#Under the thin guise of well-meaning concern

[bearinarockingchair]

medical advice

when people who aren’t medical professionals try to proselytize to me their unfounded and unproven health/wellness tips, my go to response is a sarcastic YOLO

#Especially if it’s unprompted #With some rando social media post from an account not run by a medical professional #About my chronic illness that I know more about than them #Under the thin guise of well-meaning concern #Like a cold call telemarketer #With a spoofed caller ID #Have you tried yoga? #Like bro #Why didn’t I think of that #Hold up while I chug essential oils #mental illness #Chronic illness #Yolo #Added points if it’s from the person with a history of taking sketchy substances from sketchier sources #You smoke cigarettes but want to tell me tofu will kill me #Excuse me while i vent

[randomfoggytiger]

The Mulder Family In-Depth (Part IV-1): The Death and Redemption of the Man Who "Threw In"

Bill Mulder: the man who bent. Anasazi brings up Bill's greatest fear and gives him a crushing death; essentially jumping him at his most vulnerable moment and stealing the near reconciliation he could have established with his son. But The Blessing Way opens a path for understanding, forgiveness, and hope.

Anasazi

Bill is putzing around when he hears the doorbell ring; and his shocked and appalled that it’s his old-buddy-ol’-pal Spender. Fear immediately blooms over his face. 

His defensively-hushed “what are you doing here?” gives way to a pleading “We agreed that--” as his colleague metaphorically stomps on his coattails, preventing him from escaping this unplanned attack. 

Bill spends the conversation face first in an alcohol glass (which CSM poured for him), hunched up and half-turned to flee whenever there may be an opening. 

“No one was supposed to know. …The files should have been destroyed.” 

Spender acknowledges his short comings; but immediately follows up by weaponizing Bill’s guilt against him: “Regret is an inevitable consequence in life.” He watches Bill lock up, stare deeper into his drink,

and pivot to his real fears hidden as dutiful concern: “How do you know my son has them?”

When CSM alludes to the informant’s capture and death, Bill’s face falls as he remembers similarly brutal measures the Consortium has done, the horrors of his past rushing back in one swift moment. 

He conceals his dread with the veneer of being concerned for his own discovery, walking that thin line of not being found out by the opposition that is observing and cataloging his reactions (see Part II for a breakdown on this constant surveillance from his own colleagues while on past missions.)

Bill shakes off his mood to interrogate Spender about the stolen disc: “My name is on those files.” 

When CSM mildly threatens-- “We endeavored to prevent that fact from ever coming to light” -- Bill’s face drops.

“You wouldn’t…”

“...harm him.” He looks down and away, but his intent is clear: he has no trust in Spender’s end goal; and is fearful for Mulder’s life. 

All guises are dropped the moment his son’s safety is in question. 

“I’ve protected him thus far, haven’t I?” provides Bill no comfort, and perhaps a greater increase in suspicion.

Bill looks down once his is given further reassurance on that score, now focusing on his son’s loss of respect and possible abhorrence over his past deeds. “But if he should… learn of my involvement?”

Here he is incredibly like Mulder when confronted with emotional or earth-shattering news. Especially in light of Tena and Mulder’s confrontation in Demons: Mulder avoided his mother’s gaze while accusing her of knowing more about Samantha’s abduction, only meeting her eyes when his suspicions gave way to compassion then anger; Tena, meanwhile, stared her son down and eventually exploded in anger, slapping him and storming out of the room. Bill Mulder looks down and away, angling his body as far away from Spender (and the situation) as he can, waiting to hear the verdict before looking the other man in the face.

Bill is further shaken by his former friend’s strong encouragement to “deny everything”;

knowing that one word has several meanings when it comes to Carl Spender. To take a step away from this advice, to stand on anything other than this mild direct order, would be to start something that could not possibly be swept under the rug again.

 It would have to be dealt with to the bitter end, wherever that led him and his son. 

He tenses and draws himself further up when CSM places a non-reassuring hand on his shoulder-; and tries to pathetically smile at his friend’s parting “You look well.” 

Bill doesn’t even wait for CSM to leave the porch before crumpling onto his fist and dipping back into his glass. He seems to almost dissolve into intense tears; but pulls himself together with a muffled swallow. 

The next scene with Bill is when he calls Mulder. He is still gripping his glass, is slightly unsteady on his feet, and his words are a touch slurred, indicating he hadn’t stopped drinking since CSM left that afternoon. 

“Fox, this is your father. I need to see you right away.”

Mulder is surprised that his father reached out; but tries not to commit to a drive out to Bill’s.  

“I’m at home-- how soon can you be here? Fox, it’s very important.” 

Mulder gives in and drives up.

When his father opens the door, Mulder sticks his hand out, aloof and stung after their previous meeting. He is shocked and immediately concerned when Bill swallows him up in a hug:

Bill withdraws immediately at Mulder’s “What is it, Dad?”, disconcerted he’d acted so outwardly emotional. 

He practically shoves his son into the house, trying to smile reassuringly. It’s only when Mulder isn’t looking that Bill’s fear and angst surface as he hastily closes the door behind them.

Bill tries to inadequately describe the emotions he felt at the time “decisions” had to be made-- how much clearer it is “now."

“It was so complicated then. The choices that had to be made.” 

Mulder tries to divine coherency from his father’s half-statements-- “You’re smarter than I ever was.” “About what?”; but his frustration melts in the face of the other’s genuine distress.  

“Your politics are yours,” Bill tells him proudly. “You’ve never… ‘thrown in’.”

His face hardens, reflecting his attitude and choices then: “The minute you do that, their doctrines become yours. And you can be held responsible.”

There is the crux of Bill Mulder-- while not condoning any of the Conspiracy, he “threw in”, ducking his head under a rock and allowing him to be tossed about by every whim of the Syndicate in a vain attempt to keep his and his family’s neck safe. None of that worked for him; and he secluded himself from everything after the divorce-- surprising his son when he calls, meeting up at Tena’s house instead of his (see here for an earlier breakdown of Colony/End Game), and keeping distance between himself and his past. A punishment in isolation-- seem familiar, Revival viewers? 

Bill vaguely tells Mulder to listen for “the merchandise”, and that he’ll know what it means when the time comes. As the regrets and guilt climax, 

Mulder leaps up to comfort him. Bill shuts down the opportunity for closer affection, blaming it on his medication-- 

and rushes off to the bathroom to pull himself together. Mulder is left, once again, in the cold. 

Bill stares at himself deprecatingly, his self-protective nature flogging his emotionally vulnerable side for letting him get that close to tears. 

Unfortunately for him, his time runs out before he can formulate the next step forward. Krycek pops out of the shower, shoots him, and makes a clean getaway. 

Bill struggles to keep his eyes open (wanting to look into his son’s while delivering his last words) in vain, failing as he had everything else in his life: 

“Forgive me.” 

Mulder’s heightened distress at his death is barely manageable under Scully's direct orders (to get back to D.C.)

He leaves his father's body-- fevered, confused, and grieving.

End of Anasazi. 

The Blessing Way 

After Mulder is recovered by Albert Hosteen and his family, they stick him in a tent and try to pull him back from the brink with their Blessing Way ritual. While there, in a world between worlds, he is able to see his father for one last time (in a way reminiscent of Scully’s visitation in One Breath: 

“Hello, Son. I did not dare hope to see you so soon. Nor ever again hope to broker fate with a life to which I gave life.” 

At this, Mulder finally opens his eyes, and stares at his father. He is-- for the first time since his sister’s abduction and possibly the night of Bill’s death-- shown how loved he truly was all those years.

He passively listens as Bill-- freer in death than he could be in life-- expounds his sorrow over the lies he told: “...a pox and poison to my soul. And now you are here because of them. Lies I thought might bury forever a truth I could not live with. I stand here, ashamed, of the choices I’d made long ago-- when you were just a boy.” 

“You are the memory, Fox. It lives in you. If you were to die now, the Truth will die. And only the lies survive us.” 

Two things here:

Even in the afterlife, where human consciousness is not held back by little things like limited information, Bill lays claim to Mulder's heritage. True, in canon the question of paternity hadn't been raised; but it is either completely true, or Bill is still lying-- because of one more compounding issue (concerning Samantha.)

2. It seems that Bill is placing an enormous burden on his son; and he is, to an extent. However, two factors are at play: he is now in the afterlife, so any impure motivations would have (or should have, see below Samantha discussion) been shed with his death; and that Mulder responds immediately and positively to this quest from his father. Mulder is a man who needs to be driven by something: a man in search of the Truth-- whether it be his sister, the love found in another person (The Unnatural to Existence plotline), or a white whale or X-File. His drive and passion must be stoked, flaming his resolve and ability look boldly into the dark, find the light, and carry that torch with him for everyone to see. It's what makes him him; and at this point, he has lost that drive, swallowed up by apathy in the face of his father's developing transgressions and his own inability to fix and change those mistakes. By Bill owning his past-- truthfully revealing all that he was and is-- and showing his son how to fix the future (or fight it, as another Syndicate member tells Mulder in the movie), Bill gives his son the motivation to get back up and fight.

At this, Mulder finally tries (and succeeds) to speak a gentle question: “My sister… is she here?”

“No!” Bill emphatically replies.

(Looking at you, Chris Carter.) 

THIS moment leaves sour implications no matter how you look at it. Either Bill is lying-- throwing everything he says here, his redemptive moment of complete honesty, into question and opening the door for him to have been clearly manipulative of his son by lying about his paternity and that the Truth can be shown "if, if, if"-- or he is telling the truth (which was this scene's intention from the start.) This means that Samantha isn't in the afterlife with her father.

So... where is she? Doomed to roam the heavens forever as stardust? Does that mean there are different afterlives for different people, based on their beliefs or preferences? That Bill joined the same one as Bill Scully, but that Samantha is stardust and Mulder is forever reincarnated until he gets his ending right? And can those souls meet at some point between reincarnation and travelling across the sky? Because the implication is that Bill didn't meet his daughter in the peaceful afterlife... so will she forever be trapped among the stars? (At the very least: the Mulder family seems to have a connection with starlight and the grand universe at large.)

Bill wraps it up with: “The thing that would destroy me… the truth I felt you must never learn… is the truth you will find if you are to go forward.”  

Mulder slips out of this dream state soon after, picking up the torch his father wasn’t strong enough to carry and never faltering, despite the exposure of his father and country's appalling dealings and experiments with former Nazi party members. This last moment with Bill Mulder helped heal the festering wounds of the past and the sudden, ripping departure of his death. Bill, while not innocent, is forgiven by his son; and is able to at least be one good example for Mulder to live on with-- to never be the man who "threw in." And that, even if you falter from your intentions, you can still face them and set yourself free by doing the right thing: living by the truth. (See this analysis for Mulder's big slip up and redemption.)

Thank you for reading! Tena's part will be up soon. In the meantime--

Enjoy!

#txf #The Mulder Family In-Depth #Part IV #1 #analysis #The Death and Redemption of the Man Who “Threw In” #mine #x-files #the x-files #Bill Mulder #Tena #Teena Mulder #xfiles #meta

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

lies are only as good as the person who tells them (and you've never claimed to be) part 2

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: none

Pairings: nolan/bishop/hartley, focus on nolan/hartley for this

Word Count: 3892

Nolan Booth is a pain in the fucking ass.

Not that John doesn't tell him that, he does. Daily. Hourly, even, sometimes, when the man's sitting with his feet on the coffee table or leaning up against the wall like he's trying to bring '90s boy bands back or when he's lying upside down on a too-small bed with his hands behind his head like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. No, he tells Booth he's a fucking asshole more often than he says anything else to the man.

If Booth knew what he was getting into, then he'd better be ready to deal with everything that comes with it.

That means squeezing into too-small apartments in the corners of cities that the public would rather pretend didn't exist. That means waking up silently—silently, Booth, that means without the half a dozen quips that aren't even that good anyway—at ass o'clock in the morning to move locations because the person they're renting from might not actually be trustworthy anymore. That means that for better or for worse, the three of them are stuck together until they pull this whole thing off.

For worse. It's definitely for worse.

John's not in the habit of giving people the benefit of the doubt, but he's not one to sell them short either. This score is a good plan. Granted, it's more suited to the talents of a solo daredevil with panache and reckless disregard for his own safety than a three-man team, despite whatever Booth might've said on that boat, but the actual bare bones of it? Pretty solid. It's taken them about half as long—alright, maybe a third as long—to actually get the plan into its moving stages than it would if it were just him and Sarah, not that they'll ever tell Booth that. The man's already strutting about like a proud peacock that he got them to agree to the score in the first place, they don't need to gas him up anymore.

Which, if he were still their mark, would necessitate some form of conversation. In moments of downtime, when Sarah's asleep or out in the living room of their tiny-ass apartment and Booth is sawing logs through the paper-thin walls, he thinks about it.

Why is Booth acting like he's already won? They've just said yes to hearing out his insane plan, they berated him—well, Sarah talked down to him under the guise of being helpful and John just tells him he's an ass over and over—for how stupid his plan actually is, and he has to know that they're planning on screwing him out of his cut at the end. Not seriously, well, they don't actually have a plan for how they're going to do that just yet, but they're all con artists. You don't get in this game because you're interested in fairness or selflessness, you get into it because you're hungry for it.

Or, if Booth is to be believed, what else are you going to do if people believe it of you already?

So no, it doesn't really make sense how Booth's acting right now, but right now, it's not really cause for concern. That doesn't mean John has to like it.

You'd think, perhaps, that knowing exactly what is happening, or why someone is acting like they are, would act as some sort of internal modulator. Not with Nolan Booth, apparently. The man's whole demeanor is a textbook display of someone who is desperately attention-seeking, and it ranges from your insecure patron at a bar to the high school bully who doesn't know any better to the fucking kid that won't stop kicking you the second you look away from him. He's desperate all right. And he's still acting like John's his favorite chew toy. Every time there's an opportunity for a quip or a sarcastic remark, boom, there it is. When he and Sarah are having a disagreement, even when Booth's not a part of it, there he goes, prodding the sore spots he thinks he can see. When they're trying to actually get serious for once, nope, apparently not on Booth's watch. Even when things get a little hairy and they have to be careful, well, if it's for the quip, apparently there's no risk that Booth won't take.

He's gonna get us all killed, he breathes in Sarah's ear one night after Booth's snores wake them up.

Don't worry, Sarah whispers back, we'll still end up on top.

It's like he's a kid still, John realizes one day when Sarah has to cut him down to size for the fifth time in as many hours, a kid in that rebellious stage where he's clawing and scratching at the walls just to see what it gets him. Even though they all know he's going to end up crawling back to them with tears in his eyes when he inevitably breaks a nail.

It's a testament to how well they know each other when Sarah seems to sense that he's just had an epiphany of some sort and turns to look at him. He gives her the smallest glance back before Booth's on it, smirking and leaning back like he wasn't sitting like a scolded puppy two seconds ago.

"What's the matter, big guy," he drawls, stretching out in some poor imitation of seductive, "you want your pound of flesh from me too?"

John just levels a glare at him and it seems to bounce right off as Booth chuckles and waves a hand as if to say enough of that now, like he wasn't the one that fucking started the whole shit-show this conversation turned into in the first place. Sarah keeps looking at him for a moment longer but he shakes his head. It's nothing important. Not that important, anyway.

But it does take him a bit by surprise, if he's examining himself correctly, that he jumped straight to an analogy that has Booth on his knees before them.

They're planning to pick up something for the job. A trinket, really, to them, but something Booth's art guy wants in exchange for helping them with the forgery he's doing. Piddly job, really, something that Sarah scoffs as being below them when Booth first brings it up. But when he shrugs and says sure, he'll do it on his own, they both glare at him and he just laughs.

"Just checking, just checking."

The plan is to sneak into the auction house and have Booth impersonate one of the security people while Sarah and John pose as the wealthy patrons of a black-market auction. The Estate isn't known for its squeaky-clean business, and it isn't unheard of for security personnel to crawl about while events are going on. They just need to get to the back, swap a single crate onto the getaway vehicle, and make good on their exit before someone sniffs them out. Again, child's play.

Which is why he doesn't get why Booth's making such a stink about him.

"You walk like a cop," Booth says, crossing his arms over his chest in a rare moment of total seriousness, "they'll notice."

"What does that even mean, I walk like a cop?"

"You're an expert in behavior and body language and you don't know what walking like a cop looks like?" Booth scoffs. "Yeah, pull the other one, it makes green and yellow lights go off!"

"My walk is fine."

"Your walk says years of training how to deepthroat boots and shoot through all the problems your hard head can't think about," Booth shoots back, grabbing John's shoulder as he turns to leave, "I'm telling you, I've hit this place before. They pull aside anyone they think could be a problem and I don't think you wanna have your stompy-stomps getting us in trouble any more than I do."

"Well, then, maybe you should be more worried about blending in." John grabs his wrist—which he could snap like a toothpick, if Booth calls him a meathead one more time—and wrenches Booth's hand off his shoulder. "And this was your idea."

Booth glowers but he doesn't say anything to that. Instead, he turns to Sarah, who's been watching them interact. "Come on, you're not gonna back me up here?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Why would I back you up?"

"Maybe because John here thinks he can waltz his brick-shit-house self into this black-market auction and no one will pick up what he's putting down?"

"They'll pick up whatever we want them to pick up," she says cooly and Booth throws his arms up.

"And you know this how?"

"Well, it worked for you, didn't it?"

Ooh, nasty hit. John watches it find its mark as something flickers across Booth's expression. He shoves it down quite admirably, all things told, and he's back up a second later. "You were being a cop with me, that doesn't count."

There are about five different things John can think of to say in response to that, but none are quite as cutting as Sarah giving him one last almost-pitying glance before she picks up her coffee and leaves the room. John follows her a second later and Booth's left stewing by himself. He kisses Sarah as the door closes and only surprises himself by how much he doesn't care that Booth can see it.

He can hear Booth groaning when the auction house security stops him as he goes to the bar.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asks, inwardly cursing as he looks around for Sarah. Booth's gone already, vanished into some backroom and he has the fleeting thought that Booth called security on him in the first place.

"Who are you with?"

Play the asshole, play the asshole. "Excuse me?"

"Your client for this evening," the one closest to him asks again, "which of the guests are you working for?"

Shit, shit. He can't see any of them and there's only so long he can stall for before they decide to drag him off.

"I don't have to answer that," he blusters and goes to push through them only to be shoved back. "Hey!"

"You will answer us," says that first guy again as another one moves his hand to his shoulder holster, "and you will do so quickly."

"There you are!"

The three security officers whip their heads around and thank god they do, so they can't see the way John's eyes widen when he sees Booth making his way over to them. He pushes through them and grabs the glass right from John's hand, taking a generous sip and placing himself between him and them.

"If I'd have known you'd take so long, I would've just gotten it myself." He stares down his nose at the closest guard. "Especially if I knew you'd get into trouble the second I turned my back."

The words don't hit him, but they don't bounce off John either.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"We were inquiring as to who he was hired by," another guard says, oil in his voice as the first one still glares at John, "nothing more."

Booth blinks. "I'm sorry, you were what?"

"It is standard procedure to—"

"It's standard procedure to violate the privacy of your patrons?" Booth interrupts. "It's standard procedure to threaten the safety of your guests? Huh, guess the standards of this place really have changed."

"Sir, I—"

"No," Booth says, his voice clipped as he holds out a finger to cut the man off, "no. You can't market an auction as safe and secure when you're out giving every single person in here the fifth degree. What, am I supposed to believe that you won't run every bit of information out to the highest bidder? Is this an auction for you too?"

The ease with which Booth slips into the vaguely menacing rich buyer takes John aback. Though, admittedly, not as much as the security guards, who look like they've bitten into lemons.

"Sir, this is a misunderstanding—"

"Oh, it's a misunderstanding alright," Booth laughs humorlessly, setting the glass down with a loud clunk, "and I think I would be better served by taking my business elsewhere."

"Sir," John tries, playing the other half of Booth's show, "it's alright, really, I—"

"It's not alright!" Booth whirls on him and the rapid shift to clear protectiveness in his gaze staggers John. "What, I'm supposed to be fine with the fact that I can't leave you alone for two minutes?"

"You have our sincerest apologies, Señor," the third guard finally says, pushing the other two back and almost bowing to Booth, "no one will bother you or your companion for the rest of the night. Please, enjoy your evening."

Booth levels the coldest glare John's ever seen from the man and the three of them slink off, their tails between their legs.

The music of the room pounds in their ears, hard enough for John to feel in his chest. Booth drains the glass and puts it back on the counter, adjusting his jacket. He starts walking toward the middle of the floor and John follows him without thinking about it.

They find Sarah, still at the table where he left her, artfully twisting her finger around the tiny umbrella in her drink. She turns and smiles at them and the realization that he almost cost them this job slams into his chest. She notices, because of course she does, and she straightens imperceptibly.

"Everything alright?"

"We're set," Booth says when John can't say anything, "and Hartley here just secured an inconspicuous exit."

Sarah blinks, the only outward show of her surprise, before she smiles again and offers him her arm. He takes it and the three of them move off. The job was saved, he tries to reason as much as possible, don't need to think about it anymore.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it a lot.

So much so that Sarah can tell something's on his mind when they're all back in their cramped apartment, Booth out on the shitty excuse for a balcony with another glass in his hand—water, this time—and Sarah corners him in the bedroom.

"Booth was right," he says without preamble, "about my walk getting us in trouble. They were on me the second I left you."

Sarah's mouth twists slightly but she sits down next to him on the bed, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Now we know."

"Now we know."

Now he knows that Booth was perceptive enough to identify something neither of them had thought of, and quick enough on his feet to figure out a solution. Now he knows that he can't afford to not take Booth seriously, even when the man himself doesn't seem to. Now he knows that, like it or not, Booth just saved all of their asses and didn't even gloat about it when they were all out of immediate danger.

Why didn't he gloat about it?

It wasn't like he wasn't entitled to, or like he hadn't done so in the past. His whole twist-ending where he basically blackmailed them into agreeing with this score in the first place. But no, he gave John the credit for securing them an exit. And he hasn't said a word about it since. Sarah even tried to bring it up, see if maybe he was waiting for the opportunity to laud it over them, but he didn't. He just said it was a good thing his art guy had such distinctive taste in bad jewelry that the right one was easy to find so he could be in and out of the back quickly.

He's missing something, and it grates on him.

Sarah is out picking up another supply set and it's just him and Booth in the apartment. Booth is sitting on the sorry excuse for a couch, toying with…something. John watches him for a few minutes, twisting the thing in his hands back and forth, before he makes his decision.

"Show me how not to walk like a cop."

Booth looks up, surprised. John pushes off the wall and walks over to him.

"I can't afford to have the way I move be a liability again," he says, "so show me how to do it right."

Booth eyes him for a moment, as if checking to see if he's joking or not, before he stashes whatever he was fiddling with in his back pocket and stands up. "It's in your shoulders."

"My shoulders?"

"The line of your body, how it moves." Booth goes to the other side of the room, then pushes his shoulders back and walks towards him. "You're walking like you're a tank with an authority problem."

John huffs before he can stop himself because, well, there have been less accurate descriptions. "Okay, so what do I do?"

"Relax."

"Seriously."

"Does this face look unserious to you?" Booth gives himself a shake most theater majors would be proud of, arms swinging all over the place. "You're holding yourself like you're trying to do something. You've got the swagger to pull off a more uptight walk, but it'll be easier for you if you just dial it down. Think gentle giant, less wall of meat."

