sun rising or setting over a mountain range accented the wall across from this seating arrangement, with a wired television set interrupting the space in between. If Shae considered these bizarre fineries for a moment, she would recognize them for what they were: the spoils of war. But she wasn’t here to consider a damn thing tonight.

She heard Terry close the door behind her, then felt him near, a strong arm easing around her waist far more gently than she’d expected.

“What can I do to make you feel more comfortable?”

Her shock-pink eyes met his steady gaze. Her heart thudded. His large, calloused hand ran across the exposed small of her back, and Shae’s hands traveled up the muscled contours of his chest, fingers gripping around the fabric of his shirt. When she spoke at last, her voice was breathy, whispering in the miniscule space between his lips and hers.

“Fuck me until I can’t think.”

Terry almost smiled, and his lips brushed hers when he replied,

“Then that is what I will do.”

His arm tightened around her, holding her flush against his powerful frame and even lifting her feet an inch or two from the floor as he kissed her firmly. Shae clung to the front of his clothes and kissed him back with all of the anxious heat writhing in her veins. His tongue thrust past her lips to meet hers, and she returned every ounce of passion he gave, sighing eagerly into his mouth with her hands sliding up his chest. Yes, this was exactly what she needed. For tonight, at least, she could convince herself that the ache in her body was for him, and him alone.

Her hands wandered down his torso once more, playing at the bottom hem of his shirt for a moment, then sneaking her fingertips beneath it.

“So eager,” Terry said, low and rumbling between kisses.

“I need you,” Shae half-moaned, making a feeble attempt at tugging his shirt up even as her body pressed to his. He let out a low, approving hum and grabbed a handful of her ass, pulling her more firmly against him.

“And you will have me, in time.”

With that, he released her, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the nearby armchair. Shae subconsciously bit at her lower lip. His body was rock solid all over, his skin rich and dark and beautiful, even riddled with scars as it was. Each subtle shift and flex of his muscles filled her with renewed urgency, but she wrangled her composure and shrugged off her jacket, discarding it with her shoes on the floor. When she turned back towards Terry, she saw him watching her, eyes burning with unabashed lust. She adored the way he looked at her. She adored the way he wanted her.

He continued openly admiring her as she, perhaps a bit more slowly than was necessary, pulled her sports bra up over her breasts and let her substantial chest bounce free before him. Her leggings and panties went next, slid down her deliberately swaying hips at just the right angle for him to take in her figure. She noticed the corner of his lip curl into an appreciative grin as he took her in, but as much as she enjoyed feeling the hunger in his eyes, Shae was in no mood to waste time. The more space she gave her thoughts, the greater the risk of them catching up to her. So instead, she returned to his arms and let him guide her onto his bed beneath him.

Terry’s large hand caressed her cheek with fingers spread into her hair as he kissed her against the mattress, and the wave of dizzy pleasure through her body filled Shae with relief. She gave a mewling, pleading moan, and her body arched up against the unyielding hardness of his frame. Her teeth nipped at his lower lip, and she felt him smile at her impatience. Then, as his kiss began to travel down the side of her neck, her nails dragged into his hair and her eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Mark me,” she demanded, though her voice came as a shaky sigh.

“I do not often take orders,” he said, though next she felt the sting of his teeth at her throat, sucking a dark crimson bruise onto her fair skin. Shae replied with a groan, and tried to nudge him closer to her with her heel at the back of his thigh. Her nails raked down his back, desperate to provoke him. Then, his hand at her cheek urged her to look him in the eye.

"Do not be hasty," his thumb brushed across her bottom lip, "I want you wet enough to take me."

The heat in her belly roared to life at this, and she could only wordlessly nod. With that, Terry turned his focus to her breasts. Large enough to fill his hands and then some, he palmed one, fondling it and savoring the plump softness of her body, while his lips attended to the other. His tongue circled one nipple while his fingers rolled and pinched the other, and each stiffened immediately in response.

"Ohh…" Shae's head turned to the side on his pillow, "Mmm, Terry…"

He drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking at it for a moment before switching to give its twin equal attention. Shae squirmed happily beneath him all the while, reveling in the firm way he handled her. He was never harsh or overly rough, but he made sure she felt him; felt his hands running along her body, his breath hot on her skin, his mouth kissing, biting, pleasing her.

Soon, he began to kiss a path down the center of her torso, his lips hot between her breasts, along her abdomen, until he reached the smooth softness of her belly. Here, just below her navel, he bit down once more. Shae arched upward again as she gasped into the quiet surrounding them, fingers curling in the dreads of his hair. By the time he moved on from this spot, he’d granted her one more conspicuous pink mark, tender to the touch and unmistakable at a glance. It was unlikely that her usual clothing would hide it. She thought of Steig or, more likely, Mooey catching sight of it and meeting her with that knowing look. She wondered whether the Professor would notice.

Don’t think about him.

Terry parted her thighs before him and lowered his head while his fingers spread her lower lips. Then, his tongue-

“Fuck-” Shae breathed in, toes curling, legs twitching in around him. Terry held fast at her thighs, forcing them to stay open for him while he worked. His tongue ran up the length of her slit, teasing her entrance only briefly before coming to stroke rhythmically across her clit. Instantly, she felt a new rush of heat rising to her skin. Every nerve in her body seemed centralized around the warm, rolling sensation of him lavishing the little nub with attention. His lips sealed around the surrounding sensitive flesh while his tongue teased and flicked and rubbed, the pleasure unrelenting, pushing her ever closer to release.

“Fuck, Te-Terry..! So… so good..!” Shae panted and pleaded for him, and he gave no reply aside from his continued service to her needy cunt. Truly, she had never known that a man’s tongue could feel so forceful, yet so sensual- like he was demanding her pleasure. Her hips rocked against him, greedily seeking more, and he uttered an approving growl, his hands gripping more forcefully at the swell of her thighs, though he never eased in his efforts to propel her towards her climax. If anything, her unabashed ecstasy seemed to encourage him, drive him to push her further, to utterly satisfy the woman in his bed.

With his lips applying pressure around her most sensitive nerves and the tip of his tongue stroking her clit in firm, tight circles, Shae felt herself rapidly approaching her climax. Her hips lifted just slightly from the bed as her body tensed. Her chest heaved with her panting breath as her fingers clenched, one hand in Terry's hair and the other at the pillow behind her. Then, legs trembling, she gasped out his name once more as the tingling warmth of her orgasm swept through her center and across her skin.

Terry didn't let up until he felt Shae's body relax beneath him. Then, he straightened his back, looming over her with her legs slung around his hips as he tossed his hair back over his shoulders. When her hazy eyes met his, her legs wrapped more tightly around him, a flimsy attempt to pull him closer and plead for more. He wore that same subdued grin, but at last, she watched as he undid the front of his pants and tugged them down to free his hardened cock. Shae's pulse sped, and she let out an unfamiliar low, whimpering sound.

"So big…" she breathed out, squirming with excitement at the mere thought of that powerful tower of flesh entering her. He was easily the biggest Shae had ever been with, long and thick and perfectly accented by a bulging vein or two running up the shaft. Terry let out a short breath through his nose, not even quite a laugh, but enough to indicate that he was accustomed to this response. No wonder he'd insisted on getting her wet and ready to take him.

Without a word, he led her onto her stomach, and Shae eagerly followed. In fact, the moment she regained her focus, she made sure to make something of a show of presenting herself to him. With her head low and arms hugging the pillow that carried Terry's masculine scent, she propped up her lower body on her knees and arched her back. As she watched him briefly stand to finish removing his remaining clothing, her spine curved like a stretching Persian, her legs spread wide as she playfully wiggled her hips just a little. When he kneeled behind her once more, she felt his hand slap the side of her ass- not hard enough to sting, but enough to watch the way it jiggled in response. Then, just when she was ready to beg to feel him, the warm head of his cock pressed between her lower lips. It rubbed tantalizingly against her until he aligned it with her entrance, and with both hands now fixed at her hips, Terry began to push into her.

"Ohhhh…" Shae saw white, her grip on the pillow tightening as his hard, thick member began to stretch her open around him. He filled her completely, driving slowly deeper until she felt him hit her core. She had never felt anything near this size before, and the overwhelming stimulation soon had her body shuddering once again.

Now buried into her warm, wet hole to the base, Terry gave a subdued groan, a strong hand cupping and fondling her ass.

"You feel good, Shaeleigh."

Before she could reply, he began to move his hips. Starting slow but firm, he thrust the incredible length of his cock into her, each pass sending a shiver up her spine. Shae could tell he was restraining himself- just barely -giving her the chance to adjust to his mind-numbing size before gradually increasing his pace. Rallying whatever strength was left in her pleasure-dazed body, Shae began shifting herself back against his thrusts, but this was a short-lived effort. With a low grunt, Terry held more firmly at her hips and took full control of their pace. He pulled her back onto his cock each time he drove it into her, and now she could feel a spark of discomfort in her belly as he fucked her deeper than any man ever had. She loved it- the pain blended nicely with the pleasure, consuming all of her senses, pulling her focus, for a time. But as her eyes rolled back and then eventually fluttered shut, her mind reached itself outward for the briefest of moments.

She wondered how the Professor would feel on top of her. She wondered how he would fuck her, how he would look at her. His face, gentle and kind, began to form in her thoughts.

Don’t.

“Tuh… Terry…” Shae barely managed between breathless moans.

He slowed his punishing thrusts, still moving just enough to massage the veined shaft of his cock against her, holding her against him with a hand groping her ass.

“Wanna… I wanna face you… please?”

The mountain of a man behind her gave a short hum, then acquiesced, easing his length from her even as her pussy clenched around him. Shae slumped down onto the bed, and was grateful that Terry helped turn her onto her back, but this was all the patience he would afford her now. His muscular arms hooked under her knees, spreading her legs wide as he pushed back into her.

Shae’s bright pink eyes locked on Terry and watched the subtle shift in his expression as he felt her warmth around him once again. She was certain a man like him had no shortage of willing partners, so to see the pleasure he felt from her alone in this moment set her pulse pounding. Bit by bit, she took in everything she could about him; she memorized the scars adorning his chest, noted the handsome hint of gray in his hair at his temples, learned the way his jaw clenched when he felt her pussy tighten and squeeze around him. His eyes devoured her, watching her face flush and her breasts bounce as he fucked deeper and deeper into her soaking wet cunt. Shae gasped and whined happily, spurring him on, now reveling in the wonderful ache of him pounding all the way to her center.

Finally, the noise was gone. Everything was gone, everything besides the powerful figure over her who filled her, surrounded her, drove her into dizzying, mindless bliss. “Yes,” and “more,” spilled carelessly from her lips, and Terry was happy to oblige. At some point- she couldn’t recall when -her legs were lifted up onto his shoulders, folded back towards her as he leaned over her and buried his thick member into her abused little cunt. He was done holding back. The bed creaked and shook beneath them, and Shae distantly wondered that it was even able to withstand the force of his thrusts. Her eyes blurred and slightly crossed, but shot back into focus when she felt his thumb rubbing firm against her clit.

By now, she could hardly make a sound, let alone speak, so she surrendered completely to him as his cock throbbed deep within her and his touch sent jolts of pleasure through her more delicate nerves. His weight on top of her and the grip of his free hand at her hip held her so decidedly in place that she could only endure the feeling of her mounting climax. Those dark brown eyes of his narrowed, his brow lowered, and at last, Terry was visibly panting as well.

“That’s it,” he grunted, thrusting in her to the base and holding, his touch redoubling at her tender clit, “Cum for me, Shaeleigh.”

She couldn’t have resisted him if she wanted to; it felt too good, welled up and enveloped her. Her hands clung to his arms, nails digging down his skin, though she doubted he even felt it. Then, in a messy, blissed-out daze, her body flooded with warmth, swept in his current until her head was swimming and her limbs all went limp.

“Ohhh…” her breath was heavy, her head tilted back on his pillow.

Then, he slowly pulled back, and then drove forward, stuffing her full and forcing a gasp past her lips. With her legs heavy and largely immoble, Terry repositioned her easily on his own. He lowered them from his shoulders, propping her thighs up over his. Then, he took hold of her hips in both of his powerful hands and pulled her against him, lifting her entire lower body to meet his and tugging her closer to him on the bed. She whimpered pathetically as he manhandled her, just barely managing the strength to wrap her legs snug around his midsection. At this angle, each thrust dragged the head of his cock along some incredible spot behind her clit and pushed him as deep as he would fit. His thick shaft was coated in her release down to the base, allowing him to pound into her at a consistently relentless pace.

Shae’s lips hung parted, her eyes fought to remain trained on the hulking man above her. The more pleasure and pain her body endured, the more sensation she took in, the more perfectly vacant her mind became. In the midst of this near-meditative state, she finally felt Terry buck into her more harshly- once, then again. Then, with a low, animal groan that resonated through Shae’s entire frame, he held her down on his cock as it twitched and swelled, spilling deep inside of her waiting pussy.

“Mmm… ohhh, fuck, yes…” Shae whimpered with a hazy smile as Terry continued to fill her, his massive length throbbing against her over-stimulated inner walls. By the time she felt his grip on her relax and his muscles slack, she was dripping with him, thick cum staining her inner thighs and drooling lazily from her cunt.

When Terry finally eased his member from her, coated in the mixture of their release, he let out a short, but contented exhale. Then, he grinned down at the mess of a woman left panting softly on his bed.

“Satisfied?”

Shae convinced her eyes to meet his, ignoring the way her legs still visibly trembled.

“For… For now…” She swallowed, took a breath, blinked a few times, “You?”

“For now,” Terry replied with a low chuckle.

Shae wondered how Terry even fit into his own shower. It was a tight vertical box, tidy and functional enough, but clearly makeshift in design. She herself wasn’t familiar enough with such fixtures to say, but looking up at the showerhead, she thought it may be a repurposed fire sprinkler.

The piping in the walls made an alarming “thunk” sound when she shut off the water, causing her eyebrows to rise for a moment. All seemed well, so she shrugged and grabbed the towel from a hook drilled into the wall. By the texture and wear of it, it must be fairly old, though clean. Shae stood in the empty shower, rubbing the fabric between her fingers, her stare distant and vague.

If he had wanted to, Professor Shoot could have checked in on her using the League-standard surveillance software in her phone. She’d left it in the pocket of her jacket, mere feet away from the bed. She imagined him hearing her- hearing her cry out another man’s name, hearing her give herself to Terry. Would he hurt? Would he care? Had he bothered to check in on her at all?

Shae sighed and shook her head, finally present enough to start drying herself. Terry probably had some sort of signal-jammer installed in this flat. It was unlikely the Professor could reach her here either way. So much the better, she told herself. As she ran the worn towel across her body, she noted that this, too, carried Terry’s scent. For a moment, she considered that she would leave here smelling of his body, his bed, his soap and his towel. It brought her an odd sense of comfort- like she could submerge herself in him and simply drown away.

Holding the towel to her front with one hand, Shae returned to the main room to find Terry pouring a deep amber liquor into the glasses she’d noted when she’d first arrived. He was half dressed, his awe-inspiring upper body still bare. Her eyes wandered over him as she approached, and he sat in the finely upholstered armchair as though it were his throne. Unphased by her state of undress, he held out a drink to her, but Shae only took it after sliding up onto his lap and straddling his hips. The corner of his mouth curled with amusement, but he made no protest.

They each drank from their glasses, and if Shae’s confidence with the potently burning liquor surprised him any, he didn’t show it. Instead, it was Shae who found herself taken aback. This was excellent whiskey- prohibitively expensive for the vast majority. She had only had it a few times before, when her father had hosted coworkers at their home and felt compelled to impress.

“Fire Fang?”

Terry smiled.

“You know your drink,” there was a note of approval in his voice. He must have seen the disbelief in her expression, as he added, “It was a gift from a business partner of mine.”

She felt no need to press for details. Instead, she took another long sip from her glass, enjoying the complex flavors as they spread across her tongue. The drink had a bite to it that many would find intolerable, but Shae felt that it only pleasantly accented the richness of its profile. Though, she recalled, she had only acquired the taste for such “manly” drinks at her father’s encouragement. Part of her had to admit that she still preferred sweet white wine.

Terry’s hand traced around her waist, then down to the base of her spine, where he guided her closer to him. Still holding her glass close with one hand, Shae pulled the towel out of the way and dropped it beside the chair. Again, she felt the humming warmth in her belly at the feeling of his gaze taking in the softness of her bare curves. When those eyes rose once more to meet hers, he said,

“I know that you came to me tonight because you were hurting,” at his words, her heart twisted like it was trying to wring itself out. He went on, “I can help you forget, for a time, but I cannot heal you.”

The smile she wore was sad, and just a touch bitter, as she stared down at her own eyes reflected up at her from the whiskey in her hand. The pink that she’d gotten dyed into her irises as a sweet sixteen present from her parents looked a sickly brown in its surface.

“I’m… still just a stupid little girl,” she nearly laughed, “I’m so naive- playing at being a trainer all this time. Mooey and Steig are both made for that kind of life- they can do anything. In all likelihood, someday I’ll just be some businessman’s trophy wife to be shown off at corporate events. Just like my own mother.”

Terry didn’t respond at first, and she wasn’t sure whether he was considering her words or merely giving her the space to air her thoughts fully. He drank slowly, then set down his glass on the table beside him.

“If that is the life that you desire, there will be plenty of men eager to claim you. But that sort of man,” he said with clear distaste, “would not deserve you.”

Shae didn’t know what to say, so she drank instead. If nothing else, the glass would hide some of her face. Terry watched her with a measured stare as he went on,

“Your allies are capable, but you are every bit their equal, even if your skills are of a different sort. You have risen above challenges that your life did not prepare you for, and you have done so with honor. I have known countless warriors of many strengths in my years in the Sprawl,” he raised a hand to her chin, guiding her line of sight to him, “You are as much a warrior as any I have met.”

Her glass nearly empty, Shae placed it on the table beside his. She tried to think of something to say, but all she managed was,

“Do you mean that?”

It was a pathetic thing to ask- moreso with her voice wavering and unsure. Terry’s hand caressed her cheek and wove into her still-damp hair.

“You would make a fine queen for me, Shaeleigh. Though I know that is not the path you are on.”

Shae’s jaw tightened, but she leaned into his touch.

“I think… maybe in another life, I am.”

“But we are in this life,” he said, “and you have things you must do.”

For a moment, Shae was at a loss. True enough, the freedom of how Terry lived carried a certain appeal. But she could never reach the goal she’d been striving for while remaining at Terry’s side. There was sex- incredible, overwhelming sex -but that was entirely different from becoming a warlord’s queen. It felt unfair that she would be turned away by one she wanted, then kept from another by circumstance. But she had never planned to sacrifice her dreams for either of these men- nor any to come. Aside from which, if Terry and the Professor could be said to be similar in any way, it was that they both believed that she could succeed.

All of this passed through her mind in a blur. It was too much- the noise was back, and while now some of it was hopeful, that didn’t mean she was ready to untangle and parse it all just yet. So instead, she rested her hands on Terry’s sturdy shoulders and kissed him, slowly and deeply. His arm around her waist tightened, holding her against his body. She felt her breasts against his powerful chest, her stomach against his hard abdomen. She tasted the whiskey between their tongues. Even when she eventually parted from him to speak, she only allowed enough space between their bodies for her hand to reach downward tug at the hem of his pants.

“Fuck me again, Terry. Please?”

One hand moving down to grab onto her ass and the other at the back of her head with his fingers in her hair, he said,

“If that is what you want,” his cock rapidly began to stiffen as Shae palmed the growing bulge between his thighs, running her hand along its length and visibly biting her lip at the feeling of it growing at her touch. “I will have you until you are truly spent. But it will not fix things.”

Shae fumbled open the front of his pants and freed his towering cock once more, then began to align herself over it.

“It will for as long as you last.”

When she guided the head of his member to her entrance, he felt her already wet and needy for him, and with that, he grabbed hold of her at the waist and pushed her down onto him inch by inch, spearing into her nearly to the root. Shae gasped, her head tilting back and her nails dragging across his shoulders as he filled her.

“Do not test me, Shaeleigh,” he warned, though when she blinked her eyes back into focus, she saw he wore a subtle smirk, “Mm, you take my cock so well… Now, show me your strength. You are a warrior, remember?”

The sensation was so intense it momentarily set her off-balance- but Shae leaned forward against his body and rallied her leg muscles. With slow but firm movements, she pulled upward on his length, then pushed back down onto him, quickly establishing a steady rhythm as her hips swayed and her pussy clenched around him. Her arms wrapped around his neck to support her, and before long, she was swept into the blissful high of fucking herself onto his incredible manhood. Each pass rubbed him into her in some new indescribable way, the angle creating a completely different but equally overwhelming experience to when he railed into her from above. Now and then, she would feel his hips shift up towards her, encouraging her, ensuring he’d hit her deepest point.

Terry drew his lips to the column of her neck and kissed a line up to the point just below her jaw. Here, he bit down, sucking another mark to her skin, now in a location that none of her clothes would hide even if she tried. Shae felt her nerves come alive at the sharp and sudden feeling, and she moaned his name aloud. Finally, she found the silence that she needed once again. In Terry’s strong arms and full of him, she could surrender. For now, she would let her body feel, and her mind become numb. Tomorrow, she would attend to the noise, and she would move forward.

#oc stuff #original characters #pokemon #cyberpunk #tabletop #tabletop characters #smut #smut blog #not sfw #oc #oc smut #size kink #size difference

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mskatesharma · 2 years

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Simone's LA Times podcast left me so ambivalent...She was delightful per usual and I'm glad she has some TBA projects so I can support her work elsewhere. But I think I'm finally over the show....

TVWLM is the only Bridgerton book I like, so I was happy to peace out from the fandom after S2. But S2 left me so dissatisfied and Simone and JB have made it seem like they'll have a decent story in S3, so I was gonna stick around. But Simone's reveal that they had written a backstory and flashbacks for Kate—but ultimately scraped it—has just left such a sour taste (compounded by everything else) and IDK that I can't reconcile it anymore. Like do I still want to follow this show?

They've got no problem giving all the white women characters their due (Eloise, Daphne, Penelope, Violet), but Kate, her family, and Lady Danbury have been horrendously written. There's no reason to be optimistic they'll try to course correct next season. Obviously Simone & JB have some idea of what their storyline is (seems she's been permitted to hint about a baby), and it sounds promising when they sell it, but I doubt it'll actually be that substantive/thoughtful...They didn't care to do right by Kate & Kanthony their own season, and now they've got a new central romance plus a million subplots to contend with S3.

Just feeling very disillusioned about a show I once really enjoyed despite its many issues.

I LOVED the LA Times interview, the questions were really good, and they actually asked about stuff other than representation. I also feel like Simone felt comfortable, especially seeing as she offered to tattoo the interviewer lol. I’m so excited to hear about what she has coming up, and I hope there’s an announcement soon because news about Bridgerton is just depressing as shit.

Anon, I am so tired of the shit that we continue to find out after the release of season two. Like it’s no secret that I have my issues with how shit the writing was for season two, but this latest thing is just...yeah. Part of me wonders if the way Simone (and Jonny) continue to bring stuff up is their way of trying to get it included next season? Like trying to force the show’s hand? (Also, I did start answering this ask yesterday but got annoyingly angry and depressed while answering so I had to leave it lol, sorry)

I am so fucking annoyed. And you’re absolutely right, it does leave such a bad taste in the mouth.

And you know what I find quite insidious about the whole thing? Is that they had these flashbacks included in the sides that Simone auditioned with, giving the impression of a somewhat thorough exploration of Kate's background and cause of her trauma and grief, as well as making it seem that Kate's background (including being Indian) and life in India was going to be given consideration, only for them to scrap the scenes entirely once Simone was cast. I honestly find it somewhat disgusting, and to be honest, it makes me feel sick. It’s like they enticed her with those scenes, and the promise of that kind of thoughtful focus, only to get rid of them once she was cast. Those scenes were bait.

And look, I know just because these sides and scenes were used for audtion purposes, doesn’t mean they were always going to be included in the show, but that makes it even worse? I didn't necessarily want flashbacks of Kate's time in India because I didn't trust the show to handle such scenes sensitively enough, but the fact that these scenes were written in the first place and then scrapped, ENRAGES me. It makes me feel violent. They wrote and included this stuff because they knew it was important for Kate's character, to understand her as a character and her motivations, and I don’t understand why it wasn’t included. So we could watch Jack and Portia have the same conversation over and over again? So we could watch any of the other sideplots go nowhere for far too long? WHY DID THEY TREAT KATE’S GRIEF AND TRAUMA AS THOUGH IT WAS MEANINGLESS AND THAT IT DIDN’T MATTER???

The WOC on this show are so poorly served, and I fucking hate it. I think maybe they’re saving Lady Danbury’s backstory for the Queen Charlotte spinoff, but, that’s still shit because not everyone who watches Bridgerton is going to watch the spinoff. Plus, if they keep the main elements from RMB, then Lady Danbury is involved in Polin’s story as well? And it’s gross, because her sole purpose in life is not to be the Bridgertons’ romantic fairy godmother?? Like fuck off with this shit. It’s offensive. I really thought they would expand on Kate and Lady Danbury’s relationship, and have Lady Danbury confide in Kate about her life and why she gave Kate the advice she did after the non-wedding...but they didn’t. And then you have how they treated Kate in HER SEASON. It honestly felt like she was a side character in her own season at times and I just...FUCK.

Like, my expectations for season three regarding Kanthony were already rock bottom, and with everything new that comes out, my expectations just get lower. It’s depressing, and I just...it gets more and more obvious that this show doesn’t actually care about ‘diversity’; for them it doesn’t actually have to be substantive, it’s just icing that they can sprinkle on the top and then ask for the plaudits for their superficial diversity. And it pisses me off that their superficiality gets hardly any traction or criticism.

#ask #anon #bridgerton #kate sharma #kathony #kanthony #anthony x kate #kate x anthony #the viscount who loved me #i hate how annoyed this show makes me #lol do you ever just randomly remember that there are people in the fandom who think the lack of focus on kate’s grief and trauma #isn’t actually that much of a big deal and that it wasn’t important in the first place? 😂😂😂😂#what a stupid stance to have jfc

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three--rings · 2 years

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Interview with the Vampire Thoughts 1x01

Non-spoilery TL;DR:

It’s an interesting and mostly well-handled adaptation, that will probably appeal to people in the demographic I was in when I originally loved these books. But despite its appeal I find it lacking something in the emotional dimension.

Sam Reid’s French is decent, at least. But in referring to the musicians he said “we are always forgotten” rather than, as the subs said “they are always forgotten” and...it’s been a long time since I read the books but was he a musician along with Nicolas? I can’t quite remember but if so that is a very interesting nod to his past.

Okay, I’ve finished the ep now. And gosh, I really don’t know what to say?

It’s a very interesting work of adaptation, and it really makes me want a close breakdown of show-to-book comparison. It’s been, yunno, 25+ years since I last read IWTV so I really can’t do such a thing with any accuracy.

But there is SO MUCH changed, from the time period and context of Louis and his family to the modernization of the framing device, etc. And yet it does have a very accurate feel to it.

I honestly really like the framing portions. I would have never called that they would keep the original interview part in the 1970s and then have Daniel 40+ years later meeting with Louis again.

It’s especially interesting to see Louis in an ultra-modern context cause my brain insists that if the original interview as in the 1970s then all the following novels happened already and Louis is in a later-series context, which is a bizarre ass thought considering like...how WHACK the series gets. (TBF I don’t have full knowledge of this cause I quit reading after Memnoch because that was my bridge too fucking far. I don’t even know how she retconned that one later, I just know she did. In other words later Vampire Chronicles is like fucking comic book levels of wtf.)

Pause here because I went on a shallow dive into later canon and like...WOW. Once again very glad I quit a fandom when I did. Seriously y’all, I have really great taste in quitting things. Every time I find out what happens in later days in a book series or show I’m like, wow good call past me.