John tries. Honestly, he does. He walks back and forth across the room trying to relax and move his chest and shoulders out of the cop pose but it's just not happening. After a while, Booth stops calling out little corrections that make him feel like he's a puppet and he scrubs a hand over his face.

"I don't think this is working."

"No, you're just walking like a bad CGI soldier now."

"Real funny."

"I mostly am." Booth leans to the side so his head hits the wall, his fingers drumming on his opposite elbow. "What normally makes you relax?"

"Meditation."

Booth's eyebrows almost reach his hairline. "Seriously?"

"There's nothing more dangerous than a mind you don't know," John says, "if I don't take the time to make sure I know what head's on my shoulders, all hell breaks loose."

"Well, listen to you, a regular guru." There's a note of sarcasm suspiciously absent from his words. "Try it."

John blinks. "Try meditating now?"

"Just a bit. Breathe deeply or whatever it is you do, just—" he waves— "get some of that off you."

"What is 'that?'"

"The part of you that looks two seconds from knocking my teeth in at all times."

Again, lack of sarcasm. Still, John closes his eyes and does what he's told, carefully walking himself through the first few steps of his nightly routine, until he feels like he could fall asleep. When he opens his eyes, he starts walking again, but the shuffling steps make him look more tired at best, lightly intoxicated at worst. Booth's nose wrinkles too.

"Okay, never mind. Go back to looking like you want to punch me."

That's no hardship, he should say, but he hasn't really wanted to punch Booth that much all that recently. Even earlier, when Booth was telling him to raise and drop his shoulders and lean to the side, he was more annoyed at himself for not getting it than he was at Booth.

"Where'd you learn how to dance?"

The question catches him off guard. "Huh?"

"I saw you two at Sotto Voce's party," Booth says, as if he didn't just ask one of the most out-of-left-field questions, "you dance like someone's taught you."

"Picked it up for a job, why?"

"You don't dance like a cop." Booth pushes off the wall. "Try walking like you're dancing."

John narrows his eyes, trying to find the joke, or the thing that's going to end up humiliating him, but when Booth just raises an eyebrow after another minute of him not moving, he shakes his head and tries. His steps grow a little more fluid, his feet hitting lightly instead of the heavy way they normally do. His shoulders automatically drop, his spine lengthening, and he's across the room before he realizes it.

Right in front of Booth.

"Better," Booth says, and his voice is just a touch softer, "go the other way now."

"Why, so you can stare at my ass?"

But instead of making a quip of his own, or even rolling his eyes and saying Hartley wishes, Booth just ducks around him and goes to stand on the other side of the room. John's following before he can register it, his footsteps landing even lighter, until once again, he's in front of Nolan Booth, waiting to hear what he says.

And suddenly he's back in that train car, opening up about his dad. He's lying under Booth's bunk in that cold-as-fuck prison, listening to the man's voice quiver. He's on the beach as Sarah points a gun at him, watching walls slide neatly back into place.

He's holding his hand out before he thinks better of it.

Booth looks down and laughs. "I didn't mean walk like you're about to ask me to dance."

John doesn't laugh. Instead, he steps back and leaves his hand there. Booth's expression twists once, twice, before he's laughing again, but this one isn't because he thinks this is funny.

"You can stop selling me, you know," he says, like they're both in on whatever joke he thinks John's trying to make, "I told you, water under the bridge. I'm the one that asked you guys, remember? Ol' Pooh Bear's already guzzled all the honey in the pot."

John opens his mouth to say something—what, he doesn't know—but then the door's opening and Sarah's back. She takes one look at the picture they've painted and raises an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

The slap of Nolan's hand against his makes him startle and he looks back to see Nolan's put a small metal ring in his palm.

"Big guy wanted to know what I was messing with," Nolan says easily, "and I'm sure you know what it's like when he sets his sights on something."

He ducks around John like it's nothing, going to go over to Sarah and deal with the rest of the supplies she's just gotten. It's what he should also be doing, not still in that strange interlude where he was seriously asking Nolan Booth if he wanted to dance. He looks down at the simple metal ring, turning it over in his fingers. There's nothing special about it, nothing that would explain why Booth has it, nothing that merits it holding his attention for so long when Sarah just got back and they have a job to do.

But Nolan just lied for him. Again. And he gave up something of his in return.

John likes to think he knows Nolan Booth inside and out. And at one point, maybe that was true. But not anymore.

He turns to look over his shoulder. Sarah's still explaining something, her words precise and fingers sure as they move over the counter. Nolan glances up to see what's taking him so long and his brow quirks once. A silent are you okay? that John recognizes from the auction, that foreign protectiveness behind his eyes once more.

And he knows, then, what he's been denying for too long.

He's stuck with Nolan Booth now, for better or for worse.

#dragonbabbles #red notice #sarah black #john hartley #nolan booth #fic

[fairlyabookie]

Tea

Author's note: Day 20 of February prompts! Enjoy!

Tucked away in the heart of an industrious town, a tea shop brims with life, clamorous clients running frivolous gossip, good-natured newcomers seeking for an exquisite cup of tea; such patrons for tea look up to Sam, a charming businessman with a boundless supply of teas, ranging from rarities exclusively in certain regions of the land to commodities loved by all consumers. 

For each incoming customer, workers greet earnestly, guiding them to a seat to their liking, whether it be with a view of the town before them or having a view of the surrounding ambiance. Many patrons of Sam’s Tea Shop would often comment on the cordial welcomes, feeling as if they were at home rather than a shop with clients. The shop owner, on the other hand, valued being with his clients, listening to their conversations in earnest, reciprocating concerns with sound advice or simply entertaining them with his skills in the arts. Sam, in other words, was a man of many talents, harboring many a trifle from the town’s locality and consciousness. 

“Welcome in!” 

A worker bids a new customer with a wide grin by their lips. [Reader] smiles shyly, whispering a request to sit by the bar area. The worker obliges, guiding the youth to their seat. There, playing an ostentatious piece on a stringed instrument, Sam invigorates his audience with grandiose musicality, earning applause from them as he concludes with a flourish. 

“Would you like an appetizer to begin your time here?” 

[Reader] refuses, requesting only tea for the time being. Their eyes linger on the owner longingly, as if silently beckoning for him to approach the newcomer - they shyly avert their gaze, noticing clients showering the man with compliments. For a moment, they had no idea why they were here in the first place - one could simply discount it as a whim, where Sam had approached [Reader] about his tea shop once upon a time. The boisterous ambiance was too much for [Reader], strange faces contorting to even profane ones under the guise of gossip and tea, harsh words affixed in rhetoric arguing excessively. If this wasn’t a tea house, they would’ve mistaken it for a brothel with this sort of vulgarities. 

“[Reader], you’ve arrived! Welcome, welcome! I see you’ve emerged from your shell to join us for tea time. What would you like?” 

Noting the cordial grin by Sam’s lips, [Reader] knew he was simply being professional - civil perhaps, but at the same time, welcoming. They answer demurely, 

“I’d like something simple, please.” 

The grin widens. 

“Jasmine tea, then?” 

They nod, muttering a thanks to the owner. With nimble fingers, Sam dexterously prepares the tea, pouring from a porcelain teapot to a matching teacup, a thin vapor steaming from the liquid. A quick waft insinuates the nostalgic essence of jasmine tea, a tea [Reader] was only familiar with. They partake a sip, tasting its savory flavor. 

“Tell me, [Reader]. Was going ‘round town refreshing from being cooped up in your monastery all day?” 

Sam leads the conversation, initiating an unexpected question. 

“It is different, yes. Thank you for asking, Sam,” 

[Reader] answers politely, sparing a glance to study their surroundings. 

“I’m not used to being around so many people; this feels like a betrothal more than a tea shop.” 

Sam feigns surprise, stifling the urge to snicker about [Reader]’s out-of-pocket response. 

“How so? Many of my customers often come to socialize and enjoy tea. Is it not up to your liking, my dear scholar?” 

A complicated expression befalls on [Reader]’s features, a cross between a frown and a pout. 

“I didn’t mean to say an offensive comment, Sam. Well, what I meant is that it’s simply too loud for me. I surmise that your shop is popular too…” 

A hearty laugh bubbles from the owner’s lips. 

“Spare me your arguments, scholar! You’re overthinking about your rhetoric! Again, I take no offense for your comments. I often have folks from your monastery tell me that all the time.” 

“Many apologies on the behalf of my seniors..” 

[Reader] darkly mutters. 

“You’re too formal!” 

Sam ruffles [Reader]’s head, a gesture he’d equip to acknowledge a budding friendship, or as a casual gesture after exchanging formalities. 

“Come now, drink up! I presume you’re here to catch a break from sticking your nose up in the books. Have some more!” 

The inspirited gentlemen’s comment elicits more customers’ call for tea as he pours more into [Reader]’s cup. The puzzled scholar sheepishly thanks him, washing away their anxieties with another sip of cool jasmine tea.

#twst x reader #handle with care #twst sam #twisted wonderland sam

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Fictober '20 Prompt No. 7 — "Yes I did, what about it?"

Category: Original WIP: Drowning Future Rating: T Timeline: unsure CW: none Word Count: 996 Additional Notes: I was more or less experimenting with this AU for these prompts

***

PART I

The streetlights cut out several hours into the trek down a long stretch of road leading out of Somerwilde. No ceremony, no loud sound to accompany it, just sudden darkness coinciding with the complete lack of moon to provide relief of any kind from the void.

Warren stopped in his tracks and gripped Thrive's arm instinctively. The line of trees beside them became vague shapes reaching, clawing out of the ground toward the stars, begging for visibility.

Without a word, Thrive took Warren's elbow and led him further down the road. Their footsteps crunched against fallen leaves and forest debris, shattered glass from unfortunate vehicles, and remnants of forgotten snow.

A flash of yellow on the horizon with the brief strength of the sun ushered in an eerie glow in the sky and a period of uncomfortable quiet. Warren glanced at Thrive, who continued leading with a concerned eye on the far distance.

"What happened," Warren asked.

Shaking his head, Thrive slid his hold on Warren down to his wrist. "I'm not sure. The eliyi transport ship seems to have gone offline from what I can see down here."

Warren's eyes began to adjust but he made no move to pull himself from Thrive's grip. "What's that mean? Is it over?"

"Unlikely. It could mean they're out of fuel, in which case..."

Adjusting the heavy rucksack on his shoulder, Warren cleared his throat against the steadily rising warmth in his face as a result of Thrive's long fingers drifting absently closer to his own. "Could they get their fuel from us?"

"No. Their ships are powered by a crystallized chemical only found in Andromeda."

Warren almost tripped on something and Thrive's grip tightened to keep him steady. "Uh…so…they're gonna fall out of the sky."

"It's not guaranteed that's what's happened. It was…just speculation."

"Did you take my hand to keep a line of calm between us?"

"Yes, I did. What about it?"

Warren inhaled sharply and tried to keep himself from spouting too much emotion through their touch. "Nothin'. Just…do you…wanna set up camp somewhere? I'm getting tired, and we could use a fire right now."

Later, as the light from their established campfire threw sharp shadows across the trees and frozen ground, Warren watched Thrive pace the perimeter of the clearing. He'd never seemed so agitated, so unsettled by something in the few years he'd been on Earth.

"I'm beginning to think," he said at length, soft enough to be all but drowned out by the gentle wind rustling through the trees, "that we should've stayed at the cabin."

Warren snorted. "Well, it's a little too late for that. Are we about to have another conversation about how you can't protect me and going into Anchorage is something you need to do oh-so-valiantly on your own?"

Thrive turned to him. "You continually insist on staying with me."

Warren bit his lip and lifted the flap of the rucksack in an excuse not to make further eye contact. "Yah…I'm a grown man with autonomy."

To his surprise, Thrive strode to him and crouched down right in front of him. "I'm not going to pretend I can sway you, as knowing you for as long as I have up to this point has made me wise to your absolute reckless regard for your own life veiled under the thin guise of bravery. So I've given up trying and have, instead, prayed with every spiritual fiber of self that you will change your mind and keep safe."

The fog from both of their breath swirled together and Warren's gaze flicked between each of Thrive's emerald eyes, shimmering with frustration and the light of the lapping flames beside them. "You've prayed."

"I haven't prayed since I left Slodia, but damn it, Warren…you cannot lure me into caring for you and then refuse to let me protect you in any way I can."

"Stop talking to me like that."

"Then stop forcing me t—!"

Warren's hand snapped out to clutch Thrive's chin with a fierceness he didn't know he currently possessed. The air around them charged with static and Thrive's eyes flashed with anger but he initially didn't stop him or retaliate in any way.

"To what, E.T.," Warren growled. "You'd better not say anything you don't fucking mean."

He could feel the power roiling through Thrive's skin beneath his fingers. The heat from their proximity cut through the stinging cold of the air, and tension engulfed the entire forest.

"Do you suspect that I could?" Thrive muttered through gritted teeth. "Do you suspect after all of this time and all of my insecurities, after we've shared body and brain, that I could look you in the eye and mean it?" He finally slapped a hand around Warren's wrist. "Would I be lying, Warren?"

"There's no un-saying it. If you say it now, you can't take it back."

"We could die tomorrow." Thrive's face underwent a strange metamorphosis of guarded hostility to exposed worry. "And you're concerned about whether or not I mean it?"

Warren didn't realize his own hand had snaked around to bury fingers in Thrive's golden hair. "Fucking mean it."

Thrive observed his face as if truly seeing it for the first time. He took in every feature, every freckle and eyelash, every line and curve. His hands held his face, thumbs grazing his cheekbones, and for the first time in three years, the heaviness of the world became fully realized. Every moment was not a guarantee. Every breath was a gift. Their coming together was a fluke, a glitch in the universe, and at any moment it could've been fixed. With every unsteady exhale Warren forced out of himself, an inhale could be robbed from him.

"I mean it," Thrive whispered. "I mean it."

Warren kissed him for the hundredth time, but it felt like the first. And through their vulnerable touch in intimacy and in sleep, he made it clear that he meant it, too.

#fp2 #Darkspace Portent #Drowning Future #repost

[xeternitas]

indie xerneas, est jan. 2015 {rules} {quote} {header} {banner}

     ❝ LIFE ASKED DEATH, Death, why do people love me, but hate you? ❞

HISTORY

Life is cruel. Who understands that better than its own being?

Xerneas came into existence alongside Yveltal in the dead of winter. If the two were an advent or response none could say, but soon after them came the mortals. For all that Xerneas and others consider Xerneas as such, Xerneas is not a god. It is more accurate to say Xerneas is a personification of or vessel for the force of life itself.

Worship of the Yggdrasil Trio started with the earliest human populations in Kalos. The ‘purest’ forms of worship Xerneas received were considered archaic only a few generations after they began and were lost to the ages tens of thousands of years ago.

For the first few generations of worshipers, Xerneas, Yveltal, and Zygarde were worshiped together as three heads of a polytheistic religion. Most homes had a shrine for each member of the Trio, while temples dedicated to a single one would house shrines to the other two in places of prominence. When the worshipers began to choose favorites was when the divide between the Yggdrasil Trio appeared.

The rift affected Yveltal and Xerneas’ relationship the most, very nearly turning the two against one another. Only within the last fifty or so years were they able to reconcile; a slow process that is still underway.

Even with the distance between them, Xerneas never resented Yveltal’s place in the cycle. Xerneas views it as a necessary end, a means to keep the delicate balance between them. Tip too far in one direction and the ecosystem is doomed.

Roughly three thousand years ago, Xerneas and Yveltal became involved with the humans of Kalos to bring an end to a war. Known to the king under both its human aliases, Xerneas attempted to reason with AZ against the fighting. The king’s grief over the loss of his Pokémon sent him over the edge and he trapped Xerneas to use its energy to finish the war once and for all. Its energy depleted, Xerneas reverted to its tree form....

...And woke in the present day to one of AZ’s descendants attempting to do the same. Standing against the man was a sixteen year old girl by the name of Freya. Xerneas was once more imprisoned, this time being captured within an Ultra Ball. While Xerneas initially hated Freya for her actions, she slowly won Xerneas over through patience, hard work, and lots of cupcakes. During one of her outings Xerneas saved her life and in doing so revealed the ability to shift forms.

APPEARANCE

Xerneas is gendeerless, and accepts any pronouns when addressed or spoken of. It has mostly been referred to as “he” and “it” throughout its existence. Xerneas uses a basic form of glamour when taking on a human guise. As there is little more thought put into it than “look human” Xerneas’ form appears different to each person, as their minds are filling in the gaps with their own details. Are they speaking to a man? A woman? Someone outside the spectrum? It all depends on them.

Some variables remain more or less consistent: Xerneas’ human form is always tall, between 5′10″ and 7′. There’s always a tint of blue about the hair, and as Xerneas has no need to eat the form appears on the unhealthy side of thin. As it’s an illusion rather than shifting his form, standing in front of a reflective surface will show Xerneas as he looks in truth. Xerneas’ weight and limbs are concentrated in the image his glamour produces, so there’s no concern about his horns.

Among other Pokémon, and very few select humans, Xerneas uses its true name. Depending on if a human views Xerneas as more masculine or feminine, they will use the monikers “Xerxes” or “Xenia”.

Xerneas’ Pokémon form changes as well through one of two ways. The first is that Xerneas reverts to its tree form. The second is through the real-life understanding of evolution. That over time, a species will evolve to adapt to its environment. Xerneas is his own species, so he himself undergoes the evolutionary process over generations. This change is gradual and not something he has control over. It is instinctual, and happens all on its own.

Each variation of his Pokémon form will have similarities. Xerneas will always look like a Xerneas. He will retain a cervine structure and always have antlers, though the number and display may vary. The same color palette is always retained. (The header image is how Xerneas currently looks.)

PERSONALITY

Xerneas, as most older legendary Pokémon, has a vastly different moral system than humans, non-legendary Pokémon, and younger legendaries. When mortals followed Yveltal and Xerneas into existence they were viewed as lesser creatures. Despite his interactions with humans and other Pokémon, Xerneas still views most Pokémon as beneath himself and other legendaries. Humans he considers an outright danger. Those few select humans he’s bonded with he views as an exception rather than a hint he might want to reconsider his stance on humanity.

In interactions with others Xerneas remains somewhat aloof until given reason or proof to trust someone further. Xerneas has a lot of pride, and doesn’t take well to it being challenged. In short, he’s an asshole.

Xerneas is cautiously open to new romantic relationships. Be aware though that he has quite recently lost several of those he considered family, and his response to grief is to close himself off to outsiders. While it can be difficult to scratch beneath the shields Xerneas has put on over the millennia, do so and one will find a friend or partner who will truly cherish them forever.

ABILITIES

REJUVENATION

If injured sufficiently, or brought as near to death as it can be, Xerneas enters stasis. In its tree form Xerneas will heal whatever forced it to rejuvenate, as well as any minor injuries or scars it gained since its last stasis state. Xerneas, while generally aware of the passage of time, is otherwise unawares of whatever happens around it. On average these states last between fifty and one hundred years, with some lasting as long as three hundred. He doesn’t like to talk about the three thousand year outlier.

REANIMATION

Xerneas has the power to bring back the dead. Normally, there would be limits to what a person can do to revive another. So long without breathing, heartbeat, brain activity, or other major function, and people stay dead. Not so with Xerneas.

However, Xerneas doesn’t touch reanimation for several reasons. One, it goes against the cycle that Zygarde represents. Even without Zygarde as a medium, Xerneas would stay away from the act. Once a creature is dead, or clearly bound for death, he considers it in Yveltal’s realm. He leaves it there out of both respect and duty.

Second, reanimation’s gross. Xerneas gives life. He doesn’t heal it. If an injury killed whoever or whatever Xerneas brought back, that injury would likely kill it again. Xerneas doesn’t take the second factor into account. He merely sees reanimation and the reversal of death as a perverse act against Zygarde’s cycle.

Limits to the ability: Any animal or plant that had been processed for food. Dead tissue and cells. Skeletons. After a certain point in decomposition, a body is no longer viable and cannot be reanimated.

ARTIFICIAL CONCEPTION

Not insemination, conception. This works best with the would-be mother, though it will work with the father as well. If a child is made with Xerneas’ aid, there are two things to note. One: the child will be unable to conceive. Two: it will have an incomplete set of DNA. If it was the mother Xerneas helped especially, the child will be almost a carbon copy of the parent’s genetics, aside from the occasional gap in the genome. Overall, the child will be a type of artificial life.

As opposed to reanimation, Xerneas has no qualms preforming this feat. He’s the being of life giving life to something new. It only affects the cycle insomuch as he helped create a being that will someday go to Yveltal.

FAIRY AURA

The default mode for Fairy Aura is ‘on’. It produces a calming atmosphere around Xerneas that reduces hostility and soothes nerves. Fairy-type Pokémon are more sensitive to the aura, and will be drawn to Xerneas if he is within a few miles. If he is close enough they will receive a small boost to their power. Dragon-types can be adversely affected by this, while Steel-types may not feel its effects.

If he so wishes, Xerneas can turn the ability off. He can also harness the ability to do the reverse of its innate use and repel others away from him. Each takes a considerable amount of focus and the ability will revert to its original purpose if he does not consciously keep the change active.

MISCELLANEOUS

Technically, Xerneas is no longer owned. Freya’s an active muse and the blogs will likely overlap, but Xerneas’ blog is far enough along that in his most present of verses she’s dead. Xerneas isn’t sure what this means in terms of if it’s possible for another trainer to catch him.

Back before the Kalosian war Xerneas had no fighting style. Not to say Xerneas couldn’t hold his own, but he avoided fighting. After battling with Freya, as a league Pokémon no less, he developed an instinct for it. He still prefers things not come to blows, but he’s more likely to instigate a fight.

Xerneas is incapable of killing. He may wish to, he may bring someone as close to it as possible, but he cannot physically kill. Expect a miraculous survival, though not recovery, if one pushes him that far.

When not roaming Kalos as he is most prone to do, Xerneas resides in the forest where he and Yveltal first came into being. Or, maybe it’s two forests now. Over time one half died off until only dried stems and barren trees remained, as the other continued to flourish. Xerneas’ half of the forest teams not only with plant life, but with wildlife. The Pokémon live there peacefully, as Xerneas does not tolerate conflict within his and Yveltal’s haven. Should they wish to fight, they must leave. Humans are free to come so long as they go.

Xerneas keeps a hut for his human form and any human-shaped guests. Its only furnishings are a sofa just long enough to not be called a love seat, and a side-table with photographs of his family with Freya. Food containers come and go through the ages dependent on how social he is, while there tends to be a faucet of some design for water. Strangely, while all appliances work, none of them are ever hooked to a power source.

Xerneas is fluent in French and English. It used to be fluent in Latin, but as the language fell out of use Xerneas became rusty. He cannot read or write in any language. He’s ambidextrous, and dislikes being called “Xern”. Genders confuse him but he doesn’t care enough to ask. He hates puns. There seems to be an exception for the collection of “World’s Deerest Dad” mugs kept in his hut.

     ❝ DEATH RESPONDED, Because you are a beautiful lie, and I am a painful truth. ❞

#hc. legend #there's a banner on this one i'm Going For It #spot the pun he hates! #(hint: it's in the appearance section) #the old about was nine paragraphs total #wait til you click the readmore

[yourheartonfire]

A continuation of the villain discovering the hero is their best friend/crush - and taking advantage.