ANYWAY.

Louis is rich and has an unnamed (hot) assistant and like I want to know ALL about this, please. (So long as no ghosts or witches or bird aliens are involved)

(Seriously what IS this show going to do about later canon...I think even stuff from QOTD is fucking too far out there for reasonable people.)

ANYWAY AGAIN

Uh, The changes to Louis are interesting. I certainly enjoy the change to his race and the way that sorta plays out with his family. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about him being a slumlord and pimp now? Like that really introduces a level of moral flexibility to his character that might somewhat undermine his whole moral journey? but IDK.

The time period change is sorta whatever for me, I’m not sure why its necessary other than that they wanted slavery to be over, but honestly you could have had Louis be a free man of color in New Orleans in the 1810s or 20s with just as much ease. But you might have had to explain that to Americans with a very simplistic view of history I guess so whatever.

(Lestat’s backstory as a member of the french nobility is a little more difficult though, if the revolution was an entire century before.)

I do very much enjoy the handling of Louis’ orientation and the seduction by Lestat. It’s fun and believable to the extent it wants to be.

I think I like Jacob Anderson as Louis better than Sam Reid as Lestat. Like, IDK, I can’t pinpoint what it is I don’t connect with in Lestat yet but it’s something.

Some scenes definitely take a step (or several) over the line of supernatural fun into full-on camp. The floating, for example, was unnecessary. Some of the violence...

IDK I think that ultimately they DO capture the overwrought melodrama of the book(s) fairly well. But it’s that exact quality that takes this out of the realm of a sincere delight for me, personally. Like, I am unable to take this show actually seriously on an emotional level, and I’m not sure if that’s the nature of the show itself, because it’s winking at the audience. Or if it’s because I’m 43 and not 13, or because I was such a big fan of the books at one point...

Like this is fine. It’s fun and has some vibes and style in places, but I don’t see this becoming something I care deeply about, yunno?

On the other hand I will be reblogging homoerotic gifsets of my blorbos from when I was 12. and I’ll keep watching it as a light, guilty-pleasure sort of watch.

#threerings watches interview with the vampire #threerings' reactions #interview with the vampire #iwtv 2022

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scuttle-buttle · 3 years

Text

Chapter 8

WC: 1533

Rated: E

Chapter Tags: domestic fluff, anxiety, alcohol consumption

🧠

Tuesday afternoon had you and Laszlo working in his office. He sat behind his desk grading quizzes while you worked to transcribe one of his notebooks. Tchaikovsky played quietly over the bluetooth speaker he had on the bookshelf. You had once mentioned that he was your favorite composer, so Laszlo had taken to playing his work frequently during office hours.

Pausing to take a sip of the now-room temperature tea he had brought you, you notice a low humming noise. Turning in the chair you watch your doctor. His eyebrows are scrunched in concentration. He wears the little round reading glasses that make him look old-fashioned and sophisticated. He shakes his head lightly before marking an answer wrong on the paper he holds. But what strikes you most of all, is that he is softly humming along to the music in his deep baritone. He’s actually quite good with his pitch.

“I’ve never heard you sing.”

He looks up at you from over the spectacles. “Pardon?”

“You should sing more often, you have a lovely voice.”

A deep crimson blush spreads on the apples of his cheeks. Laszlo was not one to be embarrassed easily, but sometimes the most inconsequential or mundane things like this would do the trick. He opens his mouth to no doubt give a witty and defensive response when someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” he states. He isn’t expecting anyone, but there is an essay coming soon so it wouldn’t surprise him if a student wants to get ahead on their planning. The heavy mahogany door clicks and swings open.

“Hello Laszlo. I thought it was about time that I made my way to visit you,” says a familiar feminine voice. Standing in the doorway is none other than Dr. Stratton.

Laszlo sat up and removed his glasses as she entered the office. In the busyness of the last few weeks he hadn’t made it a point to seek her out yet. “Dr. Stratton, hello. I must say it has been quite a long time.” He smiles at seeing her, eyes lighting up.

“Oh, Laszlo, there's no need for such formalities. I’m no stranger that you can’t call me by my name.” Karen waves her hand in a dismissive manner. She then turns in your direction with a smile. “And you my dear, I didn’t expect to see you here?”

“Ah, sorry Dr. Stratton, it must have slipped my mind last time - I’m a TA for uh- Dr. Kreizler.” You almost slip up and call him Laszlo, but catch your tongue at the last possible second. It doesn’t shock you that the two doctors know each other. They both worked in the same field and had lived in central Europe in overlapping times. You’re happy to see two people you think highly of reacquainted.

You miss the confused glance that Laszlo sports between yourself and Dr. Stratton. The two of you obviously knew each other, but how? Karen had been in Vienna for years. Why would she know who you were? How small a world was it that his previous romantic partner and current one knew each other? His curiosity gets the better of him. “Forgive me, but are you two acquainted?” he asks.

“Yeah, I had Dr. Stratton my freshman year for intro psych. I told you about it on my first day, don’t you remember?”

“She was a fantastic student, Laszlo. You would have loved having her in one of your classes. She always had such well thought out ideas to contribute.”

He at least has the decency to look sheepish when he admits that it must have slipped his mind. In truth he hadn’t paid you much attention the first day. He made the effort to learn your name and that was the extent to which he cared at the time.

Dr. Stratton pipes up again. “I only have a moment but I wanted to invite you for drinks later this week so we can catch up. I have some new ideas I’d love to share with you.”

“That sounds wonderful. Please let me know when you would like to and I would be delighted.” The prospect excites Laszlo. It really had been so long since he last spoke to Karen.

“Of course, I’ll see you then.” She nods to Laszlo and gives you a grin and a wave as she leaves. The door clicks behind her.

“Oh-hoo you’ve got a date Laz, should I be worried?” you tease.

He gives you a deadpan look before realizing you are joking. He gives a slight frown. “Karen and I are old friends and colleagues, nothing more.” And previous lovers, which he omits.

“Alright, loverboy,” you quip, turning back to the notebook and laptop.

He finds himself discomforted by your joke. Perhaps he should tell you about Karen… Nevertheless, he tramps down the feeling and gets back to work.

“So why was it that Laszlo couldn’t join us tonight? He was not very forthcoming in his message.” John asks as he sets down your drinks. The three of you were sat at a small corner booth at the tavern you frequented on Friday nights. The evening was young; only a few patrons were there playing pool and having a round.

“He’s out with another professor catching up. They haven’t seen each other in years.” You take a large swig of your lager, the hoppy flavor of the brew coating your tongue. “He almost didn’t go but I insisted that I would survive alone with you two,” you chuckle.

John looks at you over his own glass. “And did he say who he’s with?”

“Dr. Stratton from the psych department.”

“Oh. I see.” John shifts his gaze around, his features going awkward at the information. He makes brief eye contact with Sara before darting them away again. Sara purses her lips, her doe eyes giving nothing away. The tense pause stirs something within you.

“What?” John needles at your question, a slight downturn of his lips as if to say he wasn’t sure what you meant. Sara sips her drink and watches the encounter. “What are you not telling me?”

John scratches at his chin. Sara steps in this time. “It’s nothing, John is just up to usual worrisome self,” she tries to dismiss.

Her answer doesn’t satisfy you. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not exactly inclined to believe you.” Facing John, you continue. “You look like you’ve eaten something that tastes horrible, you’re hesitant to look me in the eye, and you rubbed your jaw when I asked. You’re a terrible liar, John,” you accuse. You aren’t upset, but his sudden inability to speak causes anxiety to bubble in your gut.

He huffs. “You’re beginning to sound just like him, you know.” He quirks a brow at you, annoyed. “Laszlo and Karen have a… long history. As friends and colleagues, of course. They were very close for a while,” he tacks on. He wants to be forthcoming with you, but knows it isn’t his place to actually disclose Laszlo’s relationship with her.

“Oh.” you nod. Your anxiety begins to dissipate at the explanation. “I mean I’m not surprised by it, they both lived near each other for a while in Europe. I’m sure they ran in the same academic circles. Frankly, I’m glad he’s getting to catch up with her, he needs more friends than just us,” you laugh at Sara’s ‘cheers to that’ comment. “Anyways, how’s your week been?” you ask to change the subject.

The night comes to an end soon after; the tone shifted after you retired from the conversation about Laszlo’s absence. You caught a cab back to his home. He had given you a spare key in case you wanted to come over at any time, whether to study in peace or to just be there. He wasn't sure when he would get back, but he did ask for you to wait for him.

Getting ready for bed you chance a look at the clock. It was nearing midnight. Laszlo was still out, which was somewhat uncharacteristic of him, but you figure that he’s just got a lot to talk about with Dr. Stratton. You send a text to check in, but get no response.

As you lay in bed you find your thoughts wandering back to the conversation with John and Sara. “A long history; very close for a while…” plays on repeat in your head. You hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now it nags at you like a gnat swirling your head in the summertime. Surely nothing happened between the two? Laszlo would have told you. There’s no doubt he knew she was back, given that she’s in his department at the university. And you trust Dr. Stratton, she’s been a great support system and even a friend to you. If the two had been involved he would have let you know, you conclude. Besides, you and the doctor were happy, so even if they had been a thing at one point it surely wouldn’t matter now.

Right?

By the time you finally fall asleep Laszlo still hasn’t come home.

Tag list

@hardlyinteresting @lorna-d-m @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles @greeneyedblondie44 @unbeatablecurlgirl @apparrio @marchingicenotes7 @anteroom-of-death @bruhidaniel @lemairepstuff @thehuiabird @zemosimp05 @alindeluce @iamnotthecatladynextdoor @laura-naruto-fan1998 @trelaney @boneheadduluc @i-am-dead-inside-666 @fictionlandslanddreams @thatoneartgalsstuff @hb8301 @fandom-princess-forevermore @foggycandywitch @creme-bruhlee @andy-rocks

#psychopathia sexualis #the interpretation of dreams #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler fanfic #the alienist #the alienist angel of darkness #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #daniel bruhl laszlo kreizler #scuttle-buttle #daniel bruhl fanfiction

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years

Text

Hello! This is a project for @summer-in-the-archives-event that I worked on with @horizonindigo! We came up with the idea together and based our individual works around the poem I wrote, included in the fic. You can find their absolutely amazing art here!!

I freaking loved working on this one and I got more and more excited as we progressed. I also surprised myself with the poem itself a bit, definitely didn’t expect it to end up quite as cool, if I may say so myself. It was incredibly fun to write.

Big shoutout to @sunflowers-and-frogs for beta reading, I love you bestie <3

I would like to thank all the mods that made this event possible! It’s my first time taking part in anything like this and it was really, really fun, so THANK YOU <3 Love you guys :3 Anyways, enough of my rambling kdfjgkjsdfg

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Kissing, Excessive Tea-Making, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Poetry, Love Confessions Warnings: self-esteem issues, typical Lonely content, discussions of free-will and determinism, graphic kiss

Summary: As Martin fights the remnants of the Lonely's influence on their ride to Daisy's safehouse in Scotland, he focuses on his feelings for Jon to keep him tethered to reality. He watches Jon be himself in the safety of the cottage, share these small intimacies of domesticity and the words come to him as a poem weaves itself into the pages of his notebook...

He feels the taste of salt in his mouth, as he looks out of the car window at the rapidly falling away landscape, covered in the darkness of the night. He feels Jon’s presence next to him, focused on driving but glancing every so often at him with concern. Martin feels like he should say something, somehow fill the silence that has befallen them, but no words ever find their way to his mouth. He stays quiet, watching the trees pass them by, trying to ignore the anxious churning in his stomach. He’s always been pretty good at filling awkward silences with chatter; at least before the Lonely. Now… he can’t help but feel bothered by Jon’s presence, even though he did all of this for him, even though this is what he’s wanted all this time; it’s like a splinter, prickling at his mind, almost causing him physical discomfort. He swallows and feels the salty taste on his tongue; he discards the thoughts and tries his best to breathe through the discomfort, instead focusing on the sensation of Jon’s warm hand on his.

Martin used to be the warm one; he’d always been generating heat and his mind goes back to the early days in the Archives when the basement was cold in the winter and both Tim and Sasha used to gravitate towards him with their respective cups of tea during breaks. Now his whole body is cold, the chill of the ocean breeze and fog having settled in his bones so deep he thinks he’ll never feel warm again. The thought isn’t sparking any emotions in him though. It’s just a thing that he’s learned to accept, just as the fact that he’ll always be alo—

“Do you want me to put on some music?” Jon asks with another one of his glances. Every time, he raises his eyebrows a bit, and tilts his head to the side; Martin expects the concern in his eyes, but he sees something else there as well. He’s been afraid to put a label to the expression for the fear he’s reading him wrong, but the bolder part of his mind tells him it’s fondness.

Jon’s hand is warm, and his thumb grazes the skin of his palm just a little, as if not sure he’s allowed to. Martin looks down at their hands and feels warmth spark in his stomach; he smiles.

“I’m sorry I’m—I’m not really good at the whole, uh… small talk thing,” Jon adds with a flush, turning his head back to the road. “I should probably be talking about something, though, to, uh… to keep you here. I suppose.” He visibly cringes at his words.

“It’s—It’s fine, Jon,” Martin chuckles, and Jon relaxes, fixing him with a quick smile of his own. “I’m just… you know.” He looks down at their hands again and has a brief feeling they belong to someone else. Not him. Never him. “I’m not quite… out of that. Yet.”

Another look of concern. Martin feels heat prickling at his cheeks and he’s a little bit glad, because at least it’s a feeling. He interlaces their fingers and looks out the front window.

They spend the ride in relative silence. Jon tries a couple more times to start small talk and fails; they stop at a gas station at one point and Martin takes out his notebook when Jon disappears inside the station to pay for gas. He flicks through it and his eyes stop at an unfinished draft; he started writing it shortly before Peter took him down to the Panopticon, but he’d only managed to get a few first lines down. Despite still feeling the cold in his bones and his mind being clouded by the remains of the fog, words come to him, and he starts scribbling. He continues to do so even when Jon comes back with tea and an assortment of snacks, blushing just a little bit when Jon shoots a curious look at the notebook. He doesn’t ask and Martin is thankful for it. He’s not the sort to show his drafts to anyone, especially to the subject he’s writing about.

It’s 1am when they arrive at the cottage; they’re both exhausted and they quickly take their bags inside and lock the door. The cottage is small and practical, just Daisy’s style; it’s also quite dusty from months of abandonment. Martin yawns as he opens one of the bags to get the essentials. They should leave unpacking and cleaning for the next day.

He hears Jon’s footsteps on the wooden floor coming back from the initial run of the house and he turns to tell him that, but the somewhat sheepish look on his face stops him in his tracks. Has he ever seen Jon look sheepish before?

“So, uh, obviously this was Daisy’s safehouse when she was, well… Avoiding people,” he says, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“I hope ‘avoiding people’ doesn’t mean killing them in this context,” Martin snorts, not sure if he’s entirely joking. The humour is lost on Jon, however, as he looks at him confused for a moment before he processes Martin’s words.

“Oh, no, no, I-I don’t believe she, uh… She just slept here.” Jon shifts awkwardly. “And that means there’s uh, there’s only one bed.”

Martin’s eyes widen and his lips form a little “Oh”.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with sharing, I can just take the couch, you need some proper rest and I’m used to running on low sleep” —Jon averts his gaze as he speaks. He grabs his bag and walks over to the couch, and Martin wants to stop him talking and just say that they should share the bed, but his voice seems to have left him at this crucial moment. He just stares as Jon places the bag on the couch and looks back at him, aware of the silence. “Martin?”

Martin swallows, a familiar cold freezing his toes. He feels the damp sand underneath his bare feet and a chill runs down his spine. He blinks and tightens his grip on the bag he’s been holding. This is real, he is real, Jon is real.

“You need good rest too,” he finally manages to say, and he’s surprised by how clear and normal his voice sounds; it makes Jon relax a bit. “We should share the bed, if-if you are comfortable with that.”

A small smile appears on Jon’s lips and a warm feeling fills Martin’s stomach again; he knows the smile is for him.

“Okay,” he says softly and picks the bag up.

They manage to keep the awkwardness of it to the minimum; they’re both very tired and at one point it just doesn’t matter anymore. Jon hands Martin a separate blanket and he pushes the disappointment down into a void inside him where he keeps feelings to come back to when he’s alone. It would be foolish of him to hope for cuddling since they haven’t talked about anything yet.

He expects to fall asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow, but he finds himself awake in the darkness after goodnights are said (Jon’s voice sounds so soft and tender Martin has forgotten all about his earlier disappointment). He’s laying on his back, eyes closed, and he feels Jon’s presence on his right. His breathing is steady, not yet slow enough to indicate sleep, but calm and relaxed. Martin peeks out through half-lidded eyes – he hasn’t gotten used to the darkness as much yet, but he can see Jon laying on his side, facing him, his eyes closed and his hair loosely framing his face. One of his hands rests close to his head on the pillow. Martin blinks, fully opening his eyes now and smiling softly. As his vision clears, Martin notices Jon frowning ever so slightly, and he wonders if the faint lines between his eyebrows smoothen when he’s asleep.

“Is watching people sleep a usual activity for you?” Jon whispers with amusement as he opens his eyes and Martin gasps with surprise and looks away, feeling heat prickle at his cheeks.

“Wha—uh, no! No, of course no—Sorry, I—” He rambles, and he thinks he might just die from embarrassment when he hears Jon laugh quietly.

“It’s fine, Martin.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Really. I-- Sorry, I thought a joke would, um… lighten the mood somewhat.”

Martin risks a look at him and wonders if the red on his cheeks is visible through the darkness. Jon looks at him with that expression again, something Martin would very much want to classify as fondness if it didn’t feel so impossible. But now that he thinks about it… Would it really be thatfar-fetched? Jon had gone into the Lonely just to get him out. Would he have done that for anyone else? Martin rolls his eyes at himself in his mind, of course he would. He did go into the Buried, and it was for Daisy, a person who has threatened him multiple times, kidnapped and almost killed him. If Jon was ready to lay down his life for her, out of all of them, it shouldn’t be surprising he would do the same for his assistant; it says nothing about his feelings on the matter.

Martin’s memories of the Lonely are hazy. He remembers the cold, the dampness, and the loneliness. He remembers his thoughts, the lonely ones, and how they felt both alien and familiar at the same time. He remembers the comfort, the feeling of fitting in, but also the pain and the fear, just before they were numbed by the cold and the fog that made him forget. And then suddenly, Jon was in front of him, looking at him with desperation on his face, tears in his eyes glowing with a green light. Was it Jon calling for him, or just the Beholding?

“What are you thinking about?” comes Jon’s voice and Martin realizes he’s been staring into the air for a while. He blinks and looks back at Jon.

“Uh…” He searches for words before he gives up on trying to come up with an excuse. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Why did you do it?”

Jon blinks at him a couple times and rises to lean on his elbow, to better look at Martin.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lonely,” Martin says, not meeting his eyes. Jon is wearing a blue t-shirt with a logo of a band Martin doesn’t recognize; the shirt is loose and it uncovers one of Jon's shoulders which would probably be distracting if Martin’s mind wasn't chilled by the remnants of the fog. “Why did you come for me?”

Even without looking at him, Martin sees Jon’s forehead ripple. A while passes as Jon searches his face and the thought that he shouldn’t have asked starts creeping up to Martin’s head. Shouldn’t have brought any attention to the subject, he should just be glad, he should—

“I care about you, Martin,” Jon says in a very gentle and quiet voice, like he’s afraid anything louder would take away the meaning of his words. Martin looks up at Jon and the hint of that intense blush from before makes it back to his face. “You’re… You matter to me. You will always matter to me.”

Martin can’t stop a small smile appearing on his face and Jon mirrors it.

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, feeling a warmth settle in his chest, finally driving the cold away.

“Anytime.” Jon lays his head back down and settles back with the right hand near his face. “Sleep well, Martin.”

Martin closes his eyes contentedly and he curls up on his right side, facing Jon, as if trying to keep this warm feeling from escaping his chest too soon.

“You too, Jon.”

---

Martin wakes up alone in an unfamiliar bed, the smell of foreign covers filling his nostrils and for a second he panics. He opens his eyes and the memories come back to him; their late arrival at the safehouse and laying down to sleep next to Jon.

He sits up, looking at the space Jon had occupied. It’s vacant now, just the curled up covers he left behind, but it manages to bring a blush to Martin’s cheeks, nonetheless. It feels so… intimate to know that they slept next to each other. It makes him feel warm and cosy.

Martin gets up and goes to the bathroom before he finds Jon in the kitchen. He’s humming quietly as he finishes cleaning the table and he looks up when Martin enters.

“Good morning, Martin.” He smiles and Martin’s afraid he’s going to melt. He takes a quick look around and notices that their sparse kitchen supplies are mostly unpacked, and the kettle is already on the stove.

“How long have you been awake?” He asks; some of the shock must have made it to his voice because Jon looks amused.

“Two hours or so. I’ve always been a morning person.” He shrugs and finishes cleaning the table. “Tea?”

A smile lights up Martin’s face and he gets swept up by the familiarity of the activity, while Jon busies himself with fixing up some breakfast. As both of them work in the kitchen, Martin notices the casual brushes of their skin and touches of the shoulders. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously or if it just happens naturally, but he knows that Jon’s open demeanour is drawing him closer than before. He wonders if he’s been like this ever since he woke up from the coma, and there was just no one to appreciate it.

The morning is relaxed, the casual conversation flowing a lot smoother than the day before, and after breakfast they set out to clean the whole cottage and go down to the village to buy some actual supplies. The village is small, but the local shop provides all the essentials they need; for a moment Martin forgets about everything outside of that village and shopping for groceries with Jon, as if this is their life now, in the Scottish Highlands, living together in a cottage. They talk about cooking dinner, and the cows they passed on the way, and Martin thinks he could get used to that.

The bubble bursts when they finish up and Jon decides to call Basira. She picks up after a while and updates them on the absence of both Jonah Magnus and Daisy. Basira says she’ll send some statements up to them when the Institute stops being an active crime scene, and a shadow passes over Jon’s face. Wrapped up in a conversation about their taste in dinner dishes, it was almost too easy for Martin to forget food isn’t the only sustenance Jon needs. He finds it easier to forget things ever since the Lonely. They walk back to their cottage in silence, Martin grabbing Jon’s hand as soon as he lets go of the phone.

When they get back, Jon declares he’s going to take care of unpacking and cooking, and even though Martin knows Jon to be stupidly stubborn, he’s surprised by the strictness with which Jon insists he sit back and relax. Martin doesn’t really complain; he’s spent his entire life caring for others and, to be honest, it does feel rather good to be on the receiving end for once. He watches Jon from the couch for a while, before he takes out his notebook and looks over the poem he wrote in the car.

Wisps of mist conceal my eyes

A lone indulgence to lose one's face

And soothing a part inside that cries

With chilling sadness and numbing grace

The steadfast rhythm of waves ashore

As ocean breeze leaves a taste of salt

The words forgotten, erase what I swore

Until I hear your voice once more

I wondered many times what it might be

That we finally took to calling "us"

What would be left if we broke free

Of dread and horror's eternal grasp

The Eye looms aloft, ever-present dread

Watching all, eternal lids apart

You made your choice unaware you were led

By strings of web, against your heart

Jon starts humming under his nose in the kitchen as he cuts something on the board; the water in the kettle boils slowly and fills the air with a quiet whistle. Martin smiles while shooting a subtle glance at Jon; he seems to notice his gaze and falls quiet, but a smile lights up his face when he sees the fondness on Martin’s face. For all this talk about Jon “losing himself” in the role of the Archivist, this seems as human as you can get. Martin never favoured the approach the other archival staff took to the knowledge of the significance of Jon’s position, and he often wondered how they could look at him and see a monster. Of course he made bad decisions, but so did everyone. They’ve seen or read about so many avatars giving into the powers that fed them and yes, maybe Martin is biased, but Jon was nothing like them. They’ve all been caught in this huge web of statements that turned real; the more they struggled to break free the more tangled up they became, and it wasn’t Jon’s fault that he ended up in the centre of it. He knows Jon tried to make right choices every step of the way. Can you really blame a human being for failing to completely resist something that’s beyond mortality and human reality? One way or another they ended up here, together, and yes, maybe the Eye and the Lonely are still looming as very tangible threats, and Jonah Magnus is nowhere near being stopped, but at least they’re together now. Martin remembers thinking the Unknowing was the endgame, the last chapter of this horror for them, and he remembers the hopelessness of their story getting a bad ending that essentially pushed him into the Lonely; now he feels a different kind of an end approaching – he dares to be hopeful. Maybe everything works out in the end? Maybe, if they were safe and happy, it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Martin looks down at his notebook and starts writing, sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration.

What is a monster? Where is the line

That would separate us from the world

All I know is our paths align

And we together can battle the cold

You cut through the curtains of mist and See

The green glow fades when our eyes meet

My lips form a soft and quiet plea

To be loved has never felt so sweet

To be loved is a new feeling for me

I only know how to love from one side

But with you I hope we can once be free

Maybe ignore the whims of the tide

Although I know we're not nearly through

I taste and savour your voice, your breath

If only for a moment, we can start anew

And I will follow you even to death

As he stares at the last word of the finished poem, his hand with the pen hovering over it, he registers that his eyes have watered a bit. He blinks the tears away quickly as Jon sits down on the couch next to him, looking at him with a gentle worry. Martin looks up at the two mugs of tea he’d placed on the table.

“Did you make tea?” He asks with mock bewilderment, and Jon scoffs at him.

“I know how to make tea, Martin.” He nudges him with amusement, that gentle worry not quite gone from his eyes. “What are you writing about?”

Martin falls quiet, pressing the notebook to his chest in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thought you didn’t like poetry,” he huffs out a laugh that’s only a little bit self-conscious. Jon shrugs, reaching out for his mug and taking a sip.

“I don’t understand it. And yes, I have been known to dislike it at times, but… Maybe I could be swayed to give it another shot.” Jon rolls his eyes fondly and looks at Martin out of the corner of his eye, a look that says ‘for you’. Martin grins, heat pricking at his cheeks once again.

“You see, i-it’s all about emotion.” He places the notebook gently on his lap face down and reaches for his own mug. “You w-want to put all of your emotions into words in a-an artistic way, that has a rhythm and, uh, and feels alive. And you want your, uh, your readers to feel that, that emotion through your words.”

Jon listens attentively and his eyes aren’t leaving Martin’s face; at one point Martin gets distracted by it and forgets where his explanation was going. Jon’s gaze has always been intense, in different ways throughout the time they’ve known each other. At first it was judgemental, the gaze of his boss, full of unmet expectations; then it was piercing, watchful and suspicious; as time passed, it seemed to gain more and more weight of the Beholding, something Tim always complained about. After Martin had joined Peter Lukas, the rare glances he got from Jon were full of yearning that Martin didn’t understand at the time; didn’t want to understand. Now, it’s that gentle fondness, interweaved with something intangibly sad and Martin feels an urge to hug him, to bring him close to his chest and never let go; to bury his face in Jon’s hair and protect him.

They move to place their mugs at the table at the same time and snort, amusement quickly turning into a fit of laughter. Jon throws his head back a little with it and Martin wonders if he has ever seen him laugh so openly before. He didn’t think it was possible for him to fall in love with the man even more, but once again, his heart proves him wrong. He stares at him with a lovestruck expression and thinks they should really talk about it. Martin doesn’t know where to start though and Jon seems to be thinking in a similar direction because his expression shifts into gentle seriousness.

“Martin, I…” He starts and bites his lip. “I need to apologize.”

Martin straightens a little; it’s not exactly what he expects.

“I—The way I used to treat you…” Pain and guilt flash through Jon’s face as he looks away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was not okay. None of it was okay. And I’m—I’m really sorry for that. It doesn’t—I know it doesn’t change anything that happened, but I” —he sighs. “I really am sorry. I hope I can, somehow, uh… somehow make it up to you.”

Martin reaches for Jon’s hand, and he looks down in surprise; Martin sees his eyes start glistening.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.” He continues in a whisper and his eyes are locked on their touching hands. “I’m so sorry about the Lonely. I’m sorry that you’re trapped in all of this with me, and I would understand if you decided to leave—”

“Jon.” Martin squeezes his hand and Jon’s eyes shoot up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, that’s not an apology,” he sighs again. “I just… I’m sorry, Martin. About everything.” His other hand grips Martin’s. “I’m glad you are still here. I’m—I’m so glad, you d-don’t even know,” he laughs.

“I think I do.” Martin smiles gently. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve—I've forgiven you for a lot of it a long time ago. A-And the rest just isn’t your fault.”

Jon frowns.

“The Lonely was always there,” Martin shrugs. “Peter Lukas was just… a catalyst, I think. But now I have you.” His finger grazes the outside of Jon’s palm and his heart flutters in his chest when he sees that small smile appear on Jon’s face. “And you can’t be blamed for Elia—Jonah’s games. We’re all just… a bunch of people who didn’t know what was going on until it was too late.”

Jon’s eyes fall as he nods slightly.

“He’s still up to something,” he says quietly.

“Figures,” Martin laughs bitterly. “But we’re here now. And frankly, I don’t really want to think about him when we’re finally…” The word ‘together’ gets stuck in his throat, as if it would breach this fine line of ambiguity they’ve drawn between themselves. Jon seems to fill it in and his eyes land back on Martin.

He’s never wanted to kiss him more than he does right now. Jon's eyes are wide and glistening with something that looks suspiciously like hope, and his fingers gently graze the outside of Martin's palm. Warmth spreads in his chest and his eyes flutter a little, not breaking the eye contact. He wants to pull Jon close to his chest, to run his fingers through his hair and feel his breath on his own skin. To really feel like he's there, next to him, with him.

Before he can follow through with any of that, something sizzles in the kitchen, loud in the silence, startling them both.

“Food!” Jon chuckles slightly before he jumps to his feet and rushes to the kitchen, while Martin snorts and follows him. Jon stirs the pan with curry and sighs with relief when he sees it's not burned. He turns down the heat anyway and checks on the rice.

“Jon, this smells amazing,” Martin says, peeking into the pan with cheese and spinach. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“Well, contrary to the popular belief I was a functional human being. For a while,” Jon snorts and leans against the counter to look back at Martin. “It's Palak Paneer, my grandma taught me when I was a child.”

“It looks fantastic,” Martin grins, and Jon rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.

Even though the moment's lost, the remains of the feeling can be felt between them as they prepare the plates and take the food to the table. They easily fall back into usual chatter and, as soon as they’re finished, Martin jumps to wash the dishes. Jon relents after extensive affirmations from Martin that he's alright and he can definitely take care of a couple dishes in the sink, and he drops onto the couch with a content sigh instead.

Martin finishes up with the dishes and dries his hands on a towel.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks and hangs the towel back on the rack. When there's no response, he turns to the couch. “Jon?”

Something sinks in his stomach when he sees that the object that consumes Jon’s attention is the poem he’s finished; he scratches his neck, as his cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Oh…”

He walks up to the couch, unsure, trying to gauge Jon's reaction. His face seems tense, he squeezes the notebook in his hand so hard his knuckles go white, and his eyes are focused at one point on the page.

“Um... Jon?” Martin asks weakly, his heart drumming in his chest so loud he's sure both of them can hear it.

Jon jumps to his feet, startled, and looks up at him with eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. Martin instinctively raises his hands in a placating gesture, as Jon registers his presence, looks down on the notebook in his hands, and quickly puts it on the table as if it stung him.

“Martin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, it was just there and—”

“Hey, Jon, it’s alright!” It’s maybe a little not alright, since the poem is nothing short of a love confession and a wish Martin had no right to assume would ever be true, so Jon reading it is less than ideal. Martin rushes to gently place a hand on Jon’s shoulder but when he recoils from the touch, Martin withdraws his hand, cursing everything about himself.

“No, I, uh…” Jon runs his hand through his hair, eyes darting between Martin, his hand, and the notebook frantically. “I shouldn’t have— uh, it’s—it’s your private business, what you write about, so—”

Martin is sure he’s tomato red on the face by this point and hopes against hope that the afternoon light filtering through the curtains obscures it just a little. Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t have the embarrassed blush that usually darkens his cheeks; instead he breathes fast, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Martin sees him hunch just a little, making himself smaller.

“Um, yeah, I, uh—” He starts fidgeting with his fingers. Did the idea of—of love frighten Jon so much? He was stupid to leave it out in the open and now Jon knows, and it’s not how he feels, so he hates him… “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s eyes snap to him, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“For what?”

Martin huffs out something like a pained laugh.

“Th-That’s not exactly how- how I wanted to tell you.” He wrings out his hands and shoots Jon a pleading look. What’s done is done and the only thing he can hope for is for Jon to let him down easy and never speak of this again.

“Tell me?” Jon looks down at the notebook again and there’s the worry again, stark on his face. He breathes out, slowly, and looks at the floor. “I don’t—I don’t even want to think this is a possibility…”

Martin doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like to be stabbed, if he wanted to - he’s pretty sure the acute pain of his heart shattering in his chest is close enough. His mind tries to catch up to the emotions, slow them down just a bit, because something seems off, and isn’t this a weird way to reject someone you must have known had a crush on you? But his throat tightens with the swell of pain and shame and Martin blinks away the tears welling up in his eyes.

Jon sighs and plops down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands and pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

“We d-don’t have to talk about it, if—if you don’t want to,” Martin says quietly. He sits down next to Jon, careful not to touch him in any way, and puts his hands between his knees.

Jon lets out a bitter laugh.

“Isn’t that what they—the Web would want? Just… mindlessly follow, go with the flow until something… irreversibly bad happens?”

Martin turns to Jon with a frown.

“Wh—What?”

Jon looks at him with something glistening in his eyes and Martin can see the lines of pain and misery written on his face like they belong there.

“The web,” he says faintly. “Strings of fate. I—” He lets out a breath. “Was I just being manipulated this whole time? Was I ever really—Did I ever have a choice?”

“Jon... what are you talking about?”

“You—You said I was...” He reaches for the notebook and points at a verse with his finger. “’Made your choice unaware you were led by strings of web against your heart.’ How—W-Why did you say this?”

Martin stares into Jon's green eyes with concern, yet parts of his heart start to weave themselves back together. However confused and worried Jon seems to be, none of it is directed at Martin; he looks at him with desperation, almost pleading, and he realizes they’ve been having two different conversations at the same time.

“Oh-Oh, God, Jon, I-I didn't mean—I just, it's a-a metaphor, just that, you know,” he takes a breath. “It does remind me of a web, the-the way we got caught up in Elias' plans.” He looks down, his cheeks burning as he remembers why Jon would get caught at this specific phrase. “I'm sorry for, uh, using that, it was just the first thing that came to my mind and—”

Jon exhales next to him and Martin risks a look up. The uneasiness isn't gone from his face but he relaxes just a little bit, enough to stabilize his breathing.

“I'm sorry for this… this whole thing, Martin.” He gestures at nothing in particular and it's his turn to look at the floor, as if it's all of a sudden the most interesting thing he's ever seen. He starts fidgeting with the notebook. “I'm just—What if it’s true?” His voice goes higher at the question and he closes his eyes. Martin squeezes his arm. “What if I am just... Just a puppet? An inhuman, helpless puppet in the hands of—Of some spider pulling the strings?”

A tear rolls down Jon's cheek and Martin grabs one of his hands. It’s small and still shakes a little; he tries to put all the protectiveness he feels into this small gesture. Jon doesn’t recoil this time, instead taking a moment to watch Martin’s hand clasp around his.

“Jon,” Martin starts softly. “You're still you. You're not some—Some spider puppet that can't make choices.”

“But what if—”

“You've made a choice to go into the Lonely for me.” Martin bumps their knees together lightly and Jon looks up at him. “I don't suspect any webs would need me alive to push you into it. It was You.”

Jon looks him in the eyes and Martin barely stops himself from reaching up to his face to wipe away his tears.

“Or it just makes us think that we have a choice but are ultimately helpless against fate and everything we do is determined by intricately crafted circumstances,” Jon whispers. “Maybe free will is a lie.”

Martin blinks.

“Jon...”

“Maybe I was never able to stop it. Any of it.” Jon’s voice grows more horrified and even though his eyes are directed at Martin's face, he seems to be looking somewhere past him. “Maybe nothing we try to do really matters.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice gains a bit of force, even though he feels all but sure. “What do you see?”

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Look at me and tell me what you see?” The force is gone; the sentence sounds more like a feeble suggestion than a request, but Jon's eyes refocus on Martin's in a frown of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“We're here now,” Martin says quietly. “And yeah, maybe our decisions are all predetermined or whatever. I still think it matters that we try. I think our experience matters. And you're not a-a monster without free will, Jon. You care about people, and you’ve sacrificed a lot for other people. You've made your own choices and, no matter if they were good or bad, they were still yours. And I think that matters.”

Jon blinks at him for a moment, then his shoulders slump with a sigh and he interlaces their fingers. Martin doesn’t miss it and he feels warmth in his chest.

“I've always been afraid of—of my will not being my own anymore,” he confesses quietly. “Of, uh... of not knowing the difference.”

“I get it,” Martin nods. “If it’s any consolation, I see a lot of Jon in you still.” Jon looks up at him with surprise and Martin gives him a half smile. “I see a very changed Jon but it's still Jon.” He strokes Jon's palm as his heart picks up the pace. “The same Jon I've first fallen in love with.”

Jon exhales softly, his face caught in a soft surprise, and Martin smiles around the dull ache in his chest.

“You don't have to say anything. I'm sure you've known for a while, but I just... I wanted to say it.”

With every second that passes in silence, however, Martin's cheeks grow hotter, and he concludes that this might have been a mistake.

“I-I'm sorry. M-Maybe I shouldn't have said that, I… I don't want things to get weird or anything, so, uh, we can, we can just forget—”

“Martin.” Jon says his name in a soft and kind of inquisitive way that makes his heart bounce around and transforms the ache in his chest into swirling butterflies again. Martin looks up and Jon’s head is tilted to the side, his face still wet with tears, but he notices something hopeful glitter in his eyes. “I love you too.”

Martin frowns, suddenly wondering if he isn't dreaming. Is Jon really saying what he thinks he is? Did he hear correctly? Maybe he misheard—

“I have for a while,” Jon's voice is still quiet and soft. “I didn't want to say anything because I thought it was too early after the Lonely and you might not feel this way anymore, but...”

Martin swallows, acutely aware of how loud his heartbeat is. He squeezes Jon’s hand and smiles slightly.

“I... I didn't know,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to cooperate.

“As soon as I woke up from the coma, I wanted to tell you,” Jon says. “I thought I was too late; that it took me too long to stop denying the feelings I had because I didn’t know how to deal with them, and I'd missed my chance.” He laughs bitterly.

“So that’s what it was about,” Martin whispers, as Jon's actions towards him throughout his time as Peter Lukas’ assistant start falling into place. Jon looks at him with a frown, so he adds, “The ‘let's gouge out our eyes and escape'.”

Jon scrunches up his nose and clears his throat.

“Yes, well. Yeah.”

Martin chuckles quietly.

“I don't think I would have lasted in the Lonely if I understood then. But then again. It didn't really matter in the end. It didn't help.”

“But it was your choice,” Jon echoes Martin's words from before and their eyes meet again.

“Yeah. It was my choice.”

They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, losing track of time, before Jon smiles slightly and looks back at the notebook.

“I really am sorry for not asking your permission, though,” he says. “I got so caught up in the metaphor I didn’t even finish it.”

Martin blinks, the warmth from his chest spreading to his cheeks again.

“D-Do you want to?”

Jon smiles softly, this new smile that Martin has only seen in the past couple of days, always directed at him.

“If you’d let me.”

Martin needs to look away, unable to handle the affection in Jon’s eyes. He mumbles an ‘okay’ with a smile that’s not entirely under his control and gets up.

“But I am making that tea whether you want it or not, waiting for someone to finish reading something is a torture.”

He hears Jon laugh as he heads back to the kitchen.

When he comes back with two steaming mugs, Jon is waiting for him with a smile and his nervousness dissipates with his next words.

“I like it,” Jon says. “Apart from the, uh, web metaphor, obviously. It's hopeful.”

“Y-You do?”

Martin swallows; the pleasant tingling in his stomach is back. He places their mugs on the table and reaches out to join their hands again. Jon intertwines their fingers immediately and caresses the outside of Martin’s palm with his thumb.

Jon looks down at the verses again and smiles softly, almost sheepishly, a familiar blush darkening his cheeks.

“I—I don't know if there would be anything for us outside of. You know. The fears and all that,” he grimaces. “At least, for me. But, uh…” He looks at Martin again with a hopeful expression that makes Martin melt a little, and he gently caresses Martin's cheek with his free hand. “I really like the thought of it.”

Martin's brain might be short-circuiting at this moment and all of his thoughts take form of fuzzy static.

“Me too,” he says, suddenly breathless. Jon's hand rests cupping his cheek and, are they a bit closer than they were a second ago? Jon's gaze slides down Martin's face to his lips and he feels he might faint right there and then. He doesn't, instead gathering up his courage to take a breath.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks first and Martin feels his lips form a grin.

“Please,” he breathes out; the next second their lips meet, soft but urgent, desperate and sick of waiting. Martin's hand dives into Jon's soft hair, fingers scraping the delicate skin of his head and earning him a low sound from Jon's throat. They pull each other closer and find a rhythm to lose themselves in for just a moment; the sensation of Jon's tongue swirling in his mouth, of his slender fingers on his cheek and his neck, the pressure of his body against his chest; all of it making Martin dizzy with happiness.

Martin pulls away when his lungs painfully remind him breathing is still a necessity and he opens his eyes to look at Jon – His soft lips, his nose, his pockmark scars, and his eyes, green yet with no trace of Beholding in them. He takes him in whole, with all of his flaws and all of his virtues, and he feels seen in return, seen by the man he loves and who loves him. The weight of it all hits Martin like a crashing wave and he pulls Jon in for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he whispers against his shoulder, and he feels Jon's arms tightening around his torso.

“I love you too, Martin.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #summer in the archives event #niki.writes #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin

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appendingfic · 4 years

Text

Sooo...

@c2ndy2c1d made a pretty fantastic comic, Rockababy (found here), which I would totally recommend reading. And if you can, bookmark and comment on it - good creator engagement can help them with further development on the comic, and I selfishly want to see more.

And I was really inspired and was in a place in my writing cycle that I wanted some (3,500 words worth of) shipping fic so.

I hope y’all enjoy!

Observation

Rating: T

Fandom: Rockababy

Ship: Richie/Shifty

Summary: The facts are undeniable - Richie has been watching Shifty very closely. To what purpose, however, Shifty is determined to find out.

Shifty was sitting at his workbench, but unlike other times, there was no gadget or technology to work with at it. Just a notebook - identical to the dozens Richie kept in his room, observations on aliens - more detailed, now, that he had regular access to all the species that had found their way to Earth.

Identical in all respects except for one.

This notebook's contents were exclusively about <I>Shifty</I>. He steeled himself to open the book again, page through notes that were both more detailed and less focused than he was used to from Richie's writings.

"Not ticklish," was scratched out, bold letters next to it reading, "Ticklish at base of spine/tail - DO NOT TOUCH". Richie had inadvertently (Shifty hoped) discovered that fact during one of their photo sessions, documenting the regrowth of Shifty's tail. The memory almost brought a smile to Shifty's face - Richie had been mortified, blushing as he apologized fervently from across the room when Shifty had nearly bolted off the exam table at the touch.

"Has a sense of humor", another page read. "Not slapstick - not observational. Absurd? Smiled at a pun - denied it BUT I KNOW THE TRUTH". Shifty actually smiled at that.

Another was a list of foods, apparently random unless you had been studying Shifty's tastes. Next to the word "Chocolate" was a doodle of Shifty's natural face, frowning. The discovery Shifty didn't like chocolate had seemingly depressed Richie, and Shifty still wasn't certain if he'd disappointed Richie by failing to enjoy that particular human treat. The page after that was another apparently random list of foods, again, unless you'd been trying to determine what foods Shifty liked. Six fruits were circled, lines drawn from them to a margin where Richie had written "FRUIT", and, next to it, "even Durian?" There was a doodle of Shifty's face - natural, again - smiling next to the word "peanut butter", and a line drawn between that and "bananas", a wholly intriguing proposition Shifty vowed to explore later.

There was something crossed out with heavy lines next to the word "suckers" - the only letters Shifty could make out were "OR-" and "-IXA-", and the tail end of a question mark. As he had no idea what the note could have been, he left it alone.

Especially as there were other, more puzzling notes filling the notebook. A list of numbers which had been mystifying until Shifty recognized one as his normal body temperature, at which point, the others included a startlingly accurate indicator of at what temperature Shifty started feeling cold. There was a number underlined several times, which Shifty recognized as the temperature the fever he'd had two months ago had pushed him to, and a rambling series of notes that Shifty recognized as documenting Richie's frenzied attempts at treatment when Shifty had finally admitted he was sick (not that the NESB didn't have perfectly adequate medical care, but Richie had been adamant Shifty shouldn't have to recuperate in their medical lab or, as Shifty had suggested, handle it himself).

Dozens of drawings - of the patterns on Shifty's skin, of his hands, of his tail. Detail of his face - or attempts, as Richie had scribbled over each one. Shifty stared at one such attempt for a moment before flipping to find the doodles next to the lists of Shifty's favorite and least favorite foods. Looking at those drawings, he couldn't pinpoint what had frustrated Richie about the others - the disappointed frown on drawn Shifty's face felt true to life, and while Shifty didn't see his own smile much, the delighted cartoon Shifty looked - much the way he felt when one of his friends drew a smile out of him.

The notes were clearly the work of months of observation - most, if not all, of the period of their...acquaintanceship (friendship. They were friends. The first people who'd seen his natural form and agreed to raid a corporate lab to rescue an infant alien were his friends). And Richie must have been keeping it with him most of the time, as Shifty had discovered the notebook on the couch when Richie had last visited.

So...months of observations. At first glance, somewhat scientific, unless you'd seen Richie's other work, and realized how little of the notebook's contents lacked the - objective veneer he maintained for other work. The notes he included with the photographs of Shifty he submitted to the NESB were professional, and rarely included any of the banter Shifty had to keep up to distract himself from the vague discomfort of being under such close examination.

This notebook was more of the same.

...Technically.

For all it didn't involve the complete suite of photographs sitting in an NESB lab somewhere, the notes were more intimate. They all touched on things that no one should know without having been close to Shifty. It wasn't that he suspected Riche were keeping the notes to - sell them to tabloids or something ("Aliens Love Peanut Butter" wouldn't sell papers, he guessed).

But not knowing what Richie was trying to accomplish with this left Shifty a little uneasy. They were supposed to hang out the next day, ostensibly to study for their calculus final, although both of them were far beyond needing the additional help, which meant it would be a perfect opportunity to get some answers.

Ms. Cunningham answered the door when Shifty arrived at their home, eyes brightening at the sight of him. "Blueberry!" she said, kissing him on both cheeks as she stepped around him to step outside, ignoring the flush on Shifty's cheeks (in human guise, it at least remained confined to his face). "I assume you're here to see Richie - he's in his lab, while I'm off to mine." She pulled Shifty in for a hug before letting go and stepping back to grin at him. "So you boys have fun, and make sure Richie eats."

"Oh - absolutely," Shifty replied, watching Ms. Cunningham drive away. He stepped inside; the Cunninghams had opened their home indiscriminately to Shifty, and he'd only recently become comfortable with it. He knew they had good reason not to worry about him wandering around their home, even if he was expected. He didn't have much reason to wander, of course, except, taking Ms Cunningham's comment into consideration, to bring Richie a sandwich (and experiment with the notion of peanut butter and bananas for himself).

When Shifty descended the stairs into Richie's home lab (an examination table, a desk, and a couch that had migrated down there at some point in the last several months), Richie barely looked up from a notebook he was writing in, at least until Shifty set a plate down next to him.

He looked up and smiled at Shifty, an open, bright expression that made Shifty glad he hadn't let his human form drop, because his tail had developed a traitorous tendency to wag when Richie smiled at him.

"Your mother said you should eat," Shifty said as an explanation.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." Richie picked up his sandwich, took a bite, and set it down again. He twisted around to look up at Shifty, a frown almost taking over his mouth before his expression smoothed out. "Did you want to get started on studying?"

"Come on," Shifty replied, leaning against the desk so he could look down at Richie's notebook (neat, organized, nothing like the one in Shifty's bag). "You and me have studied enough. I'm just here to keep you from starving to death."

Richie looked back at his sandwich, and picked it up for another bite, apparently focused on it while he ate, although Shifty was certain Richie kept glancing sidelong at him.

"You're, uh. Just trying to keep me fed?" Richie asked. There was a tone to his voice, almost - lilting, and Shifty suspected he was being teased.

"Well, I also wanted to ask you about something you left at my place," Shifty replied. "It probably fell out of your backpack or something-"

"I'm sorry!" Richie blurted, holding up his sandwich between them like a shield.

Shifty, who hadn't expected such a violent reaction, stood, shocked, until he saw jam leaking from the bottom of Richie's sandwich. He caught the drop before it could hit the floor and licked it off his finger.

When he actually looked back at Richie, Richie was staring at him.

"What?" Shifty demanded.

"You...aren't mad?"

"I don't know," Shifty replied. "I'm not sure what you're apologizing for."

"O - oh." Richie's cheeks flushed as he looked away from Shifty. "I thought you found the. Uh. Pictures."

"The drawings?" Shifty asked, and somehow, Richie's cheeks went redder, his entire posture tensing into something that made it look like he was about to bolt.

"Richie?" Shifty asked, leaning forward, realizing only as he reached out to Richie that he'd dropped back to his natural form, pale, clawed fingers coming to rest on Richie's shoulder.

"I kept some of the photos," Richie said. "The ones you didn't really want the NESB to keep because they were a little…" He trailed off, and Shifty, remembering the discussion and in his natural form, felt his whole body blush, because.

Richie had tried to be professional when taking the pictures, requesting standard, clinical poses, but even so, some of them had ended up looking a little-

Well, like the pinups Boomer had implied Richie kept in his room.

"It just seemed a shame, because they're good pictures, and you look really - you look good in them. I haven't shown them to anybody or anything, but…" He trailed off, staring at his feet, and if Shifty were inclined to hugging anyone besides Buttons, he might have tried to hug Richie to calm him down.

Except while Richie had panicked over the photographs, the mention of drawings seemed to have freaked him out worse.

"Can you maybe tell me what you found?" Richie asked, voice a little reedy. "So I know what I'm freaking out about?"

"It was a notebook," Shifty replied, pulling the book out of his bag and handing it over. "At first I thought it was one of your alien data books, but it was - about me, and sort of...personal?"

"I'm sorry," Richie repeated, snatching the book out of Shifty's hands to clutch it against his chest. "I wasn't like - secretly trying to find a way to hurt you or anything. Obviously, I've been paying attention if there was anything you were allergic to because I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I got you killed because you had a peanut allergy or something."

"You also appear to think it's a tragedy I don't like chocolate," Shifty pointed out, and Richie, who'd seemed to be calming down, flushed ducking his head to hide it behind his notebook.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be," Shifty said, settling against the desk so he could lean closer to Richie, squeeze his shoulder in a way he hoped was reassuring. "I mean, it's a little weird - and it's sort of driving me crazy trying to figure out what it's for-"

"I just wanted to figure you out," Richie said. When Shifty didn't respond immediately, he continued, knuckled still white from the strain of holding onto his notebook. "Like - I thought maybe I didn't understand you because you were an alien, so I started paying attention. Like if you were allergic to anything, or if you're ticklish or sensitive-"

"If I can get sick," Shifty interrupted, bringing Richie up short, quiet as he considered that.

"Yeah. And I didn't really have friends before, so I was also trying to figure out friend stuff, like what you liked, what you didn't-"

"I do like puns," Shifty said. At Richie's slightly shaky stare, he shrugged. "It's fun, playing around with words like that."

"I…" Richie's gaze drifted down to his notebook, one hand twitching; it was almost certain he was fighting the urge to document this new revelation immediately.

"You can write it down," Shifty said gently. "Now that I know it's just you being - observant, I don't mind."

"Oh." Richie set the notebook down and flipped open to the page on which he'd mused on Shifty's sense of humor, making a few notations on it. "Thanks."

"Don't worry about it," Shifty allowed. He eyed his own sandwich, forgotten in Richie's panic, wondering if it was safe to start in on it again. Probably not; this conversation didn't feel over yet. "I liked the drawings of me in the notebook. They're - good." He paused a moment, trying to sort out his thoughts. "I liked the little cartoons."

Richie scowled. "They're dumb. I only drew them because I can't get your face right when I'm drawing it seriously."

"I don't think it's dumb. That smiling face looks like - how I feel when I'm smiling."

"...Oh." Richie closed the notebook, but didn't move after that. "I'm glad. That you aren't upset. I don't want to upset you."

"Hm," Shifty replied. "I don't think you would. Do anything that would upset me." And now that he was...observing, considering facts with an assessing eye, Shifty had a - hypothesis.

Richie had been watching Shifty <I>very</I> closely. He had in his possession photographs they had both decided were a little - much for the scientists at the NESB to see. And there were...drawings, somewhere, that Richie didn't want Shifty to see.

Without his conscious input, Shifty's tail began to swing behind him, a slow horizontal drag that Richie had probably been watching Shifty closely enough to interpret. Shifty leaned over Richie, finding he liked the idea of - testing his hypothesis.

"You've been watching me pretty closely, haven't you?" he asked. And Richie had taken his eyes off of Shifty, because when he looked up, his face paled and he licked his lips, a nervous swipe of his tongue.

"Yeah, but not in a creepy way-"

"It's a little creepy," Shifty pointed out. "I'm pretty sure there's a drawing of the marks just above my tail in there. And I don't have much chance to look at it, but it's a pretty good likeness."

Richie closed his eyes. "Sorry, I-"

"Where did I give you the impression I minded?" Shifty retorted, and Richie's eyes snapped open, jaw dropped, and he just...stared.

"Wha," he croaked out after a few quiet moments.

"It's a little creepy for - professional interest," Shifty continued, as he let his tail continue to sway behind him. "But if it's a more - personal interest." He paused, hoping he hadn't read this embarrassingly wrong, or he'd never be able to face either of the Cunninghams for the rest of his life. And then he leaned down just a little more, so the next words were spoken just next to Richie's ear. "That might be a project worth - exploring."

In Shifty's defense, everything he knew about flirting he'd learned from television, and the "bad boy" type he'd sought to emulate always acted this smooth.

In Richie's (as Shifty learned later), no one had ever hit on him before.

So Richie's startled flailing resulted in a bruised and slightly bloody nose on Shifty's part, and a possibly fatal case of embarrassment and remorse on Richie's, as he sat as far away from Shifty as the couch allowed while Shifty iced his nose.

With Richie licking his (metaphorical) wounds at giving Shifty literal ones, Shifty suspected he would have to speak up if he ever wanted to resolve this.

"I'd sort of like to know," Shifty said, at last. When Richie looked up, his eyes were almost looking wet, just on the edge of tears.

"What?"