First part here. Thanks to @gingerly-writing for the original prompt!

At first it was fun, tormenting the hero under the guise of being a loving and concerned partner. The villain plied their friend - their partner now - with affection and comfort, home cooked meals and help with chores. And then, at just the right time, they'd drop a reference to the recent uptick in supercrime, or leave their phone open to a crowd fund campaign for [Villain] 's most recent victims. 

It worked every time. The hero would go pale and drawn, the villain would make loud noises about pain and flutter about with Tylenol and pillows, and the hero would force a smile and lie, even as they clung tighter and tighter to the villain with every passing day.

But... well, it was one thing to see hero suffer. It was another thing to see their friend racking themself with guilt and frustration at being grounded. Especially when it was so very easy to make them happy-

"Surprise!" yelled the hero as they flung open their apartment door.

The villain jumped. The hero was on both feet, the cast gone - ah, there was a plastic brace on their ankle and a cane. Only then did the villain notice the trays of take-out sushi on the coffee table behind them. From the villain's favorite restaurant.

"My treat tonight," said the hero with a warm kiss to the villain's cheek. "As a thank you."

"You can't afford this!" the villain blurted out.

The hero rocked back on their heels, considered the villain a long moment. 

"Mm hm," they said finally, pulling the villain in and closing the door firmly behind them. "First of all, I'm aware whatever you do in banking pays more than grad school but I can budget for special occasions. Second, this is to butter you up. Because we do need to talk."

"Oh," said the villain cautiously as they followed the limping hero to the sofa. Through the plastic box lids, they could see the hero had gotten most of their favorite rolls and their extra wasabi. "What... is something wrong, sugar?"

The hero sat and took villain's hands. "You've been so amazing and supportive the past few weeks. And I need you to dial it back."

"What?" The villain blinked.

"Don't get me wrong, I love it when you take care of me." The hero smiled. "But you need to let me take care of you too. It's really clear you are exhausted and stressed to the max."

"No I'm not," the villain said automatically, trying to pull away. "I mean, I've been worried about you pushing yourself too fast-"

The hero sighed. "See, this is exactly what I mean. Every time I want to talk about your needs, you turn it back around to mine."

"My needs? I don't have any neeee..." The villain trailed off mid-word. The hero raised their eyebrows. "Oh," said the villain again, feeling uncomfortably exposed. 

Damn it, this was not supposed to be about them. The villain felt themselves going hot and furious again. How dare the hero lecture them when the hero was the liar!

"Look, I don't think it's a coincidence this started right after my accident," the hero went on, oblivious to the villain's building anger. "You must be, like, off the charts in 'acts of service' as your love language." The hero traced their hand along the edge of the villain's face, in that way that would've sent shivers down the villain's spine if this all wasn't a lie. "But that can't be the only dynamic in our relationship - you giving and me taking. Especially when I'm so close to getting this thing off."

"You still have a lot of physical therapy," the villain started. The hero gave them another look. "Right. I'm turning it around on you again." The villain closed their eyes and took a breath. "Okay. I'll do better. More dynamics. We'll be a dynamic duo."

"Starting now," the hero said, and swung their leg across the villain's lap, gazing adoringly down at them. "Tonight let me take care of you, okay?" They tilted the villain's head up into a soft kiss. 

This was much easier to handle. The villain let themselves relax as the hero took the lead. Their hand ghosted over the thin plastic shell around the hero's ankle. Still healing, still so fragile and vulnerable.

"You set me up," the villain murmured between kisses. "You knew I'd say something about the sushi, you could segue in..." The hero chuckled and the villain pulled them closer to nibble on their ear. "Another of your clever traps," they growled playfully.

The blow hit them across the chest like a train, knocking them back. The hero was on their feet in a crash of movement, eyes wide as headlights and fists clenched. "What did you say?" they gasped.

Oh shit. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck and shit.

"I... said, 'another of your clever traps?'" the villain replied, careful not to lower their voice this time, to make it sound a bit corny and staged. "Like that show you were watching about [Villain] last week, it was something they said, right?" they said, sitting up with their best puzzled expression, rubbing their chest where the hero had knocked them away. "Sugar, what's wrong? You're shaking like a leaf."

"Oh Jesus," the hero said, a hand to their mouth. "You sounded just like-" Belatedly they noticed the villain's position. "Oh my god! Did I hurt you? And - oh no!"

This last was directed at the coffee table, knocked upside down and the food scattered across the floor.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm okay," the villain soothed. They reached out for their partner and the hero shied away.

"Let me go, uh, get something to clean this up," they said, backing towards the kitchen with hitched steps and a shaky smile. "Just... don't do that voice again, okay? You're scary good at it."

"Okay," the villain said. Their heart was hammering in their chest, even 10 minutes later after the hero finished fussing around and settled back at the villain's side, pale and drawn and tucking themselves close. That had been too close, unforgivably sloppy.

The next night their partner begged off their date, claiming extra papers to grade, and the hero was back out in costume and reinforced ankle boots. 

The villain was ready. Now things were really going to get interesting.

Part 3 here and part 4 here!

#my fiction #heroes and villains #hero x villain #continuation #seduction and destruction #villain x hero #continuations #heroxvillain #100 #300

[starcrossedkaiju]

Kingslayer AU: Chapter Six

Finally. Onto the newer chapters. These’ll have a lot more character development and bonding. I wrote this about two days ago. So it’s hot off the presses.

I’m actually kinda proud of this one. Also I’m trying to make these shorter because I don’t wanna be writing a single chapter for three days straight anymore; it was burning me the hell out.

Tango readjusted his scarf, throwing the end of it behind him. It hit Scott in the face on the way down.

“Watch it,” Scott smacked the man in front of him on the shoulder.

“You’re annoying,” Tango replied from in front of him.

“Guys,” Impulse scolded.

They were approaching the end of the tree line, which would lead them right to the gates of Dogwarts. Scott had been looking at his feet for most of the journey, which is why he ran into Tango when he stopped suddenly.

Tango turned around and pushed him away, “Watch it,” he said with sarcasm.

The group chose to stop just inside the trees. Impulse drew a cloth from his pocket and wrapped it over Scott’s eyes. If he was the one making the plan he wouldn’t have himself as a kidnapping victim, it was a bit on the nose. Tango said it was just for looks.

Scott’s weapons were taken and stashed in Impulse’s Ender Chest, as well as his pager.

Scott sighed, “I still don’t understand why we can’t just get in there and…” he made a stabbing gesture to the air.

Impulse made a sarcastic attempt at looking shocked, “okay, first off, there’s six of them and three of us,” he pointed out.

“Second, that would be impulsive and stupid. They would all come back and hunt us for sport,” he said.

“Says you,” Scott said in the wrong direction, because he was blindfolded. Impulse rolled his eyes at the jape.

“Okay, you ready?” Tango put a hand on Scott’s shoulder. Eager to get a move on.

“As ever,” Scott replied. Then he was lifted off his feet by his accomplices, both of which were taller than him. A hand under each arm.

The trio left the trees and trudged up the mountain towards Dogwarts. Scott went over his life choices in his head while Tango and Impulse quietly argued over not dropping him.

Apparently someone was waiting for them, because Tango began exchanging words with a person standing in front of the gates. It was Etho, no doubt. They discussed the elephant in the room, Scott stuck to the plan and said nothing. Even when Etho asked him how it felt.

He did flip him the bird though.

When Scott was re-introduced to the ground he was on a set of wooden steps. Tango had gone inside, presumably to alert the boss of the situation. Impulse kept a firm grip on Scott’s forearm.

“You know what to do right?” Impulse asked.

Scott nodded. Hoping his acting skills weren’t too rough around the edges.

The door clicked open and a pair of hands dragged him into the main base, pushed him down in a chair, and pulled his blindfold off.

Across from Scott, standing over the opened book on the enchantment table was the Red King. A shiny new pair of sunglasses rested on his face, on top of a purple-tinted nose, and his arm was in a sling. The sight almost brought a smile to Scott’s face.

Ren clapped the book shut and stood to assess his guest.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise,” he greeted without a smile.

Tango put a hand on Scott’s back, “I think you’d be pleased to know he came to us,” he said.

An eyebrow raised from under Ren’s sunglasses. He reached out and pulled a chair from a table near the wall, positioning it in front of Scott.

Ren sighed and sat down, crossing his legs, “is that so?” he asked. Scott started getting uncomfortable.

Impulse made to speak up but was silenced by a hand.

“Let the man speak for himself,” Ren ordered, “come on now dude. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your voice,” he teased.

Scott cleared his throat, “I came to them. Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why,” Ren asked sternly.

Scott did his best not to squirm.

“I changed my mind,” he said, “I want except your offer. To join the Red Army,” Scott explained.

Ren laughed out loud. He threw his head back and leaned backwards. Scott bit the inside of his lip and looked away. Tango shifted on his feet.

“Really?” Ren asked, he was almost crying.

“Ren…” Impulse attempted to calm the king down but was silenced.

“No, no, by all means I want to hear what Major has to say,” Ren said with encouragement.

Scott grimaced, “Although I do not agree that kidnapping me was the best way to go about gaining my interest,” he started.

“Well it certainly gained some interest,” Ren said under his breath.

“I was already considering leaving my agreement with the Red Desert; and do not get me wrong I don’t appreciate anything you and your men have put me or my husband through,” Scott raised his voice. Assertiveness taking over, he stood up.

“I can see an opportunity when it holds an axe above my head,” Scott crossed his arms.

“I am willing to come to an agreement with you. I will join your army, I will act as a double agent, I will act under your orders, on one condition,” he held up a finger.

Ren slowly stood to meet his gaze, although he was a lot taller.

“Jimmy will not be involved,” Scott said explicitly.

The Red King turned away and went back to the enchantment table, he gazed into the book absently. Then tossed it back on the table.

“You’re on thin Ice Major,” Ren concluded and quickly left.

Scott expected a handshake at least.

“I’d say that went pretty well,” Tango said after the door slammed.

“He agreed?” Scott asked.

“Well he didn’t reject. So I’d say you’re hired,” Impulse provided.

“He thinks you’re a valuable asset. I don’t think he could afford to refuse your offer,” Tango leaned down and reassured.

Scott slouched down in the chair and rubbed his eyes. This was a bad idea.

His first orders came two days later. He was put in charge of the “chores”. Which essentially meant he was doing everything nobody else wanted to do.

Tango assured him that the Red Army was just sizing him up to see if he was actually serious. It was precaution, considering Scott had sort of blindsided them by joining forces. Nobody would look him in the eyes unless they were ordering him around. He knew he wasn’t meant to feel welcome there.

“They’ll come around, although I’m not sure why it bothers you,” he said.

“It’s just awkward,” Scott excused, “they act like I’m gonna pull a knife on them whenever there’s only two of us on the room,” he said.

“Well, after you showed them the door two weeks ago they’ve been a bit jumpy,” Tango replied.

Being the supply runner meant the sacrifice of his sleep schedule, except for his three “off days”. In order to operate effectively he had to do most of his chores at night when his husband was sleeping; and thank god he did that most of the time.

Most of the time.

The other times Scott packed a bag full of iron or wood and said he was running errands under the guise of not being able to sleep. It didn’t feel good to lie, but as far as Jimmy was concerned Scott only left the house on the nights they were both awake.

At the next meeting Scott complained to Tango over a bottle of mystery alcohol, “I may as well be an indentured servant,” he poured himself another glass.

“You know, Scott, you’re actually doing something pretty important,” Tango said from where he was lounging on a pile of pillows.

“Indentured servant,” Scott repeated.

“You’re the one in charge of all their resources. I mean they even have you doing farm work right? So you know like, everything about them,” Tango pointed out.

Scott put his head down on the table, “to the last stack of paper,” he deadpanned.

Tango sighed, he got up and pat his teammate on the back.

“At least you’re not on Nether duty,” he said.

“I’m leading a double life! I’m lying to my husband, I’m lying to my friends, I’m lying to the whole Red Army! Who am I?,” Scott shouted; and he meant it more than he’d like to under the alcohol.

“Okay, that’s deeper than I wanna go,” Tango replied. He sat back down and chugged the last of his drink.

“I mean I’m just sitting here, letting other people write my life for me!” Scott continued.

“Okay calm down,” Tango said.

“No! I won’t. You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Scott stood up, his chair slammed on the ground.

Tango shot to his feet, “then enlighten me, Scott. Enlighten me on how hard your life has been while you ignored the rest of the server,” he yelled.

“While you sat back and did nothing, watching the world fall apart around you?” he provided.

“You don’t know me,” Scott said with disgust.

“And who does, Scott?” Tango replied.

The other couldn’t answer, because Tango was right. Scott nodded curtly, picked up his drink, and left the room.

He finished his drink on the way out and threw the glass against the rock face next to the abandoned cow farm.

The shards exploded and scattered in the snow.

Impulse found him sitting on a bolder an hour later, sharpening a stick with a rock.

“I heard you had a disagreement,” he said without warning.

Scott turned around, then resumed his sulking.

“We had an argument, you may as well call it what it is,” he replied.

“Hm,” Impulse responded.

“He insulted me,” Scott complained.

“Does “insulted” mean he said something true that you don’t like?” Impulse asked.

Scott didn’t respond.

Impulse leaned on the side of the bolder and looked into the distance, thinking about his next sentences. Chips of wood fell near his feet.

“You know it would be a lot easier if you two could just get along,” he said.

“Okay dad,” Scott deadpanned.

“Don’t start with me now. I’m trying to help you,” Impulse cautioned.

“Sorry,” Scott apologized. He felt worse when he insulted Impulse than when he insulted Tango.

“I know he’s a bit of a handful, but so are you. I want to make this as easy as possible, and I know you’re not looking to make friends right now, but I think you would feel better-“ Impulse started, Scott rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“You would feel better if you just,” he gestured with his hands between himself and Scott, “let us in,” Impulse finished a bit dejected.

Scott stopped sharpening his dwindling stick. He sighed and dropped it in his lap, putting his head on his knees.

“Who else can it be Scott? Don’t shut down on us like this,” Impulse begged.

“Leave me alone,” Scott said without hesitation.

Impulse lingered next to him, then pat his hand on the rock and nodded. He walked away.

Scott raised his head and watched him until his head disappeared under the hill.

#ACT 2 BABEY #kingslayer au #3rdlife #3rd life smp #3rdlife smp #scott smajor #me trying to remember who is in this #tangotek #impulsesv #rendog #ethoslab #barely but he is there. #mcyt #cas types

[regrettablewritings]

DJ X READER HEADCANON you pick 😉😉

I blink at the request that stares back at me from my inbox, brow furrowing with every flutter of my lashes. "Sis . . ." I murmur, "you good?" As though my ass had not also been search for content relating to this forgotten POS just the other day. But if you insist . . .

4. What they do on date night:

To be brutally honest, DJ will look you dead in the eye and tell you that going for a night out on the town pick-pocketing is a date. Or, at least, he will try to. It's surprisingly hard to maintain eye contact with someone whose glare could probably cut beskar.

In his defense (if he even deserves any), DJ does try to make it a little more fun than he already finds it -- granted, it's done in a very DJ way. You get your little evening promenade through the streets, he tricks you to a quick bite to eat, you hold hands and run through the lantern-speckled streets before turning down a narrow alleyway that's just perfect for sharing an intense liplock . . .

Of course, this all translates into your evening together including: Walking through a marketplace, your asshole boyfriend slipping peoples' credits out of their pockets and purses under the guise of bumping into them; him using those sticky fingers of his to nick some street food off of a cart before its proprietor called the authorities on his theft; said sticky fingers lacing with yours as he guides you down the crowded streets (grinning like the little shit he was for enjoying the chase); all before making a sudden jerk down an alleyway.

You're breathless, irritated, and . . . maybe -- only just maybe -- a little excited by the thrill of it all. But you can't let him know that, otherwise, he'd never let you live it down and he'd be the cock of the goddamn walk for who knows how long. Worse: He'd consider this a win for his insistence that this sort of thing counted as a date! And there was no way in hell you were about to let that happen!

You only got as far as opening your mouth to hiss own some choice words at him when you instead got cut off by your thieving significant other pressing you against the grubby alley wall. Even if you hadn't been distracted by the action to remember to cuss him out, the words were instantly killed. They were inhaled by his own lips, his kiss encompassing your words, your thoughts, your . . . everything. They were speared by his tongue, as though it were his weapon against the beast that brewed within you.

And they were quelled by the feel of his callused fingers brushing against your cheeks before moving onward to the beck of your head, pressing you only further into his hold. DJ's fingers were deft, but that didn't necessarily mean that their carefulness was always directed at you. It's . . . something to savor . . .

Of course, it was meant to fool the chumps following the both of you but you don't mind. Not in that moment anyway. When you get back to wherever you're staying for the night, it's another story, but one DJ is more than happy to bring to a happy ending.

It's a bit nicer when he gets his hands one someone's credits, though: It means he can take you out to an actual establishment. However, be warned: It's only a bit nicer because you also need to be on the lookout for the authorities (or the poor bastard you stole from), or be prepared to make a run for it.

11. What their first impression was of each other:

Dirty. Old. Bastard. A dirty old bastard. And to your credit, you weren't wrong, but of course, the first impression is always the shallowest. And considering the shithead had just tried to put the moves on you when you were already having a rough day . . . Yeah, he honestly deserved presumptions with the depth of one's own navel -- an outie, preferably.

He stood out against the Canto Bight elite with his grubbiness, looking like a leathery garbage pouch at best and like a guy who'd try to sell you a faulty droid at moderate. A dirty, bastardly part of you couldn't help but muse that perhaps the worst he could do was be a nasty lay -- and not nasty in the way one might want, either.

Granted, it wasn't hard to imagine that: The fact he was hitting on you while you were trying your best to just survive your shift at the casino that evening did little to convince you he was any good.

And as for DJ, it was a one-two-punch type of introduction. Literally: First he eyed you, then he got a little too suggestive, and then you punched him. What a sleazeball, right? It was his own damn fault for assuming the least of you, though. You were cute like all the other servers, no doubt, with that shy smile of yours that made it abundantly clear to him that this sort of place wasn't your scene if you didn't have to work there. Unlike the other servers, however, he was feeling pretty brazen about you.

DJ has no interest in the concept of “fate” or “destined meetings”, but even months out from that point he wouldn’t be able to place precisely what compelled him to break his usual protocol of being discreet. Nor why he was so insistent. All he knows was that he called you over to him and, rather than requesting a drink, he “chatted you up”. And might’ve suggested that you two blow off this place and maybe “blow off somewhere else”.

He also knows that the moment you struck his cheek, cheeks burning and eyes widened with the realization of what you’d done, he was wrong and right about you.

You were frankly lucky he turned out to be a blight on the Canto Bight scene, otherwise your boss would’ve fired you the moment he had learned of what you had done. What you were unlucky for, however, was that from then on, the thief started showing up more often. Not enough to get caught (at least, not for long), but enough for him to determine that maybe the both of you really should blow this joint -- in the nonsexual way.

And in the end, you became unlucky once more: For someone so grubby and bastardly, he was also quite the charmer. Y’know, once you’ve smacked him around a bit.

14. What nicknames they call each other:

You honestly struggle to nickname DJ, predominately because, well, DJ is already a nickname. You think. After all, you sincerely doubt anyone would actually name their kid Don’t Join even as a political statement. Really, the fact you don’t know his actual name sort of calls for consideration of how healthy your obviously unhealthy relationship is. But any pleas to learn this asshole’s real name just winds up being like having a namana cream pie shoved in your face, because DJ just turns it all into a joke.

There have been many occasions where DJ would tell you different names he would swear were his own -- often times in the same week! Other times, his claim would be that he’s told you it while you were asleep, or that he once told you but you got conked on the head and forgot it.

Interestingly enough, it’s through these juvenile exploits that he’s earned a bit of a nickname from you: “Bastard”. Just rolls off the tongue, don’t it? To be fair, though, you’re with him for a reason: Even if he may not seem like it, he does have a soft sport for you. Even if it comes out about as smoothly as his features.

In a way, he reminds you of a mutt. A stray mutt. Especially when he shoves his head into your lap after a long day of fucking about and being a menace to whatever society you two decided to hop a ship to.

“You’re like a puppy sometimes, you know that?” you murmur. You scritch into his mess of hair, earning a low growl of contentment from your datemate. He never had to admit it out loud, but your touch clearly did wonders to him. This was evidence by how his already large body began to further sprawl along the couch the ship he’d stolen came with. Yup; just like a puppy. A big, raggedy puppy. Who needs a trip to the refresher as soon as this scritching session was over.

For DJ, on the other hand, nicknames come easily. Honestly, it’s mainly due to how he barely takes anyone or anything seriously: When you don’t concern yourself with all the muddled nonsense of society or wide circles of people, it becomes a whole lot easier to see everyone’s buttons. And considering he was a master slicer, button-pressing was definitely his thing.

Despite the fact that you were a one-in-a-million instance of being someone whom the thief actually trusted and treated with even a modicum of respect, even you weren’t immune to his acts of mockery.

“Mornin’, P-p-pipsqueak,” he’d smirk over a cup of caff, knowing damn well that his advantage of height bothered you sometimes.

“Ea-asy there, k-kitten,” he’d purr whenever your frustration would come boiling to the brim. Things like that.

“Lookie here, dollface,” when he wants to butter you up without losing his stance.

But that doesn’t mean he’s unable to be more affectionate. It’s in there, it’s just . . . in there. The best examples, however, tend to be when the both of you are having downtime and are actually safe somewhere. Or whatever safe could mean when you’re with DJ.

Generally, a jail cell wouldn’t be considered safe. Maybe not unsafe if the only occupants were your boyfriend of ill repute and yourself, but it certainly wasn’t enjoyable. And yet, the way DJ just seemed to laze about in them made you feel unnaturally calm. Well, calmer. It would’ve been nicer if your more-than-capable boyfriend would put those slicing skills of his to use and just busted the both of you out of there, but to DJ, a night in the clink meant at least a few hours of shut eye on a bed.

“B-bes-s-sides: We can alw-w-ways just grab on-e of those f-f-f-floating citadels they g-g-g-got docked out there,” he would reason, making himself comfy on the thin mattress. He had a point, you supposed. And it wasn’t as though you hadn’t been expecting this as a part of your life once you got together with him. Still, you weren’t entirely comfortable joining him on said mattress . . . Maker knows when it had last been washed!

You would be far from the first to consider DJ to be the most observant person, dating or not, but your concern must’ve been rich enough for him to practically sense it: Without hesitating, he sat up just enough to offer you his hand.

“C-come on,” he said. “I need to c-c-c-catch some shut e-e-eye, and it ain’t hap-p-p-penin’ if you’re standing d-d-down there the entire t-time.”

A feeling of mild dread seeped into you, followed by a wet blanket of acceptance. You were going to just spend an hour in the refresher of whatever ship you swept off with. Sighing, you accepted the hand, only for the hold to pull you up not onto the mattress, but directly on top of him!

There was plenty to react to -- the sudden movement, the feeling of being on top of DJ -- but the man himself didn’t seem at all fazed. Instead, he focused primarily on tucking in whatever lagging limbs you had and making sure he was cozy enough to continue serving as your mattress for however many hours he needed to recuperate. Which he apparently was: Not once did he protest to your weight pressing down on him, nor did he grunt with displeasure whenever you turned the direction of your head against his chest.

At the most, he only ever offered your back a brief circle of rubbing with his free hand, the other serving as his pillow, before uttering a drowsy, “You good there, kid?”

And, to your surprise . . . yeah. In spite of everything, yeah, you were pretty good . . .

And yet, interestingly enough, no matter what he calls you, none of that ever measures up to when he calls you by your name. Not pipsqueak, not kitten, not dollface or kid or whatever, but your actual name. Because DJ hardly ever refers to anyone by their actual title, let alone cares to remember it. By not only remembering it, but applying it, it shows you that he does care. It’s deep down -- like, real in there -- but it’s there. And you’re the only non-slicing being in the entire galaxy to have ever cracked that sort of safe.

Wear that badge with pride, Hotshot.

Thanks for your patience on this one! Clearly I had a lot of fun writing it! 💖 💖 . . . May gotta actually start writing for DJ. Maybe.

#dj x reader #star wars dj x reader #dj star wars x reader #star wars x reader #dj imagine #dj imagines #character ship meme #character x reader #character ask meme #regrettablewritings #Star Wars imagine #Star Wars imagines #Me: I saw @seraphinativan at the DJevil's Sacrement #@Seraphinativan: Girl what were YOU doing at the DJevil's Sacrement? #Me: lol u got me

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter 3

A/N: I hate this chapter so, so much. Unfortunately, I also couldn't find any way around it. If I got anything wrong, chances are I just missed it, so feel free to let me know.

Read on AO3 here.

“...Humans with ghost powers!? Crazy, right?” Valerie snorted, then paused.

“Or humans that turn into ghosts, or ghosts that—stay human when they die or whatever. The important thing is that there was a part of Ellie that was real. And if it hadn't been for Phantom, I'd have just left her there with Plasmius, to do whatever—to hurt—to—”

Valerie took a moment, struggling to admit out loud what she had already begun suspect for herself.

“—kill her. he was gonna murder a little girl, mama, and if Phantom hadn't convinced me she still had some human in her, if I hadn't listened to a ghost, I woulda let him.”

Phantom, if she hadn't listened to Phantom, specifically. It was a detail that still irritated her every time it came up.

The ghost boy had been so persistent, for so long in his charade of being a “good guy,” that most days, she simply tuned him out.

And truly, was that so wrong?

Up to that point, Everything Phantom had said in his own defense had been nothing more than talk. Oh, he said sorry, he said he felt bad about it, but at the end of the day, what had he done?

Ruined her fathers job and her life, then fled the scene like the criminal he was.

Stole for the hell of it and couldn't even be bothered to take the blame when he got caught.

(Valerie still had no idea why the ghost thought an “evil mind controlling clown guy,” was a reasonable excuse, at all, for anything.)

Who was always ready to fight, but never to help.

Never, not once, in all the wretched aftermath of the Grey's financial dissolutionment, had Phantom come to their aid. Not in the immediate events that came after, nor during the process of her father's dismissal, when he could well have stayed his expulsion simply by appearing, proving Damian Grey's assertions of spectral interference months before he would have been otherwise believed.

Not during the move from her childhood home to her current residence down in Elmerton. Too strapped to hire assistance, it had been down to Valerie, her father, and Fenton, who had taken his weekend off to help her move instead.

No haunting the creditors who dogged their every step, even now.

Hell, he couldn't even be bothered to tell the public that it was his fault her life was ruined! In private, yes, where he knew no one could hear. But never where it mattered, to whom it mattered, since that would require Phantom to actually give something up for once and admit what he did was wrong. Which he would never do, because Phantom, like all ghosts, was a fundamentally egotistical creature, right down to his very core.

No, Valerie had good reason to believe that she had Phantom all figured out: A showboating prig, full of hot air and false excuses, distinct from other ghosts only in his capacity to fool the masses into believing he was ever anything more.

Then Elle happened.

The ghost girl's mere existence had managed to throw Valerie's world into a whole new tailspin, leaving her reeling even as events conspired to yank more and more of her footing out from under her, teetering on the edge of her own understanding as all her convictions suffered blow after blow.

Living ghosts.

Ghostly humans.

Friends acting as enemies.

While enemies acted as friends.

“I woulda let him kill her.” She repeated, “Just like I let him kill—end—All those other ghosts I gave him, just handed 'em over for whatever freak experiments he had cooked up.”

Just like she had snuffed out who knew how many other specters during her own patrols.

How many of them were still alive in there, she wondered, underneath the ghost?

Her mother's brows seemed to furrow in response, worried, no doubt, over what exactly her daughter had done.

“I didn't mean it mama, it wasn't my fault! It was all Plasmius, you know Plasmius? That knockoff Nosferatu all the time picking fights with Phantom. He used me and he lied, and—“ Valerie licked her lips futilely seeking moisture from a mouth gone dry.

“He played human to do it.”

Valerie felt a flush of rage and shame wash over her at the words. She had been used all over again, played for a fool and manipulated just like her so-called “friends” had used her before, dangling control and importance in exchange for the very essence of her soul.

To learn that she had struck the same deal with a different kind of devil, that all her power was a tool in someone else's hands had curdled into an ache that rivaled the raw burn of a whole new betrayal.

Because unlike the A-listers she'd run with not too long ago, or even Phantom, who she'd always hated, Vlad Masters had been a man she'd seen fit to trust.

“Plasmius was Masters, and—God, they even share the same first name—My sponsor, the guy who gave me my first suit, trained me up, even kept me and daddy off the streets when things were at their worst. And me stupid enough to think it was 'cause he cared.”

A hard exclamation escaped her throat at the thought, to forceful for a scoff, too sharp for laughter.

No such thing indeed.

“Everyone's out for something. Masters—Plasmius, he was out for Phantom, and I was just the pawn that was supposed to get take him out.”

That's part of what scares me too. Why was Plasmius so dead set on Phantom? Why'd he sink so much money into taking him out? Why does Phantom hate him back?”

And it was peculiar, how much Phantom seemed to hate Plasmius. Valerie had thought for a long time that it was some kind of territory dispute, a conflict over a rare and valuable thin spot between realities. After years of chasing after Phantom, however, it became more and more clear that the ghost boy's resentment of Plasmius went beyond that of simple competition.

The mere mention of the vampiric specter was enough to turn Phantom tense and snippy, as though the mere thought of the other ghost irritated him, somehow. After witnessing the two up close, Valerie's suspicions had cemented into certainty: Phantom hated Plasmius, and he hated him personally.

“There's so much I don't know, and no one to tell me. Plasmius doesn't know that I know, and until I get out from under him, that's how it's gotta stay.”

How Valerie was supposed to get out from under Plasmius was another question entirely. Plasmius, in Vlad Master's guise, was the sole reason the Grey family had managed to keep on top of its debts for as long as they had. To make matters worse, he also provided most of the materials Valerie's suit consumed for its more elaborate systems and weaponry.

Even so, the temptation to throw it all away and smash Plasmius' smug face against her boot was a strong one, stayed only by the fear of what would happen to her father if she tried.

“Phantom went squirrelly on me too,” she said. “I thought maybe I could get something from him, since we never ended that truce. But in the end, he was still just a ghost.”

She hadn't wanted to go to Phantom, in those days between Elle's escape and her decision to plunge into the Zone, had felt too much like would be admitting something, somehow, to do so. Had it not been for the fact that Phantom was her sole and only choice, she was sure she would never have asked at all.

Once she'd made the decision to do it, he'd been easy enough to track down. She found him—where else?—but In the middle of a fight, duking it out at altitude with one of the countless animal ghosts that regularly made their way across the paltry excuse for a veil stretched across Amity Park.

The fight had been easy, the conversation that came after it, much less so.

How could someone be alive and dead at the same time? Were they alive and dead at once? all the time? Did they alternate at will? Were they born? Were they made? How many were there? A lot? How did she spot a human-ghost if she saw it? Was there a way to tell? Or did you have to guess?

Phantom had been the one to tell her that these human-ghost, ghost-human things could exist in the first place, which had lead her to expect, rather despite herself, that perhaps he could explain them, too.

So it was only natural, really, that in that moment precisely, he had chosen to clam up. He knew nothing of these miraculous hybrids, could find out nothing concerning them, and as to finding them, he had no clue at all. Nevermind that it had been he who had first told her such beings were possible in the first place, the ghost was a veritable well of ignorance, utterly unable to aid in her pursuits.

“Ghosts are narrow minded and selfish, they go round everywhere like they've got blinkers on both sides of their head. You stick an idea in front of their nose, and they grab it if they like it, and shove it away if they don't. They don't consider where you got the idea from, they don't think about why its there, they don't even goddamn care why you picked it up in the first place. All that matters is somethings blocking their little slice of the world, theirs, specifically, 'cause they wouldn't never consider any other kind.

That was Phantom's problem, he wanted a truce yeah, but his way, not mine. A truce for beating things up, not a truce for trusting and talking or or anything that might give trouble to him. That wasn't how he wanted it to work.

He was even worse with Elle. She's the only other one I could talk to—not counting you, ma—who could tell me anything about anything about what was going on!

And Elle, I couldn't track her down. When she said she had places to be, I thought she meant like Phantom when there wasn't anything fun for him to hit, not just gone! I tried tracking her, I did, but it didn't work. Either staying human hides her, or she's run too far to track.

Stupid Phantom wouldn't help me with that, neither. It was just 'oh she's fine,' this and 'why do you care' that, like I can't worry about a human girl wondering on her own without nobody to make sure she's even fed!”

Not only had he been absurdly reluctant to answer her questions, but even had the audacity to wonder if they were at all related to her continued association with Plasmius. It was an insult, beyond all doubt, as though he didn't know how little choice she had.

As though he wasn't the one who forced her into making it.

“I guess so far as he figured, if Elle wasn't being kidnapped, then she was fine. It didn't matter that she's a kid, or alone, or was stealing apples just to eat. She was strong enough to survive on her own and not melt, and that was good enough for him. He just sat there when she left, too, watching her scat like any other ghost."

Did he know how far she intended to run, or simply fail to understand why he should care?

"No matter how well he thinks he means, Phantom can't help the human parts of her. Just because she could beat any man that tried to take doesn't mean that she doesn't get—scared, or lonely, or—“ Valerie wriggled uncomfortably in her pallet of dust. “—Or that she doesn't need people. Phantom can't give that, and Plasmius is a sick piece of shit, so that left me. Just me. If I let that go, then Elle'd be alone for real.”

The worry in her mother's gaze didn't lighten, exactly, but it did shift, consternation giving way to curiosity mixed with a hearty topping of concern. It was easy to imagine the question she would have asked, if she could but speak.

“Then what is it do you think you're doing all the way out here, hm?”

Valerie sighed. This, at least, she had a clear answer for.

“I'm on a mission. There's this thing called the infini-map. Don't have all the details, but with a name like that?” She scoffed, “don't need 'em. Whatever it is, its good enough to send Plasmius into a fit just at the idea of laying claws on it.

If I could get something like that, imagine, I could find Elle in a heartbeat. No more lookin', no more running blind and hoping for luck. And when I find her, I could use it get out from under Masters thumb for good. Use it, sell it, whatever, with that thing, it would be easy. Me and daddy could be set for life.”

At the time, the idea had seemed brilliant. With her search for Elle stymied, and rental payments approaching their inevitable due, she had latched onto the idea of a Ghost Zone mission the instant her so-called benefactor had brought it up. It was a chance to bleed “Mister Masters” of a little more of his money, without actually having to tolerate his presence for any length of time. Even better, it presented an opportunity to do right by her father while staying far away from the quiet anger, the soft, dispirited sense of regret that had seemed to overtake him as jobs remained scarce, and Valerie continued to hunt.

Perhaps most selfishly, it was the opportunity for the Red Huntress to become what Valerie had had always wanted her to be: A free agent, no puppet masters, no expectations, just the world, and herself within in it.

It was one thing she truly did not regret, even now, lying in the dirt looking up at the memory of a memory ripped to tatters in her hands. Whatever else happened in this strange, wild place, it was her decision, her choice. She was finally in control.

Thinking of control, there was another reason why she wanted to speed up her search for the ghost girl.

“Elle's a good kid, but she <i>is</i> a kid, with a ghost in her she don't even know to fear. I'm not sure how long she can fight it like that without anyone to tell her what's going on. She needs someone who knows about ghosts,who can show her how to fight back, 'cause if she doesn't, I'm not sure how long she'll last until she ends up Plasmius."

“Or Phantom.”

It was an ugly theory, but explained a great deal. The identical looks, the raw antipathy towards Vlad, in particular, or how a full ghost could see himself as related, somehow, to a being that was something so much more.

All ghosts came from somewhere, and Valerie rather doubted Elle was truly Plasmius' only attempt at capturing a hybrid of his own.

“'Cause I think they're the same kinda thing. It explains why Plasmius wanted her so bad, and they change the same way, too. They go from being a ghost, ectosignitures and all, to being alive. Not some fake, but breathing, heartbeats, everything. There's something in them that's really, truly alive.

Plasmius and Elle, they're both alive," she whispered, "but only Elle's human, and I don't know how long that's gonna last.

I can't stay stupid about all this ghost shit, neither. There's so much they won't tell me, and Elle's my ticket to figuring it out. If I can find her in time, I could fix it. Bring her to the Fentons, maybe, take out the ghost before it gets too big, make cash, move out me and daddy and Elle all together. Either way, this is how I do it, right here, right now. This is my chance.”

No more being lead around like a particularly witless donkey for his carrot wielding master, no more suppressing every violent impulse that threatened to take her over any time she chanced to look “Mister Masters” in his insufferable face, no more long, interminable periods of her nose against a grindstone day after day, scraping her fingers bloody against poverty's wall in the way her father seemed convinced was better, somehow, for all the pain it so obviously caused him.

“I know it's risky, but it's worth it, it's gotta be. If I can get the infinimap, then I can fix everything, all at once. I won't owe nobody nothing, and I can start fixing things again, for everyone.”

And perhaps her mother agreed, as the shadow that had gathered against her brow seemed to ease, relaxing back into something more serene.

Valerie smiled, running her thumb over the place where her face once was, pointedly ignoring the sensation of absence in favor of the smiling visage still shining across her display.

“See, I knew you'd see it my way.” Valerie was pretty sure she'd had to have gotten her sense of adventure from somewhere, after all. “It's hard, but I'm fine. And when this is all done, it'll be more than fine, it'll be better.

Just you wait.”

Overlay image: Session end.

The memory of Theresa Grey vanished slowly, victim of her daughter's own reluctance to see her go. But vanish she did, sunshine grew pale and laughter faded, memory crushed into data and erased of meaning, and Valerie was once again alone.

She sighed, finally allowing herself to lower the photograph as she reached over for her other parcels, which she began collecting into a small bundle atop her chest.

Technically, she could reach over to put her mother with her boots and rations instead of the other way around, but found herself suddenly disinclined to do so. Without the stress of the day to keep her going, she found exhaustion pushing down at her very bones, keeping her pressed against the meager comfort of her body warmed hollow of dirt.

No, lifting herself up as little as possible seemed a very enticing proposition indeed.

She grabbed both her boots, then her gloves, peeled off to reveal the same skintight leather which coated the rest of her, the remains of her wallet, and a single, battered bag, too smooth for leather, too thick for silk: All supplies from her earlier run in with the thieving insect from before, pared down to those goods and supplies she could actually use.

She chose not to dwell on how few of them there were.

Her mother came last, placed gently at the head of the pile, where she could look it over one last time.

She should have done this sooner, she knew, perhaps even the moment she entered the Zone. Keeping the photograph on her physical person was too much of a risk, one born of foolish sentiment and thoughtless desire. She had just wanted so badly to keep one good thing with her, somewhere tangible and real, she'd disregarded the threat she put it in.

Because if there was one thing death was guaranteed to do, it was steal everything and everyone it thought was yours.

Valerie placed her hands over the small collection, reaching once again into the inorganic hum prickling ever at the edges of her mind.

Unit_1 selected (Gen_Storage:)

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Intake request:

Intake selected? (Y/N)

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Processing…

A flick of her mental fingers, and it was done. Boots, bag, and all turned into their own kind of mist, dissolving into the small pocket dimension that followed her always, shadows diffusing into the surrounding light, the weight of them dissipating until nothing but the memory of their pressure remained.

Valerie brushed her fingers over the space they left behind, a half smile tugged at the corners of her trembling lips.

“Goodnight, Ma,” She whispered. A grief like seaglass hung heavy on her heart, smoothed over edges cut no longer, though the heft of its sorrow lay leaden even yet.

“Sleep good now, you hear?”

No voice answered in response.

Valerie no longer expected it to.

Deep in the realm of the dead, a figure turned on its side, curled against itself on its small outcropping of stone. Legs up to its chest, arms clenched tight around its shoulders as it heaved, breath by mortal breath, seeking some moment of repose.

#Valerie Grey #Danny Phantom #Fanfiction #Where You Belong #Chapter 3 #Writing

[asian-hero]

You are literally the best at writing angst, your fics make me feel some typa way. Can I request a todoroki shoto fic where him and reader are dating and he’s a prohero and she’s a doctor. And shoto is absent a lot bc of work and s/o gets sad bc she feels the relationship is 1sided. They fight bc shoto prioritizes hero-ing, & rder is like “but I save lives too”. They get “close” to splitting, but they makeup somehow. Thank you!!!!!!!

A/N: You think you can get away with breaking my heart just because you complimented me on my writing? 😤 (but in all seriousness, thank you for the compliment!)

You guys know you can request fluffy shit too, right?

Summary: You knew that you and Shouto came from different worlds, and while both of your jobs helped to save people, that didn’t mean that the two of you necessarily saw eye to eye on certain things. One of the things that the two of you never seemed to agree on was your relationship, and you were starting to feel that the two of you would never agree when it came to that.

Words: 3,307

You knew from the start that dating a pro hero wasn’t going to be easy. One day you could wake up next to the love of your life, and then five hours later, you find out that they died while watching the evening news. Or, one day you could find yourself being abducted by villains as a pawn to lure your hero lover into rescuing you, and either become scarred from the trauma of being kidnapped, or be the reason why your partner had fallen. Along with this, the hours for a pro were sporadic and unpredictable, which made it even harder to keep up a healthy relationship. So, it was safe to say that most heroes didn’t usually get into relationships with civilians, and, as a doctor, who had to deal with said heroes, you promised yourself to never get involved with one of them. If not for your physical health, then for your mental health.

Oh, how naive you were.

Somehow, whether it be due to some force in the universe that wanted to prove you wrong, or your own lack of willpower, you not only caught the attention of a certain elemental hero, but he had also caught yours as well. At first, you blamed your flustered state on the fact that he seemed to be one of your most, regular, patients. You tried to fool yourself that you were just simply worried for his health. After all, it wasn’t healthy to be visiting a hospital almost every other week. A few weeks of trying to convince yourself, and you suddenly were faced with the horrendous idea that you may have actually been worried about him because you cared about him, more than you were supposed to. It didn’t help that he was so handsome and sweet. In all honesty, it was truly a marvel that you managed to keep it together for as long as you had.

While you tried to keep your feelings tucked away deep inside of your heart, Shouto seemed to have other plans. On the days that he wasn’t in your hospital, bothering you with some large gash from a villain, or some serious bruises and broken bones from attempting to catch a falling building, he would still make his presence known through vases of flowers addressed specifically to you, as thanks for patching him up. Soon, arrangements of flowers were no longer delivered by the mailman, but instead by Shouto himself. He’d make sure to catch you on your break, or whenever you weren’t busy, just so he could strike up a conversation with you. It was both the most sweet and baffling thing that someone has done for you. Fairly soon after his common visits, the hospital became like his second home, where everyone knew why he was there, and the glamour of having a famous pro hero in their work environment was no longer exciting. 

So, no one could really blame you when you started dating him a few months later. 

Loving Shouto was one of the easiest things that you’ve ever done. Being in love with him came naturally to you, as if it were another part of your body. He was always so kind and caring, and while he did have his moments where his inexperience in terms of relationships truly showed, he always strived to be the best boyfriend that he could be. You knew that Shouto was the one who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, to grow old with. In fact, about a year into your relationship, Shouto had suggested that the two of you move in together, under the guise that you would both be saving a lot of money when it came to water and electricity, since the two of you practically lived together anyways. Not that you needed a reason to move in with him.

However, life wasn’t always that easy, and relationships don’t always turn out the way you thought they would.

After two years of dating Todoroki Shouto, you knew that the two of you would fall into some form of routine. The “honeymoon” phase wasn’t going to last forever, and you were perfectly fine with that. You still loved him dearly, and even though you both didn’t express it nearly as much as you used to, the feelings were still there, at least, on your side of the relationship.

While the two of you began to fall into your normalcy, with you growing comfortable with each other’s company, you found yourself realizing just how absent Shouto was. It started when he’d cancel your little dinner dates at home, saying that you shouldn’t wait up for him, since he’ll be home late. Of course, you gave him the benefit of the doubt, because you knew that his schedule wasn’t always the best, so you never complained to him. Soon, though, instead of missing dinner, Shouto was missing the entire day. It wasn’t very often that you had the day off, so when you did, he promised that he’d be home as well, so the two of you could make up lost time. But, when the time came, you woke up alone in your shared bed, a short note on your bedside table being your only indication that he’d left the house, and that he wouldn’t be home until late at night. Eventually, your shared apartment started to feel as though you were the only one living in it, and the only way that you knew Shouto was still living there was because the leftovers you’d put in the fridge for him would be gone the next morning.

At first, you tried really hard to be understanding. You knew that he couldn’t always be there with you, as he had a job to do. Any annoyance that you held toward him would be instantly replaced by guilt, since you knew that he was busy. However, as the days turned into months, your patience began to grown thin, and you were starting to question whether or not he even loved you anymore. If he did, he certainly never showed it, nor did he seem to feel the need to tell you that he loved you. In all honesty, you couldn’t remember the last time he told you he loved you, or the last time you ever felt loved. At this point, you were just wondering if he even cared if you were around, or if you were just someone who he knew would always be there.

Though you had managed to keep your feelings away from him for a while, it didn’t take long for your heart to no longer be able to carry your sorrows, and soon enough, you found yourself sitting on your couch at one in the morning, balling your eyes out as you waited for Shouto to come home.

Luckily for you, you didn’t need to wait much longer, as you could hear the soft click of the lock, and in a matter of seconds, you found yourself staring down the love of your life, who seemed shocked at the fact that you were still awake.

“(Y/N)?” He called out, concern filling his voice, “Why are you still awake?”

Wiping your eyes, you took in a deep breath, preparing yourself for what was to come. “We need to talk,”

Though it was a bit hard to see, with only the light from the kitchen illuminating your apartment, you could make out the tired expression on Shouto’s face. With a soft sigh, he moved toward you, patting your head.

“Can we talk about this in the morning?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms across your chest. “Will you even be here in the morning?”

Hearing the edge to your voice seemed to catch his attention, as he tilted his head, clearly confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged your shoulders, standing up from the couch in order to meet his eyes. “It’s a simple question, Shouto. You’re not even here when I wake up, so how are we supposed to talk?”

He furrowed his brow, not quite understanding what you were getting at. When he didn’t respond, you let out an obnoxious sigh, all of the anger you’ve been bottling up for the past few months finally rearing its ugly head.

“You know, at first I was fine with you cancelling for dinner. I did my best to understand that you’re a hero, and you have an important job to do,” Your eyes bore into him, almost as if you thought you could convey all of your hurt and anger by just your stare, “But, when you start to become less of a ‘roommate’ and more of a cryptid, that’s where I draw the line.”