"If you're just - looking, or if you. Want," Shifty concluded, finding the words awkward to force out. "Me," he clarified, and he probably shouldn't have, because his face was starting to flush again, which meant it was a matter of time until it encompassed his entire body. "Because if you do, I'd. Apparently, I like smart, sweet guys who care about. Snakes." He wasn't certain how he'd managed to make this sound more awkward than it already was, but. Here they were. Shifty with all of his cards on the table, and Richie.

Staring.

He was used to Richie staring - Richie was the budding xenobiologist, and whether Shifty was in human guise or his natural form or somewhere in between, Richie wanted to see anything he did that was out of the ordinary. But he wasn't used to watching Richie staring, and Shifty suspected if he ever had, they might have had this conversation a while ago.

Because Richie's gaze dragged over Shifty, along the frills on his head and arms, the patterns along his skin, including the heart-shaped one on his forehead, the pointed, inhuman head, and his tail, from the tip to the base, where Richie knew Shifty was - sensitive.

Richie pressed his palm against the end of Shifty's tail, a feather-light touch. And then he trailed his palm along the frills, a lighter touch, if possible, and Shifty shivered. Richie's gaze shot up to meet Shifty's, eyes wavering, wide, afraid.

(Shifty dismissed the thought that Richie was worried what Shifty would do, but that left as the only possible conclusion that Richie was worried for Shifty.)

"Gentler treatment than I'm used to," Shifty said, winking at Richie. "Seeing as I live with a kid with grabby hands." When Richie didn't move, Shifty flicked his tail to brush the end against the back of Richie's hand. "You can keep going."

Richie's gaze shifted from his own hand back to the lazy waving of the tip of Shifty's tail. And the next touch was - firmer, more present, if still tentative. Shifty grinned and twisted around toward the back of the couch so he could provide Richie access to his tail without discomfort, even if he had to crane his neck slightly to watch Richie draw his hand along the frills of Shifty's tail.

It was - intimate, if at the same time a step back from some of the - implications of what they'd been talking about. Still, the slightly dazed expression on Richie's face faded over the course of several minutes, and gave way to something more - analytical.

"So," Richie mused. "There's some. Stuff. We haven't talked about. About your species and. You. And." His voice rose throughout his stuttering statement, until Shifty decided any amusement he took from Richie's slowly-growing discomfort would be cruel and a diversion from Shifty's - well, not ultimate goal, but his most immediate one.

So Shifty tugged his tail from Richie's grip and crawled the short distance that separated their bodies, leaning up just enough to kiss Richie. Just a press of lips, more a statement of intent than anything.

Richie didn't jerk backward - but only just. His cheeks were red, and he was looking at anything but Shifty. "What-"

"You were working your way up to a question," Shifty replied. "I was giving you an answer. As for romance, that's a yes. As for kissing, that's a yes. As for - other concerns, I figure we can...explore that question in further detail if the rest seems to be working out." Shifty smiled, aware the slow, deliberate expression was likely one Richie hadn't seen before, a notion confirmed at the distant, glazed expression on Richie's face (either that or the promise that any forays into more complicated activities would come with the expectation of scientific inquiry and rigor, even if Richie and Shifty were the only people who ever benefited from it).

Shifty leaned back in toward Richie, pausing this time when he was almost close enough to touch. "Soo," he drawled, grinning. "What's the verdict?"

Richie crossed the few remaining inches to press his lips against Shifty's, and then press forward to - experiment, Shifty realized, to observe and detail his findings. Shifty grinned against Richie's mouth at the thought, surging forward to contribute to Richie's obvious desire to explore.

They passed an hour or so that way, before Shifty dropped his head onto Richie's lap, looking up as Richie traced along the marks on Shifty's face, face fixed in concentration, until that concentration faltered and Richie gave Shifty's mouth a strange look.

Shifty smirked. "What's that look for?"

"Your smile is - you're really pretty," Richie stammered.

And Shifty might have - suspected Richie thought that, but hearing it sent a thrill along his spine, and his smile widened. "I guessed," he replied, "seeing how you kept all those photos."

Richie ducked his head away, covering his face with his hands. "Oh god, please don't bring that up. It's embarrassing."

"Is it?" Shifty asked, stretching out (and not failing to notice how Richie's gaze darted toward Shifty's stomach as he did so). "Then maybe we could talk about the drawings that came up earlier."

It would take some time, Shifty suspected, before he got a straight answer about those (even if Richie's embarrassment was incredibly telling about the nature of said drawings). But Shifty was certain enough about his intentions, and Richie's own, not to worry overmuch about it. Richie had better things to occupy his time with, now, anyway.

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #rockababy #c2ndy2c1d

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cottagecrowe · 2 years

Note

I saw your comment in that "pedo" problem post in the twst fandom, and I will say I like the way you were just calm about it. Like I do understand that being a person in the internet , you will see things that you don't like or you're not comfortable with it (regardless if you're a minor or not). But those people have to understand that the internet caters to a lot of other people and not only to you.

Immediately accusing someone for being "bad" or "immoral" or a "pedo" for engaging in NSFW content (do remember that NSFW does not only limit to sexual things, it can only be stuff like gore, murder, violence and many more) DOES NOT MAKE YOU A BETTER PERSON. Like yey for you for not engaging in NSFW but harassing those who do still makes you a bad person, like let people discover what they like on their own without outside interference jfc. Also tagging zvez multiple times for them to respond isn't a good thing to do as well, it's best to just leave them alone and let the world teach it to them instead, because that might be somewhat considered harrassment as well.

I also want to address something else that was mentioned in that post which is the "if you want to sexualize minors then just age them up" while personally for me I do find it weird that you'll just age up a character for the sake of putting them in sexual situations, but is it considered problematic? no. Because aging someone up means you don't see them as their canon age anymore, you see them as an adult. Or the general idea of aging up a minor character for romantic purposes isn't bad at all. Because remember, WE ALL AGE, WE ALL GET OLD. Like if people are just gonna say "Oh if you're old then just like those who are the same age as you yada yada yada" EVERYONE HAS DIFFERENT TASTES AND PREFERENCES PLEASE REMEMBER THAT. There might be traits or qualities that someone might see in a younger character that they feel attracted to it, which they don't see in an adult character, which is perfectly fine, and if those people want to insert themselves then it would be best to either a. make an OC around the same age as the character b. make them an adult instead so it won't be weird Honestly this is more of a block and move on situation, I will admit I do find zvez a handful to interact with because of how they deal with situations like this. But hey I like your take on this (also I like your reblogs a lot, it makes discover a lot of things)

Aaaaa, god, thank you sm~!! I’m really glad the response to this has been so nice 😭

And I’ll be honest, I understand how, from a distance, that sounds weird and sus/creepy af, lol. (And sometimes I forget that I’m on the ace spectrum and don’t even usually see every single character I age up in attractive in that manner, and even if I do, it’s…not exactly “sexual” in the way allo people might be, if that makes any sense? )

But I understand, and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that there probably are some people using this as a gateway into being a total creep. But the main difference is those people are likely using it to actually harm REAL CHILDREN.

Not someone just doing it so it literally doesn’t feel as weird/gross/unsettling as the idea of doing that irl would be. Usually them getting aged up doesn’t mean “lol they look and sound like an infant but now they are 20 and it’s fine! Drool drool”

Usually it means “ok, I ADORE the character’s personality, and the way they are drawn looks like they could be a range of ages from a late teen to a young adult. So I’m going to say instead of them being 17 here, they’re closer to my age~. It’s more fun that way~!”

And then lots of times other characters STAY the younger ages they are, and the self shipper has a PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP with THEM instead bc they enjoy that with them more~! In my opinion it can even actually be helpful, let alone comforting. I have cousins that are more like siblings to me (being an only child), than cousins. Being able to indulge in that dynamic with characters is nice, since I don’t get to see them as much anymore~. Having characters I can see as familial is a comfort I cling to bc my parents and grandparents suck shit. But a few fictional crushes are simply aged the way they are bc the content’s target audience is teen/older teens. Because too many people still refuse to see animation as something adults can enjoy, too.

Which is a WHOLE nother conversation. If teens and even some adults arguing all this makes one a pedo, think this means they get to be the only ones consuming media, then they aren’t allowed to be pissy when we start making things like Helluvaboss and Hazbin for ourselves and gently shoo minors away when they try to butt their heads in, lol.

But no, the argument that doing this instantly makes you a pedo is so delusional and minimizing of such a serious and horrible thing, it’s mildly infuriating to me. Especially as someone who was groomed growing up. Especially as someone in the trans community that also has to hear her family calling anyone against the Don’t Say Gay Bill, groomers and pedophiles. This Ain’t It, Sis 🥲

(Also I feel like there’s a whole nother discussion that could be made here bc like…? What if someone really sees themselves in a character and said character is very short, flat chested, skinny/small, soft voiced, shy, etc., but they actually LIKE that the character is still desired by others? And then they see all these weirdos like “I hAtE hOw MuCh ThEy’Re SeXuAlIzInG sOmEoNe ThAt LoOkS lIkE a MiNoR”? Like I get it but also…everyone deserves to be seen in all the ways they want to be seen, too, yk? And/or just liking ppl that look like that and are NOT children being called creeps? We’re going backwards, lol, lets hit the reset button a bit shall we?) Also Idk if adults forgot and kids just don’t know, but once you reach 18ish…you look a lot like how you probably will when you’re 20+? Lol I fit a lot of older teens for their prom suits where I work, and some of them be looking like fucking 25-40 year olds that come in to get their wedding suits, for real. That’s kinda the whole point of puberty. It’s NOT WEIRD to be attracted to a DRAWN character’s face/body and just age them up to not feel gross 😭

LIKE YESSSS EXACTLY WE ALL AGE WHAT ARE THESE PPL ON ABOUT?? 😭 😭

But yeah no, I see their intentions and know they mean well, but I agree with you there on that too. : T It feels very harassy to me too, and that’s not exactly gonna make them wanna listen to anything, unfortunately. Which really is a shame. I really do hope they come to realize all this over time too, cause I really do love their art and want them to be successful~! But I also don’t want them pushing these ideas to others their age, or, eventually, younger. No one needs that. (It also still makes no sense to me that they preach that and ship their insert/oc with Malleus, lol, like doesn’t that just go against everything they supposedly stand against?) None of that deserves harassment, though, by a long shot.

Thanks for giving me an excuse to vent out more thoughts I’ve been having lol xD I’m glad you like my thoughts/rebloggs I send out into the void~! Showing ppl neat educational stuff to get one thinking is one of my fave lil wee pass times, I’m glad we can share mutual head nodding together online a bit, hehe~ 💗💗

#asked #answered #sweet anon #discourse #anti shipping #pro shipping

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philliamwrites · 3 years

Text

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.4]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

Chapter 04: Demands of the Faithful

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

[Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.]

“I’m glad you could make time,” Byleth says, carefully placing her fine cup on the small bottom plate. If she notices how uncomfortable you feel, sitting in the centre of the yard, drinking tea, she ignores it. “Let’s think together about what we want to teach during the mock battle.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, nibbling on your cup. “A very bad idea.”

The late afternoon hours are quiet, but it certainly helps that the tea arrangement is tugged away in a far off corner in the courtyard, hidden behind tall hedges that allow privacy. The sweet smell of chamomile tea and strawberry pastry is a nice exchange from the usual savoury smells you’re used to in the cafeteria. All around you, the high, spiky roofs of the monastery’s towers stand out against the fiery, orange sky, throwing longer and longer shadows as the sun sets behind the mountains. The clouds are soft, pink cotton-candy, blushing at the warm touch of the sun.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Byleth continues, cutting through a piece of cake with her fork. “We’ve seen what the house leaders are capable of. It’s time to see what the rest of the students can do.”

“Don’t take me wrong. I think a mock battle will help them grow,” you agree. “I just don’t really understand why it’s me who has to lead the Blue Lions.”

“I think Professor Hanneman is not present at the day of the mission,” Byleth explains. “It seems on the last day of Lone Moon he always leaves the monastery for a private reason. And I assume Lady Rhea means to see the extent of your power.”

That’s what you expected as well. In the last couple of days you realised your power is a muscle, to be exercised daily, never to be pushed to the extreme. It was a strenuous task to try out how much is too much; where there’s still room. Under the keen eyes of Hanneman, you two practised day after day, trying to figure out how much your body can take before exhaustion sweeps over you and renders you immobile. Crests usually don’t have a limit; depending on their nature they grant a permament boost to the bearer’s abilities. Muttering under his breath, Hanneman had made quite a show to remind you what a curiosity the Crest of the Herald is. Like you wouldn’t know.

“Since we’re going to be on the field as well, you might want to get more practice with the sword,” Byleth proposes, and you groan. She has a way of being brutally honest, and so far no one’s been spared to get the brunt of it. “I’m not letting my students hold back. Not even against you.”

“You really are a voice of confidence, you know.” Shoulders drooping like someone took the wind from your sails, you throw your head back and drink the rest of your tea. Byleth’s expression doesn’t change, and you wonder why you even try being funny around her.

After clearing the table, Byleth accompanies you to your next lesson hall. It’s nice in theory, but her vigorous way of trying to drill sword techniques into your head on the way doesn’t hide her true agenda. Only slowly, you begin to realise that is maybe her way of caring for someone. Brutish in appearance, but once you look past the first impression of indifference, Byleth’s silent demeanour speaks louder than words.

Students linger in small groups in front of the class rooms, their exhausted faces from a full day of lessons and hard training visible in the way they carry their bodies. If you had a say in it, you’d cancel the evening lessons and let them rest; a reoccurring debate inside the faculty that doesn’t go anywhere. Byleth stops in front of the class room, surveying the students with a cool gaze, when suddenly Claude and Hilda jog towards you, and by “jogging” they decided Hilda to be the only one running while carrying Claude bridal style like he weighs nothing. As they pass you, Claude tips an invisible hat in your direction, calling “Hey, teach,” and then immediately “Bye, teach!” as they cross the courtyard.

Your gaze follows them. “What just happened.”

Byleth doesn’t even bother to look. “Claude and Hilda happened.”

Heavens, you don’t know if you’re able to handle them later.

After exchanging goodbyes with Byleth, you tackle the next forty minutes with a belly full of sweets and a mind occupied with worrying about everything you might do wrong next week. Forming two groups, you hand out two different manoeuvres you dug out of books, and present the task, “Work out the pros and cons of each battle tactic, and present them to the class. Explain where you would have done things differently, and why.”

Sylvain raises his hand.

“Yes, you can leave to bathroom breaks without asking me,” you say.

Sylvain drops his hand. Then raises it again.

“No, you can’t bring animals you find on your way back to your seat,” you say.

He drops his hand. Beside him, Ingrid fails to stifle a groan.

Twenty minutes later, the first group stands in front of the class. Mercedes’s steady hand draws the perfect copy of the manoeuvre on the chalk board while Annette recites every step flawlessly. They’re a powerful combination, and that’s only half owed to their friendship. Mercedes is soft; she’s the silk hiding the dagger that Annette’s sharp mind is. There’s strength in kindness, and both have honed this ability to a razor-sharp weapon. There’s still a pouch of unfinished cookies Mercedes has baked for you left in your room, something to keep in mind for the next tea hour with Byleth. Felix and Dedue don’t add much, and you’re a little afraid to ask, seeing how Felix’s eyes burn holes in the back of Dedue’s head. There’s been rumours going on about a dispute, but no details, and you gladly leave that sort of teacher-student business to Hanneman.

The remaining students do their job almost just as good. But the thought of children being so confident in ways of war and killing leaves a painful twinge in your chest. You wonder what will become of them all in a few years, what battles they will win. What battles they will lose—this fear lingers at the edges of your consciousness like an ever-present shadow. To push it away, you try to refocus on the task at hand.

“Look at the battalions you have,” you advise, tapping a finger against the cool surface of the board. It comes away white with chalk, leaving a white smudge on your robe as you wipe it off. “Where are they placed?”

Ashe clears his throat. “Two Lance Soldiers, that’s Infantry. One Magic Squadron, also Infantry. The latter is stationed far northeast on that island. Two Pegasus Corpses, which are Flying Types. We put them behind the mountains to ambush the enemies on their way to one of our Infantries.”

“A good idea in theory,” you acknowledge, and don’t miss how Ashe exhales in relief. “And where are you enemies?”

“They’re facing our Infantry and the Squadron,” Dimitri steps in now. “The Flying Unit engage from the back. After their victory, Infantry and Flying close the last opposite unite off on the bridge, and join the Magic Squadron in fighting.”

“Okay, okay,” you nod. “And now look at the terrain of this last unit you want to take on from the front and back. The one on the bridge moving towards the Squadron.”

The room is quiet for a minute, and then a silent “Oh” from Ashe.

“Yes. Oh. The Magic Squadron moves slower through the woods. You’ll lose them. And one of the Lance units is probably the next to go.” You draw sharp lines across the board with red chalk, changing the battalion’s movements. One goes across the whole board, crossing out the word Sea. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to have your Pegasus Companies move this way across the water, join the Magic Squadron and then close in from the right to join the Infantries?”

“But Herald.” Ingrid raises her hand, but doesn’t wait for you to pick her. “If Infantry and Flying take out the first enemy, we’ll still win. The remaining unit will be trapped on the island without a possibility to retreat. Wouldn’t it be wiser to sacrifice the Magic Squadron just for that?”

“I agree with Ingrid,” says Sylvain. He’s sitting on a desk, and swings his legs back and forth. “With or without them, we won the battle, and that’s what matters.”

You turn back to scan the manoeuvre one more time. They’re right—blocking the enemy’s escape routes off proves a solid guarantee to win, and yet you’ve somewhat hoped they wouldn’t settle on this option. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, turning your lips upside down as if you’ve bitten into a lemon.

“Sometimes, you don’t want to win the battle,” you start slowly, the thought blossoming from a dark place deep inside you. “Sometimes you want as many as possible to live.” Which is easier said than done, and no one in the room agrees on your statement because they know just as much that such a choice isn’t always granted. Before the silence stretches on too long, you quickly add, “I guess it is more important to know there is no right or wrong answer. You make decisions later on that will either grant you victory or death, and you will have to live with those decisions.”

Unanimous murmur sounds from the students, a topic nobody wants to dwell on too long, and you grant them that wish; this precious little time they’re still allowed to be children and make mistakes before responsibilities catch up to them. The rest of the lesson flies past without disturbances, and when the bells announce the break, they jump from their seats and scurry outside.

“Don’t forget there’s going to be a test after the mock battle,” you call after them, knowing they’ll forget anyway and then boycott. The Lions are finally done with lessons, but there is the Deer House who have the misfortune to attend the last period of the day. As you prepare their unit of instruction on different terrains, Dimitri approaches you, his expression a mixture between confidence and tension.

“Herald.” He stops in front of your desk, shoulders squared into a declaration of deference. “I have prepared instructions on everyone’s weaknesses and strengths. Please, do consider to take a look. Since one of the rules is that only six units will be stationed on the field, I hope this will make your decision easier who to choose.” Placing the papers with outmost care on your table, Dimitri hesitates a moment before continuing, “What you said earlier … truth be told, I think the same. To limit the loss of lives as much as possible should be a priority to a leader as well. To hear that from someone like you … I was quite glad.”

“Someone like me,” you repeat, but you’re more surprised to feel your fingers itch to take the papers and get a first read on everyone. After going through similar notes from Linhardt, you’re now excited to learn more about your proteges, and with luck someone from the Golden Deer students might provide you with a first survey as well.

“Someone responsible for tactics and strategy,” Dimitri quickly clarifies. “Someone tasked with bringing absolute victory.” He gives you a look that is somehow both caressing and calculating at the same time. “I understand that those sometimes compete with one’s own beliefs regarding the value of life. One’s conscience is as much of a weapon as a sharpened blade. If it breaks, what use is there to a person.”

“Those are … some mature thoughts.” You don’t know where this observation goes. Of course he is mature, he has to be as the successor of a noble lineage. “For someone your age.” You press your mouth into a thin line, cursing your inability to think of a better response. But Dimitri simply smiles—a smile that is like a light suddenly being turned on in every room of a dark house.

“Oh, but I do not want to bore you with such matters. I just wanted to add, I really do look forward to have you on our side during the mock battle.” He gives a little courtesy bow. “Let us discuss the details on the day before the mission. A good evening to you, Herald.”

Dimitri leaves with a little bounce to his step. It’s probably better he’s in high spirits, even though you aren’t sure what exactly made him happy. It would be a real shame to extinguish his excitement by being an utter failure during the battle, so you make sure to read whatever he managed to put together about his classmates as soon as possible. There’s still some minutes left before the first Deer students will enter. Exhaustion lulls you into resting your eyes, and the moment your head is cradled in your arms, you doze off.

It’s the third time you have this dream after joining the Officer’s Academy, though calling it a ‘dream’ is a stretch—there is nothing happening, nothing to see. Only white, as pure and unblemished as a young lily blossom in early spring. Only this time this picture—maybe a memory, but of what or where you can’t say—is different.

Wake up, a voice whispers, barely recognisable and dull, spoken behind a wall of water. Wake up.

Your hands weigh a ton. Unable to reach out and grasp it, the dream blurs, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Wake up.

“Herald, wake up,” Claude persists. “You’re drooling on my test papers.”

His hand brushes your shoulder and you jump, all focus on the dream dispersing. Multiple voices fill the room in a shower of sounds, not helping to regain your senses of where you are. It doesn’t help that your right eye throbs dully, and as you rub it to somehow reduce the sensation, white spots dance across your vision.

“So sorry, Herald,” Claude smirks with his hand still hovering over your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to wake you from your beauty rest, but Hilda planned to draw obscene things on your face, and we can’t have that now, can we.”

“Liars never prosper, Claude!” comes Hilda’s response from somewhere in the back of the room. You groan, narrowing your eyes at him. Going back to sleep and stumbling about to try and figure out what’s going on sounds more pleasing than dealing with Claude’s shenanigans.

“Man, what a bummer you won’t join our House during the mock battle,” he continues as if Hilda hasn’t said anything. “If someone asked me, I think to have you fight for the Blue Lions is cheating.”

“But no one asked you?” you offer, indulging him with a weak smile.

“The audacity, right?” Claude rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, leaning against the teacher’s desk. “Just imagine the brilliant schemes we two could work out. Oh, I have an amazing idea. How about you ask Lady Rhea—”

“I’m not asking to be by your side during the battle.”

“Ouch.” Claude places a hand over his chest, right above his heart. “Immediately shut down. Who knew our dearest Herald would be such a heart breaker.”

You shoo him away, not only because he’s getting on your nerves, but there’s also Ignatz and Raphael standing in line, waiting for your attention.

“We’ve heard the students from the other Houses gave you some insight in their abilities,” Ignatz says, tugging a stack of papers to his chest. “We decided to give you one as well.”

“I’m sure you’ll like them,” Raphael chimes in, looking more excited than usual. “I gave Ignatz instructions on how to make our report the best. Forget boring words, Herald, we’ve prepared the real deal!” He rips the papers from Ignatz’s hands and slams them on your table. A crack sounds on the underside, and Raphael leans his whole weight upon the surface, completely oblivious to the protesting creak of the wood.

“Here, we started with Claude, since he’s the big shot and all that,” he explains, opening the first page. It shows Claude, a surprisingly accurate portrait of him, if not a little bit scrawny. He’s wielding a bow, nocking multiple arrows. Seems like Raphael wasn’t the only one giving instructions.

“And here is Leonie, and there’s Lorenz, and oh! That’s us working together as a team!” Raphael beams as he turns the page. In this picture, everyone is assembled, fighting against angry looking soldiers and horned monsters. There’s Lysithea and Marianne shooting lightning bolts from their hands, zapping their opponents. Raphael is carrying a huge stone, on top of it stands Hilda, wielding a mighty axe.

“These are the most accurate file reports I’ve seen,” you say for lack of better words. “It really is a shame I can’t join you for the mock battle.”

“There’s gonna be a next time, no worries!” Raphael gives you a thumbs up, then retreats to his seat, Ignatz by his side. They’re a funny duo, not just because of their different build. Their personalities seem the complete opposite, and yet strangely fit like a child’s box to sort blocks into the right shapes.

The difference between the Golden Deers and Blue Lions, for one, is the noise level. Instead of waiting for you to call them up one by one, they love to shout answers whenever they see fit. Judging who was the first isn’t really easy when four people scream at the same time, so you’ve given up on that—Claude’s policy whoever screams loudest didn’t help all too much as well. Maybe it’s time to ask Byleth about some tips how to handle them. When the bell tolls for the last time for this day, announcing everyone to be relieved of their work, the student clear out faster than during fire drills, leaving you with a turmoil of thoughts and worries and two little voices bickering about how much of a disaster next week is going to be.

After seven days and nights of restless sleep and vigorous training under the vicious supervision of Byleth, the green fields stretching before you end boarding on lush woods, its treetops protruding into the sky. It’s a wonderful day you would enjoy much more without knowing this is a battle field, and the people behind you wait for your command.

“Black Eagle and Golden Deer are in position. Captain Jeralt said the mock battle begins in roughly ten minutes.” Dedue gives you an expectant look, and you give him a curt nod, your mouth dry.

“Thanks. We’ll have a last briefing. After that, we’ll deploy our units.”

Dedue joins his classmates, leaving you to your troubled thoughts. With luck, none of your opponents will reach you, and you won’t have to fight. It’s as if you can feel Byleth’s taste for your blood all across the field, even though right now she’s just a blurry, dark blob in the distance, surrounded by her students.

“Do not worry, Herald.” The hard metal of a gauntlet on your shoulder makes you flinch, backing away from Dimitri. The worry on his face is a mirror of your own, albeit for different reasons. “Everyone will do their best to follow your orders, and fight with everything they've got. Your leadership will lead us to victory.”

“Oh, yeah!” You don’t meet his eyes. “For sure.” Zero pressure and all that. You don’t say that, seeing that most of the students don’t appear to be as nervous as you. Confidence is key, and even though you see none of it in tangible proximity, you can at least fake it until you make it.

Six minutes left. With a deep breath, you try to get hold of yourself, and face the Lions.

“Since we don’t know who will be deployed by Manuela and Byleth, prepare for everything. I want to split the group. Dimitri, Dedue and Mercedes move to the northern forest. Felix, Sylvain, you’re moving west with me.”

Felix pulls a grimace, but before he can say anything, Sylvain throws an arm around his shoulders and leans on him, gracing you with a full grin. “We got your back, Herald.” He earns a whack on his back from his friend.

“Why are we splitting up if our plan is to take out each group separately?” Dedue inquirers. “Isn’t that what we agreed on before?”

“I think the Herald plans to let our opponents think we plan on taking them both on at the same time.” Dimitri throws a quick glance at you. “We’ll draw them in our direction, and once they are near, we close in from both sides.”

You nod. “Precisely. We know the Black Eagles will start far north from us. The Golden Deers are northwest. As soon as one of them moves towards us, we’ll have to defeat them immediately. It will be easier fighting one House, not both at the same time.”

“Look at you, Your Highness.” Sylvain pats him on the shoulder, looking proud. “Someone’s been paying attention in class!”

“Sylvain—” Dimitri’s chiding meets deaf ears as Sylvain already turns away, checking his lance for a last time. But he does beam a little, you think. Or maybe it’s just the sun making everything look much brighter. It’ll go into your report nonetheless. Chances of a victory look good—even if you have to retreat, the Blue Lions might make it on their own.

The bressy sound of a horn echoes across the valley, reverberating in your bones. The mock battle begins.

The weight of the wooden training sword hanging from your hip is foreign; it’s as though you only expect to trip over it. Determined to keep it in its holster, you approach the grove, flanked by Sylvain and Felix—and not a minute too soon. Moving towards you is the first line of enemies, Ignatz, Lorenz and Marianne.

“I think they didn’t see us—” Sylvain starts just as the first arrow flies past his head and hits the trunk beside him with a thunk. For safety purposes, all arrow’s tips are wrapped up in stiff cloth, not intended to leave permanent wounds but surely still capable to deliver nasty bruises like the training swords and lances.