“What are you talking about?” You could hear the defensive edge in his voice, and it did nothing to stop the fire from raging in your stomach.

“Do you even remember the last time that the two of us were together? The last time we did something that was remotely romantic? I certainly can’t!” You knew that you were unloading a lot of feelings onto him, but you couldn’t care less at this point.

“Well I’m sorry that I can’t be here all the time, but it’s not like I can just stop what I’m doing just to come home and chat,”

You wanted to rip your hair out. “I’m not asking you to do that!”

“Then what do you want?” He asked, his tone becoming as sharp as a knife, “Do you want me to quit my job? To stop being a hero? I’m not going to stop just because you feel upset. There are actual lives on the line.”

“Do you think that I don’t understand that?” You snapped, your nails digging into the palms of your hands.

“I save lives too, you know! Every single day I go to work and do my best to help out those who need me the most, but you don’t see me neglecting this relationship,”

He scoffed, his lips quirking downwards. “Just because you don’t see the work I put in doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. You knew what my life was like when we started dating, I don’t know why this is surprising,”

“I know what I got myself into! I just wish that I would matter just a fraction as much as your job,”

“You want me to prioritize you over my duty to the people?”

“That’s not what I’m saying! I just want to feel like I’m important to you,” You could feel your shoulders deflating, “Why is that so hard to understand?”

The two of you could have fought the entire night and have gone in circles. Instead, Shouto merely took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Can we just talk about this in the morning? It’s late, and I can’t think about this right now.”

All of the fight that was in you had suddenly dissipated, and all you were left with was this hollow feeling in your chest. Shaking your head, you brushed past him, heading towards the guest room.

“Don’t worry. There’s nothing to talk about anymore,” You didn’t even bother turning towards him, “Just, do whatever you want.”

With that, you shut the door behind you, locking it and then throwing yourself onto the bed, praying that you’d get at least a couple hours of sleep before your shift.

Unfortunately for you, you ended up getting about two hours of sleep before waking up at six in the morning. Wordlessly, you got ready for work, not bothering to check if Shouto was still home, though, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d just taken off right after you left.

Once you had arrived at the hospital, you were instantly greeted by the concerned stares from your coworkers, with some even voicing that you didn’t look so good. Not wanting to worry anyone, you told them that you were fine, and that you just didn’t get that much sleep last night. It wasn’t a complete lie, and it got them off of your case, so, you figured that you got away with it.

You honestly couldn’t remember what happened during the rest of the day. Bits and pieces would come to you, like when you had to do a routine check-up for one of your favorite patients, or when you took a thirty minute nap during your lunch. Other than that, you truly could not remember what you did. In fact, if your receptionist didn’t tell you that it was nearly eight in the evening, you were sure that you would’ve stayed the night by accident.

As you left your shift and hurried onto the next train to take you home, you couldn’t help but replay the conversation you had with Shouto. You weren’t quite sure where your relationship stood. Neither of you had made the effort to contact the other, and although it had only been one day, you couldn’t help but feel anxious. While of course, you were glad that you told him how you felt, and that you wished he could be more present as a partner, you felt bad about how you went about telling him. There were better ways of telling him that you felt as though he didn’t care anymore, and snapping at him was probably one of the worst ways to go about it. So, as you continued your journey home, you figured that you’d apologize for snapping at him like you did, but you were in no way going to apologize for how you felt, or for telling him that you didn’t feel like a priority for him.

Once the train had reached its destination, and you had finally made it to your front door, you were just about ready to collapse onto the couch. Maybe get in a quick nap before eating dinner, or maybe you’d just head straight towards your bed and get a full eight hours of sleep. However, once the door swung open, rather than being greeted by the deafening silence that you had grown accustomed to, you could hear the soft hum of the radio being played, along with the quiet sizzling of something being cooked. Closing the door gently, you took off your shoes and jacket, quietly making your way towards the kitchen. As you peered from the doorway, you watched in awe as Shouto stood over the oven, watching almost warily at whatever he was making. It was obvious that he had no idea what he was doing, and, judging by how messy your kitchen looked, it was clear to you that this wasn’t his first attempt. Glancing over at the dining table, you noticed the pair of bowls and cups that were set, as if he were setting the table for two.

Deciding that you were tired of just standing there, you cleared your throat, making your presence known.

He jumped a bit, whipping his head towards the source of the noise, before letting out a sound of relief. Quickly turning off the stove, he faced himself towards you, and you could tell that he felt awkward.

“What are you making?” You asked, trying to break the tension in the room.

“Fried rice,” He started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I thought I could make dinner, it seemed simple enough,”

You hummed, slowly making your way over to him, trying to gauge his reaction. When he didn’t move away, you stepped closer, peering into the pan to look at what he made. While it was slightly overcooked, you appreciated the effort. Motioning toward the table, you spoke, “Go grab the bowls,”

After a few more beats of silence, the two of you found yourselves sitting in front of each other, staring awkwardly at your bowls of fried rice, unsure of what to say. While you really did want to apologize, you weren’t sure of how to approach the topic. You were worried that, if you brought up last night, it’d just end up with the two of you fighting again.

It seemed as thought Shouto had the same idea as you, as he finally spoke up, “I think we should talk about last night,”

Putting down your spoon, you nodded. Glancing up, you noticed the nervous expression on his face, and though you were about to talk about something serious, you couldn’t help but find comfort in the fact that he was just as nervous as you.

“Before we start,” You began, placing your hands in front of yourself, “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry that I got so angry last night. I was bottling up all of my emotions, and instead of just telling you, I let them get the best of me, and I exploded when I didn’t mean to,”

He frowned, moving to take one of your hands in his own, “I’m sorry that I tried to brush off your feelings and got defensive. I was tired and ready to go to sleep, so when you said you wanted to talk, I just snapped.”

You squeezed his hand, offering him a small smile. He returned it almost immediately, holding onto your hand as if you were his anchor. Rubbing his thumb against your knuckles, he gave you a reassuring look.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t listening last night, but I am now,” He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, “Tell me what’s going on,”

You felt a pang of anxiety rushing through you, but you pushed through. Even though you felt awful saying it, the two of you didn’t fight just for the fun of it.

“I know that being a hero means the world to you, and I’m so proud of what you do. You constantly put yourself in harms way in order to protect those who can’t save themselves, and I admire that,”

He nodded his head, ushering you to continue, “But?”

“But,” You said, trying to choose your words carefully, “I feel like you put so much of yourself into your work that there’s not enough of you left when it comes to our relationship.”

You smiled sadly at him. “I’m not saying that I should be your number one priority, I know that would be too selfish. I’d just like to be in the top five, you know?”

The frown on his face made you rethink your words. Mirroring his features, you squeezed his hand. It took him a minute to respond, letting your words sink in. Once he found his voice, he spoke, “You shouldn’t feel like you have to settle for the top five,”

He got out of his seat, pushing it closer to you before sitting down once more. This time, he took both of your hands in his, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you weren’t important to me,”

You shook your head, your nose gently bumping against his. “I know you’re busy,”

“Never too busy when it comes to you,”

You found yourself breaking out into a small grin, laughing a bit. Seeing your relaxed figure, Shouto found himself laughing with you, disconnecting his hands from yours in order to place them on your waist, pulling you closer. As you found yourself practically straddling him, you couldn’t help but run a hand through his hair, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. He seemed to relish in your touch, as he leaned closer to you as you pulled away, causing you to let out another stream of giggles.

While the two of you still had to figure out how to manage your schedules, you were finally filled with a sense of comfort and love, one that you hadn’t felt in a long time. 

#todoroki shouto #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #shoto todoroki #todoroki shoto #bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

[fourmarkdove]

Tiger.

Title: Tiger.

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Words: 2.6k

Summary: You suffer through terrible migraines and push others away because of them. One man breaks through your self-imposed fortress of solitude.

Warnings: Pain, angst, fluff.

A/N: Migraines. Started writing this during one. Ended writing this during another one. Comments are welcome. Thanks for reading!

You moaned yourself awake. Pain gripped the muscles tight across your face and stabbed like a serrated knife behind your left eye.

Acute pain like that made decisions seem just out of reach and words difficult to find. It felt like it knocked you back to a primitive state; you just ached to be held and for it to stop tormenting you.

Drawing your knees up and head down, you literally curled into the fetal position and whimpered aloud. Your cold fingers felt like an ice pack pressed to your eye socket. Your brain was aflame.

You’d lost and just plain avoided relationships the last few years. Who would put up with this looming specter? It was frustrating enough to deal with this nonsense yourself. You couldn't force it upon anyone else, so you kept to yourself.

Even on the best days, your coordination was subpar so it was no surprise when you’d spilled tea on the coffeehouse floor, you slipped in it. You expected to hit the tile hard but a pair of large hands caught under your arms and lifted you back onto your heels.

He offered a soft smile and worried brow, sitting with you a moment while a flash of bright light swept across your vision indicating another attack was eminent.

Noting your struggle to find abortive meds in your bag, he suggested it might be a good idea to get a ride instead of driving home yourself. You agreed home was a good idea but had a meeting to get to - one to show your architectural design portfolio. You were wincing in pain, moreso by the second, when he inquired about the location of your meeting downtown. He said it was near the Daily Planet and he’d be happy to get you there. You didn’t want to be a burden but the concern lingering in his blue eyes made you relent. He typed his number into your phone when he dropped you off and said if you needed him for anything, even a ride home, he’d be there. Something in those bright blue eyes and intonation seemed so familiar. Had you been more alert, you’d have been shocked by how easy it was to trust this good natured puppy of a man.

You never called him for that ride home; you were embarrassed that he saw you in such miserable shape when he appeared to be in pretty top physical shape himself. Over the next few weeks, you passed by each other in the coffee shop, exchanging “good morning” greetings. Beyond that, you never spoke or saw each other again.

Now in the solitude of your misery, you thumbed through your phone and found his number. He did say anything. And if he wasn’t awake, he’d get the message too late in the morning and you’d make an excuse about meaning to text someone else.

Hurting. Miserable. Advice?

You didn’t need advice. You’d lived with this most of your life and tried every drug, vitamin, tea, diet change and yoga position. Just shy of a lobotomy, nothing worked. You just didn’t want to be alone, trapped, in pain.

Tossing your phone on the bed, you dug your nails into your scalp attempting to create pain elsewhere that might distract from the torture in your face and behind your eye. You didn’t expect your phone to buzz immediately.

I’m so sorry to hear you’re struggling. I could come over in a few with a cold drink. Have you eaten? Best, CK

Squinting at the dim light on your phone you thought a long moment, pressing your dry lips together. You’d thrown up hours ago and a cold drink did sound nice.

Not lately. Sprite pls? Ty ty

Writhing in bed, you just could not find a position that made the overwhelming pain feel any better. You resorted to letting yourself whimper desperate cries with every exhale. Pathetic.

Of course. I’ll be right there. Do you need anything else? Best, CK

You did your best to roll over and crawl out of bed. If you had company coming, you needed to at least brush your teeth and pull back your hair. Stumbling to the bathroom in the dark, you leaned heavily on the door frame. The pain screamed through your head; every nerve across your face set ablaze like a searing electrical fire.

Well beyond the point of thinking clearly, your nails dug into your scalp, clawing, desperate, and you sunk down to the cool tile floor and curled up there, unable to process anything other than the primal urge to soak up the numbing cold.

He didn’t bother with the guise and formality of knocking at your front door. Pushing it open as if it’d not been bolted, he dropped the bag from the store at the door and rounded the corner to the bathroom. Not yet completely used to the sound of your voice, he’d heard something like the whimpers of a mortally wounded animal from blocks away.

He found you curled up, in the bathroom, passed out. Kneeling, his brow furrowed deeply with concern and he squeezed your wrist, calling your name. He tapped your shoulder but nothing came of it. You were limp as a rag doll and your skin glistened with a thin film of slippery sweat. You managed to get one arm pulled out of your tank top off before you collapsed entirely, so the damp fabric draped partly around your neck like a scarf.

He pulled away strands of hair clinging to your face. “Y/n, come on. Wake up. It’s me. Clark, remember?”

His brow furrowed further still and jaw tensed from clenching his teeth. Sliding a forearm under your legs, he turned and lifted you gently, letting your head fall against his shoulder as he scooped you up effortlessly and took you back to the bed where your sheets had been balled up and nearly torn off completely.

‘What kind of torture chamber is this?’ he thought to himself.

Lying you out as carefully as a feather on a silken pillow, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your arm back through your shirt. His long fingers slid under your neck and thumbed the base of your skull. He could hear the woosh of blood pounding through constricted vessels and the scent of adrenaline on your skin.

Your expression sharpened when he thumbed down the back of your neck, right to the rigid muscle at the top of your shoulder. Pressing his thumb into it, the stubborn muscle almost immediately gave up. A tiny whine escaped your lips which he took as positive sign so he touched the other side, getting it to release, too.

Your eyes winced open. Even in the dark, it was too bright. “C-Clark?” You croaked. “I’m so sorry I -“

An anxious smile only slightly distracted from the gnawing pain.

“It’s okay,” he interrupted. His gaze was so kind despite the worry in those large blue pools. “How are you feeling?”

“I think I’m dying,” you quipped humorlessly.

He huffed a slight chuckle. “My mom used to get migraines, especially during tornado season, so I sort of know a few tricks. May I?”

“Please,” you ached wearily. Shrugging out of his jacket, he put up a finger to indicate he’d be right back, even though you couldn’t see it through the blur. Stalking to the front door, he returned a moment later with a blue bag that he set beside the bed.

He sat on the edge again and untwisted the green bottle of Sprite, and slid it into your shaky hand. Helping you sit up, he blew lightly over two of his fingers while you sipped. Whisper gently he stroked his frozen fingers over your forehead. Your eyes squeezed shut and you cooed softly, setting the bottle down between your legs. Silently, you leaned into his touch in relief as the pain tidal wave began to ebb. A slight smile creased the corners of his eyes seeing the tension melting from your expression. He blew on his other hand and ran two sets of fingers down your temples and then between your eyebrows, sweeping lightly over your sinuses.

Your lips parted and you moaned out loud. He didn’t jump but definitely glanced down at your hand pawing at his thigh, wordlessly expressing the relief and gratitude you felt.

“Real lightning storm in there, huh?” he asked just above a whisper.

You hummed letting your fingertips spread against his thigh.

“May I take down your hair?” he asked gently, blowing over both sets of fingertips again.

You nodded, completely giving yourself over to being touched. You didn’t care how - you only knew he was making it so much better and in the crushing despair, you craved the comforting.

Smoothing both palms up the back of your neck to the fallen bun atop your head, he loosened the band and slid the elastic around his wrist, easing your hair down with his splayed fingers. He frowned harshly, circling over the crescent shaped indentations along your scalp. There was desperation under his fingertips and it made his stomach tighten up.

Lost in the sensation, your body rocked forward until your forehead touched his shoulder. This was much too intimate, to be held and caressed in your own bed by someone you’d only really talked to once. “I… I’m... sorry...”

He side eyed you from behind his glasses when you palmed his chest lazily intending to push yourself away but made absolutely no effort to do so.

“It’s fine. Really. Is this helping at all?”

Humming in the affirmative, you squished your cheek against his pec and sighed deeply, feeling tension in your back draining away while his broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades. Carefully lowering you back into bed, he pulled the covers up.

“Try to sleep, okay? I’ll just be on the couch,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb against your shoulder. Comfortable again, you’d already fallen back to sleep before your body even touched the bed.

*

Stumbling out of bed about 2am with a blanket wrapped around yourself, you headed to the kitchen. Your stomach was rumbling but what to make that required as little energy as possible?

“Banana? Banana.” You said to yourself out loud tugging on the not quite ripe bunch on the counter.

“Need help?”

You yelped, dropping the bananas on the floor with several thumps. He stood in the doorway with a fading grin.

“I thought I was alone,” you said hoarsely. “Thought you were a… fever dream or something.”

“Nope, I’m very real,” he explained, bending to scoop up the mess of fruit at your feet and blow on a couple fingers.

Straightening up, he put the bananas back on the counter. It made him smile slightly to see you blush and go wide eyed when he closed the distance between you.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently, searching your eyes, sweeping his cool fingertips over your forehead. You blinked slowly, not entirely aware you were letting out the softest purr but he definitely heard it. He smiled down at you as he caressed over your face.

“I’m… okay,” you sighed dreamily after several long moments. “Hungry though.”

“Let me make you something,” he appealed, thumbing slow circles into the back of your neck only after you dropped your head and pointed. He chuckled and listened; that heartbeat wasn’t thumping quite as hard in your head anymore.

“Probably something light to start. Toast and fruit? You seem to be craving bananas.”

“Thank you, Clark,” you sighed, peeking up at him through your fallen hair.

“‘Course,” he shrugged it off with an easy smile. He seemed to have plenty of those to offer. “Now you go curl up on the couch. Didn’t know how long I’d be here for so I loaded up 76 on your xBox. Without the DLCs it’s absolute trash, though. If it’s done you’re welcome to take it for a test drive while I get some snacks ready.”

The tableside lamp cast a warm glow which you settled under, drawing your blanket up closer. The comforting scent of melted butter scraped over toasted bread wafted in from the kitchen. It made you smile and close your eyes listening to him humming to himself as he worked. Just as he sat down with the tray in both hands, the xBox restarted and he grinned at you.

“Perfect timing! Peppermint tea?”

Collecting your cup from the tray, you sat back against your end of the couch and wrapped both hands around it, inhaling the tingly minty scent and sighed. He’d traded the tray with teas and toast and - wait, where did he find a single pink tulip? - for the console controller. He was all grins loading the game up, adjusting his glasses.

“See? This is already SO much better,” he said with mock annoyance, motioning with his hand at the big screen opposite the couch. “Looks like Bethesda finally got their shi- What are you doing?”

He arched a playful eyebrow at you. It was so unlike you but you actually started to giggle. The sound, the crackle sensation in the back of your throat and chest, felt foreign.

“Nothing,” you cooed softly, drawing your cold toes back from where you’d been trying to wiggle them under his thigh for warmth. You sipped your tea.

“Mhmm,” he hummed, the very slightest of smirks lifting the corner of his lips. His gaze returned to the game and he thumbed over the controller quickly.

Wordlessly, he lifted his thigh and sighed, feigning exasperation. You let out an excited squeak, sliding your feet under his thigh which he then rested down over you, making you sigh.

Without looking over, he took one hand off the controller and tucked your blanket over your ankles. “There now. Better?”

“Mmhmmmm,” you cooed, putting your tea down on your chest as you slid down on the couch into the pillows.

“Anyone ever told you that you may be part cat?”

“Mm?”

“Mm like the cats and kittens we had on the farm back home. They love scritches behind the ears, seek out warm places to take naps, seem to climb all over ME for some reason.”

You lifted your head as he exchanged your tea for toast. You nibbled on the corner and couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe it’s because you keep feeding them.”

He chuckled and paused the game, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “Could be. Somebody’s got to look after them, though.”

“Might as well be you, hm?” You didn’t mean for it to come out as sharply as it did.

His smile started to fade a bit and a furrow creased his brow. “Might be. Might be somebody else. It’s only a problem if they think they’re not worth the attention.”

It made your cheeks burn and chest feel all fluttery. Was this flirting? You couldn’t remember. “Clark?”

“Mhm.”

“We’re still talking about cats, right?”

A sly smirk lifted his features as he collected the controller in both hands again. “You. I like you,” he husked, giving you a side eyed glance.

“And cats.”

“More of a dog guy if I’m honest.”

“Wait… WHAT are we talking about then?”

He tossed his head back and chuckled. “Eat your toast, Tiger.”

#henry cavill #henrycavill #clark kent #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fluff #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill comfort

[thegizka]

Our Time

Writer’s Month 2020 Day 4:  Long Distance Relationship

Byleth believes in the future that she and Claude are working towards, but serious news from over the border could mean they have less time to create that future than they thought.

Read it on Ao3.

Note: I do not own any aspect of Fire Emblem: Three Houses.

Byleth had only been to Almyra twice before, both times travelling only an hour over the border late at night.  She couldn’t venture very far because she wasn’t welcome, and peace wasn’t yet secure enough for an extended trip out of Fodlan.  It was much easier for a roaming prince to cross the border when he would be welcomed by many as a friend.  He never stayed long enough to socialize, though.  If word got back to Almyra, he would lose what hard-earned trust from his people that he had.

“The timing is terrible,” Lorenz said when she asked him to hold down the fort for a few days.  “Claude never did cultivate that noble quality of considering others’ schedules.”

“It’s not like he asked to nearly die on the battlefield,” Hilda snapped.  Byleth knew she was worried because she hadn’t complained about the extra work she’d have to do in her leader’s absence.  She had also nursed her brother through his more serious battle wounds.  She knew how bad it could be.

“Do you think the report is accurate?” Marianne asked.  “Could he really be dying?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Byleth said.

“May the Goddess protect him,” she prayed.

Lorenz, Hilda, and Marianne were the only ones she told before leaving.  The fewer people who knew about her absence, the less likely it was that one of the disgruntled lords would try to seize power.  She also doubted her opposition would look kindly on her rushing to the aid of an enemy prince.  Neither Fodlan nor Almyra was favorably disposed to their union.

Byleth didn’t usually mind waiting, and experience had taught her that peace and unity took time and effort.  She had time, and Claude had a plan.  Eventually they would have the future that they both wanted.  She only wished this phase of the plan wouldn’t keep them so far apart.

She had known there would be a battle.  The Gonerils had informants just over the border, and Hilda was quick to share anything they heard about Claude.  A band of dissenters had been marauding the coastline, sometimes dangerously close to Fodlan’s border.  The prince had summoned his warriors to confront them.  It sounded routine, well within his tactical capabilities.  No one expected the scoundrels to have set a trap or Claude to be seriously wounded, possibly fatally.  Suddenly they didn’t have as much time to chase their future as they’d thought.

Byleth covered the distance in a day and a half.  She didn’t grant herself the luxury of admiring the scenery like Ignatz would have.  Sometimes in the quiet moments they shared, away from the politics that kept them apart, she’d ask Claude to describe a place they would someday visit together.  She loved watching him as he used words to conjure images of places held in his memory.  She could see his love for his country in his eyes, and he was extremely secretive and protective of the things he loved.  That he trusted her with his memories meant a lot to her.  She was looking forward to visiting those places and making more memories with him.

Her destination was not one of those places.  From the exterior, it looked like a farmhouse with an accompanying barn.  The buildings were tucked into the shadow of a mountain.  Byleth knew the facade disguised an intricate network of tunnels and rooms that could be extensively defended should the need arise.  No one but Almyran royalty and their closest guards knew about it..

“If anything happens and Fodlan is no longer safe for you, go there,” he’d said.  “I’ll meet you there and we can come up with a plan to keep you safe.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Byleth reassured him.

“But if it does,” Claude insisted, “promise me you’ll go there.”

She wasn’t sure what had spooked him that day.  Perhaps the unrest in Almyra was growing, or he had heard the rumors that a band of Those Who Slither In The Dark had escaped and were plotting against her.  He usually didn’t let such things get to him, but everyone has his limits.

“I will,” she promised, and relief washed over his face.

“Thank you.”  He kissed her hand affectionately.

“And if you’re in serious danger, I’ll be able to find you there, right?” she asked.