“I think they saw us—” Sylvain’s brilliant new observation ends in a yelp as Felix shoves him out of the line of fire.

“Get down, dumbass!”

You three duck behind bushes and trees, cautiously observing how the others advance, their weapons drawn.

“I’ll go for Ignatz,” you say. “Felix, you’re fast enough to reach Marianne and take her down before she starts healing everyone.”

“Fine, we’ll try your plan.” Felix has his sword drawn already, gripping it tight enough his knuckles turn white. “Try not to get kicked out too soon, will you.”

You blow a strand of hair from out of your eyes, squinting at his back as he jumps out of cover. The last couple of weeks you’ve put in some extra hours of sword practice with Felix. As an exceptional swordsman, noble and diligent in his training unlike anyone else—safe maybe for Dimitri—you imagined no one could teach you as much as possible in the short amount of time until the mission. It took some convincing, but the decisive argument that sold him was your desire to become better to finally have at least a chance against Byleth. If she is stern during practice, Felix is vicious, exploiting the tiniest opening you give in order to make you learn from your mistakes. Your body was a medley of pain and aches after every evening, but now the memory of that very same melody is your marching song towards battle. Then there’s always the knowledge that if you three can distract them long enough before the rest of the Golden Deer students arrive, Dimitri and the rest will close in on your position, and taking down your opponents won’t be difficult.

“Sylvain, Lorenz is yours.”

He answers with a simple salute, grip tight around his training lance, and as you both follow Felix out in the open, an image flickers before you, there and gone like a flame going out with a last glint. An arrow, headed straight at you. Your body moves in instinct, dodging the projectile not a second too late. Judging from the direction of its origin, Ignatz must be just beyond the rocks only a few hundred yards away. You throw a MiasmaΔ in his direction, the black ball carving its path across the grasslands. It hits the stone, chipping parts away and revealing Ignatz, crouching behind it. He looks up, dirt on his cheeks, and adjusts his glasses before ducking out of his cover, another arrow already ready on his bow.

Another arrow hits him on his back, hard enough to get him down on his knees. Mercedes’ accuracy isn’t as good as Ashe’s, but the determination carved into her face makes up for lack of skill. Dimitri and Dedue are right on her heels, but a single look thrown over your shoulder shows that Felix and Sylvain have everything under control. Coming out victorious as well, save for Sylvain pressing a hand against his ribs, they were still complete. The knowledge of that makes you sigh in relief, a new surge of hope soaring inside you.

“I knew we shouldn’t have listened to Claude’s dubious plan.” Lorenz’s bickering is still audible, even as the three proceed to leave the battle grounds to meet up with Jeralt. You’re really curious to see what exactly Claude had in mind, but diverting your focus for just a second could become dangerous. Instead, you turn towards the students.

“Stay close,” you order, waiting until Mercedes is finished checking Sylvain's injuries. “We’re going to move further towards the Golden Deers and eliminate them first.” Flexing your fingers against the slow growth of getting used casting spells, your group begins to move further north.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Dimitri buckling and unbuckling his spear from his back. Out of lack for the right words, and because the first rush of adrenaline still courses through your body, you jostle against him, wearing a grin on your face.

“Look lively, Your Highness,” you advise. “All that nervous fumbling isn’t what a leader is supposed to do.”

A tiny gasps leaves him, more an exhale than anything else, but he turns towards you, slightly flushed. Bringing his hands to his sides, it’s too obvious he’s tensing his body so they don’t stray again—like a statue that’s on the edge of shattering at the tiniest movement.

“You’re right, of course.” He lowers his head a little. “I just keep thinking that the Black Eagle students wait for us in that direction as well. Some are surely moving towards us as we speak.”

“Are you worried about Byleth?” you wonder, and more as an afterthought add, “Or Edelgard?”

“Anyone who is not worried about Byleth is a fool, if you ask me,” he replies with a crease between his pale eyebrows. “And well, this is our first chance to prove ourselves, being the heirs to the ruling factions. I know Edelgard is exceptionally strong. And Claude surely has an ace up his sleeve. You are right, Herald. Nervousness is a sign of hesitation, of weakness. I will be better than that.” A new fire comes alive in his eyes as he strides onward, catching up to Mercedes and Sylvain to compliment her on the excellent shot from before.

The epiphany really comes only now, fast and hard like a lightning bolt, that these children will drink in everything you have to offer—advices, orders, simple words of encouragement—simply for the title that is strapped around your neck. The weight of that responsibility slows your steps, which allows for another worry to quickly catch up: has everything you have taught them so far been right? Do they really know how to exploit the advantages certain classes have over others; will a strategic retreat even occur to them in the right time before it’s too late.

Doubt is like poison, slowly eating you from the inside. This mock battle won’t just be a lesson for the students. It will also test if you have put them on the right path, and the realisation unfolds a new conviction inside you, breathing new wind into your sails.

You quickly catch up to them, another rush of encouraging words on your lips when another image flickers on and off, painting your sight red. You freeze, raising an arm, hand formed into a fist.

“Halt!” you shout, processing what you just saw. The students pause, forming a loose circle around you. The throbbing from before settles back in, more persistent now like someone’s knocking against the back of your skull to get your attention. You try to ignore that and focus on categorising every student’s ability in alphabetical order.

“Linhardt,” you gasp, eyes wide open and glued on Dedue.

The students exchange worried glances. Sylvain is the first to speak. “No, Herald,” he says. “Linhardt’s the pretty boy with all the books, you know. Who sleeps just about anywhere, like a cat. That’s our Dedue here.”

“No, I mean Linhardt has Nosferatu,” you quickly explain, flailing your hands in hope to express yourself better. It doesn’t look like it helps. “Linhardt is the only one left who can use Nosferatu, and he’s going to land a good hit on Dedue. And with good, I mean bad. If he hits you, you’re down, Dedue.” Because only that makes sense, as Marianne is already standing on the sidelines and you haven’t heard about anyone else learning the skill. Undoubtedly a Nosferatu will hit Dedue if you don’t change course or take the spell caster out first.

Dedue steps forward. “Should it give us an advantage against our enemy, I will gladly face the opponent and go down if it means it won’t interfere with our progress towards the Golden Deer students.”

“Sacrificing yourself for a mere praise from the boar, is that what you hope for?” Felix demands, or more like snarls, his handsome face crumpling into an ugly look of contempt. “Pathetic.”

“Sacrifice is a big word to throw around during a mock battle, don’t you think,” Sylvain unhelpfully throws in, his posture a little too relaxed in the light of the conflict that’s about to break out.

Dedue shakes his head. “I am simply fulfilling my duty,” he states. “Anything that will bring His Highness victory.”

“You would also run head first into an ambush and get yourself killed, is that it?” Felix grimaces. “Blindly following orders—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Your raised voice makes them pause, and you use that second to grab lead of the conversation. “We don’t even know if Linhardt is going to be alone or joined by other Eagle students. What do you think will your little act accomplish, Dedue?”

He sets his mouth into a grim, hard line, unable to come up with a satisfying answer that isn’t a repeat of what he just said.

“You’ll have a tough time going against Black Eagles with all their magic users, so stay with Dimitri. Go and deal with the rest of the Golden Deer students. And you—” You meet Felix’s glare with narrowed eyes. “A battlefield isn’t the place to throw around petty disagreements. You would do well to remember that.”

“Understood.” He rips the training sword from its holster. “But let me go take down that mage. I’ll cut him down swiftly.”

“We’ll go together. I’m not leaving any of you on your own. Take care of Claude,” you tell Dimitri, showing with a nod that you fully trust in his leading ability. “We’ll meet east from the barricades in exactly one hour.”

He doesn’t shy away from you glare. “Understood. Take care you two.”

Felix takes the lead with long, eager strides. As you follow him, you rub your eye, wincing at the pinprick-like pain. The dull throb doesn’t cease this time, and if you had to take a guess, there’s only once left for the Crest to activate before you reach your limit. So far, nothing has helped you to ascertain when exactly a foresight occurs, and leaving it to pure chance is like grasping a loose rope in hopes that it is tied to something somewhere as you take the leap. Maybe Hanneman will make more sense of it laters.

“You should have stayed with the others,” Felix says after a moment, scanning your surroundings for any sign of the enemy. It sounds more like a simple statement than an accusation. “I can handle someone like Linhardt on my own.”

“I said before, we don’t know if he’s alone. I highly doubt it.” It’s like Dimitri said before: Underestimating Byleth will surely end in casualties and defeat. You don’t consider it far-fetched that she has sent a non-magic class with Linhardt, but who that will be is left to be determined.

“No matter how many accompany him. Be it two or three or all of them, I will take them down.”

“It takes more than one person to win a war.” Though you don’t doubt Felix might try it by himself anyway. “You’ll notice soon enough that you will rely on your comrades.”

“I will rely on them as long as they don’t get in my way.”

“So charming,” you mumble to yourself as you two round a mound. It really is none of your business, but you're actually curious about what is going on between him and Dedue. The moment you finish outweighing the pros and cons of trying to go down that rabbit hole, the air around you changes, barely noticeable save for a change of wind—it completely stills for a second, but that is enough to realise what’s happening.

“Felix—” you manage before the Nosferatu explodes in front of you, knocking you to the ground. Before the mock battle, all magicians were instructed to weaken their spells; no lasting damage should befall any of the participants. Only because of that you manage to climb back on your feet, only left with dizziness that makes the world spin. The jarring sound of metal clashing against metal clears your mind a little, and when you turn around, Felix and Ferdinand are clashing blades.

You turn further, and there he is, a hand raised in your direction. “Sorry, Herald,” Linhardt says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “The professor threatened with extra homework if we would hold back against you.”

“Of course she did,” you mumble, grabbing your sword with sweaty hands. Two against two is fair, and you have no doubt that Felix will hold his ground against Ferdinand. The only solution to your little problem named Linhardt is to get as close as possible, and make use of your advantage in meagre sword skills.

Another Nosferatu is sent your way, but this time you dodge, the hair on your neck standing on end. Somehow your body automatically shies away from Faith magic like a cat fleeing from water. Just one more hit will surely be enough to throw you out of the mock battle, and you can’t have that, not when the picture of Dimitri’s resolute expression is carved into your mind.

You close the distance, all nerves tensed in anticipation, completely focused on trying to feel where the next spell is going to land. As Linhardt retreats into the woods, his sight obscured by trees, you dive after him, shoving twigs out of your way. A shadow moves through the undergrowth; every muscle in your body locks up, but you plunge forward, sword raised—

Linhardt gasps when he finds himself pressed against a tree, your sword at his throat. With both hands up, he doesn’t move an inch, simply blinking at you. Somewhere above you, a bird cries out; a branch breaks. Linhardt makes a face like he jammed his foot in a door he slammed shut himself.

“I surrender,” he says. “Getting beat up and spending time in the infirmary doesn’t sound as good as reading tomes in the library.”

“You sure?” Your heart beats so loud in your chest, it’s a miracle it doesn’t break through your ribcage and fly off. “Byleth might drown you in homework for that.”

He shrugs. “I call it a strategic retreat. I’ll just have to—” A yawn. “—convince the professor.” Another yawn. You begin to see the ulterior motive behind his surrender. Squinting at him, you proceed to bind his hands with a dark spell. Black shackles appear around his wrists, locking them tight together. As you make your way out of the grove, you hope Felix had the same success.

That thought immediately dies when you return to the plain and see Jeralt heaving an unconscious Felix on the back of his horse, a battered Ferdinand by his side.

“Ah, Herald.” Even though beaten up black and blue, Ferdinand still manages a smile. It looks a little lopsided with his swollen cheek and the dried blood on his upper lip. “I don’t mean to offend, but I hope you return because Linhardt defeated you in mighty combat?” A second too late he sees the magic binds around Linhardt’s wrists. His face falls. “My, Linhardt.”

“You don’t quite look so good yourself,” Linhardt throws back without any heat in his voice. He sounds rather bored. Tired.

“Excuse me, but what happened. What’s wrong with Felix?” you ask, turning to Jeralt. Before he can answer, Ferdinand chimes in, “He fought splendidly! Though I had no doubt in that, he is a noble after all. Yet, after ringing me to the ground, he lost consciousness. By my honour as the heir of House Aegir, I cannot take advantage of that. We both shall step out of battle.”

“He passed out?” Now that you take a good look at him, he’s still pale, unhealthily so. Slick sweat glues his dark hair to his forehead, and the skin beneath his eyes shimmers slightly blue—lack of sleep.

“Overexertion, I guess,” Jeralt says now. He pulls Linhardt to his side, and gives his shackles a thoughtful look. “I’ll take these three with me. You go and continue the mock battle, Herald.”

“But…” It doesn’t feel right to leave Felix alone. Even though he technically isn’t, you imagine it would be better to wake up to a friendly face.

“He’ll be fine.” Jeralt gives you a strange sideway glance. “The other brats rely on you right now, don’t they? Go to them.”

He’s right, of course. The mission isn’t over yet, and with a strong combatant like Felix missing, victory has just slipped from your grasp.

There is the meeting point. There it is, and no student from the Lion House is in sight. The minutes pass in long stretches, ticking away until it’s impossible to tell if time moves on or holds still. Holding out between the trees, you look in both directions—for your comrades and the enemy. For whatever reason, Byleth has decided not to advance to your position, and you aren’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. More minutes pass in aggravating silence, heavy and oppressing, and then—

“Herald!” Dimitri’s voice rings through the woods. Your head snaps to him, and there they are, the Blue Lions tearing through the woods, a yellow flag with a deer on it waving behind them.

“You did it!” Joy and relief spreads through you as you stumble towards them. “You guys really did it!” They shuffle around you like kittens searching for warmth, and something tight uncoils inside your chest. Is this what Byleth always feels when she’s in front of her class?

“Hilda and Claude were mighty opponents, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dimitri reassures, but then a shadow jumps over his features. “Unfortunately, Mercedes had to leave. We couldn’t reach her in time to step in.”

“Step in,” Sylvain repeats, muttered under his breath as he brushes red locks from his sweaty forehead. “I want to see you stepping in when Hilda swings that axe like a lunatic and not scream like a little girl.”

“Where is Felix?” Dedue inquirers, ignoring Sylvain.

Your shoulders drop. “Well, Linhardt was accompanied by Ferdinand, and while I pursued Linhardt, they fought. None of them emerged unscathed, although I feel Felix drew the shorter straw.”

“Felix?” Dimitri repeats. He sounds as if you just tried to convince him it’s going to rain butterscotch pie later. “Our Felix lost?”

“Not exactly the fight, but I’m sure his pride took a hard beating.”

“Well, that leaves four against four.” Dimitri brings a hand up to his chin, a worry crease between his eyebrows. “And they still have Edelgard and the Professor.”

“And we got the Herald and you!” Sylvain beams. “I say we wrap this up and celebrate our victory with a nice dinner and maybe some ale? How does that sound?”

“Sacrilegious.” Your voice is drier than the crisp leaves cracking under your feet. “Aren’t you too young for alcohol?”

“Too young and irresponsible,” Dimitri agrees with you, looking tired of Sylvain’s antics. “But I don’t object to a celebratory dinner.”

“That is, if we win.” Dedue reads your mind, and brings the conversation back on the right course.

“I assume the Black Eagles are holding position. They’re waiting for us,” you say, briefly checking everyone’s state. Safe for dirt and scratches, they’re still doing good, though having fought already, the Blue Lions are on a slight disadvantage. You can only hope some of Byleth’s students dropped out facing the Golden Deers.

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting then.” Sylvain winks, playing with the grip of his lance. The smile that flirts with his lips is threatening.

“Keep your guard up.” Dimitri shares a single, meaningful glance with every one of you, then leads your little group out of the forest. Whatever Byleth has planned, you hope that you’ll be ready for it.

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hxney-lemcn · 3 years

Text

Seven Stages (Pt. 5)

Word Count: 0.6k

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x reader

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Warning: Season 2 spoilers, death slight swearing, omg cute fluff with Five

Main Master List | TUA Master List

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

╔═.✾. ═════════════

Five gasped out, waking up riddled with bullets. He felt something in his hand and notice that (y/n) was holding it. Dead...the one person who has always kept him sane...gone. All around him laid the lifeless bodies of his family. Once again he had to witness them die. The handler said some meaningless words to him before she herself was shot.

Five watched as the Handler fell to the ground dead. There stood the last Swedish brother who walked over to Five. Lifting his gun, Five got some flashback.

“Maybe your apatite is disproportionate to the size of your ability,” His father spoke out. “Start small. Seconds, not decades.”

Five’s hand glowed a vibrant blue as everything started to reverse. Standing up, he rushed to the barn door as everything continued. His family stood back up, the Handler out of the barn. He glanced back to see (y/n) stand up once more taking a defensive position where he was standing before. Their eyes locked, almost like she could see what he was doing...but she couldn’t. Right?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☂

I gasped out as Diego once again asked Lila that she could be apart of our family. How did...Five-

I looked to my side to see that he wasn’t there. Looking around I found him behind the barn door, like he was...wait this all seemed like a deja vu moment. Like this happened before. Before I could think any harder Five disarmed the Handler who walked in with an automatic gun. I felt my breath hitch as flashes of us all getting shot filled my head.

What the hell is going on?

Before the Handler could answer Lila’s question she got shot by one of the Swedish brothers. We all took a moment to watch as she fell to the ground. After a few seconds Lila took a mad dash towards the case and Luther tried to stop her, but Diego stopped him. I took my pistol and went to shoot but she vanished with the case before it could hit.

Five aimed the gun he held at the Swedish man, who did the same. I also aimed my pistol at the platinum blonde man as the other siblings seemed to be shocked that I actually used my weapon.

The air was tense as Five lowered the weapon and dropped it to the ground, holding up his arms, “Enough.” The Swedish man looked at us all, first staring at Allison, then me, who still held a weapon. Slowly, I placed the pistol on the ground, trusting Five.

“Tillräckligt“ The Swedish man replied, also dropping his weapon. He walked out of the barn and we all somewhat relaxed. I walked over to Five and place my hand on his shoulder. I gave him a look letting him know I had something to tell him when we had the chance and he slightly nodded.

“Who the hell was that guy?” Klaus asked.

“Vanya!” Sissy shouted. “Help!” I forgot this was her place. We all trickled after Vanya into the cellar. I kept a grip on Five’s hand as he still seemed distressed and he didn’t let go, in fact, he gripped my hand tightly.

Vanya successfully took her power back from Harlan and Sissy held her child in a tight hug. I smiled at Vanya proudly as she smiled at us all. Five, Diego and I exited the barn as we noticed Herb and Dot from the Commission appear.

“Herb, Dot,” Five acknowledged, not once letting my hand go.

“Hey,” “Hi,” The two greeted back.

“Sup Herbie,” Diego greeted.

“My man!” Herb replied as they did some sort of handshake. Five and I looked on in amusement and I had to hide a chuckle. “I can’t believe it,” Herb said with a smile. “Is she...” Herb trailed off motioning a line to his neck.

“Really dead this time?” Five continued for him.

“Definitely,” I said.

“Now that the Handler is gone, what happens at Commission?” Five asked.

“Just tell them,” Dot whispers excitedly to Herb as he stumbles over his words.

“We need to elect a new board of directors,” Herb explains. “But, until then, I um...I’ve been voted in as acting chair person.” Dot claps excitedly and I felt myself smile at her enthusiasm.

“No shit,” Diego breathed out, happy for his friend. “Congrats Herbie, that’s huge.”

“I’m so goddamn nervous,” Herb replied and Five smirks. I can tell Five is glad that the Commission is in good hands, in hands that are our allies. I’m glad too.

“You’ll do fine,” I said smiling at the nervous man.

“Oh, thank you,” He thanks.

“Herb we need a favor,” Five says looking at him and Dot.

“Oh sure anything!” Herb exclaims.

“A briefcase,” Five continues. “Go back home where we belong.”

Herb and Dot looked at the dead bodies that littered the field and he gestured around, “Take your pick.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☂

Five and I sat in the entrance of the barn silently.

“Five,” I whispered out breaking the silence. He looked at me and I looked at him. “What...what happened?” I asked and he gave me a confused look.

“What do you mean?” He asked back.

“I...have two sets of memories,” I explained to him to the best of my abilities. “I remember us all dying so vividly. The Handler-” I choked out as the image of Five’s dead body crossed my mind. I put a hand to my mouth as I felt tears gently slide down my face.

Five took my face in his hands gently and wiped the tears away. I grabbed his wrist gently with the hand that was over my mouth as I stare into his hazel eyes. We leaned closer together.

“That never happened and it never will,” Five murmured, his breath fanning over my face.

“But-” Five cut me off by kissing me gently. I kissed back immediately, warmth filling my entire being. His lips felt so soft and tasted slightly bitter like coffee. After a few seconds we pulled away slowly, my eyes fluttered open and I watched as his did the same. “I love you Five,” I whispered, fearing that if I talked any louder it would shatter this moment.

“I-I...I love you too (y/n),” Five stuttered out, not used to saying such words. A smile made it’s way onto my face as I nuzzled Five’s hand that still held my face. I noticed a smile ghosted over his lips as I kissed his palm.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☂

We all stood in a circle, done saying our goodbyes and whatnot.

“Everybody ready?” Five asked looking at us all.

“Let’s do it,” Luther said. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Five said, done setting the right time into the briefcase.

“All right,” Diego nodded.

“Wait!” Klaus shouted out. We all gave him confused looks as he went and grabbed a cowboy hat, put it on, then came back.

“Fifty bucks and we leave him here,” Diego muttered to Five and I gave Diego a playful glare. We all gathered into a circle, I stood in between Five and Allison. I held onto Five’s shoulder and also held onto Allison’s hand. Opening the case, we were all transported to the Hargreeves mansion along with us being in the time of April 2nd, 2019.

We did it. The Hargreeves are back to the right time.

“Day after the apocalypse,” Five stated looking at the newspaper. We all looked at each other in astonishment and congratulated each other. We made our way to the liquor cabinet and had a fun night, worry free.

What else would you do after stopping two apocalypses?

╚═════════════.✾. ═

#tua #the umbrella academy #five #five x reader #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #fivehargreeves #fivehargreevesxreader #x reader #xreader #five imagine #five hargreeves imagine #tua x reader #the umbrella academy x reader

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realityhelixcreates · 3 years

Text

Lasabrjotr Chapter 78: The Great Provider

Chapters: 78/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: pg 13

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel),Thor(Marvel) Wanda Maximoff, vision, Bruce Banner

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Party Time, Alarr Is A Little Bitch Now And Forever, Seriously Bull Cults Are Super Old, And Super Important

Summary: You face the bull.

“There's a lot of people looking at me.” Your father whispered to you, fiddling nervously with a crumbling slice of dark buttered bread. “Your asshole beau got me good this time.”

Seated on the other side of you, Loki sighed. Of course he could hear, even with the din of the First Feast all around. You shook pepper onto a peeled, boiled egg.

“It wasn't planned like that.” You whispered back. “All of the humans are seated on this side, me included. The planners just thought you should be next to me.”

On the one hand, you were glad your father was acknowledging your relationship without major pushback. On the other hand, insulting a prince within earshot of that prince, and many of his vassals, was probably not such a good idea.

“I mean, I can ask them to change the seating order. Put you down at the farthest table, with a bunch of Asgardians you've never met.”

He shuddered. “You wouldn't. My own daughter wouldn't do that to me, her poor old father, who has so few years left to him. You wouldn't show such cruelty to a vulnerable old man.”

“Yeah, yeah, you've got one foot in the grave already. You could fall over dead any minute now. You're practically dust.”

“Well, that might be going a little far.” he huffed. “I've still got some vinegar in me.”

“You even talk like an old man.” you teased. “Besides, you don't get to pull the Old Man Card, and then complain because I play along. Make up your mind.”

You passed him a serving bowl full of bilberry porridge, and he dipped some out. One thing your father was always willing to do, was try new food.

“Speaking of, what counts as 'old' to these folks?” he asked. “You've been saying some stuff about that, but it seems unbelievable.”

“You gotta start believing this stuff, Dad.” you chided.” It's all real. I know it's hard. My head has been swimming for months. But it gets easier to accept the more you learn. Anyway, for an Asgardian, about five thousand puts someone firmly into the 'elderly' category, but for an Aesir, like the king, or Saga, or Loki, the sky is the limit. I can count the number of kings Asgard has had in it's whole history on one hand. They just live that long.”

“Five thousand? Damn. That's...That's like, pyramid building times, isn't it? Say...did they...?”

“No, they didn't build the pyramids. I already asked. And even if aliens did build them, it wouldn't have been Asgardians” you pointed out. “They would have been in the north, making, I dunno, runestones? Longships? Something like that. The people in the north never really did the large-scale monument building like they did in Egypt. But Asgardians sure did. You saw the paintings of the old palace?”

That thing that looked like a pipe organ? Yeah.”

“So, if they were building our monuments, they'd have looked like that, wouldn't they?”

“Okay, but what if it was different aliens? We know there's more than one kind of alien.” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but...I never found out if the other gods of the world were aliens or not. But even if they were, I'm pretty sure the pyramids were built by humans, even if they were built for their gods.”

“They were.” Loki interrupted. “But they also made for interesting sight-seeing expeditions for many peoples across Yggdrasil, so yes, aliens visited Earth quite often in your distant past.”

Your father clammed up and glared. After a few awkward moments, Loki turned back to his plate, passing along a crumbly cheese that turned out to be similar to feta. You added some to your grain salad.

Just get through dinner, you thought to yourself. Why did the men in your life always have to be so difficult?

Time was left between courses for the making of toasts, and there was a lot of back and forth-between the Icelandic dignitaries praising the Asgardians for being such gracious hosts, and the Asgardians praising them for hosting all of Asgard in the first place. There were toasts for the Avengers in attendance, though they were somewhat subdued; the Maximoff girl was still a fairly controversial figure, Dr. Banner continued to be visibly uncomfortable with the attention, and the Vision was simply not as well known. But they were dutifully honored nonetheless, and then the humans of Trolerkaerhalla turned their adoration on you.

'The People's Seidkona', they called you. 'The bridge', and 'the Huldra shield'. Even 'the Sapphire Brand', a kenning Loki had invented for you, which made you wonder what he had been discussing with his worshipers when he was out working on the longhouses.

The dessert course was mixed dried fruit, cooked down into a compote and served over bread.

It was also the last course before the slaughter of the bull, for tomorrow's Second Feast.

You'd told Tara and your father about it, to mixed reactions. Tara was repulsed, but your father, who presumably saw more dead animals along the side of the road than you would be comfortable with, seemed to take it in stride.

“Someone has to do it.” he'd said, “They gotta get to the plate somehow. Sucks, I know. There's no way out of it?”

“It's tradition.” you'd sullenly explained. “And it's really old. Like, Proto-Indo-European old. Back when kings used to be worshiped and held responsible for everything. If the crops failed, they sacrificed him. So it was in a ruler's best interests to make sure his people were provided for. I think, eventually, the bull became a stand-in for the king. I don't know if the Asgardians influenced us in this case, or if it was the other way around, but there's a whole deep layer cake of symbolism involved, and I really do have to participate.”

The bull and the ruler. Symbols of power, fertility, plenty, and prosperity. It was poetic, in an ancient, rustic kind of way.

You had thought that you had it all together, but when you heard the bellowing sound of the bull somewhere close, and your heart clenched in your chest.

Suddenly dessert didn't taste so good.

******

There had been an arena built between tables for the bull to be driven into, with a raised platform that you were currently perched on, holding a goad with a trail of ribbons at the end. You would be enticing the bull towards you with the movement of the ribbons, and once it was within range, Loki would strike.

Then the beast would be butchered on the spot, to prepare for the next nights festivities. It would be very educational.