“If I’m in serious danger, you shouldn’t come looking for me.”

“But I will.”  She took his face gently in her hands.  “I would scour every inch of this earth for you if I could be by your side for a single moment.  I will always come back to you.”

His eyes said a thousand true things, many of which she felt more than understood.  It was strange to feel so much when for most of her life she had felt very little.  Claude made her feel the most, and the experience was as wildly beautiful as he was.  She wished she could feel this way with him forever.

“If it’s serious, I will go to the farm,” he conceded.  “Just don’t come to me unless it’s an emergency.  Wait for me to send word.  I don’t want you falling into a trap.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He kissed her to seal the promise, then pulled her into a hug.  They held each other for a while, drinking in each other’s presence.  Byleth never realized how starved she was of him until they were together like this, at peace and in union.

“I wish I could bring you back with me,” he murmured, lips brushing her neck.

“I wish I could make you stay,” she sighed.

That had been two months ago.  Now she crouched in the brush a safe distance from the little farm.  She hadn’t waited for him to send word because she wasn’t sure he would.  If he thought it would be safer for her to stay away, he wouldn’t ask her to come, even though she knew he ached for her just as strongly as she did for him.  He had lived his life too carefully to start letting his emotions override his reason now.

The guards at the farm were good.  Disguised as farmers, they made frequent trips between the buildings under the guise of agricultural chores.  Byleth had spent enough time around warriors, though, to notice the telltale signs in their movement.  She knew they were keeping careful watch while they appeared to work.  That they were so active confirmed her suspicion that Claude had been brought here after the battle.  All she had to do was get inside and find him.

She waited until dusk.  It was terrible knowing he was so close and not being able to rush to his side.  Their relationship remained a secret to all but a handful of their most trusted friends, and it had to remain that way.  Claude knew firsthand how a mixed marriage could polarize people, and even though their love was enough to endure the backlash, their future union had to unite their lands as well.

Byleth chose the barn as her point of entry, slipping inside as the sunset stretched long shadows over the land.  The guards seemed less attentive to this building, and it was evident why as soon as she entered.  The smell of wyvern cut through the dusty scent of hay and timber.  She felt nearly a dozen pairs of reptilian eyes bore into her as her vision adjusted to the low light.  Wyvern were fiercely loyal and sometimes dangerously territorial.  Walking into  one’s den was a sure way to get into trouble.

Despite this, she moved forward with minimal trepidation.  She had fought beside most of these creatures when Claude had brought his Wyvern Corps to Fodlan to stop Edelgard.  They recognized her as an ally, and several rumbled a low greeting as she passed, patting snouts and scratching behind their frills to reassure them.  Byleth noticed fresh scars and wounds plastered with pungent salves, signs of the battles they’d fought and their most recent skirmish.  It must have been a tough fight because no beast remained unscathed.  That made her worry.  There could be more truth to the rumors than she had believed.

With growing concern, she made her way to the back of the barn.  The Wyvern Corps’ presence was irrefutable proof that Claude was here.  The warriors were as fiercely loyals as the beasts they rode and would stay by their prince’s side no matter what.  But she had noticed there was a wyvern missing, and it made her worry a great deal.

She almost missed the large stall at the back of the barn because she was so intent on finding a way further into the compound.  The rustle of hay and a chirp brought her to a stop.  Appearing like a ghost in the thin light, Claude’s wyvern lay on a bed of hay, eyes looking at her intently.  He chirped again, and she went to him.

“That’s his name for you,” Claude had said when she’d first heard those syllables back at Garreg Mach.  They had just finished a strategy meeting for their planned assault on Enbarr, and as was happening frequently these days, she had sought him out to hear his unfiltered opinions and take comfort in his presence.

“My name?” she asked, gently scratching the wyvern behind his frill.

“He only makes that sound for you.”  Claude grinned.  “He must like you a lot.  It’s much cuter than his name for me.”

“And what does your name sound like?”

He made a series of clicks and growls that sounded ridiculous coming from a human throat.  She laughed, and Claude grinned brightly.

“It’s rare to hear you laugh, my friend,” he observed.  “It’s a nice sound.”

A warm emotion stirred within her when she met his eyes, something new and exciting that she wouldn’t mind feeling again.  She turned her gaze away, choosing to focus on the wyvern instead so she could sort through this new sensation.  He simply chuckled behind her and let the comfortable silence draw about them.

“Sh,” she cooed as the beast chirped the now-familiar sequence again.  She could see why he was separated from the rest of the wyverns.  His chest was a criss-cross of scratches, one wing was bound in a splint, and a large gash traced nearly the entire length of his side.  It had been treated and bandaged, but the cloth was damp from leaking fluids.

“You’re looking a little rough,” she murmured, rubbing his chin reassuringly.  He bumped her with his nose. “I bet the enemy looks even worse, huh?”  She scratched the patch of his neck that she knew he liked and was rewarded with a rumbling purr.

Byleth was torn.  She wanted to continue on and find Claude, but his wyvern also needed care.  Could she wait a bit longer?

“I’ll be right back,” she promised, patting his cheek before stepping out of the stall.  With the state of his wounds, the healers ought to keep their medical supplies nearby for emergency treatment.  She ducked into a nearby storage room.  It was mostly empty save for a few cratesr.  She popped one open to find bottles and jars of ointment, pungent-smelling like the salves slathered on the other wyverns’ wounds.  The labels were in the flowing, angular script of Almyran.  She could read just enough to understand the general application of each.  Byleth grabbed a few that promised to disinfect and encourage fast healing.  She dug into another crate to find large bandages.

The wyvern chirped her name again when she returned.  She rubbed his neck reassuringly before going to his side.

“Easy boy,” she soothed as she peeled back the old dressing.  He rumbled uncomfortably as the deep gash met the cool air of the barn.  It was oozing pus, but the bleeding had stopped.  She gently cleaned it, murmuring reassuringly as she did.  She took one of the disinfectants and carefully spread it around the gash.

Stepping back, she took a deep breath.  Reaching within her to the part of her that had been touched by the Goddess, she summoned the energy and poured it forth.  The magic wove itself into nosferatu and pulled the exposed tissue together.  The wound was large, and she was tired from the journey.  She also selfishly wanted to conserve some magic in case Claude needed it.  The Almyran people didn’t have many magical healers and were suspicious of Fodlan’s magical traditions, so most wounds were left to heal naturally.  She accelerated the healing process until the gash was past the potential of danger before releasing the magic and letting the Goddess’s powers fall dormant within her.  She then reached into her own pack and pulled out a jar of ointment.  The wyvern turned and clicked at her as she started applying it to what was left of the wound.

“Do you like that?” she asked.  “Marianne has more experience with warmblooded animals, but she thought this might help if you were hurt.  She’s always thinking of our non-human allies.”

Byleth finished dressing the wound with clean bandages before tending to the wing.  She knit the bone back together but kept the splint in place to discourage activity until the surrounding muscle finished healing.

“There,” she sighed, rubbing the wyvern’s snout.  “That’s about all I can do for you right now.  I hope it helps.”

He exhaled against her stomach, making her chuckle while she scratched behind his frill.

“Well this is a surprise.”

If Byleth had had a heart, it would have jumped in momentary panic.  She turned around.  Claude leaned in the entrance, eyes wide with surprise.  Bandages covered his torso, and he leaned on one leg as though avoiding putting weight on the other.  But he was there, and he was alive.

She walked the short distance to him slowly.  His eyes were tired but vibrant as they studied her face.  His gaze softened when she reached him and gently wrapped him in a hug.

“It really is you,” he murmured.  “I thought I was dreaming for a moment.”

“I’m here,” she promised in a whisper.

“Why?”  He pulled back so he could look at her.  He gently brushed some hair from her face.  “Don’t get me wrong, I am unbelievably happy to see you, but why are you here?”

“I heard about the battle.  I was worried.”

He blinked in surprise.

“I sent word that I was fine.  Did it not reach you?”

“I left right away.  I wasn’t sure there was time to wait.”

“I know you worry, but you need to be careful, my love.”

“Sh,” she hushed, cradling his face gently.  “I am here now.  Let’s leave it at that.”

“Okay.”  He gently rested his forehead against hers.  “Okay.”

They stood in silence together practicing the art of being.  Once again, she felt how heavily his absence had weighed on her.  She never felt so whole as when she was with him.

The wyvern behind them clicked and growled Claude’s name.  He chuckled.

“Someone’s feeling a little left out.”

Byleth let him pull away and limp over to the creature.  He spoke to it in Almyran, murmuring in beautiful, lilting speech that she only partially understood.  She loved the cadence of his voice and watching him interact with his wyvern.  He was somehow less guarded, perhaps because he had grown up with this beast.  It was one of his closest friends, and it was nearly impossible for him to hide his affection.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, noticing the bandage along his side turning crimson.

“I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Should you even be out of bed?”

“Probably not.”

“Claude!”

“I’m fine,” he assured her, though he let her help him into a sitting position with his back resting against his wyvern’s side.  “I just thought this guy could use some company.”

The wyvern nosed his chest in concern.  Claude patted his nose to calm him.

“What happened?” Byleth asked as she carefully peeled back the soiled bandages.

“The luck of battle,” he grunted.  “It was not with me.  Some archers on the other side got in a few lucky shots instead.”

She counted three puncture wounds and half a dozen bruises.  It was amazing that he’d been able to stand, let alone walk to the barn.  He must be under immense pain.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promised, though it was hard to believe him.

Byleth was already manifesting the Goddess within her and weaving magic into nosferatu.  She poured her intention into her work, tenderly treating his wounds.  Muscle knit together and bruises faded.  She knew the energy was taking a physical toll, but she was determined to ease his pain as much as she could.  That was largely why she was here, after all.

“Don’t overdo it,” Claude cautioned, gently grabbing her wrist.  “I can afford to heal on my own a bit.”

She wanted to continue until the wounds had disappeared, but the reassurance in his eyes and her fatigue convinced her to let it be.  The magic faded, leaving the wounds red and tender but no longer bleeding.  She took a moment to catch her breath before reaching for some ointment and bandages.

He took her hands once she had dressed his wounds and kissed them tenderly.

“Thank you,” he murmured against her palms.  The hair of his beard tickled her fingertips.

“I haven’t even looked at your leg yet,” she chuckled, trying to pull her hands back.

“Leave it,” he said.  “It’s just a sprain, and you’re already exhausted.  You must have traveled nonstop to get here.  Rest while we still have some time together.”

He was right.  She’d have to leave in an hour to avoid detection and return to Fodlan.  Their stolen moments were never long enough.  Byleth settled into the hay and nestled against Claude’s uninjured side.  He took her hand and held it against his chest, kissing the crown of her head before resting his cheek against it.  She listened to the steady, reassuring beating of his heart.  She could have fallen asleep there wrapped warmly in his love, but she didn’t want to waste their precious seconds together.

“Claude?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Anything.  I just want to hear your voice.”

He chuckled, and she felt it vibrate in his chest.

“Alright then.  In two days, it will be the twentieth day of the Great Tree Moon.”

“Yes,” she grinned, thinking he was being silly and listing mundane facts.

“On that day nine years ago, Dimitri, Edelgard, and I got separated from our classmates during some evening training exercises and were set upon by bandits.”

“I thought you snuck away from the others.”

“There was never enough evidence to prove that,” he chuckled.  “Regardless of how we got there, we were almost surely going to be captured or killed until a band of mercenaries led by the famed Captain Jeralt and the Ashen Demon routed the thugs and saved the future of Fodlan.”

“That was nine years ago?” she asked.  It felt more like three or four.  She’d lost five years to a coma.  Sometimes she wondered what might have been different if she had been awake to guide her students through the turmoil.

“It was.  Nine long years of fighting and bloodshed to create the future we believe in, and we still have a ways to go.  But on the twentieth day of the Great Tree Moon next year, I’m going to marry you.”

Byleth sat up quickly to see whether he was joking.  His eyes were earnest and soft, and they filled her with the conviction that he was making her a promise.

“Whether or not we’ve brought peace to Almyra and Fodlan, although I expect we will by then, we should get married.  I don’t care if it’s a tiny ceremony at Raphael’s inn with only the Golden Deer around to witness it.  The only future I want is one where we’re together.  What do you say?”

She felt emotions stir within her that were too big to name.  They spread through her body and swelled in her throat until she wasn’t sure she could speak.  But what could she say?  Claude had already spoken her desires for her.

“You’re crying.”  His eyes went wide in surprise, and a touch of fear passed through them.  Byleth reached up to her cheeks and felt their dampness.  She laughed in surprise.

“I’ve never been this happy before.”

Claude chuckled with relief as he wiped the tears away.

“You had me worried for a moment.”  He held her face, thumbs rubbing her cheeks gently as he grinned.  “I take it this scheme sounds good to you?”

“Yes,” she beamed.  “I think it’s a winning strategy.”

His grin grew wider as he kissed her.  She kissed him back, sealing their new promise.  Somehow the future they wanted seemed much closer than it had this morning.  One year.  They just had to get through one more year.  Then they’d have all the time in the world together.

#writersmonth2020 #day 4 #long distance relationship #my words #claudeleth #claude von riegen #byleth eisner #fem!byleth #fire emblem #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #golden deer #lorenz hellman gloucester #hilda valentine goneril #marianne von edmund #hurt/comfort

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Trust

Masterlist here

Characters: Tom Hiddleston and Female Novelist Reader

Summary: Finding just the right actor to star in the movie based on your book wasn't an easy process. And then Tom Hiddleston walked into the room, and he may solve more than just your casting concerns.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption

Word Count: 4.2k (whoops)

A/N: This is based off a request given to me by @yespolkadotkitty! I apologize that I haven’t posted in a long while and that this took a minute to get out, but I hope you enjoy it! ALSO. I know nothing about the film industry. Please ignore what I’m sure are several errors concerning that topic.

“Next!”

“He was really good. You sure you didn’t like him?”

You closed your eyes and dropped your forehead onto your hand supported by your elbow on the folding table in front of you. When you had been contacted by your agent that a studio wanted to turn your best-selling novel into a movie, it felt like a dream come true. A whirlwind of paid flights, lunch meetings, negotiations, and signed contracts led you to your spot next to the casting director, several producers, and director for the movie. You were lucky that they were taking your opinion into consideration at all, and you didn’t want to create waves, but there hadn’t been a man reading for the main role yet that felt right.

From several one-note actors to a few who were way off the mark to those who showed up completely unprepared, nobody had made you feel the gripping tension of the troubled but earnest character of Joshua Collins, the struggling artist and male half of your romantic tale.

“Hello, my name is Tom Hiddleston, and I’d like to audition for the role of Joshua Collins.”

That voice. Sophistication roughened with the barest hint of anxiety and smoothed out by a full baritone that dripped honey. Your head popped up from your hand to take in the sheepishly grinning man in front of you. He was tall, so tall that it took an eternity for your eyes to drag from the worn boots on his feet, up the slim legs expertly encased in blue slacks, over the broad chest that strained at the thin fabric of his light blue button-up shirt, to a face that had to have been sculpted by the finest craftsmen with planes and shadows to highlight his arresting stare.

The lines that he read through with a producer’s assistant sounded as if they came straight from your creative imaginings. He was Joshua. The ability he had to convey such emotion with the tilt of his head, the press of his lips, or even the very act of taking a breath to sustain his speech was enough to render you utterly transfixed. Even the silence that fell over the room as he gathered his thoughts for a response had you tense and gripping your pen until your knuckles lightened as you waited with bated breath for a reply you had memorized before he’d strolled in. But with him it was new, organic, somehow spontaneous and heartfelt and so true it resonated deep in your bones.

And then he stood from the chair he had fallen into with an easy, relieved smile on his face as he smoothed his hand down the front of his shirt. “Thank you all for sharing your time with me today. And, if I may,” he shifted his attention from the studio bigwigs to you, “I absolutely adored the raw humanity in your novel. I hope that I can bring it to life for you.”

The sound of the door closing seemed to break the spell that had fallen over the room. You shared a knowing look first with the casting director and then the director herself.

“Joe, please tell those remaining that auditions have been canceled,” Sam smiled, scribbling something in her portfolio in front of her. “We have our man.”

~

Had you picked up all of the loose bits of trash scattered around your room? Sure, the staff had cleaned that morning, but that didn’t mean that you hadn’t found some way to dirty it since then. Would bottled water be okay? Maybe he preferred coffee. Hotel coffee wasn’t ever the greatest, but it would do in a pinch. Right? And should you have put on nicer clothes? Maybe-

A light, rhythmic knock sounded on your door, stopping your anxious thoughts and making you freeze from where you were bent over making sure the hem of your jeans wasn’t rolled over.

Another knock, and you quickly righted yourself, running your hand over your hair to tame any flyaways as you scurried to the door. Tom stood on the other side, holding two beers in one hand and a thick leather folio in the other.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me before rehearsals begin. May I come in?”

As if anyone would turn down Tom Hiddleston, especially when he came bearing beer. You stepped to the side, allowing him to pass by, leaving behind the very masculine scent of bergamot and citrus in the air that stirred between you. “Of course. You look like you’re ready to attend a class or something.”

He placed everything down on the tiny table meant to be a desk before turning to you with a small smile. His large hands rubbed against his jeans on the outside of his thighs. “Admittedly, I am a bit of a fan of your writing. An avid fan, actually. I was hoping that you wouldn’t mind too terribly if we discussed the book? I want to ensure I fully bring this character to life as you so masterfully wrote it.”

Color you shocked. Sure, you had received plenty of praise for your book throughout this process, the paycheck was evidence enough that it was liked, but to have someone that you personally admired for their own set of talents compliment it was another thing entirely. Working to school your face so that your excitement didn’t show, you grabbed the beer he opened and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ask away, Mr. Hiddleston.”

Draping his long and lithe form into the faded desk chair, he opened his folio and uncapped a pen that looked more expensive than the entirety of your outfit. “Tom, please. We will be working closely together, and we are neighbors in this hotel as well. Formalities are not necessary.”

“Okay,” you nodded and took a swig of liquid courage. “Tom, what would you like to know?”

Questions and answered flowed easily after a few stuttering moments on both sides of the conversation. You were only struck dumb once or twice from the intensity of his thoughtful stare, and you found yourself both grateful and saddened when it would leave you to focus on the copious notes he scribbled down in the folio on his thigh. You’d never felt so heard as to when he watched you ramble on about plot points and motivation and character development, with his hand rasping against the five o’clock shadow that darkened his razor-sharp jawline and his brows furrowed.

Only when you stifled a yawn behind your hand did he seem to pull himself from the focused notes he had been taking after you explained a more difficult aspect of Joshua’s past. He glanced at the leather-strapped watch on his arm, frowning. “I do believe that I have kept you up far too late. I apologize. I should be going so that you may rest for overseeing rehearsals tomorrow. You will be there, correct?”

“I think so, yeah. Unless I’m needed for consultation on a last-minute script change, I think that’s where I’m supposed to be. I’m not really sure how all of this works,” you admitted with a light laugh.

He walked with you to the door after tossing both his and your bottles in the trash and gathering his things that had spread out over the desk. “If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. I know how overwhelming all of this can be. Until then, I very much look forward to seeing you. Goodnight.”

The clasp of his hand on your shoulder was heavy, stretching across your skin with a pleasant warmth that you wanted to curl into and bask in forever. You reached up and patted his hand gently before opening the door. “Goodnight.”

Sure enough, when you watched him head back to his room in the hotel meant to house you for the entirety of the filming project, he disappeared into the room directly next to yours.

The faint scent of his cologne lingered on your clothing as you ducked back into your room to prepare yourself as best as you could for the unknown journey ahead.

~

In all your days, you’d never met someone as motivated and driven as Tom. When he wasn’t rehearsing, he was exercising, or building comradery between the cast and crew that he would be spending the next year with, or even, to your astonishment, spending time with you.

It had begun under the guise of him delving deep into his character with you over beers and room service. Then it had switched to other books in your catalog, and then, when you had begged off any serious thinking because you’d spent all day arguing with the writers, it changed into something more personal.

You walked onto set holding two travel tumblers precariously with one arm and your overstuffed binder in the other. A meeting with your agent that morning discussing the press tour preceding the premiere of the movie had gone on longer than expected, and you couldn’t wait to sit down and just watch Tom and the cast act out the inner workings of your imagination over the coffee you clutched. The idea of going for so many interviews and appearances weighed heavily on you. To be the object of so much attention wasn’t why you had gone into writing.

But, perhaps this was.

Tom looked quite frustrated as he talked to Sam, the director, in the middle of the set, about a pivotal point in the film where he admits his love to the female lead (who does not feel the same), and he barely glanced your way as you settled in. His hands flew in front of him with every gesture, fingers spread wide and then clenched tightly into fists at his side. Some conclusion must have been reached because Sam came back to her spot behind the monitors and Tom got into place.

It was obvious to everyone that something was off. You especially, as the dialogue didn’t fit what you had written with the screenwriters for the scene. After the cameras stopped rolling so Sam could talk to Tom once again, whose performance had been stilted and unnatural, you turned to your assistant with a frown heavily etched into your skin. “Was there a rewrite?”

She didn’t even look up from the email she was typing away on her phone. “Yes, ma’am. Just given to everyone this morning. I sent it to your email.”

Groaning quietly, you slipped your coffee and belongings into pockets on the sides of your chair and stood up, holding Tom’s tea in your hand. When you caught his eye you raised it in the air and he nodded. He could come get a drink from it when he had a moment.

That moment came much faster than you expected. He held up one finger to Sam, and you barely caught him plead, “Let me take a drink before we run it again,” before he jogged over to you.

“What’s going on?” you asked, offering him the steaming tea and crossing your arms over your stomach.

He took a deep drink and sighed, closing his eyes to savor the flavor and moment of peace before opening them to look wearily down at you. Irritation lived in the lines between his brows and in the press of his lips together. “The rewrites simply don’t feel like Joshua. I don’t feel as if they line up with his motivations. I-” he sighed heavily, dropping his chin to his chest and putting his free hand on his hip.

You stepped closer to him so that he was forced to meet the determined set of your eyes. Of its own accord, your hand reached out and grasped his. He returned the tight grip and your heart squeezed right along with it. Not the time.

“You know him. You’ve brought him to life and fleshed him out into a fuller being than my words ever did. I-”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re immensely talented,” he interjected.

“I’m not. I’m praising your talent. I’ll go fight Sam if I have to, to just get one take like it was written before they changed it. That’s all I can probably get you. Can you do it?”

He took a bracing sip of his tea before handing the travel mug back to you. Gratitude reflected in the stormy blue of his eyes. “I can. Thank you.”

And then he jogged off back to the set, speaking quietly with the female lead, Mary, about the plan. Which left you to face Sam, hopefully, to throw around what little bit of weight you had. In all honesty, she could put a stopper on the whole situation and force Tom to follow the rewrites. But he was watching you with such hope and support that it bolstered your confidence enough to set down his drink and go over to her.

“What’s going on?”

Sam was a fierce woman, having clawed her way up through the ranks to get her position, and it was easy to want to cower under the steel of her stare. Taking a deep breath, you held out your hands at your sides. “The rewrites aren’t working, Sam. He knows it, Mary knows it, and I know it. Can we just try it the way it was written before? Even if it doesn’t work like we hope, then he’ll have gotten it out of his system and we can move on with shooting.”

She studied you, pinning you to the spot as you tried desperately not to fidget while waiting for her verdict. She maintained eye contact when she shouted to the remarkably silent cast and crew, “One take with the old lines and blocking.”

The knowledge that your reputation was very much on this decision weighed heavily on your shoulders as you nodded your thanks before heading back to your chair. Getting situated, you cradled your coffee in your hands and inhaled the calming aroma as you watched everyone scurry around to get ready for the slight change in blocking and places.

And then action was called, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as Tom’s heart was broken and shattered into a million pieces at Mary’s rejection. The anguish he expressed through ragged breaths and glistening eyes was enough to make you want to run from your place and gather him into the safety of your arms in a futile attempt to put him back together. The scene went on naturally after it was meant to finish, Sam not calling cut, and he collapsed into a heap on his knees and ripped the sketchbook before him to shreds before letting out a scream of pain that would haunt you for the rest of your days.

“Cut.”

An intern ran onto the set and handed Tom several tissues, which he took with a watery smile. Every muscle in your body tensed as you waited for Sam’s reaction.

“Reset. Tom, take a moment and collect yourself. Frank, make sure that you’re tighter on his face right after she turns him down. Lisa, good idea on the sketchbook. Get the rest that you have. Good work, people.”

Tom stood up and was instantly surrounded by hair and makeup to fix the mess that he’d made of himself with his heartfelt performance. But, over their bobbing heads, he managed to look at you and mouth, “Thank you.”

The happiness and relief that soared through your veins were more exhilarating than coffee would ever be.

~

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your fingers stilled over your laptop, the words of your latest piece of fiction ceasing in your head at the peculiar sound. Did someone just knock on your wall? Surely the sounds of your quiet music weren’t too loud.

Knock. Knock.

Hesitantly, you twisted in your bed, pressing your ear to the thin beige wall, and rapped against it three times. When there wasn’t an answering knock, you turned around and pressed your back against your pile of pillows to continue tapping away at what you hoped could possibly be another movie brought to life.

And then the same steady knocks sounded on the door to your hotel room. Confused, you closed your laptop and set it to the side, padding to the door in your pajamas. You opened the door with a confused frown to see Tom standing on the other side, holding a covered tray from room service, exhaustion living in the slump of his shoulders and pull on the corners of his mouth.

“On occasion, I find it hard to wind down after filming. Since you’re awake, I was hoping we could share this piece of chocolate cake and chat a bit?”

Suddenly very shy at your mismatched pajamas and air-dried hair from your shower, you blushed, waving him inside. “How can I turn down cake?”

You closed the door behind him and sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening that you had remembered to pick up your dirty clothes from earlier in the day. Turning around, you found Tom sitting cross-legged on the bed, chocolate crumbs on his lips that you longed to clean with your own. “Were you writing? I can leave. I don’t want to disturb you?”

“Nonsense. The ideas are in my notes. I can always make time for you, especially if you ply me with sweets.” You crawled onto the bed next to him and snagged the fork from his hand, taking a bite. “You sure know a way to a girl’s heart.”

His face softened as he nudged your knee with his. “You think very highly of me. On that note, thank you, today, for believing in me.”

“Of course. You are the most talented man I’ve ever met. I trust your gut.”

The rest of the cake was eaten in relative silence, your eyes chasing each other in fleeting glances that had your heart racing in your chest. There was something much more intimate about sharing a dessert in your pajamas, on your bed, than your other late-night meetings in your room. Was it the electric brush of his fingers over yours when you passed the fork to him, or the knowledge that your lips were touching where his had only moments ago? Would he taste like the rich dessert you shared?

Yearning for the charismatic man had grown in you since that first meeting at his audition. How could it not? He was kind, seeking to meet and know every person he interacted with on set. You were not the exception, as your late-night meetings had proved. His intelligence knew no bounds, and you had put it to the test with rousing discussions from everything to literature to current events to Shakespeare to politics. And the fondness that you caught in his gaze from time to time set a warmth alight in your bones that you wanted to live in for the rest of your days. Every brush of his body against yours had you aware of the heat he left behind for hours, and you had long ago imprinted the feeling of his lips upon your cheek in a quick greeting kiss into your memory.

You must have been staring during your descent into your hopelessly pining thoughts, as he was watching you closely with an eyebrow quirked in silent question, when you pulled yourself from your reverie.

“Sorry,” you shook your head, blinking the madness of your wishes away. “Long day. What’d you say?”

“I said that you have a bit of chocolate on your face. Would you like me to get it for you?” he asked quietly.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His thumb brushed against your cheek, sending the smallest shiver down your spine, before he pulled the digit into his mouth. The silence that stretched beneath his darkened gaze held you frozen to the spot. Your face burned where he had fleetingly touched you.

“Were it not for professionalism…” he murmured, a hint of anguish in his voice as his eyes traveled down your face to settle on your parted lips.

How was it possible that you felt like a schoolgirl again? Your heart hammered in your chest so loudly that it seemed impossible to take a deep enough breath to stop your head from spinning. You shifted on the bed, closer to him, peering up at him through your lashes. “You’d?”

He sighed and scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck before lighting it on your face. Holding you still, he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your cheek in a lingering kiss that had your stomach clench in anticipation. Your hands dug into the scratchy duvet beneath you to keep from resting on his abdomen to see if he had the same reaction to the tension that stretched between you like a livewire.

He left one more kiss on your temple, breathing you in and stroking your jawline with his thumb, before pulling away and standing up from the bed with a groan. “You are temptation personified. It would be an injustice to us both if any romantic notions got in the way of your brilliant storytelling. After, though…”

The promise in his lowered voice and the inferno of his eyes was enough to temporarily sate you as you watched him walk out of the door with a shake of his head. Writing for that evening was out of the question as you fell asleep with the remnants of his touch warm on your skin and his cologne perfuming your sheets.

~

“Did you hear the news?”

You turned from where you were scrolling through your phone at the filming wrap party, perking up at the liquid velvet voice that broke through the terrible house music Sam had requested from the DJ. Tom leaned his shoulder against the very wall that currently propped you up, his head tilted to the side in a way that had your belly fluttering like mad.

“News?”

His hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blazer. “We’ll be on the press tour together, for the movie. The studio wanted someone paired up with you that had a bit more experience with such matters, and I volunteered. I guess you aren’t rid of me yet.”

“As if I’d want such a thing,” you admitted with a quiet laugh. Any anxieties that you'd had about making an idiot of yourself for the worldwide press tour were now replaced with doing the very same, but perhaps now you'd be caught ogling Tom while he waxed on about the movie. Or perhaps you'd simply go mad spending so much time with him in close quarters while jet setting across the globe. Was there time for romantic interludes when you were answering the same twenty questions in twenty different countries?

He stood up straight and offered his arm with a cheeky grin, “At the risk of removing the woman of the hour from the party, would you accompany me outside for a bit of fresh air?”

The mischief that twinkled in his eyes was impossible to ignore. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Says the leading man of the movie and an actual ray of sunshine. Lead on.”

The bar that they’d rented for the evening opened out onto a busy street that replaced the booming music with honking horns and bustling crowds hurrying home. His arm fell to hang at his side, and he caught your hand with his and laced your fingers together before pulling you behind a bit of greenery out front that hid you from prying eyes both inside and outside.

“Along with attending the press tour with you, I was hoping I could accompany you to the premiere?” he asked, leaned against the roughened brick wall behind him, tugging you closer until you stood in between his spread legs. The chilled wind was most unwelcome at your back, but the warmth of the man in front of you was more than enough to make the stolen privacy comfortable.

Your free hand picked a bit of lint from his crimson sweater before stilling, connected to his ribs by just your pointer finger and thumb, drawn into his heat with the bite of the winter air through your thin party dress. “You know what they’ll say.”

Tom was an incredibly private man, and it might create more talk than he’d want to deal with to show up with a date. You’d love more than anything to spend the evening on his arm, basking in his charismatic glow, but not if it caused him any headache or heartache.

His breath, scented with bittersweet alcohol, fanned across your face as his hand settled onto your hip. That simple touch branded your goose-bump covered skin and had you leaned into him until you had to crane your head backward to meet his tender stare. “That I was chivalrous in escorting the novelist who allowed me the opportunity to embody her treasured characters? That it was very thoughtful of me to ensure that you didn’t feel tossed to the sharks for your first red carpet event?”

With just the drop of his chin, his forehead leaned against yours. “Say yes?”

The nudge of his nose along yours, the rub of his thumb over the thin skin on the back of your hand, the push of his leanly muscled chest against yours with every breath, gave you enough courage to close your eyes and touch your lips to his in the kiss that had been denied you months ago. He groaned softly into your parted lips, releasing his hold on you to press his hands over the curve of your backside so you were flush against him. Fire scorched at your insides from the tease of his tongue and you tumbled headfirst into the passion that he finally stoked to life after it had been smoldering between you for so very long.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly against his jaw, pulling away to draw air into your tortured lungs, kneading your fingers gently over his rapidly beating heart.

Leaning against him, with his arms wrapped around you so that your face found a comfortable home in the smooth column of his throat, you closed your eyes and gave in to the enticing man that had caught your attention so very long ago. With Tom by your side, and perhaps even in your bed, you were safe in the knowledge that you wouldn’t have to navigate this new world alone.

~~

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[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Jack: Silenced II

           When he thought about rolling over to see Flynn making her bed, Jack smiled. Her muscular figure would be silhouetted by the rays of dawn coming through the window, a tan blur against the black obsidian of Camp Othrys.

She walked around in her underwear in the morning. Luke said it was invitation. Jack knew it wasn’t. It was a marker of tested trust, Flynn’s willingness to be vulnerable knowing that Jack wouldn’t make the first move or ogle her. At least, that’s what Prometheus said when Jack brought up his concerns.

But, when Jack rolled over, there was no Camp Othrys, no line of Flynn’s weapons against the wall. His electric bass guitars were gone, as were all of his sketches of the Orpheus Metal band posters. (They were terrible—Pax had made better ones.)

A harp and loom lingered against one cavernous wall. There was a built-in fireplace roaring, providing some respite to the chilly air. The ceiling was crystalline, reflecting purple, emerald, and blue against the white bedding. Someone else’s bedding. It smelled like someone else.

Jack sat up, shoving the feather pillow away. He clutched at his hair, finding that someone must have trimmed it. He choked at the gap in his memory.

They had fought the Romans—an aerial attack against the Princess Andromeda. Jack was snatched by an eagle. Screams. Flynn’s roar of fury. He remembered falling in the water…

The clothing he wore was white, baggy, and cotton, too much like his hospital garb from the first time Steve, his step dad, institutionalized him. This prank has gone too far, Steve had said, angry Jack would dare scare Ashton and Shelby by claiming the walls were screaming. Jack’s skinny jeans and band shirt were gone. What if all of it had been a hallucination: Camp Othrys, the Princess Andromeda, the monsters, the gods.

Jack choked back a sob. This. This wasn’t the hospital. Jack dug his nails into his pockets, the material too thin and delicate to keep him from clawing his legs in a panic. No Mr. Sunny. His pillbox, and all of his medication, was gone. How much time did he have? He knew the withdraw symptoms: vomiting, hypersalivation, diarrhea, diaphoresis, insomnia, agitation, and rapid psychosis.

He had woken in a cold sweat, but a cold sweat didn’t always mean withdraws.

Rapid psychosis. Jack’s heartbeat thudded in his head. This felt real, but everything always felt real—that was the problem. There was a distant song—lovely and eerie, just abstract enough to question its authenticity.

His stomach churned with ignored hunger. A platter with tropical fruits, bread, and a mug of water lay beside him. Jack knew enough about mythology and fairy tales not to eat something unless you were directly invited and only if you knew that the owner of the food wasn’t a witch with powers to trap you eternally.

She must have undressed me. That girl with the caramel braid. Unease squeezed away any hunger: a stranger had taken off his boxers while he slept.

When Jack got to his feet, his legs trembled and his head pounded. He slipped a blanket around his shoulders. As he wandered towards the cave entrance, he passed a shelf filled with dried and drying plants that smelled of Alabaster’s laboratory. Several ancient tomes lined a desk beside it. One was open to a page illustrating human anatomy with words in… Minoan, if Jack had to guess. Some of the titans at Camp Othrys wrote in the dead language. Jack turned the page and flinched. There was an inked sketch of him, sleeping. He turned the page back.

Was it him? Or had his brain filled in the gaps?

It’s starting. Monsters. He was going to start to see and hear monsters again. Not the real ones. Not the friendly ones on his ship. Not the ones that came to his monster seminars about how demigods were friends, not food. Innocuous, innocent things would become sinister and comfort would lilt to paranoia.

         But there were no monsters outside the cave. Just her.

         The sun’s amber and coral hues broke against the ocean’s horizon, bleeding into the water and clouds to unite them into zigzagging, heavenly passageways. Crepuscular rays danced through their holes, making this girl’s hair glow as though one more constant in the coming of dawn. She stood, singing, at the edge of a beach. Her bare feet made lumps in the sand, compounding with each flush of the tide; if she forgot herself for long enough, the earth would reclaim her.

         Jack swallowed. In the oncoming lighting, he could see the silhouettes of flowers—so many flowers. There was a maze of roses, larkspur, delphinium, lilies, hollyhock, and sunflowers, all reaching towards the sky and curling about with a careless grace that looked both wild and tamed in their pattern. Some whisper cooed that these flowers didn’t belong together, making Jack fear they’d bow and bury him if he dared to walk through.

         But he needed to walk through to get to the beach, to follow the siren call. He hesitantly passed the first rose bush, expecting it to jump into Alice in Wonderland levels of criticism.

         “Jack!”

         The call made him jump away from the roses. After an exhale, he realized it was the girl, not chatty flora. He rushed past the rest of the flowers.

         “You’re already up,” she said when he reached her. The comment sounded more surprised than the disappointment he’d detected last time. Her white, sleeveless dress and braid fluttered in an ocean breeze. The effect made Jack’s blanket feel like an epic cloak.

         He gestured to his clothing and back towards the cave. “Thank you for the hospitality, Ms…” He trailed off, frowning. His throat felt worn. He’d have to do his warm up exercises. At least there was plenty of salt water to gargle. “How did you know my name?”

         “Ms?” she echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Oh,” she giggled, “You talk in your sleep.”

         Jack didn’t—or no one ever said he had before. Pax (and Axel under the guise of worrying over Pax) had slept in his room when they’d had particularly bad nightmares. That sounded like something Pax would abuse, even subconsciously, and would result in Flynn taping both their mouths shut.  Morpheus liked to keep a strict record of who talked in their sleep, so he could play with demigods that slept through Alabaster’s lectures.

         Jack swallowed. “Um, Ms., I hate to be a bother, but I had a pill box in my pocket—”

         “I disposed of it. I don’t allow plastics on my island and the contents had been soiled by the ocean.”

         Jack choked. That was the first gift Flynn gave Jack—the first time he realized all his ballads, poems, and offers to carry her books hadn’t just annoyed her. She and Phil had been teaching him to carry it on his own, a marker of independence that made him proud, even if Flynn double checked every hour to assure he hadn’t overdosed on anything. Most people didn’t trust him with important things, but she and Phil were entrusting him with that.

         “You won’t need them here. Ogygia itself can soothe you—”

         Trembles shook from Jack’s core to his fingertips. “Ogygia,” he whispered, taking a step backwards. The beautiful horizon tilted. His hair felt course as he tugged at it. “You’re—you’re Calypso the Seductress, detainer of men—”

         Before the words left his mouth, he turned to flee. The sand slipped under his bare feet. The blanket tumbled from his shoulders, disappearing with the sight of that horizon. Jack ran towards the retreating darkness of the island, away from the sunlight that sparkled in that glowing hair.

Others at camp found Homer and Hesiod’s work boring, but he’d put the Odyssey to proper music and knew most verses. He knew of this nymph-goddess.

Each step made Jack’s body feel leaden. His panic numbed with an encroaching exhaustion. He shouldn’t be this tired—he knew his body. He healed fast. This weakness—how could she—did she—?

Jack’s legs failed him while racing through the gardens. Rose canes loomed over him and curled around in a canopy of thorns. In their sharp and cloy embrace, consciousness hazed to nightmares.[1]

 ***

Pain pinched Jack’s cheek. He jerked away, expecting to see Pax with a super glue tube and fake mustache to make Jack “look more esteemed.” That prank had not gone well. Turns out, Flynn did not like Jack with a Western train-robber look and she did not like how the fake black hairs tickled when he nuzzled her.

Instead of Pax, he saw Calypso with a small bandage that she must have ripped off his face. There was a tiny, brownish-red scab on the other side.

Jack sat up and jerked back from her. They were back in the cavern, on the mattress made of white fluffiness. She had a basket of tiny bandages at her side.

“Calypso the—”

“Don’t.” She placed her hands on her hips, glaring. Considering how she knelt beside him, her regale stature was impressive. “I get messages from the gods, you know. They call you Jak-Jak the Scourge of New Rome, Jak-Jak the Plague Bringer, Jak-Jak the Corrupted Spawn of Apollo. Need I go one? Shall I assume you’re here to plague me? To give me cancerous sores? Shall I make assumptions of your person off hearsay, like you have done with me? How long ago did Homer and Hesiod write that libel about Odysseus?”

Her eyes watered.

Jack frowned. Had his name really traveled that far?

A tear streaked down her perfect cheek: a raindrop down the smoothness of a statue. Rumor had it that Pax could cry on command. What if she could too?

Or, what if she was a good Samaritan helping out, decried, like many women had been, by the histories written by men?

Jack exhaled, telling himself to relax. He tried counting, the way Axel told him to when he got confused. Axel would be furious at him for this kind of assumption, for upsetting a mythological creature based off hearsay. There were lots of fabled monsters at Camp Othrys that were friendly (when well fed. Jack had to make rules about demigods being in the dining hall during monster feed time).

“I—I’m sorry, Ms. Calypso,” he said, looking down at his hands. There were more little bandages tapped across his forearms. From a quick examination of his skin, the thorn pricks had already healed and scarred over. The base guitar chord was still braided in a bracelet around his wrist. He touched the scars there, finding ridges where he’d healed Lucille and Lou Ellen’s skin by peeling off his own. That new kid, Ethan Naka—something, had joked that Jack’s arms would start to match Flynn’s burned face. Jack gave him a case of chicken pox for that. No one was allowed to talk about Flynn’s face, except Flynn herself and their son, Pax. Pax, only because he was a sweet little munchin and the only person other than Jack that could make Flynn blush.

Calypso gently touched his chin. Jack didn’t flinch back this time. “It is alright.” And, she ripped off another bandage. Some hair came away with it, making Jack wince.

Everything seemed… clearer. Sharper than it had in years. His thoughts raced with a hyper clarity that scared him. “What else was wrong from the myth?” he asked, observing the cavern in a new light. The cool breeze that rustled the white curtains was refreshing, intermixing the gentle sweetness of flowers with the herbs in her cabinet. He frowned at the tomes there. Had he imagined the drawing of him?

She dabbed a cool, wet cloth against his stinging skin. Sadness lined her eyes. She hesitated. “I don’t know what you know of this place, brave one. The island is a phantom island, my imprisonment for helping my father in the first Titan War. Time does not have the same meaning here as it does elsewhere.”

Jack glanced past her, to the roaring fire in the wall’s inset fireplace. There was a pot over the flames, boiling furiously. He swallowed, despite her earlier assurance. “You’re not going to… eat me, are you?”

“Eat you, my sweet?” Her eyes seemed to dance.

“Well, that response reaffirmed every fairytale fear that I had.”

Her laugh was melodious. She must have thought that had been a joke. It was not. “I’m afraid we mostly eat vegetables and fish here. There’s a scarcity of cannibalism on the island.”

Jack nodded, somewhat comforted. That hadn’t been in the original tale, but you never knew with Greek mythology. He didn’t want to be rude (again) but, if this was the Calypso, he had an important question. “How do I get off the island?”

“Jack, a terrible fate awaits you off the island. I cannot, in good consciousness, allow you to leave until you are healed, well-rested, and well.” She gestured to his lanky frame.

Once again, Jack considered pointing out that this was his natural state of stick-figure Jackness. He let the offense slide. In the Odyssey, she said something similar to Odysseus. Staying here would worry Flynn, Luke, and the boys, but he had no way off the island unless he lucked into some abandoned boat or cartoon-barrel. In the Odyssey, Calypso gave Odysseus a bronze axe so he could build his own raft. Jack doubted he could lift an axe over his head without falling backwards let alone build a raft with it. Greeks were master ship-builders. Jack was a master builder of group-therapy sessions for monster support, metal bands, and stories to make Luke, Flynn, and his boys smile.

Besides, Calypso helped Odysseus only after she held him captive for seven years and he provided her a son (or several, depending on the author). There were no sons on the island, unless they were hiding in the cartoon-barrels. Maybe the ancient authors truly had discredited her.

“I can stay,” he said hesitantly, “but only for a few days. Flynn, Luke, and my boys need me.”

Calypso’s lips pursed and her gaze softened, making her look both relieved and troubled. She glanced away. “You’re so young to have children.”

“Oh, we adopted.” Jack beamed. “Luke says they’re too close in age to be my sons, and Axel says I’m not allowed to both be the head of our metal band and his father, but they’ve taken well to it. They haven’t started calling me dad yet, but I’ll work them over.”

Calypso looked confused. “Metal band?” she repeated.

Jack leaned forward excitedly. “We already played once at the HMM—a bar for monsters—er—a tavern.” He scrambled to find words that would translate to ones she would recognize. “The crowd loved us. Clops threw a goat at us!”

“A goat?”

“Yeah! A goat’s this four-legged—” Jack fumbled, realizing that’s not the part that confused her. She repressed a smile at the pause. “It’s a really big deal to have a monster throw a goat at you instead of trying to eat it. Kind of like when people throw their underwear at the stage and about as sanitary. Much lighter impact.”

“What?!” Her face scrunched in disgust. The expression was almost cute. It put Jack at ease. This was the first time he felt like she wasn’t acting or hiding anything. “People have thrown their underwear at you while you’re performing? Is that… normal?”

Jack considered this. “I don’t really know. It never happened to me when I did solos in the church choir—” Well, once after service but that was a little different. One of those instances where the boy denied it happened the next day. “—but Pax—one of my sons—talks about it like it’s a marker of success. I think they’re mostly thrown at Axel. He’s a handsome boy and a hearthrob amongst demigod and monster alike. Plus, he’s the guitarist, and the angsty one, and people always love angsty guitar players.”

The look of confusion deepened. Jack absently tugged a lock of his hair, wishing it was a little longer. “It’s like a lute—oh, wait, that was 13th century. Uh, it’s a fretted stringed instrument—anywhere from four to nine strings though standard is six, and you play it by plucking or strumming with one hand while fretting with the other—or picking. Or bapping the body. Uh—how about I make you one? All I need is a box, a longish piece of wood, some sticks, and some of your uncut harp strings.”

I can make an instrument, but can’t make a boat. Not for the first time, Jack wondered why Luke and Flynn wanted to keep him around. He managed to use his powers to save Axel, Pax, and Alabaster (though, really, he thought it was mostly Flynn. She was so incredible). But he still didn’t feel like he was great at the killing department, regardless of Phil’s continuous encouragement. Even during the interrogations he and Flynn had been conducting on Romans, he flinched and shrieked when someone’s finger was broken. Despite all this time, he hoped Flynn and Luke found him useful.

Calypso nodded slowly. “Will you teach me how to play?”