The human guests had been informed of what was about to happen, and of course, the Asgardians already knew, but they still cheered you on anyway. Skaldic students picked up a slow drum beat, that pulsed like a heart.

How many thousands of years worth of rulers and seidkonas doing this? Odin and Frigga had done it. Bor and Bestla had done it. Buri and Audhumla had not-the holiday hadn't been declared until after Buri's passing. But one had to assume that they all gazed out from Valhalla, within it's great black hole, and saw what their descendants were doing. Presumably, Buri could now see that two people who had no true relation to him, were now the ones honoring him. How would he feel about that?

The bull bellowed behind the gates, the sound echoing and distorting strangely. Loki lurked next to the platform, waiting. This wasn't going to be like a matador facing down an angry beast. This was going to be an ambush.

The gates slowly begin to open, and your adrenaline spiked into the sky.

Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes

The bull entered the arena and you froze in shock, almost completely forgetting what you were supposed to be doing.

The bull was...wrong. It was completely still, standing on a board on wheels. It did not walk into the area, but was pushed. It's head was oddly textured, almost shiny, and strangely shaped. It bellowed again, weird and distorted, but did not open it's mouth.

Its strangeness blended into your anxiety, becoming a potent cocktail of revulsion and dread. Loki patted the platform next to you, and you started, jerking your ribbons to and fro. The bull bellowed one more time before Loki strode up to it, and, with one smooth and elegant swing, beheaded it.

There was no blood. The wound was hollow, and the head sprouted the legs of a child as soon as it hit the ground, running around and mooing irreverently to the amusement and obvious confusion of the audience.

It was fake. It was a fake bull. Loki had mentioned to you that you need not worry because he had taken care of her bull problem, but hadn't had time to elaborate before you'd had to scramble up the platform. You would have never guessed he meant this.

With a flourish, Loki whipped the tanned hide off the bull, revealing a hollow armature beneath, within which was an ice-covered table, piled up with cuts of meat, bowls of organs, piles of stew bones, and a bucket of blood. The bull reduced down to its edible parts, all ready for tomorrow's feast.

The drums stopped abruptly, the child who had been hiding in the paper-mache bulls head discarded it to the side and ran off into the cheering crowd, as people came forward to carry away the bits of bull.

Loki draped the bull's hide over his shoulders and helped you down from the platform.

“Did I not tell you?” he said smugly. “I took care of it for you. Truly, the symbolism is the most important part, and this speeds the process along so that we may get to the dancing all the sooner!”

“That was freaky as hell!” you scolded. “You shoulda told me it was gonna be a fake! I spent that whole time all bent out of shape because of it, ugh, what a lot of wasted sleep!”

“In my defense, I didn't find out that you were troubled about it until yesterday. I had only a limited time to come up with something.”

“And you decided to stuff a kid in a fake bull's head? That's what you came up with?”

“That's Beli's youngest great-great-great-grandson, and he volunteered! My dear, what's wrong? I thought you would prefer it this way?”

“I do!” you huffed, irritated. “But I need you to start telling me when you do things like this! How am I gonna do my job if you already make all the decisions by yourself? Stop trying to surprise me all the time. I froze out there because of it! What did that look like to everybody else, huh?”

“I think they were too captivated by the bull to take notice...” he didn't sound so sure. “But yes, you are right, of course. It is a bad habit. I will be better.”

Somewhat mollified, you took his arm and allowed him to lead you to the dances.

*******

“It's an insult!” Alarr raged. “He reduces our history to mere spectacle!”

“It may have been for convenience.” his wife pointed out. “Our Midgardian guests need more frequent rest. It wouldn't do for his Highness' little seidkona to collapse from exhaustion.”

“Do not call her that!” he snapped. “She doesn't deserve the title! What part of her is a seidkona? The part that graces Loki's bed? Or the part that gets into cat fights with her betters? This is exactly what I am talking about though! The Midgardians are weak, but we are the ones expected to lower ourselves to their level? If they cannot keep up, they shouldn't be here! The prince is a fool, and the Allfather merely enables him. Together, they will reduce us to infants.”

“Watch your tone with me, Alarr. I tire of your temper.”

“And I tire of watching our culture and people be diminished for easier consumption by outsiders. When does it end? If even our holy days aren't exempt from foreign influence, then what part of us can we really expect to keep? How much can we be diluted, and still remain Asgard?”

“Alarr, this obsession has already cost you dearly. And not just you, the whole family has been impacted by it. You are so preoccupied with everything you're afraid we're going to lose, that you don't see the harm that you are doing to us yourself! Now you may sit here and let your rage rob you of your Buridag, but I'm going back out there to enjoy myself! Stars know, I've had precious few chances to do so lately!”

She stormed out, leaving him behind to seethe.

******

“That was so weird.” Todd said. “I thought it was going to be a real cow.”

“I'm glad it wasn't!” another camper exclaimed.

“Yeah, me too, but why did they go through all that rigmarole about what was going to happen, explaining the whole thing, telling us not to fear, and then wheel out a meat-filled piñata instead? Did they think we were gonna think it was real? Like, are we toddlers to them?”

“Maybe? They're all hundreds of years old, aren't they? Even the kids.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I feel like that's a problem though. I mean, think of the advantages they have over all the rest of us! I can't help but feel like they will eventually have a disproportionate amount of global influence, just because of the monumental projects that they can put together with that longevity. And like, I know the longhouse squad might not mind having alien overlords, but I'm sure not excited about it.”

“Global superpowers rise and fall. That's just history.” another camper said. “Are you sure you aren't just worried that yours might be overshadowed?”

“No need to be rude.” Todd chided. “People were rightly worried about super powered individuals before these guys even showed up. I mean, look at what happened to Sokovia! When I was a kid, that kind of thing was unthinkable! Now we've gotta worry about nukes, and terrorists, and school shootings, and climate change, and now alien invaders and supermen on top of all that? It's no wonder people are so worried. Did you know these people haven't even signed the Accords? What do you think that says about them?”

“Hey, I'm not disagreeing, man. I'm skeptical too. But they're refugees all the same, and it's only been a couple years. I figure they're just trying to get adjusted before they go committing themselves to anything big, you know?”

“And that's fair for the average Asgardian. As far as we know, they didn't do anything wrong. But Thor...you know, as much as I like him, he's been involved in some pretty destructive events. And the least, I mean, the very least he could have done to show some kind of good faith with Earth, would be to turn his brother over to some kind of justice. But he hasn't; he's just let Loki flaunt every authority. The man committed a felony, he kidnapped my girlfriend, and...nothing! He's not allowed on United States soil, but he did it anyway, and nothing has been done. I can't help but be resentful, who wouldn't be?”

“I know what you mean, but then why did you come to this shindig, anyway?”

Todd shrugged. “I just wanted to see that she was okay, you know? We weren't perfect, but we really had something, and I just want to make sure she's okay. She didn't look okay, up there with that fake bull, and I don't like it. I know her; she's kinda delicate. All this is gonna be too much for her.”

“You have a lot to say.” interrupted an unfamiliar, accented voice. The little knot of campers jerked to attention. A young man stood nearby, arms crossed, glaring.

“Uh, yeah...” Todd said. “To my friends. Who are you?”

“Fritjof.” the stranger said shortly.

“That's the mutant.” one of the campers whispered urgently. “We saw him out in that fight, remember? He throws fire!”

“Oh.” Todd held his hands up in front of him. “Hey man, we don't have any beef with you. No need to lose our tempers or anything...”

Fritjof snorted. “Somehow, I doubt this.” he sneered.

“Frit!” A woman cried, then rattled off a quick sentence Todd could not understand. Fritjofs intimidating stance softened, and he answered back.

“I'm going to dance now.” He told Todd. “Be a more gracious guest.”

Several of the campers let out the breaths they'd been holding, as he left.

“What a freak.” One of them muttered.

“Don't know what his problem is, but I think he could use a class on minding his own business.” Todd said.

“So, you wanna go dance?”

“Not really, but I suppose it couldn't hurt to go see what it's like.”

******

The dancing was energized and frenetic; stomping, clapping, twirling, leaping. It was full of laughter and celebration, messy and unchecked. The commoner's dances were danced by all, and you had thrown yourself into them with relish. From arm to arm you passed, jumping and shouting in time with everyone else.

You danced, and spun, and bounced, finally ending up panting back in Loki's arms.

“Come, sit with me.” he said. “You need a breather.”

He sat you down in one of the covered seats, wrapped you in his cloak for extra warmth, and pressed a cup of hot cider into your hands. The community continued to dance, some breaking off to rest, some jumping back in. You simply watched, sipping your cider as Loki twirled Sjofn, Thor kicked with Wanda, and a very tall Asgardian lady tried to entice an increasingly uncomfortable looking Dr. Banner. Even Gloa seemed to be having a good time, though you noticed Alarr was nowhere to be seen. Andsvarr, however, was dancing for all he was worth, and rarely let Saldis out of his grasp. It was cute, but not as cute as Tara, slightly drunk off buttered rum, flirting openly with several very confused Asgardians, or your father, trying hard to avoid Dr. Banner's fate.

Loki whirled his way back to your side, and plopped down next to you, but must have noticed you were fading.

“It has certainly been a long day, hasn't it?” he asked. “Would you prefer to return to our rooms?”

“Yeah. As much as I'd like to stick around, I'd really need some sleep.” you admitted. “Gotta be up bright and early tomorrow too.”

“Then shall we?” He offered his arm, and somehow the two of you slipped away without much notice.

“Are you going back out?” you asked, as he tucked you comfortably into his bed.

“Yes, for a little while longer. It's best that my brother and I be seen out among the people for as long as possible. I'll be back later. Sleep soundly, my dear.”

The rigors of the day caught up to you quickly, and you had no inkling of how much time had passed when you finally felt him slip into bed next to you, smelling of sweet crystal mead.

#lasabrjotr #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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thestraggletag · 3 years

Text

Three Appointments and a Wedding

AN: Hi, @magicalgiven it is I, your Secret Santa! If I’m not mistaken we are both Argentinians in which case commiserate with me over the fucking hot weather we’ve been having. Because it fucking sucks. It was a pleasure to be your Santa, and I’m sorry this fic didn’t get smutty. I tried to add as much spice at the end as I could. It was challenging but fun because the accidental engagement prompt has been done a lot in the fandom so it was nice to try and put my spin on things. I hope you like it!

Prompt: Accidental engagement and consequences.

Summary: Mr Gold would do anything to help his only son plan his wedding, even if it is getting mistaked for the groom over and over as his crush gets mistaken for the bride. Over and over.

Rating: PG-13

He reminded himself that Bae had been clear about his distaste for a big wedding, and Emma as well. As far as they both were concerned they were better off with a simple civil ceremony and a honeymoon in Florida. But Emma’s parents insisted that their only child, their little princess, marry in style, so something grander was decided upon. He had to admit he hadn’t put up much of a fight. He did not have a lot in common with the Nolans- no matter how much David insisted on treating him like best mates whenever they met- but he did agree with them on the wedding. Bae was his only son and he wished to make a fuss about his wedding as well.

So he couldn’t really say no when Bae called to ask him to please take his place at a catering appointment in Portland. He had been summoned to a surprised meeting with a client that was a rather big to-do at his job. He did something related to web design that he couldn’t for the life of him understand, but it allowed him to work from home most of the time and stay in Storybrooke, so he was glad to be of assistance if he needed it.

He arrived at the catering business with a bit of time to spare, introducing himself and letting the person checking the appointment know he was waiting for someone. Not Miss Swan, because apparently she also had urgent business that could not be delayed- she did work in law enforcement, so there was a small chance she wasn’t lying to get out of “boring wedding stuff” as she kept calling it right in front of her mother and likely to annoy her. He had been told she would send Miss Lucas as a replacement, since she knew her way around a menu. He did not look forward to it, though perhaps he could amuse himself with trying to figure out how to raise the subject of the diner’s rent being due next week over talk of canapes.

“Mr Gold, you got here before me!”

He turned around, a part of him recognising instantly that charming Australian lilt. He looked slightly down to find Miss Belle French, the town’s librarian as of three years. She was dressed, as always, rather charmingly, and looked less out of place in the city than in their small town.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long. The original plan was for Ruby to fill in for Emma, but Granny’s arthritis started acting up so she had to stay and help at the diner. Oh, please don’t tell Granny I told you that or she’ll never forgive me.”

He recalled she was an old friend of Miss Swan’s, from before she came back to Storybrooke, back when she was living in New York as a bit of a rebellion against her parents, doing bounty hunting work of all things. They had been roommates while Miss French went to NYU for her master’s in Library Science and worked at an antique bookstore. He knew only because he knew the bookstore and thought it smart to hold onto that piece of information. Book restoration and re-binding wasn’t his specialty, so it was nice to know of someone he could consult with if the need ever arose.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Miss French. I will even abstain of using the information against Granny the next time she tries to overcharge me for coffee. I hope you understand what a sacrifice that is.”

She laughed and he tried to pretend he didn’t feel overly smug about it, turning instead to open the door for her.

“Oh, Mr Gold, I see your fianceé is here! Lovely to meet the future Mrs Gold.”

He fumbled, his brain too caught up in what had just been said to register the small step on his way. He righted himself just as Miss French stammered a surprised denial.

“Oh, right, I apologise for assuming you would change your name after marriage, Miss Swan. Please, follow me.”

The man, a strongly-accented Frenchman, if his ears did not deceive him, swept past them and deeper into the shop, forcing them both to follow. The back was a rather nice dining area, small but with lots of windows to let in natural light. It was right next to the kitchen, but it still felt private and quiet. They were ushered into a table already prepared for them and served a sample of entrées along with a card detailing the ingredients of each one.

“Well, I suppose it’s an obvious mistake to make, and it would be unkind to correct him, he’d be mortified. I hope you don’t mind playing the would-be groom for a day, Mr Gold. At least we get some nice food out of it.”

“It’ll make a nice change from Granny’s overpriced lasagna.”

She slapped him gently on the arm, trying to conceal her smile, and he was surprised at how nice the gesture felt. Not many people touched him, and less with that sort of uncomplicated ease. He was glad that Miss French felt comfortable around him.

“So, what type of food does Miss Swan enjoy?”

“You should really begin calling her Emma, you know. And me Belle, none of that Miss French nonsense. This is not some nineteenth century pretend engagement, you know. I hope we can consider ourselves a modern pretend couple.” Miss French- Belle- smiled at him over the rim of her water glass before taking a sip. “As for Emma, she likes bar food. If it was up to her we’d serve peanuts and fries for entrées and burgers as the main course. I understand her parents talked her out of it, so perhaps nothing very fancy, but tasteful at the same time.”

He had given up on the day that morning, thinking it would be spent trying to make awkward conversation with a confrontational Miss Lucas, glaring daggers at him from across a rather small table because he dared charge rent for the property her grandmother rented from him. Instead he found himself discussing food and wine with someone he was infinitely more fond of and could not even muster enough grumpiness later in the evening to snark at Bae when he called later at night to thank him for subbing for him.

“It’ll be the last time, pops, I swear.”

The week after the catering appointment Bae called him in a panic to beg him to go for him to the florist appointment, also in Portland. He swallowed a few choice words learned in his youth in Glasgow, closed his shop and drove to the address Bae texted him. He was somewhat less surprised than before to find Miss French there, sitting on a bench outside the shop and reading a book. Something niggled at the back of his head but when he greeted her and they got to explain their presence he realised it made a bit more sense. Miss Swan’s job was a bit emergency-heavy and Miss French was the daughter of a florist, so it made sense to send her as a replacement.

She knew her stuff, as he could tell almost as soon as they set foot into the shop, to the delight of the old, red-haired florist that handled their appointment. The librarian engaged her in a rather interesting discussion on the meaning of flowers and the importance of harmonious scents, something he had never considered before. They spent a rather lovely hour touring the greenhouse and browsing through the catalogues, with Miss French- “Honestly, Arran, it’s Belle, you agreed!”- making a game out of it, picking something and having him guess whether it was a choice for Miss Swan’s wedding or a reflection of personal taste. He learned from it that Belle liked blue as much as her outfits had already implied and that she loved hydrangeas, thought them elegant but soft.

“Too soft for Emma. She likes bold colours and is not fond of traditional flowers, so I was thinking perhaps something with bougainvilleas? They have such lovely deep pink colour, almost red. What do you think?”

It was a bit intoxicating, the smell of the flowers, the heat of the shop and Belle French talking about flowers with a passion that stirred something in him that had nothing to do with centerpieces or boutonnieres. It wasn’t until they were out of it, inhaling the crisp evening Portland air, that he realised the florist had mistaken them for the engaged couple as well, and neither of them had made any effort to correct her. Well, that would’ve been rude, he reasoned. No need to put the old woman in the spot.

The morning of the cake-tasting appointment he had woken up with the knowledge that he was likely to get a “surprise” call from Bae begging him to “fill in” for him at the cake shop, and he could not even bring himself to feel angry about it. The wedding was, after all, a rather rushed affair, seeing as to how it was not what either the bride or groom had planned for, so allowances had to be made for the couple. That or they both were trying to punish their parents for pushing on them a grander event than the one they had wanted in the first place.

On his way out of town he passed by the library, insisting he would drive Miss French who was, surprisingly, filling in for Miss Swan again. She didn’t seem to mind yet another disruption into her schedule.

“I love Storybrooke, but I don’t mind admitting that it’s nice to go out to a big city every now and then.”

The bakery that would make the cake- one of the few that would accommodate the short notice of the order placement- was located in Bangor, which seemed to merge big-city vibes with small-town charm. The bakery itself was lovely, with a white and beige storefront and a myriad of colourful treats on display. It smelled strongly of vanilla and chocolate inside, and there was a dreamy, romantic sort of quality to the decoration. They were ushered into a warm, cosy room where they spent the next hour and a half tasting different cakes, one better than the next.

“Emma is a bit chocolate obsessed, so I’m leaning towards the chocolate champagne one. It was delicious.”

He tried not to replay in his mind the way she had moaned at the first taste of that one, eyes closing in absolute bliss.

“I still can’t believe that little urchin had me fill in for him again, so I’m not even considering his tastes. My vote is for the strawberry shortcake.”

Belle frowned, idly liking some frosting from her fork. His left hand tightened around the napkin on his lap.

“Isn’t Bae allergic to strawberries?”

“Exactly.”

The librarian laughed, which he was rather surprised by. Very few shared his rather dark sense of humour, most found the content and his delivery of it rather off-putting. He tried not to preen at the idea.

“Might want to hold on in killing him until after the wedding. After all, we have invested quite a few hours into the preparation already. Feels more like our wedding, in a way.”

He choked on a rather lovely piece of red velvet cheesecake, fumbling for his glass of water to try and wash it down. He realised the danger he was in, all of a sudden, perhaps too late. His crush had been safe when he had not had much of a chance to interact with the librarian and get to know her. But spending entire days with her had changed things, giving his feelings depth that he did not entirely appreciate. His instinct of self-preservation was urging him to do something. Say something mean or cutting, or close himself off. Perhaps invent some business emergency and leave, letting Belle figure out on her own how to get back to town. If she was cross with him, if she hated him, if she decided to keep his distance, he would be safe.

But, surprisingly, he found that he was rather tired of feeling safe, and of pushing people away.

“You know, we didn’t do half-bad in the end, all things considered.”

He turned around, tearing his eyes away from his son and his new wife trying to waltz. He was sure someone was filming it, anyway, and he’d get to tease Bae about it later. Belle looked absolutely stunning in a Halston dress, an architectural number in navy blue with a champagne-coloured lining that peeped from the folds of the skirts and a bit of a train in the back, the hem landing above the knee at the front and below it at the back. It was a far cry from what most women were wearing, in particular the friends of the mother of the bride, but it was exactly what he had expected from her: bold, flirty, and the slightest bit of out place in a small town, without really seeming to realise. Her lips were a lovely deep, dark red and smiling wide. At him, of all people.

“Yes. The flowers do look splendid, Miss French. You have quite an eye for it.”

She hooked her arm through his, looking admonishingly up at him.

“It’s Belle. Unless you’ve decided I cannot call you Arran anymore.”

If he were stronger, he would politely insist on calling her Miss French, thus gently reestablishing their more formal dynamic. It would be safer, certainly. But he found himself unable to muster the energy for it. It was a happy day, and he was ecstatic as the father of the groom should be. Seemed like the occasion to do what he wanted and not necessarily what he thought was best. Indulge a bit.

“Belle, then. I rather like how you pronounce my name, seems a shame to make you stop.”

Her eyes widened, and so did her smile. He tried to remember how many glasses of champagne he had drunk, but could not recall. He had indulged there too, but that was only because he had been sitting next to David Nolan for dinner and he had kept trying to talk to him about sports. He had made the mistake of trying to discuss the UEFA Super Cup, but that had only led to ten minutes of David Nolan referring to football as soccer and displaying no understanding of the rules of the game.

“So, how’s the proud father? Was it all you hoped it would be?”

He looked around. The venue was lovely, a manor outside Storybrooke that was used exclusively for events like weddings and such, with extensive gardens and lovely, broad balconies. The Nolans had secured the place, seemed they knew the owner and had been able to pull some strings. It was decorated a bit like an enchanted forest, in shades of silver, gold and bold touches of bright pink and dark blue.

“Well, Bae remembered his lines and didn’t step on Miss Swan’s train at any point so the wedding has exceeded my wildest expectations.”

He glanced again towards his son, dancing something a bit more lively with Emma and looking infinitely more at ease doing so. They truly suited each other, and he was glad of that. Glad that Bae would know, hopefully, nothing but love in his family he meant to build for himself.

“It’s a lovely song. Would you care to dance?”

A tricky question, since the answer was both a resounding no and a desperate yes, but he merely pointed towards his cane as a way out. It seemed he was not the only one emboldened by drink, however, if Belle’s flashing eyes and red cheeks were anything to go by.

“Oh, come on, just some gentle swaying. We could go outside, if you don’t wish others to see. It’s a bit stuffy in here anyway.”

There was no way for him to deny her, nor did he wish to anymore. He let her lead him out, into one of the terrace-like balconies attached to the ballroom, and wrapped her arms around his neck, prompting his own to wrap around her waist. They soon fell into a slow, easy rhythm, lazy and yet strangely exhilarating. He felt loose and tightly-wound at the same time, and could not decide whether he liked the feeling or not.

“It really is a lovely wedding, by the way.”

“Yes, I think we did rather well, all things considered. Certainly more than what Bae deserved, taking into account how little he worked for it.”

She tugged on his hair, he assumed as a way to chastise him. It had rather the opposite result, sending a jolt of fizzy pleasure up and down his spine.

“You rather enjoyed it, admit it. And I did too. In a way it’s sad that the wedding has happened and our outings are at an end.”

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, teeth worrying her lower lip the slightest bit. He got the feeling that there was something he was not seeing or sensing, some signal he was not quite deciphering. But it was getting rather difficult to think, with the champagne in his veins, and the feel of Belle in his arms and the way she smelt like orange blossom.

“You look lovely, by the way.” He realised he hadn’t told her, and it seemed like a major oversight. “Stunning, really. Gorgeous. Too good to be wasting your time out on the balcony with me.”

What the fuck was wrong with him? When had he lost complete control of his bleeding mouth?

“Don’t say that. I like spending time with you. A lot.” She bit her lip again and he wondered if his blood pressure could take it. “Actually, I was hoping we could spend more time together, if you wished it.”

There was no mistaking the flirty turn of her lips, or the coyness dancing in her eyes, even to an expert in self-denial such as him. He tried to form words to reply to her, something along the lines of “Yes, please” or “Is it tomorrow night too soon?” but his vocal cords were suddenly useless, and in a sudden panic that she would interpret his stupid silence for a rejection of her advances he leaned down, pressing his lips against hers. He felt her stiffen in his arms for a second, saw her eyes widen in surprise, but the next moment she was pressing back against him, tipping her head back to better capture his mouth with her own. She took absolute control with a quiet, fierce determination that he found incredibly erotic. He was happy to reciprocate, to tighten his arm around her waist and open his mouth to her, his left hand tightening around the handle of his cane with something that felt like petulant frustration at not being able to simply drop the damned thing hold her properly, perhaps delve a hand into her hair, feel if it was as soft as it always looked.

She seemed to read his mind, for she maneuvered them clumsily towards the rather tall balustrade. He eagerly leaned against it before dropping his cane in the nick of time to catch the librarian’s leg, which sought to wrap itself around his waist. Her obvious, undisguised want was disarming, making him forget himself in a way he had never allowed himself to-

“Papa, what the fuck?”

“Belle!”

Both him and Belle startled, with her regretfully taking a few steps away from him, leaving him to notice the chill in the air. When he glanced at the entrance of the balcony he saw his son and Miss Swan, looking radiant in her Vera Wang dress and also, bizarrely, quite smug.

“Hey, Bae, didn’t see you there.”

His accent barely made the words intelligible, but there was no helping that. He always lost control of his brogue when he was nervous.

“Clearly!” Bae sounded shrill, more child than man. Reminded him of the infamous temper-tantrums the lad had thrown once upon a time. “How could you? At my own wedding?!”

Fuck, he was right. He had been caught fucking making-out and almost doing God-knew-what just a few bloody steps away from his son’s wedding reception. What was the matter with him?

“I mean, why couldn’t you wait? I had almost won the bet!”

What?

“You only had to last until after the wedding! I was so close, pops! And you were doing so well!”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad. Now remember, Bae, you promised at least two dances with Regina’s sister. At least she’s unlikely to hit on you at your own wedding, so there’s that.”

Emma smiled up at her new husband, kissed his cheek, turned him around and directed him back towards the ballroom with a not-so-gentle smack in the ass. She smiled, gave Belle a thumbs up and an “atta girl” and walked out of the balcony, closing the French doors behind her.

“What the fuck was that?”

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #magicalgiven #Rumbelle secret santa #RSS 2020 #rumbelle secret santa 2020

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mstrumpeter · 3 years

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“I’m glad we both have found back to you.”

Alan Rubin x fem!Reader (chapter four)

So finally here's my fourth and last chapter of my little fic, sincerely sorry for the highly cheesy ending.

Word Count: 1,800

Fandom: Blues Brothers

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Blues Brothers characters or movies.

Warnings: slightly swearing, age gap, jealousy, fluff

Summary: You met a handsome musician and his band, including a surprise form your past.

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

A few days had passed and Kelsey spent another afternoon at the Soul Food Cafe like usual, at her usual table, with her usual order. She was scribbling on some sheet music, some fingering tabs of notes she simply couldn’t remember. Alan will be fuming when he sees that. She softly chuckled to herself. She took a big bite of her chopped cheese when a man, dressed in a black suit, black hat, black boots and sunglasses walked by. He noticed her sitting behind the window and quickly turned around on his heel, walked in and took a seat at her table. It was Jake. “Mind if I join you?”

“Well you already have.”, Kelsey chuckled. “I’m glad I found you here. Listen, I’m gonna keep things short. Elwood’s my brother and I love him more than anything else. Which is why I don’t want him to get hurt, alright? I don’t know what’s going on between you and him or you and Mr.Fabulous and neither of that is any of my business. I do wanna make one thing clear. Don’t play with any of them, especially not with Elwood. He is a good guy, always trying to do the right thing okay? So I don’t know but make up your mind as soon as possible, before anyone gets hurt badly.” He does really care for Elwood, stepping in for him like this. “I got you.” Kelsey nodded her head. “I don’t want anyone of them getting hurt either.” “Good.”, Jake said satisfied. “Guess I see you around then.” He shortly implied taking off his hat with a smile on his lips and left the diner.

The next day Alan and Kelsey had another lesson, although Alan really didn’t want to go. He missed her like crazy but he also was angry at her for being intimate with Elwood. Technically he didn’t have any reason to be jealous though, so he told himself to act mature and went to her place. “So how does the practise come along?” “Okay, I guess” Kelsey shrugged her shoulders as both walked into the living room. They both took a seat while she softly blew into her mouthpiece. “I practised the intro of ‘Minnie the Moocher’. Well, of course not the intro YOU play just the regular melody.” He sighed. “How about you play those etudes I told you to practise.” “Yeah sure.. but I’m pretty decent on Minnie..-“ “The scales, Kelsey!”, he said while grabbing the beginner’s book. Kelsey started whinging impatiently “C’mon you know how much I love that song!” ”You weren’t supposed to practise Minnie the Moocher!” Alan said in an angry tone. “I know, I know but playing songs is so much for fun!” Kelsey tried to explain herself. “Look this isn’t about fun!” He was fuming as he got up from his chair. “If you want my help DO WHAT I’M TELLIN’ YOU TO DO!” The girl looked at him confused. “Well, I did…” “Seems to me like you didn’t!” “What’s the matter with you today?” Alan didn’t say anything but turned his back to her, looking out of the window. He was hurt but didn’t want her to see that. Slowly it dawned upon her. “Wait - is this about Elwood… and me?” The man standing at the window took a deep breath. “Look, I know we only kissed once but I’m sorry… I can’t handle hearing about you fooling around with someone else.” “Hold on.. Did Elwood say we had sex?” “Well, he didn’t literally say that. He didn’t need to. ’A gentleman does not boast of his conquests.’, Alan said in a sarcastic tone. “But c’mon we all know what that means.” He turned around to face her. “Whatever it may mean usually, nothing happened between him and me.” Kelsey instantly regretted using the word “nothing”. “Okay ‘nothing’ might be a lie, I’m not gonna lie to you. We kissed but that was it.” He looked at her for a minute. On the hand he was relieved they hadn’t been in bed together but on the other hand he still was jealous about their kiss. “I don’t wanna lose you, Alan. I didn’t know how much I’ve missed you until I saw you again.” He gave her a little smile. “So, Minnie the Moocher, huh?” She gave him an apologising grin. “How about I play it for you once and then we go back to your boring exercises?”

The mood still was kind of tensed and awkward, especially as their lesson had come to an end. Alan stood in the doorway, completely sunken into her eyes. He grabbed her little hand and leaned into her at slow pace. She obviously knew what he was up to. And ooh how badly she wanted to give herself to him. She missed his soft lips, his hands on her and his scent. But before getting involved with any of the two musicians, she needed to find out what her heart wanted. The girl stared into his eyes, watching him coming closer and she know she shouldn’t but when he pressed his lips on hers, she closed her eyes, kissing him back hasty. It was a passionate and fervent kiss. She was yearning for his taste and a warm shiver run down her back when he cupped her face with both hands until he grabbed her hips pushing her a step back inside, finally bringing her to her senses. No, no. Stop it! She rapidly pulled herself away, looking down at her feet. “Alan we - I shouldn't do this. Give me some time, will you?” She looked at him ashamed. He exhaled, “Of course…” He gave her a smile but in his eyes she could see his frustration and pain. Obviously gutted he turned around and walked down the stairs as she watched him leave, disgusted by herself.

Kelsey knew she needed to find out what her heart wanted and that some distance would help her with that. So she decided to take a break from Chicago and booked a short trip back home to Scotland, were she still had her grandparents left. She told Elwood and Alan that she went to Glasgow to visit her family but both musicians knew it wasn’t just that. She was sure the distance and distraction would help her, a nice trip to the Highlands and the fresh air would clear her head and open her heart.

Kelsey arrived at the O’Hare airport somewhat early. She had often flown before but every time she did she still was a little nervous she’d be late and miss her flight. She checked in her luggage and passed the time with some reading and listening to music. Finally it was time to get on board and as she found her seat she sunk in it with a weary sigh. She looked out of the window, slowly closing her eyes. Jake was right though, she needed to make up her mind as soon as possible or rather her heart. Elwood and Mr. Fabulous were so different really, needless to say both were extreme good looking.

Elwood was the cool, witty but also kind of mysterious and dark guy. With him everything seemed like a big adventure, even the boring things. Because of that very same hazardous lifestyle though she feared he could end up in jail any moment.

Alan was the more settled one. Even though he worked as the maître d’ at the Chez Paul, he lavished time on the band. Whenever he was around, Kelsey felt like she could calm down and settle from the turmoil that was surrounding her. They shared a past, a deeper connection emotionally and of course their love for the same instrument.

Soon she would leave everything behind, even if it was for 10 days only. The job, her flat, the city, the hustle and bustle and… She rapidly opened her eyes as she realised she’d be over 3600 miles away from him. Was it that easy? Almost carrying out a threat of leaving the country, not being with him for over a week? She jumped up from her seat, making her way to the doors of the aeroplane. “Miss, I’m afraid the boarding has completed and the gates will close any minute.”, the stewardess was standing in her way. “But - I can’t be on this flight!” When another passenger was coming on board Kelsey gave the woman a dirty look and quickly squeezed past her running to the doors. Luckily she just could slip through them before they were closed. She ran downstairs, though the entrance hall and jumped in the first cab she could find. During the ride her right leg was bouncing up and down of excitement or nervousness, she couldn’t tell. As she finally stood in front of his door, she took a deep breath before knocking. No one opened, so she knocked again. Still nothing. Kelsey sighed and turned around disappointedly. As she started to walk away from the door she heard a familiar voice. “Kelsey?” She wheeled around. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Scotland?” “I am.. I mean, I was.” She stammered. He gave her a confused look. “Oh I’m sorry, why don’t you come in.. I just got out of the shower and needed some time to put on clothes before answering the door.”, the musician apologised to her. Only now she noticed his dark hair was all wet and a few strands fell into his face. In the rush he had buttoned his shirt wrongly, allowing her a glance at his firm, slightly hairy chest. “So what happened? Did you miss your plane?” Kelsey smacked her lips when she forced her look to leave his chest and search for his eyes. “No, no… I - I was on the plane when I realised my heart already knows what it wants … and whom. So I needed to get the hell out of there, before that plane was leaving and I got here as quickly as I could. “I see. And that you’re seeing me first is a good or bad thing?”, the man asked unsettled. “I’m ONLY seeing you, you little dork.”, she said playfully and smiled. “It really is silly but when I imagined you’d be at the other end of the world for a week, I realised I’m won’t be able to take this. And I feared to loose you. You must think I’m a coward for wanting to leave the city.” “Frankly I’m just glad you’re here with me.” He softly brushed a curl out of her face. “I love you Kelsey.”, he confessed to her. “I love you, too, Alan.” And she gave her Mr. Fabulous a slow, sizzling kiss.

#Blues Brothers #Blues Brothers fandom #blues brothers fanfiction #Alan Rubin x Reader #Alan Rubin x fem!Reader #Elwood Blues #Mr.Fabulous #Alan Rubin

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arsnovacadenza · 4 years

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Jeanpoleon fic- Hope is a Dish too Soon Finished

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Characters: Jean, Napoleon, Sebastian, Yukari (MC), mentions of Mozart

Pairings: Jean x Napoleon, Mozart x MC (minor)

Rating: G (can be read as pre-slash)

Word count: 2756

It had been well past midnight when Yukari finally left Mozart's music room. The man had kept her after dinner, saying 'the quill would only feel inspired enough to move if Yukari was around' or 'no notes would come to him if Yukari didn't call upon them".

She chuckled fondly every time she recalled Mozart speaking those exact words without so much as an exaggeration in his voice.

Although, Yukari did dread having to walk down the long hallways this late. With no lamp to guide her, there was only the moonlight illuminating the path ahead. It was eerie, vampires lurking around in the shadows or no.

But Yukari had full trust in the residents, now that she's become a member of their eccentric clan. Even Arthur was at least respectful to leave her alone (maybe it was because of Mozart's protection, but who knew).

Yukari tried her best to distract herself from the unsettling surroundings. Failing to shake off her trepidation, she broke into a small run.

Of course, sprinting while closing your eyes was never a good idea, and it didn't take long before she was knocked back by a sturdier body, one that she didn't notice was advancing towards her in the darkness. "Ow, ow," she stumbled back before focusing her sight on the other person. "I'm sorry! Are you hurt?"

Greeting her back, however, was the haggard face of a specter. The figure appeared gaunt, looming over Yukari with a hollow eye and what looked like a hole on the other side of its head. She immediately yelped.

"Eeep!" Where's Mozart? Where is he when you need him the most?!

Yukari cautiously watched the strange creature before her, which seemed to be coming to its senses.

"Oh," a deep voice reverberated. "It's you, Mademoiselle."

It was a voice Yukari knew so well. "Jean? I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?" She fussed, despite knowing that nothing could injure the stout former soldier.

But Jean just blinked vacantly at her, and without a word, gently shoved her to the side. The man went his way, visibly staggering despite going in a straight line.

Yukari stared at the ghost’s back as it disappeared into obscurity.

"And just like that, he glided out of sight! He looked, well, he looked dead! I mean, I know he's undead, but—"

Yukari had to pause when Napoleon interrupted her with a loud snort.

Sebastian regarded him with an uncharacteristically stern look. "With all due respect, Monsieur Napoleon, this is an especially concerning matter."

The addressed man held down his laughter immediately. "Forgive me," he changed into a grave expression. "But, Sebastian, you know how he likes to go down the cellars for some Rouge. At least we know he's not starving himself this time."

"Although, to be completely honest," he added. "I'd been momentarily afraid that he'd attack and bite Yukari out of thirst, but I'm glad he didn't. In any case, I apologize on his behalf." He bowed his head slightly towards her.

"No! No!" Yukari interjected, "It was also my fault for not looking where I was heading! But, the point is, I was concerned because he seemed really out of it. I thought the way he moved was sluggish. At least, he seemed very different from the Jean that likes to join Mozart and me, or the Jean I see in the stables with you, Napoleon. I don't know, can vampires get sick?"

Sebastian nodded. "Correct. Even lesser vampires can experience physical ailment from time to time. And indeed, Monsieur Jean, in my observation, is likely in....less than ideal health."

He moved towards the shelf to align some Blanc decanters. "It's as Monsieur Napoleon says, his intake of Rouge and Blanc has so far been stable. But lately, I've been retrieving his meal trays to find most of them left uneaten."

He looked towards Yukari with a smile. "It was disheartening, considering his appetite had gotten better since you began helping out in the kitchen."

"Eheheheh, not really! I only repeat what you've taught me, Sebastian!" She chuckled as a blush spread across her cheeks. "I mean, I do admit I'm a bit proud of myself for mastering French cuisine one dish at a time. But, I don't think I can hold a candle to Napoleon here."

"You flatter me, Yukari." The emperor smirked. "Unfortunately, he rarely ever leaves his tower, much less come down to the kitchen when I'm cooking."

"Still, it bothers me that he hasn't been attending our sparring seasons lately," Napoleon examined the knife he was holding in contemplation. "Yukari, has he been visiting Mozart lately?"

The girl shook her head. "No. Mozart seems bothered about it as much as you do."

Sebastian chimed in, "Now that you mentioned it, this morning Herr Mozart himself asked me whether I'd seen Monsieur Jean lately. As far as I know, Monsieur Jean only comes down to the stables to take his horse out into town.”

"Trying to manage his weapons shop without help from Mozart?" Napoleon asked humorlessly. "I can't let this continue."

He strode towards the kitchen door. "Sebastian, come help me in the library after finishing your work. Yukari, do you mind if I borrow him later?"

"Oh, no! He's all yours!" Yukari eyed Sebastian, who was grinning discreetly. "Are you planning on doing something?"

“I am.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Just you wait.”

Ages ago, Jean would have wandered the brightly lit halls early in the evening, spooking everybody he reached out to like a man in a desert aching for water.

Right now, however, the pitch darkness made it easier for his nightly strolls to the cellar, where he'd empty vials of Rouge before returning to his cot. Without anybody finding out.

But he did bump into Mozart's lover, whom he startled as much as she did him. This time, he'd have to proceed more carefully, or he'd run to others like Sebastian —or even worse, Leonardo.

He'd caught wind of Isaac barging into the kitchen and drinking every single bottle of Rouge on the shelf. Not only was Jean trying to avoid needless company, but he also wanted to prevent awkward encounters the morning after.

His frame cast shadows on the wine-colored carpeting, which now looked blue under the moonlight.

Within this condemned body is a ghost longing to be erased from this undesiring world.

So lost was Jean in thought that he wasn't aware of a hand that gently pushed against his chest to stop him.

Napoleon smiled upon gazing into the (sadly devoid) eye of his quarry.

"Caught you," he spoke softly. "Come with me. This is what you get for missing our training sessions."

Wordlessly and without a fight, Jean allowed the former emperor to pull him by his wrist.

So thin. Napoleon contemplated. My judgment was correct.

Jean followed Napoleon into the warmly illuminated kitchen, where a rich, meaty scent greeted him upon entering. He spotted an earthenware pot sitting on the stove.

"Come over here, Jean," Napoleon had already pulled a chair at the table where he and Isaac (and sometimes Sebastian and Yukari) gathered every time he made a dish.

Jean only looked at the table, then back at Napoleon's face.

The emperor laughed, his voice akin to the ringing of bells in the otherwise silent kitchen. "Why look at me like that? Come on, let's get you to your seat."

Jean allowed the other Frenchman to take his arm gingerly and lead him around the table. After making sure that (the still dazed) Jean is comfortable in his seat, Napoleon took off his cape and draped it on the opposite chair. "Wait there. I'll join you in a minute,"

Jean quietly watched the back of Napoleon's white shirt as he moved about by the stove, scooping and pouring its content into a smaller bowl.

Why is he doing this?

Why...for me?

Napoleon turned, carrying the bowl and placing it on the table. He pushed it closer towards Jean until the steam rose in front of his face.

Jean inspected the surface of the soup. He could make out carrots, cabbages, potatoes, chunks of turnip, and what seemed to be pork.

The scent was a familiar one.

Seeing that Jean still didn't move to pick up the spoon that he had set, Napoleon called him out. "What's wrong?"

Jean averted his eye from the dish and looked down at his lap instead. "Where's yours?"

"Huh?"

"Shouldn't you have some yourself before offering them to me?"

Napoleon waved away the question with a smirk. "Oh, this is an experiment I've always wanted to try. I won't feel confident unless you test it for me."

Why me? "This is Potée Lorraine."

Napoleon nodded (somewhat too enthusiastically to Jean's liking), "It is. What about it?"

"It should be... never mind." Jean wanted to say: It should be a simple recipe. A man as capable of you can't possibly spoil it even if you try.

But Jean knew better than to dishearten a friend over a bad mood. His body might have been yearning for blood, but his senses were now urging him to indulge him something else.

For once, he didn't object to the idea of satisfying his (real and very human) hunger.

He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the edge of the bowl, picking up some bite-sized carrots and meat (Napoleon was always considerate, right down to the smallest things). When he slowly lifted the spoon towards his face, his heightened sense of smell was immediately overwhelmed by the fragrance.

Eventually, Jean blew at the spoon and gave himself a taste. The broth slid easily down his throat.

Napoleon watched him intently as Jean closed his eyes, seemingly trying to decipher what he'd just eaten. "Don't stop, Jean. I still have enough for both of us. And more.”

Obediently, the soldier went for another scoop. And then another, and another. With every gulp, Napoleon could see the color returning to his moon-pale skin.

In the middle of working through his soup, however, Jean lifted his face with a fully open eye.

"What is this?"

After uttering the short (but significant, at least to Napoleon's ears) question, Jean resumed devouring the entire soup.

Noticing the quiet hum of life returning to Jean's body, the former emperor leaned back in contentment.

Ah, this is why I cook for others.

It was always an encouraging sight, seeing Isaac gasp in awe at a Dijon chicken sandwich after a full day of overworking his brain. There was Sebastian's appreciation as a piece of a cara-age cured his homesickness.

Yukari, too, always complimented his macarons, but it was the sight of her delightfully nibbling away at the sweets that rewarded him more. He couldn't even stop himself from smiling too when Dazai remarked fondly on his successful recreation of tofu miso.

But this? This was another scene entirely.

Napoleon wasn't just discovering another side of Jean he'd always been longing to see, he was also expelling the toxicity that plagued the beautiful soldier from head to toe. Gone was the sullen and thirst in his eyes, replaced by a spark that got brighter and brighter every time Jean took another bite of the hearty meal.

The man could picture ghost-like smog pouring out of every part in Jean's body, eventually dissipating into the air. The humble Potée Lorraine didn't just serve to neutralize poison, but it also exorcised Jean's demons.

At least for now.

Jean dropped the spoon inside the bowl with a loud clunk and leaned back on the chair. His (now glove-less) hands moved to unbutton the top of his overcoat, showing off a patch of healthy, flustered skin underneath.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Napoleon finally saw Jean sweating and taking in deep breaths, as he always did every time they finished sparring.

"It was good," Jean spoke, his head still tilted towards the ceiling. "Hit the spot, you might say."

Napoleon chuckled and pulled up a chair right next to Jean. "My hypothesis was correct," he dabbed Jean's moist forehead with a napkin. "You really were starving, but not for blood."

Jean peered at him through a half-lidded eye. The light that the Potée Lorraine restored was swimming in it. "What do you mean?"

The emperor lifted the eyepatched soldier's wrist and showed it to him. "If you only needed blood for nourishment, your wrist shouldn't stay this small after drinking all that Rouge. What's more," He continued, still not dropping Jean's wrist. "The unusual paleness of your skin, your sunken eyes, and lack of enthusiasm for daily activities clued me in on your condition."

Napoleon finally settled the hand on Jean's lap. "As the Chinese saying goes, food is medicine. It can't cure your entire body in a short time, but it should lighten your heart enough to make you want to feel better."

"It's not much, offering you comfort food. I don't even know what your favorite food is. But Potée Lorraine was a popular dish in my time, and then I discovered that it had been around during your period too." He then smiled apologetically, "Forgive me if I didn't get the recipe correctly, though. You were born in Lorraine, so of course, you'd be more familiar with the original recipe."

"No," Jean shot back with a surprising amount of passion in his voice. "It was better. Much better than the elaborate dishes le Comte wants us to eat."

Napoleon couldn't quite comprehend what le Comte had to do with this. "Come again? "

Jean sighed, his previously serene visage changing into a regretful one. "I don't mean to undermine both Yukari and Sebastian's work. They did well, producing wonderful dishes that everybody enjoys."

"But?"

"But my body can no longer take it," Jean toyed with the edges of his cape. "I... My body rejected them. I felt repulsed at ingesting such luxurious food that I didn't deserve. I tried staving off my additional starvation with more Blanc, but it hasn't gone too well."

"In the end, I had no choice but to consume Rouge. With Yukari in the mansion, I can't risk attacking and drinking blood directly from a human. It was either forcing myself to drink that wretched thing or cause trouble."

Jean took a swig of the clear water that was offered to him by Napoleon. After wiping his mouth, he resumed. "Yet, no matter how much I drink every night , my hunger persists. I’ve been feeling immense guilt at the thought of Sebastian worrying over a depleting Rouge supply."

"But your simple dish," Jean lifted the bowl close to his face to inhale the lingering aroma. "Somehow melted away this stubborn craving of mine. As expected of our Napoleon."

The red that tinted Jean's cheeks as he spoke the words made Napoleon unknowingly blush too.

"W-well," Napoleon's embarrassment was still palpable. "There's more to your reluctance to eat extravagant dishes. I've been checking the menu, and it seems your body has been rejecting all that oil and fat. However,"

He put a hand on Jean's shoulder and gripped it. "Even you deserve to nourish yourself once in a while. I can talk at length about the finer points of French food, but we can all agree on one thing: whether it's a peasant dish or haute cuisine, good food is still good food."

"It seems that the stew hit more than just your taste buds," His finger jabbed at Jean's heart. "It probably went straight to your homesickness too. I learned that this dish originated from Lorraine, where Domrémy is—'

Napoleon felt Jean's cold fingers enveloping his.

"Please, no," Jean whispered, tears starting to form in the corner of his dark eye. "Let's not talk about Domrémy tonight."

Napoleon could only abide the plea in Jean's voice. He uncurled Jean’s fingers and noticed how easily they surrendered to being handled.

"In that case," Napoleon walked back to the stove and retrieved the pot. "Let's talk about something else while you help me finish this soup." He then carried another bowl and spoon, along with another glass of water.

Jean gave him a look of genuine astonishment. "Are you not saving it for others in the morning?"

"Nah, I made it just enough for the two of us," Napoleon sat back down. "I mean, assuming you're up for some more."

Jean seized the ladle with a determined expression, despite the flush under his eyes.

"Well, don't mind if I do."

Lots of love and thanks to Marine @weird-konpeito. I was alternating between wanting to write in onion soup and garbure, but she suggested Potée Lorraine instead .

According to what she told me, it’s a dish from Lorraine, where Jeanne/Jean’s birthplace (Domremy) is located. It’s also a popular dish in the Napoleonic Era. So, again, big thanks to Marine for contributing that idea!

@kisara-16 @thedollarstoresatan @delicateikemenmemes @ikesensrandomninjagirl24 @ashavazesa @hokkaido-the-hellbeast @nuclearwinterexe @lulu-the-hedgehog @longingkisses

#ikevam jean #ikevam napoleon #ikevam fanfic #ikevam bl #jeanpoleon #riri tries ikevam

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Grounded pt4

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

7k words later and this thing that was supposed to be a short explanation for what I saw as a plot hole in Venom is finally at an end. Got rather out of hand but since when is that unusual with fics? This’ll be proof read, edited, and then posted on AO3/FFN soon; I’m still undecided if I should chapter split it or have it all as a oneshot but it won’t be exactly as it’s been split here because I’ve posted this as I wrote it.

Someone mentioned ‘what if the ep was really like this’ so I’ll reiterate some of my earlier notes: this fic is a reaction to the lack of TB1 or Scott doing any sort of piloting in the S3 Venom despite it being a rescue where speed was important. All the events in part 2 fit around the events we see in the episode seamlessly (I literally watched it in 5 sec bursts as I was writing to make sure of that), so to them and everyone else who thought that: this fic is designed to be that episode, just viewed through a different lens. And then I made it worse after the episode was over because why not.

The reaction to this has been fantastic so far, way beyond anything I expected! Thanks for that, and I hope you enjoy this last installment as much as the rest of it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

There was a steady beeping, calm and methodical. Beep… beep… beep… it went, more of a reassurance than an irritant to the dregs of his consciousness. Scott recognised it, but couldn’t place it, and found himself more interested in the fresh air flowing around his mouth and nose. That was more immediately familiar, a constant from his last bout of consciousness, and it didn’t take his stirring brain long to label it as a rebreather.

Was that really necessary? Frowning slightly, he lifted a hand to his face and tugged the machine away, fresh air replaced with warmer air that had just the faintest tang. The air of the sea. He’d been on Thunderbird Two, but Thunderbird Two’s air didn’t taste of warmth and salt, rather the recycled air of an enclosed plane in flight, crisp and just a little bit off. If this wasn’t Thunderbird Two and he was tasting sea air, there was only one place he could possibly be.

He smiled, hand still holding the rebreather falling to his side limply. He was home.

Opening his eyes was a little more of a challenge, eyelids still heavy and eyelashes catching on each other, but as he blinked his way into awareness, beads of moisture forming in the corners of his eyes but not falling, he realised that he was almost sitting upright, the bed raised to its full extent so he was facing the wall with its fake holographic window rather than the plain and boring ceiling.

Scott appreciated that, letting the rebreather fall from his fingers as he wiped the sleep and moisture from his eyes. He’d spent far too many hours staring at the ceiling that never changed, and at least the hologram could change. The actual reasoning behind his positioning was more likely his rib, which Scott would worry about later. It wasn’t his rib that had tried to kill him, and he looked down at his left arm.

A neat band-aid – a childish one, decorated with bright red biplanes soaring across a blue background that he’d always fought for as a kid – stood out against his bare skin, just below the elbow, and he smiled, wondering which of his brothers was responsible for that one. On that same forearm he also saw a cannula, attached to tubing with translucent liquid passing through, and grimaced. He never liked being on a drip.

He was no longer in his uniform. Part of him – the part that contained his pride – bristled at that, wondering who had stripped him while he was unconscious and why, but the clothes he was wearing were comfortable, well-worn, and unmistakable as his favourite pyjamas even without him looking at them. His comfort-pyjamas, although he was fairly certain he’d never made the mistake of letting that slip to anyone. The ones he turned to whenever things got particularly rough, a plain unassuming dark grey with worn patches from the times he’d needed all the support he could get.

It could just be a coincidence, although Scott was uncomfortably aware that if there was one person he couldn’t keep anything truly secret from it was John, but whatever the reason, he was glad of them now. There was nothing like comfort clothes after a near-death experience.

Considering he’d just had a near-death experience, the lack of anyone in the room with him was somewhat unusual. Virgil in particular he’d expected to see, his younger brother blaming himself for bringing him out on the mission even before he’d been bitten, let alone afterwards. Kayo hovering unassumedly in the corner, sharp eyes full of concern. John flickering by his side, watching him for the slightest change. Grandma, retired from caring for strangers but never too old to stay up all night with her family.

Scott eyed the drip. If none of his family were with him, physically or virtually, then that meant something else was going on that trumped his condition. In their family, there was very little that trumped an unconscious brother or grandson. And if they weren’t with him, he had no intentions of staying put.

He’d removed drips hundreds of times – his own and other peoples’. By this point, he had it down to an art, even if his sneaky family had tried to make it harder on him by putting it in his dominant arm; there were benefits to being ambidextrous. He reached across with his right hand, fingers gently probing the needle, and had just found the sweet spot when there was the unmistakable hsss of the door sliding open.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” Grandma demanded, striding in and gently but firmly forcing him to release his grip. “That’s there for a reason.”

“Hey, Grandma,” he greeted, grinning at her and ignoring that she’d just caught him trying to escape. “How long was I asleep?”

“Your siblings brought you back four and a half hours ago,” she told him, picking up the discarded rebreather and placing it on the bedside table before perching on the bed. Scott watched her carefully, accepting the hand cupping his cheek as a thumb swiped at what was presumably some sleep he’d missed. “Trust you to wake up the one time I have to use the toilet. This old bladder can’t hold it in like it used to.”

Scott grimaced good-naturedly at the tmi and she chuckled at him, patting his cheek lightly twice before letting her hand rest.

“You gave us all a scare there, Scott,” she said softly, eyes running over him once before meeting his own. “You don’t have to try and beat Gordon on that score, you know. It’s okay to let someone else have that crown.”

“I’d appreciate it if he never gave me another scare in my life,” Scott admitted, before glancing around the room again. “Where are they, anyway? Not to sound self-centred, but I don’t usually wake up here alone.”

“Alan and Kayo are dealing with a stalled freighter just outside of orbit and Gordon and Virgil are responding to a sinking cargo ship,” Grandma told him. “They’ll all be back soon, and delighted to know you’ve decided to re-join the land of the living.” She tangled her fingers with his, pressing them to her chest with a hand that was almost trembling. “It was a close call, Scott. Your brother almost didn’t make it in time.”

His brother? Virgil? John? John had had a plan, he remembered that much, although he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the details. Wait…

“I heard Thunderbird One,” he said, recalling the roar that had soothed him to sleep like a purr. It could have been a figment of his imagination, but he didn’t think so. A smile spread across his grandmother’s face.

“Of course you did,” she laughed. “You boys and your machines. Well on your way to see your mother and you still recognised your ‘bird.” The smile was bright for a moment before it dimmed again. “Alan flew all the way to a lab in China to collect a dose of the antivenom before rendezvousing with Thunderbird Two to deliver it. I’ve never seen that ‘bird fly so fast without you in the hotseat.”