Jack nodded enthusiastically. “The positioning might seem weird, but you’ll pick it up easily. From what I’ve heard of your singing and harp-playing, you have perfect pitch and a natural grasp on music—”

She tucked a lock behind her ear. “You like my singing?”

He tilted his head quizzically. “Of course. You’re incredibly talented, both naturally with your voice quality and the amount of work you’ve put into perfecting your craft.” Jack supposed that’s what he’d do, too, if he had an eternity to work on anything. An eternity of music—the foundations for paradise. Maybe that’s why God is said to have a choir of angels and how he crafted souls: by singing them to life. “Each word you sing weaves a secondary layer of emotion—both melodious and melancholic, interweaving multiple stories into—” He frowned, feeling his explanation lacked poetic value—ah!

“’Tis sweet, when mournfulness enshrouds

The spirit sorrowing and pale,

And gather round the angry clouds,

To take the harp and tune its wail.

‘Tis sweet, when calmly broods the night,

To wander forth where waters roll,

And, mingling with the waves its voice,

To rouse the passions of the soul!”

When Jack was done, she stared at him, her eyes wide and her expression unreadable. He frowned. “I—sorry—” he said, his insides churning. Had he done something wrong? He didn’t feel confused right now. The world felt so much clearer. An uncomfortable dread settled into him upon realizing something for the first time: not everyone burst into poetry at random. How stupid had he been to not know that before?

“No.” She put a hand on his. Her eyes watered. “I—that was beautiful. Did you—”

Jack blushed and pulled his hand back. “No. It’s by John Rollin Ridge, a famous Native American poet. I was just reciting.”

She cleared her throat and looked away. “I—let’s get you a box. I wish to hear this guitar of which you speak.”

 ***

Normally, Jack felt such mania for whatever project he focused on, everything else fell in the background. As he twisted the tuning pegs of his guitar (sabotaged off Calypso’s extra harp) his mind scattered with worry.

This newfound clarity was almost overwhelming. There was so much wrong in the world for him to mull over. Each time he stopped singing, it hovered on its peripheral, like a night terror lurking along the receding rays of the sun.    

Between each question from Calypso—she enjoyed hearing updates from the outside world—he’d hum or sing the ballads he’d composed about Flynn’s ventures. Calypso would pause her work on the strings and stare at him with that unreadable expression.  

After she finished with the sixth string—winding them of her hair—she sat closer to him. They worked in the shade, where the woods met the beach. Some distant whisper warned Jack that more time had passed than the evening angle of the sun, but he couldn’t be sure. The sun was all he had to go off of, and he wasn’t used to the awareness of passing time. Normally, Jack felt the passage of existence through the crystal notes of a song, the annoyed flash of Flynn’s smile, Pax’s giggle, or the upwell of elation at the end of monster help session, measuring life in crescendos and decrescendos of energy and joy. Jack didn’t like wanting to look at a clock, especially now that there were none. That was always someone else’s job.

“Why did you adopt children?” Calypso asked it with the practiced calm of an over-thought question.

“Flynn can’t have children.” Jack had to be gentler with these strings than the metal ones from home. He wondered how their sound would differ, and hoped it would ease the 2,000—4,000 year transition in music for Calypso.

“She’s barren?”

“So says the goddess of childbirth.”

“And this doesn’t bother you?”

Another reason Jack couldn’t stay long: it was almost the weekend before he vanished and he and Flynn would need to go to her Nainia’s apartment to sing to her, as they did every Sunday. The kind grandmother’s health was failing and Jack knew they needed to visit more often. “Why should it?” Jack frowned, repeating the question in his head. “Well, it did when I first found out. I wanted a family. Then, I adopted[2] the boys, and now we have one. And, it wouldn’t matter even if she could. We’re not… physical. Recently, we started curling up without clothing, but nothing else. Just snuggles.”

Jack felt his cheeks flush, both at the memory of Flynn snuggled up in his bunk (she never let him near hers; she wanted a place of her own) and that he’d told Calypso about it. Was that something else people didn’t normally blurt out? To Luke or Phil? Sure. To Calypso the Seductress, the Detainer of Men…

Her cheeks rouged. Shame crept along his awareness. You weren’t supposed to blurt stuff like that. Negative two on the Jack social protocol scoreboard.

“Oh… um… But you’ve already adopted—have you two not been married long?” She struggled to maintain eye contact.

Something pinched in Jack’s chest. “Um… she’s not really into the idea of marriage, but we’ve been dating for…” With no clocks on the island, he didn’t know how many days he had been unconscious. Normally, Jack could recite the length of time down to the minute. The thought of Flynn’s blush when he asked her to prom. The day before he met Luke. The day Jack accidentally killed his whole mortal family with a song.

That memory hadn’t resurfaced in so long, not since he was sobbing into Flynn’s arms over it. How could he banish it from his thoughts? It wasn’t like the thoughts of his half-siblings he killed—the other children of Apollo. No. They deserved it. They had reaped the favor of their father since birth. The cessation of that favoritism brought the world back to order, the way things should be to balance the scale that an unfair god created, like correctly a flat note to perfect harmony. But his family… Had he ever even had a funeral? And did it matter?

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Calypso asked.

The funeral part did bother Jack. It took him a moment to retrace the pieces, sliding his fingers along the guitar string. Flynn. Sex. Marriage.

Flynn would puppet and charmspeak boys into their room to humiliate and toy with them, but, she wouldn’t take Jack. Jack never wanted to pressure her, but icy insecurity crawled through him at the thought. What was wrong with him? It didn’t matter that Prometheus said Jack and Flynn viewed sex differently: Jack, as an expression of love; Flynn, as subjugation. Jack didn’t understand that. All he wanted was to be everything Flynn needed, and he didn’t understand why she could puppet others but wouldn’t puppet him. If that’s what she wanted—

         The string snapped and lashed him across the cheek.

         He shrieked and jerked backwards. Blood trickled down his skin. A full string wasted—an instrument piece dying before it could sing its first song.

         Something cool touched his face. Humming filled his ears. The lashed skin tingled and Jack wondered if this is how others felt when he healed them.

         When Jack blinked to clear his vision, Calypso knelt beside him. Her too-perfect face rested in a gentle, knowing smile. The strap of her white dress slid onto her shoulder, tickled by the length of the braid. For the first time, she looked like the goddess of the island—something about the subtle shift in confidence.

         Jack flinched when he felt her spider fingers in his hair. She must have put them there to hold him steady for a cheek-cleaning. “You ran from me when you first found out who I was. Do you—did you really think I could make you forget Flynn?” The question could have been rhetorical, but there was enough real curiosity to make Jack tremble.  

Fear coiled his confidence, the same fear present when Luke lost himself to Kronos or his anger. If Calypso lost her temper…

         “Odysseus never forgot Penelope,” Jack whispered, “So the stories say.”  

Could that fear come from the possibility of forgetting Flynn? Do people only experience fear when they’re experiencing doubt or uncertainty?

At the watery glisten of her beautiful almond eyes, an idea made Jack sit up and almost clock foreheads with her. She startled at the sudden movement. “And you never forgot Odysseus!” Jack cried. “Calypso, do you always fall for the people on your island?”

Calypso hesitated. A tear broke from the dam along her eyelashes. “I… I try not to say anything when travelers first come…”

“Have you heard of platonic love?”

Her brow furrowed. Her melancholy faltered to confusion. “Platonic? You mean… relating to Plato? Or the idea that abstract objects are objective, timeless, and are non-physical and non-mental?”

Jack would need to ask Alabaster about that later. “Uh—well, I want to be your friend. You’re really nice, but you don’t need to fall in love with everyone you meet, or at least not romantic love. Let’s be friends! I mean—have you ever heard of a rebound?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you ever fully moved on from Odysseus. So, we should talk about him. Tell me what you loved and hated about him and why you fell for him in the first place.”

Calypso’s expression darkened. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Exactly! You never forgave him for hurting you or yourself for loving him. Both are still hurting you. So, let me be your friend. Let me help you get over him without being a replacement for him. And, after this war is over, we can still be friends! Either we decapitate Zeus and his lackeys and his power no long holds you to the island, or we can keep in touch. I know the myths say I can’t come back twice, but I’ll bet I can Iris Message you. I mean, you have rainbows and Iris can go anywhere rainbows can.”

Her lips cracked to protest. Upon considering his words, she stared off at the coastline. “No one has thought of that before.”

Jack beamed. The fear was gone. He shoved a hand between the two of them (awkward due to the close quarters). “Let’s shake on it?”

Calypso glanced from Jack’s hand back to his face. Curiosity perched her lips. “You’re… one of the oddest men I’ve ever met, Jack Flash.”

Jack blushed. “I get that a lot.”

Cautiously, she shook his hand.

At the time, Jack didn’t think to make her swear on the River Styx.

He should have.

 ***

author’s note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This series is going to continue! I’ve just been struggling to focus on writing with some crazy stuff going on at home. ^.^’‘‘‘ Thanks for your patience and continued support!

 Footnotes:

[1] So, Homer’s Ogygia is as Riordan described it. I needed to at least alter the flowers so Jack wouldn’t immediately recognize where he was. Also, flowers for symbolism because I’m a tool.  

 [2] I kept accidentally writing, “kidnapped” here. Not too far off.

#Tales from Mount Othrys #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #TFMO #PJO #HOO #fanfiction #Jack Flash #Calypso #My cat is named after Calypso #Her screams are not siren like #especially not at 4:30 in the morning #I hope you're staying healthy!

[lithugraph]

Ok I know y'all are thirsty for it, so I'm posting the first part of chapter 5 from The Book Smuggler here. There are still two more parts left to write. I've got the second part about halfway done. And I do feel bad it's taken me so long, I was on such a roll with this fic but this chapter was like hitting a brick wall because

Tilsit, East Prussia, 1863

The inn stood just off the market square, on a narrow street meandering carelessly down to the river. The plaster and timber frame sunk inward, as if the walls were in dire need of repair.  They probably were, thought Eduard, as he eyed the building apprehensively, the way it slouched against the ones surrounding it, as if they were the only thing holding it up.

He pushed his glasses up his nose.  This hardly seemed like a place his cousin would have chosen.  Himself, on the other hand...well, he’d stayed in worse.

Eduard dug the telegram out of his pocket and checked the address again.  It was right — this was the place.  He flipped the card over as if it could offer up something else — some other clue as to why his cousin was staying — in Tilsit, of all places — at an inn that looked ready to collapse in on itself.  But the back of the telegram was maddeningly blank.

Eduard sighed, adjusted the suitcase in his hand, and entered.

A surly-looking barman led him up a winding set of stairs to the top floor.  Eduard had to duck his head to keep from knocking it against the sloping roof. 

Tauras’ room was the third door on the right.

Eduard thanked the barman, then ensuring he was alone in the hallway, took a moment to compose himself — smoothing jacket lapels and flattening hair and cleaning glasses — and drew a deep, steadying breath.  Though they corresponded regularly, it had been a few years since he’d last seen Tauras. And though Eduard had no qualms regarding sharing his exploits in letters, he certainly did not want to look the part of a con artist thief.  He wanted to look every bit as respectable — as noble — as Tauras had.

Chin up, eyes down, mouth set. Eduard lifted a hand.  And knocked.

The face that greeted him, though, was not the one he remembered.

When they were boys, Tauras had been a field of grass on a summer day, warm and vibrant.  That spirit had since left him, and he just seemed...hollowed out.  Tauras was thin, his shoulders rounded.  A shadow hung behind his eyes — eyes that would not look at Eduard, but around him, through him. 

Eduard’s lofty guise melted at the sight of his cousin.  He set his suitcase down just inside the door and scooped Tauras into a tight embrace.

Air hissed through Tauras’ teeth, his shoulders tensed.

Eduard let go and stepped back, alarmed.  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  I’m fine,” Tauras said — and Eduard could not help notice the quaver in his voice, nor the pained look creasing his brow.

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m fine, Ed.”

Eduard studied him — the shadow lurking in his eyes, the subtle way his shoulders shifted up and down. He noted the shirt, the coarse cotton weave unlike the finer cloth he had last seen his cousin wearing. 

Eduard frowned.  “What happened to you?” he asked softly.

Tauras raked a hand through his disheveled hair, shaking his head.  “I need a drink,” he muttered as he shouldered past his cousin, descending to the bar below.

Eduard followed him down the stairs, eyes catching on the faint, rust-colored lines hatching across the back of Tauras’ shirt.

They sat at a small table near a window, the glass fogged from tobacco smoke and factory soot.  The city beyond looked just as dulled under a hazy summer sky.  The surly barman that had shown Eduard upstairs brought over two clay mugs of beer, all but throwing them onto the table.

“Welcome to Prussia,” Eduard said under his breath as the barman stalked off.  He picked up his mug, drinking a long draught.

Moments later, a young woman brought over two bowls of stew and a loaf of rye bread.  Eduard flashed her a smile out of habit.  She returned it, cheeks reddening as he gave her a swift, appraising look over, but she had nothing on her worth pick-pocketing.  He turned back to Tauras, who was idly stirring his stew.

“So,” Eduard said, “Tilsit. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?  Why the hell you’re here” — he glanced around — “in this hovel of an inn?  The last thing I heard from you, you were at the seminary.  And don’t you dare tell me you’ve come here to minister to these people.  I know priests take a vow of poverty and everything, but the last time I checked, they don’t dress like workmen.  You can’t lie to a conman, cousin.  Lies are what I do for a living, and yours are terrible.”

“I’m not a priest,” Tauras said quietly.

Eduard’s mouth settled into a thin line, his eyes blazing behind his glasses.  Corresponding for years in letters had made him forget just how obstinate his cousin could be.  Because letters could be edited.  That part of yourself you did not wish to show could be hidden, buried with words — or else removed completely.

“You asked me to come here,” he pressed.  “The least you could do is tell me why.”

“Is it wrong of me to want to see a familiar face?”

Eduard folded his arms. “Stop avoiding the question.” 

Tauras’ eyes drifted up to lock on his cousin’s.  Eduard felt himself shrink away at the look they held.  Tauras flicked his gaze around the bar, but they were its only occupants.  The barmaid had gone back to the kitchen, and the man was nowhere to be seen.

“I left the seminary, and I can’t go back home.  That’s all you need to know.”

Eduard scowled, drinking his beer.  It was just like when they were boys.  Tauras, the leader; Eduard, following his every word.  Tauras, the nobleman’s son; Eduard, the bastard-child-turned-serving-boy, following his master’s orders.  They would never be equals, no matter how much Tauras had promised it when they were younger.  Whether he knew it or not, Tauras still behaved much like the entitled boy he was raised to be, believing his word was final.

“You plan to stay here, then?” Eduard asked, a cutting edge to his voice.

“Yes.  I don’t have much of a choice.”

Eduard arched a brow, finishing his beer.  “Don’t you? You could have gone anywhere — Berlin, Munich— but you chose Tilsit and can’t even deign to tell me why.”  He pulled his bowl of stew closer, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf and dipped it in, watching his cousin.  “What does your family think, of you living here?”

“They don’t know.  For all I know, they still think I’m at the seminary, or — ”  Tauras broke off, shaking his head.  The shadow was back, behind his eyes.  He drank deeply from his beer mug.

“There are other Lithuanians here,” Tauras continued, as if to himself.  “I just need to make contact.  They’ll have ways of knowing what’s happening back home.”

Eduard’s eyes narrowed as he slowly chewed his bread.  Pieces of the puzzle were gradually falling into place.  “You’re talking as if...this is something permanent.”

Tauras looked at him a moment, as if disbelieving his cousin could really be that obtuse.  “I already told you: I can’t go back home.”

“No, I know that, but it’s just...I’m trying to understand — and help you understand — whatever’s happened, you’re on your own now.  Do you know what that means, truly?”

“Yes — “

“Then what’s your plan?” Eduard asked, tipping his chin back.  A challenge.  For once, he had the upper hand.  For once, his cousin would have to listen to him.

“I have money.  It’s not much, but it’ll support me until I can find work.”

Eduard shook his head. “Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as you make it sound.  Be honest with yourself — you haven’t worked a day in your life.  What skills do you have?  What experience?  You can paint and draw, play piano, speak four languages — that’s fine for impressing the ladies and gentlemen of society, but you’re not in that world anymore.”

Tauras bristled.  “I haven’t been in that world for the past three years, or have you forgotten?”

“I’d hardly count the seminary as useful,” Eduard retorted, “unless you plan to join a monastery.”

“You know nothing of where I’ve been or what I’ve done — “  Tauras’ teeth clacked together as he cut himself off mid-sentence.  He shoved himself up from the table.  “This was a mistake.”  He turned and stormed out of the inn.

“Shit,” Eduard sighed.  He adjusted his glasses and stood, tossing a few coins onto the table for their meal, then left to find his cousin.

Tauras was seated on the banks of the Memel, elbows resting on his knees, staring across the river.  He turned, hearing the crunch of sandy gravel behind him. 

“You always did like the water,” Eduard remarked, hands resting in his pockets.  “I remember following you through the woods to the stream when we were younger.  And Nanny finding us and scolding us every single time.”

Tauras bowed his head, a faint smile softening the hard edges of his face.  “She should have known not to sit on the terrace when she took us outside. The sun always made her fall asleep, and we’d always sneak away then.”

Eduard chuckled at the memory. He sat down beside his cousin. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to upset you back there.  We’ve always been honest with each other.  But something’s changed that.”

Tauras swallowed, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.  “It’s not your fault.  I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to see a familiar face.  I did — I do.  But seeing you — here — all of a sudden...it made everything seem too real. Everything that’s happened the past few days...it feels like it belongs to someone else’s life, not mine.”

“What has happened?” Eduard asked gently.

Tauras looked at his cousin, his face stricken.  “I was caught, Ed.”

Eduard’s brow furrowed. “You mean like — like last time, when your brother — “

Tauras shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips.  “No. Nothing like that.  Though I’m sure I’ve only further disgraced myself, as far as my father is concerned.”  He picked up a rock, thumb brushing over its smooth, worn surface. “I’m a traitor to the empire.  I was arrested and punished as such.  And that’s what I mean when I say I can’t go home. If I do, I’ll just be arrested again — only this time I’m sure my sentence won’t be as lenient as a whipping and a train ride to Siberia.”

Eduard’s face paled under the waning afternoon sun.  His eyes flicked to his cousin’s back, to the faint marks on his shirt. 

Tauras’ shoulders shifted. “And that’s not even the worst of it,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at his cousin.  “I left the seminary and joined the uprising.  We thought we could overthrow the empire and get our country back.  It sounds so foolish to say now, but....”  His voice trailed away, eyes growing distant.  “It was such a simple plan.  We ambushed them, these Russians soldiers — my squadron did — and one of them was right there in my sights but I...I c-couldn’t — I couldn’t shoot him.”

“I ran, Ed,” he rasped. “I turned and I ran, and now they’re dead because of me.  I failed my country just as I failed my men.”

They sat in silence, listening to the steady trickle of the river as it gently flowed by the bank.   

“I tried to cross the border,” Tauras continued, voice thick, “but a Russian soldier recognized me — one of the ones from the ambush.  I was brought to the customs house in Tauragė and sentenced to Kara.  Needless to say, I escaped.  I hid in the back of a wagon and crossed into Prussia four days ago. Though...there’s a part of me that thinks I should have stayed — stayed and...finished my sentence instead of running again.  I owe my men that much, at least.”

Tauras let the rock fall from his hand.  Eduard placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Words of assurance, of comfort, clung to the tip of his tongue, but he knew it would do his cousin no good to hear them just now.  They would sound empty and trite compared to the immeasurable guilt Tauras sought to atone for.  Sometimes, the only thing you could do was sit with someone and watch the water.

.

.

.

Eduard went for a walk around Tilsit later that evening.  If Tauras did indeed plan to make this city his new home, they would need better lodgings. Eduard included himself in that measure because, as he told his cousin, he may have worn out his welcome in Chemnitz. Actually most of Saxony, really. So he set out, scouting the rest of the city to see where they might feasibly purchase accommodations.  Tauras told him of the money he’d managed to get from the estate.  Paired with Eduard’s share from his last con, they would be able to live decently for a few months.  But there was still the problem of work.  Tauras would need a job and Eduard would need to make contacts as soon as possible. Though he would need to use discretion — Tilsit was nowhere near as big as the cities in Saxony — and his cousin would not appreciate being run out of town after only having just arrived.

Most of the Lithuanian population clustered around the riverfront or around the Lithuanian church further inland. Eduard took this information back to his cousin, along with noting a few help wanted signs hanging in windows near their vicinity.

When he got back to their room, he found Tauras standing in front of the dresser mirror.  A basin of water rested on a table nearby.  Tauras had removed his shirt and was gingerly cleaning the cuts criss-crossing his back, shoulders tensing as he caught sight of his cousin, reflected in the mirror.

Eduard lowered his head, averting his gaze.  “Sorry. I...guess I should have knocked first.”

Tauras simply stared back — that same hollow stare from earlier.  All sound seemed to be sucked from the room, save for the steady drip of water from the rag in his hand as he squeezed it over the basin.

“I, um, might have something for that,” Eduard said, eyes flicking up to his cousin’s, then back down.

The tension eased from Tauras. He lowered the rag, giving a near imperceptible nod of his head.

Eduard went to his suitcase, his movements stiff, limbs feeling like they belonged to someone else and not him. He knelt and flicked open the latches, taking a moment to collect himself as he lifted the lid, uncomfortably aware of his cousin watching him the whole time.  There, resting on top, was a black leather case.  Eduard took it out and set it on the bed, making a quick rummage through it.

“You travel with a medical kit?” Tauras asked.

“I travel with everything all the time,” Eduard said, trying to keep his voice light.  “You never know when you’ll have to pretend to be a surgeon.” He spun around, holding up a roll of dressing and a container of salve.

The curiously amused expression Tauras wore as he watched his cousin shifted and became closed once again. Like a cloud passing over the sun, Eduard thought.

Tauras wordlessly approached and sat on the bed.  Eduard patted his back dry with a clean cloth and began applying the salve.  It had a woody smell, and he’d used it before to treat everything from scrapes and boils to eczema — much to his former patients’ satisfaction.  He often thought if he had been able to keep with his schooling, he would have liked to become a doctor.  A real doctor.  It was probably why he spent so many years watching and imitating them, pretending to be them — and stealing whatever medical instrument he could get his hands on.

Eduard applied the dressing once he was finished with the salve, his eyes catching on the small golden cross around his cousin’s neck.  He remembered the letter Tauras had sent him, almost a year after he had left boarding school.  They were both sixteen and Tauras was absolutely besotted with his best friend from childhood.  Eduard had already known this.  Had known long before his cousin knew it himself, from the way Tauras would talk of Feliks in his letters to Eduard.

“Do you still think of him?” Eduard asked, nodding at the cross.

“Sometimes.”  A sad smile passed over Tauras’ lips.  “I suppose I was lucky my father sent me to Kaunas instead of forcing me into the imperial army, like Feliks’ father did to him.” He reached up, closing his hand around the cross.  “Mostly though, I just hope he’s safe.”

And that’s it for now!  It hasn’t been fully proofed yet, but I hope you enjoyed it so far and I’m sorry for the long wait!  The rest of the chapter is in the works and who knows, maybe it’ll be up by the end of February??

#hetalia #aph fanfiction #my fic #the book smuggler #aph lithuania #aph estonia #aph poland #hws lithuania #hws estonia #hws poland