Alan. Scott could well imagine his youngest brother, face screwed up in concentration and fear, sat in the pilot’s seat. The idea tied a knot in his chest, but at the same time there was pride, and an unexpected thankfulness for the rib injury that had kept him grounded and subsequently given Alan more flight hours in his ‘bird. Without that…

Without that, he might well have died. The realisation doused him like cold water, his eyes leaving his grandmother’s to stare blindly at his lap. He’d known he was dying, remembered a desperate fight against whispered promises of the stars and seeing his Mom again, but sitting in the infirmary, home and safe, it carried a different weight.

“Oh, Scott,” Grandma whispered, releasing his hand and cheek only to draw him in to a careful hug around his shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s over.” After a moment his hands found the back of her always there purple onesie, fisting around the fabric as his head rested in the crook of her neck. “It’s okay.”

There was the slightest of cracks in her voice, a reminder that no matter how much steel she was made of, she wasn’t immune to the idea of loss. Her parents, long ago, before Scott’s memories began. Her husband, daughter in law. Her son, who might still be alive and waiting for them.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, as much for her benefit as his. “I’m okay.”

Her hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair softly as though he was a young boy woken from a nightmare again. It was the sort of treatment she didn’t give him in front of his brothers, knowing that he preferred to keep up the illusion of strength in front of them, no matter what.

“I want you to take it easy,” she told him after a minute or so, releasing him and instead gripping his hands in hers. One pair was trembling, but he didn’t know if it was his or hers. “I know that’s not in your vocabulary, but I refuse to let you throw yourself back in harms’ way until you’re fully recovered after what happened today.”

“But-” Scott protested, complaints and reasons why he shouldn’t be bedbound queuing up one after the other on the tongue. A single look from his grandmother quelled them all before he could vocalise any.

“If you can’t do it for the sake of your own recovery,” she said, something in her voice implying that she thought he should treat himself better – he treated himself fine! – “then do it for our peace of mind, Scott. We were all terrified when we heard what happened. Virgil was stuck watching you slip away with no way of stopping it. That fear doesn’t magically go away, Scott. We all know that.”

He was saved from answering by the swish of the door opening again. He glanced over, wondering who it could be when he hadn’t heard any Thunderbirds come in to land. Brains and the Mechanic were the only others on the island, and while it wasn’t unusual for Brains to check up on the infirmary, Scott didn’t want the Mechanic near him in his current condition.

It wasn’t the Mechanic. It wasn’t Brains, either – or MAX, for that matter.

“h’Oh, you’re h’awake!” Parker said with a surprised but delighted grin as he fumbled his way into the room carrying a tray laden with food. “h’I was just bringing food for Mrs Tracy…” he trailed off, but continued to approach the bed.

“Parker, you shouldn’t have,” Grandma smiled, releasing one of Scott’s hands to move the rebreather off of the bedside table. The older man set the tray down before stepping up to Scott’s side. He didn’t reach for him, keeping his hands loosely behind his back, but sharp blue eyes raked him up and down.

“’Ow are you feeling?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m fine,” Scott replied, ignoring the eye roll from his grandmother, who clearly didn’t agree with his assessment. Aside from some token weariness, which he knew was normal after a spell of time unconscious, he really did feel perfectly fine. Even his rib wasn’t bothering him.

“h’I suppose that’s because you’re h’on the good stuff,” Parker shrugged, making Scott pause. He should have realised that, especially after all the trouble his ribs had given him on the mission. The temptation was there to ask how badly his recovery had been set back, but that would have just given Grandma even more ammunition to stay in bed. Besides, he’d be told eventually. Of more immediate interest was Parker’s unexpected visit.

“What brings you to the island, Parker?” he asked, glancing around the room again. “I don’t see Lady Penelope around?”

“M’Lady’s in the lounge,” Parker told him. “We came ‘ere to drop off the Centurion-21 fuel for Brains, but ‘eard h’about you and M’Lady requested to stay h’a while.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Grandma reminded him, and Scott smiled in agreement. “Is she making any progress?”

“h’I couldn’t say for sure,” Parker shrugged. “But I know M’Lady and Master John won’t stop h’until they get their way.”

Scott frowned. Combined, John and Lady Penelope were an almost unstoppable force, but he couldn’t think of any reason for that tag-team, not right now.

“What are they doing?” he asked, because anything that big, he needed to know about. Especially if working on that was a higher priority for John than checking in on him – John, the brother who was too used to sitting out of the loop and firmly inserted himself virtually into any situation with a brother operating at less than one hundred percent. Scott knew he wasn’t at one hundred percent, not even by his own standards.

“Making sure today’s events never happen again,” Grandma answered, curling her hand back around his again.

Today’s events. The rescue? Him being bitten? That was all bad luck, how could they possibly ensure it never happened again? Although, he supposed, if anyone could, it would be the duo currently working on it.

His confusion must have shown on his face, because Parker took it upon himself to explain. “h’It transpires that the reason the ‘ospital ran h’out of h’antivenom was a funding problem,” he said, sounding somewhat unimpressed. Scott didn’t blame him – whenever money was the problem, he found himself wanting to strangle whoever had decided lining their pockets was more important than human lives. “M’Lady h’is setting up a charity to make sure all ‘ospitals can ‘ave all the h’antivenoms they need.” Admirable and welcome, but that didn’t explain John’s involvement. He certainly hadn’t been needed in any of her past charity ventures.

“So what’s John doing?” he asked, hoping his brother was not ruining whoever had decided money was more important than lives. It wouldn’t be the first time, and while Scott agreed that they deserved it, sometimes John could go a little too far.

“Arranging for International Rescue to have our own stock of all known antivenoms,” Grandma told him, squeezing his hands gently. “We might not be able to stop spiders sneaking into our Thunderbirds, or you boys throwing yourselves in front of each other, but there is no reason why you should have had to suffer for an hour because you didn’t have the right antivenom on hand.”

That made sense, and Scott nodded his approval. International Rescue did have a stock of common antivenoms, as well as everything they needed to deal with the local fauna on Tracy Island, but if they could broaden that, at least to the most dangerous venoms, it would only be a good thing.

It was also a typical John reaction – finding out why something had gone wrong and immediately finding a way to stop it happening again. That, at least, told Scott that John was okay. If he’d found a solution to the problem then he would be satisfied. No doubt Scott would find himself under close holographic scrutiny in the near future so John could see for himself that he really was fine, but with a solution the what-ifs wouldn’t be playing on his mind.

His other siblings would be less easily pacified. He had no idea what Gordon knew, having not seen his water-loving brother at all that day thanks to a fishing trawler in trouble, but Virgil and Kayo would be kicking themselves black and blue, and Alan would be stuck in the what if I’d been too late loop. Scott knew that feeling very well indeed.

He hadn’t yet decided if the fact that it had launched rather than exploded made the fact that he’d reached the Zero-X too late better or worse. He wasn’t sure he’d ever decide.

“Still, I think we’d better let them know you’ve woken up,” Grandma said, releasing his hands. “I won’t be long, so don’t even think about getting out of that bed, young man.” She shared a look with Parker. “If you’re hungry, see if you can eat some of that food Parker’s brought in.” A gentle hand touched his cheek lightly before she stood up and left the room.

One look at Parker told him he wasn’t going to be going anywhere, especially when the man perched on the section of bed Grandma had just vacated. Parker was the one he’d learnt many of his escaping tricks from – if there was one person that would see through them all, it was the butler.

“h’I wouldn’t be in too much of a ‘urry to h’escape, Master Scott,” the older man said, and Scott found himself relaxing back against the bed. Master Scott. It was his favourite of Parker’s ways of referring to him, but also the rarest. He’d graduated to ‘Mr Scott’ after the Zero-X, the man’s acknowledgement that he was now the head of the family without using the dreaded Mr Tracy. Parker never called him that, not even in public when the rest of the world insisted. Sir was a substitute when society demanded, and Scott always appreciated that.

Master Scott only came out when Parker was being fussy, and never with an audience. Just like Grandma, he knew and accepted there was a front to be held in front of younger siblings – even if neither of them approved. If he was Master Scott, he wasn’t expected to make any decisions or take on any of his father’s responsibilities.

“Some food?” the butler asked, gesturing to the tray. It was homemade, but not by Grandma, and Scott would have to be far worse off to even consider declining that. In answer, he reached for the toast, only for Parker to lightly touch his wrist and stop him. “You’ll get crumbs h’everywhere if you h’eat like that,” the older man scolded lightly. “Stay still, there’s a good lad.”

The tray was relocated to his lap, and Scott tore into the offering as soon as Parker retracted his hands, to an amused chuckle from his companion.

“h’It’s not going anywhere, Master Scott,” Parker reminded him.

“He’s just trying to finish it before the others get home and want to share,” John commented, and Scott’s head jerked up to see his brother’s hologram materialise alongside him. He looked tired, not that that was an unusual occurrence over the past few weeks. “You’re looking better, Scott.”

“I can’t imagine that’s hard,” he managed through a mouthful of food. The last time he’d been aware of John’s presence, he’d been deep in the clutches of deadly venom. If he’d looked half as had as he’d felt, it would have been an awful sight. “How’s the campaign going?”

John pulled a face. “They’re asking for money, which by itself isn’t a problem because I expected that, but they’re trying to charge us triple what they charge hospitals, and as Lady P’s working to get those rates reduced because they’re extortionate, I’m not letting them use our lives to line their pockets.”

Scott grimaced along with him. Money grabbers were the worst.

“So what’s your plan?” he asked, because there was no way John was letting that slide.

“Persuading them that it’s better in their interest long-term to not try and bankrupt us,” John offered, a bemused look on his face. “We could afford it, but if they think that they’ll be driving the prices up with every new shipment. More realistically, I’m talking to Colonel Casey to see if the GDF can’t pull some weight. As they’re military and not private, the companies couldn’t charge them as much. It would leave us needing the GDF’s good will for access, but we already know the GDF don’t dare put us out of business.”

It was Scott’s turn to pull a face. He hated getting the GDF involved in anything; for as long as Colonel Casey was a dominant figure in the organisation International Rescue wouldn’t have any issues, but in the longer term he was brutally aware that she was their father’s generation. At some point, she would be forced to retire and then they’d – he’d – have to handle the full force of the GDF without inside help.

Still, he trusted John and Colonel Casey. Anything they implemented would be beneficial to International Rescue.

“Let me know what you come up with,” he requested, and John nodded, turquoise eyes briefly scanning across him.

“Alan and Kayo will be returning home in five minutes,” he told him. “Do you want me to tell them you’re awake or let them find out for themselves when they check in?”

“Tell them once they’ve landed,” Scott decided. “Virgil and Gordon, too – what’s their ETA?”

“They’re racing Thunderbird Three home,” John shrugged. “But Thunderbird Three will win.” Scott chuckled. Alan somehow always won their races home, no matter how much further away he’d been.

“What are they betting this time?” he asked, and John grinned.

“Loser gets to be your slave for the week,” he said.

“Mine?”

“Well you’re not doing much on your own any time soon,” John told him matter-of-factly. “Has Grandma given you the rundown?” Scott blinked, pausing mid-bite.

“I thought I was supposed to be walking around with the ribs,” he ventured tentatively. “But no, I haven’t been told what the damage is yet. Care to fill me in?”

John glanced away at something Scott couldn’t see.

“Your rib re-broke,” he started bluntly. “Which I’m sure you’ve realised. So that’s another six weeks grounded, and this time no-one’s sneaking you onto a Thunderbird before that’s up.”

“Six weeks?” Scott groaned. John raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Well what did you expect?” he asked. “Kayo filled us in on the mission details once you were stable. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“But-” Scott protested. “What about the mission to find Dad?” John shook his head.

“The new Zero-X will take longer that to construct,” he told him. “Brains and the Mechanic finished the T-Drive while you were out in Brazil and we’ve got the fuel, so they’re going to test fire it tomorrow to make sure it’s all working before they start on the craft itself.”

“Tomorrow?” Scott asked. “If it’s ready why not today?”

“Even engineers need breaks sometimes, Scott,” John scolded lightly. “They’ve been working almost non-stop for the past five weeks, which I know you know.” There was a slightly accusatory tone at the end of his sentence, and Scott realised John knew how closely he’d started watching the two engineers. “Besides, Grandma and Virgil won’t let you out of that bed for at least twenty four hours, and we all know you won’t be happy unless you see it for yourself.”

Well, they weren’t wrong.

“You still haven’t told me why I’m getting a slave for a week over a broken rib,” Scott realised, and John once again raised an eyebrow at him.

“You haven’t tried to get out of bed yet?”

“Don’t h’encourage ‘im, Master John,” Parker groaned. “Mrs Tracy ‘ad to stop ‘im h’earlier and ‘e ‘asn’t ‘ad h’a chance since.”

“It was an hour before the antivenom reached you, Scott. The damage doesn’t get miraculously fixed just because the venom’s gone,” John continued. “Your blood pressure is still low so I’d wager you’ll probably pass out if you try to stand right now, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, and we don’t yet know for sure if it’s done any damage to your heart.”

“My heart?” The soft background beeping caught Scott’s attention and he turned his head to the EKG. It was on, signalling that it was receiving data from wireless transmitters. He put a hand to his chest; underneath the pyjamas he felt the tell-tale patches, leaving him with no doubt that it was his own heartbeat it was recording. “Oh.” That was low. Not dramatically so, but lower than his normal resting rate.

“It’s recovered reasonably well, but Grandma and Virgil still aren’t happy with it,” John told him. From his tone, it wasn’t only the family medics unhappy. “I know you don’t like staying in bed, but unless you want to fall over and make your ribs worse, I would suggest you stay put.”

Scott scowled.

“You’re also recovering from dehydration, so drink up and leave that drip in,” Grandma added, walking back in with a large cup, complete with straw. “I see there’s nothing wrong with your appetite,” she observed. Parker obligingly removed the now-empty tray away from Scott’s lap and stood so that she could sit back on the side of the bed. “Drink.”

Obediently, he took the cup with both hands and sipped at the liquid, which revealed itself to be simply water. A dull rumbling even through the soundproofing of the infirmary told him Thunderbird Three was back. John confirmed that before signing off to talk to their returning siblings.

Scott made a note of the time, wondering how long it would take before he had visitors.

Three minutes later and the door slammed open to find Kayo and Alan shoulder-to-shoulder, clearly racing each other.

“No running in the house!” Grandma barked, but neither of them looked the least apologetic. They did at least walk the distance from the door to his bed, where Grandma had slipped off to let them get closer. Both stopped short, Alan fidgeting from foot to foot at he stared at him with open relief, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“Come here,” he told his youngest brother, spreading his arms in demand of a hug. As always, Alan needed no further invitation, crashing into him and wrapping his arms around him tightly, although it didn’t miss Scott’s attention that it wasn’t Alan’s usual rib-squeezing hug. He appreciated that, curling his own arms around his brother’s shoulders.

Alan was trembling. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he mumbled into Scott’s neck. “I thought-”

“I’m still here, kid,” he interrupted quietly. “And I hear I have you to thank for that.” The sniffle he got in response told him it was Alan, the baby brother, rather than Alan the emergency responder he was dealing with. “You did good.”

“I thought I was too late,” Alan mumbled, and there were tears against Scott’s skin. He tightened his grip on his brother. “You looked d-dead. I d-didn’t think you were breathing.”

“I’m here and breathing,” Scott reminded him, letting him sob on his shoulder as long as he needed, rubbing the neoprene – both siblings were still in uniform – underneath his hand reassuringly. He remembered the same reaction after EOS had first made herself known to them, only that time it had been John Alan had clung to in tears, post-adrenaline rush. They needed to stop putting their lives in Alan’s hands like that.

But Alan would settle, barring the new nightmare fuel that never went away, once he’d let out the initial emotions. It was either a blessing of youth, or a coping strategy he’d been forced to employ too young. Kayo, who was watching with unguarded relief across her face, was like John; pragmatic and level-headed. A serious conversation would settle her, although when she met his eyes, he linked his hands together behind Alan’s back and made them flutter, shooting her a quick grin.

The resulting glower she sent him didn’t hide the softening in her eyes, or the way her shoulders slumped. Satisfied for the moment, he returned his attention to his youngest brother, who seemed content to stay where he was. Scott let him, nodding at Parker when the older man gestured that he was going to leave the room.

No sooner was Parker gone than Gordon burst through the door, Virgil hot on his heels.

“Scott!” Gordon skidded to a stop just behind Alan, reaching out to put a hand on Scott’s shoulder where he could. “Don’t do that again,” he demanded, amber eyes flicking to the EKG for a split second before he found some space to perch on the bed behind Alan.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Scott shot back. Gordon grinned.

“I won’t if you don’t,” he said. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

They couldn’t really promise that, not in their profession, but Scott saw something lift behind Gordon’s eyes, the banter regardless doing something to reassure him. Gordon had always used humour to cope.

Four siblings down, or at least addressed, and one to go. Somehow, Scott didn’t think a hug or joke would work quite so well on Virgil. Guilt was deep-set in brown eyes, but Virgil didn’t look at him directly, focusing on the EKG and drip as he bustled around.

“Virgil,” he said, pulling one hand away from Alan to catch his brother’s arm the moment Virgil got in reach. It was the arm with the needle in it, bright band aid stark against his skin. Virgil’s eyes focussed on it and Scott sighed, tightening his grip on the neoprene beneath his fingers. “Look at me.” He couldn’t do much, not while Alan was still clinging to him, but hell if he was going to let Virgil shut himself away and stew in a self-inflicted puddle of misplaced guilt.

Virgil stilled, but didn’t obey. Scott closed his eyes and sighed again, squeezing Alan lightly. The blond snuffled but didn’t otherwise move.

“Virgil.” That was John’s voice, his final brother reappearing holographically at the foot of Scott’s bed. The middle brother ignored him, too.

“Kid, your brother’s talking to you,” Grandma chipped in. “At least have the manners to look at him.” Despite the words, there was no scolding in her tone, just a quiet encouragement. Virgil glanced up at her, and a look passed between them that Scott couldn’t see before Virgil slowly turned to face him.

“Thank you,” he said before Virgil could apologise, or say something else nonsensical. Whatever his brother had been gearing up for, it clearly wasn’t that; he blinked, startled, before opening his mouth to probably-protest. “I know it was Alan that got the antivenom, but you’re the one that kept me alive long enough to get it.”

“I’m the reason you needed it in the first place!” Virgil snapped, looking away again. “If I’d paid more attention… if I-”

“If nothing,” Scott interrupted, conscious that they had an audience but unable to ask anyone to leave. He wanted his family there, with him, and knew they were all busy reassuring themselves that he was going to be fine. “You’d have done the same thing if our positions were reversed, except I’m not as good as you with all the medical stuff.”

“You’d have done enough,” Virgil mumbled, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“And you did enough,” he returned. “No what-ifs, Virgil.” Hell knew he’d told himself that enough through the years, with varying levels of success.

Virgil at least met his eyes again, even though Scott could see it wasn’t enough to lift the guilt. That would take much longer, including him making a full recovery and a conversation without the rest of the family listening in, intentionally or not.

“You’re staying in that bed,” he said instead, and Scott made a grumbling noise of protest.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied. “I can’t say I’m happy about it, but John made quite the compelling argument.”

“Does this mean you’ll listen to me for once?” John asked disbelievingly, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean, for once?” Scott asked. “I listen to you!”

“When it suits you,” John rebuked. “I have a list, if you’d care to hear it.”

Scott wouldn’t put it past John to actually have a list. He turned his attention back to his other brothers without responding, to an amused noise from the space monitor, and gave Alan a grin as the youngest finally pulled back from his shoulder, eyeing him with teary blue eyes.

“I’ll sit on you if you try and get up,” the youngest told him firmly, look somewhat ruined by those eyes. Gordon laughed.

“Alan, you’re a twig.”

“Am not, fishboy!”

“Are, too!”

“Not!”

“Boys,” Kayo interrupted, taking a few steps closer to the cluster on the bed. With one arm now free, Scott reached for her and got a light hug at his silent request. It didn’t last long, but it was enough for the rest of the tension to leave her shoulders before she stepped back, out of his reach again.

“Hey, where’s my hug?” Gordon demanded, and Scott raised an eyebrow at him.

“You want a hug, you’ve got to come get it yourself,” he said. “I’m not moving.”

Permission gained, Gordon shoved Alan out of the way, the younger falling off the bed with a squawk of indignation, and wrapped himself around Scott. It was far looser than his usual hugs, but out of all his brothers, Gordon was best at gauging what an injured person could take. Scott rested his chin on his shoulder, feeling the dampness of the neoprene that betrayed that Gordon had been in the water during his mission.

Tension drained out of his aquanaut brother’s powerful shoulders and Scott found himself relaxing as well. He’d always found it easiest to relax and wind down when his brothers were okay, and with three out of four openly reassured, his own nerves were less on edge.

“I’m still sorry,” Virgil said after a moment. Scott still had hold of his bicep, and glanced up at him as he spoke. That pain and guilt was still there in brown eyes, but it was Gordon and Alan that Virgil was looking at. A big brother himself, he too was being drawn into some sort of reassurance by the youngest two calming down.

There were many responses Scott could give, and maybe later once it was just the two of them he’d dive deeper in if Virgil hadn’t managed to settle himself and needed a stronger release, but in that moment, with his family around him and the knowledge that whatever happened next, they’d survived this hurdle, there was only one thing to say.

“I know.”

Surprised brown eyes met his, as though Virgil had expected another rebuke, another it’s not your fault, but Scott knew better. He didn’t blame Virgil at all, but it wasn’t his forgiveness Virgil needed; his brother needed to forgive himself for his perceived transgressions, and that he couldn’t do as long as Scott stayed stubborn. He tugged at the bicep in his grip, coaxing Virgil closer with an inviting smile.

Virgil hesitated, understanding but unsure. Scott didn’t say anything else, didn’t push harder, but then Grandma put a hand on Virgil’s other arm and whatever remaining fight there was seeped away.

It was Gordon’s turn to squawk as he found himself nudged out of the way, but he went willingly, surrendering the space to Virgil as Scott’s dark-haired brother wrapped his arms around him cautiously.

“I’m okay,” Scott murmured into his brother’s ear, returning the hug as fiercely as he could. Like Alan before him, Virgil shook ever so slightly under his touch, but unlike the youngest, no tears were shed.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Virgil mumbled. “You stopped breathing for a minute just before Alan arrived and I thought that was it.”

“I heard you,” Scott admitted, just as quietly. “I don’t think I’d have had the strength to keep fighting without you. Alan might have got the antivenom, but you saved me, too.”

Virgil gave a shuddering breath and his arms tightened, just a little.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Scott managing to relax further now that was the fifth and final sibling’s immediate concerns addressed, but eventually Virgil pulled back, the ghost of a smile on his face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Gordon crashed into him.

“Group hug!” he declared, reaching out to snag Alan and pinning an unprotesting Virgil in place as Scott’s three youngest brothers gathered as close as they could for a tangle of arms and bodies on Scott’s bed. Alan flailed in Kayo’s direction and the woman stepped closer, slipping an arm delicately around the back of Scott’s neck and more tightly around Alan. Scott grinned at her before looking past the mass of brothers to lock eyes with the one he couldn’t reach. John grinned back at him, and even though he wasn’t physically there, Scott didn’t need it to know his immediate brother was just as relieved.

The hug lasted until Grandma intervened, suggesting that they let him have a little bit of space. He didn’t need space, but they all heard the underlying reminder that he was in that bed for a reason. After that, it was back to business as usual, his on-Earth siblings scattering to change on Grandma’s order and reconvening later in their civvies with various forms of entertainment while John went back to his latest project.

Lady Penelope poked her head in later, but he didn’t see Brains – or the Mechanic – until the next day.

“I-it’s time to t-test the T-Drive e-engine,” the engineer told him the next morning, after checking him over in his own desire for reassurance; there was some guilt there as well, for pushing him out on the rescue, but thankfully Brains was much easier to calm than his brothers – the fact that Brains hadn’t seen him almost dead helped.

“Give me five,” he said, reaching for the drip stuck in his arm.

“Make that ten, Brains,” Virgil rumbled, catching Scott’s hand. “Scott’s not up to walking even if he thinks he is.”

Scott groaned, but Virgil raised an eyebrow at him.

“I thought John made a convincing argument for you to stay in bed?” he challenged, and Scott shrugged.

“That was yesterday.”

“And your heart rate still isn’t back to normal, so it’s the hoverchair or nothing,” Virgil rebuked, rolling his eyes.

Scott sighed but dutifully held out his arm for Virgil to remove the drip instead.

“No, that’s coming with you,” Virgil corrected, gently pushing it down to his side again. “Just the EKG.” The machine was turned off, but Virgil made no move to relieve him of the transmitters, telling Scott that it was being linked back up later. Wonderful. “Now then, let’s get you out of this bed-”

Scott leaned forwards and swung his legs around, placing them on the floor and pushing himself to his feet.

“Woah!” Virgil sprinted around the bed and caught him as his vision fuzzed. “John’s compelling argument?” Scott was vaguely aware of being shifted around as the world spun around him, but it was a surprise to find himself in the hoverchair by the time he was fully aware of his surroundings again. Usually, Virgil would dump him straight back in bed.

“Okay, John’s compelling argument still holds,” he admitted, leaning against the back of the chair and closing his eyes briefly as the world tried to spin a little more.

“Let’s get going,” Virgil sighed. “Hands off the controls; I’m steering.” Scott grumbled, but had no doubt that the controls had actually been disabled. “As soon as the test is over, you’re coming straight back.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” he asked, and Virgil chuckled.

“Not at all.”

They were last to the balcony; it didn’t escape Scott’s notice that the Mechanic was the other end to the rest of them, talking quietly to Brains but otherwise ignoring the Tracys. That suited Scott just fine; if the test worked, he was well aware he owed the man an apology for his accusations of sabotage. Although maybe he’d keep that back until the Zero-X2 launched successfully and Dad was home. Just in case.

“You look pale,” Grandma commented. “Did he try to stand up?” she asked Virgil. Scott glowered as Virgil rolled his eyes in answer.

“What do you think?” he asked rhetorically. “He didn’t pass out entirely, otherwise the test would be happening without him, whether he liked it or not, but it was close.”

“He is right here,” Scott grumbled.

“And he’s going to keep his mouth shut and drink this up,” Grandma informed him, pressing a cup of water, complete with straw, into his hands. “You shouldn’t be out of bed at all, young man.”

“T-test is ready,” Brains announced before Scott could find a retort that wouldn’t get him taken straight back to the infirmary. “I-igniting T-Drive in three, two, one.”

Without binoculars, it was difficult to see what was happening on the platform, but nothing exploded and after several moments all that could be seen or heard was the whining of an engine. It was higher pitched than the engines Scott was used to, but there were none of the warning noises suggesting that something was wrong.

Beside him, Virgil sighed in relief while Gordon and Alan whooped.

“C-cutting engine,” Brains called, and it powered down easily. Smooth as any of the best plane engines Scott had piloted – and he’d piloted many.

It had worked. They had a T-Drive engine.

They could go find Dad.

“Scott?” Virgil sounded worried, and he opened his eyes – when he had closed them? – to look up at his worried brother. Alan and Gordon hovered nearby, and he looked at them all in turn, even John’s silent hologram – his ginger brother hadn’t been there when the test had started, hadn’t been expected after he pointed out their holotech’s range didn’t reach that far. “Are you okay?”

Was he okay? He had a broken rib, was recovering from a near-fatal spider bite and its side effects of dehydration, bradycardia and hypotension, and the man who had almost killed his brothers multiple times was standing the other end of the same balcony.

But they were one step, one significant step closer to Dad.

“Yeah,” he said, staring out past them, at the platform cradling the most important engine International Rescue had ever created. For the first time since that horrid trash mine day five weeks earlier, he could honestly say, “I’m okay.”

Fin

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #grandma tracy #aloysius parker #lady penelope creighton-ward #brains #the mechanic #kayo kyrano #grounded

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