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katnissdoesnotfollowback · 27 days

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Katniss feeling insecure one random afternoon after seeing Peeta interact with some pretty girlies and asking him later that night all quiet if he thinks she’s pretty 🥺

I meant for this to be funny and then it turned out... not funny. Oh well. Enjoy some post-Mockingjay not fluff but not really angst??? No warning tags on this one.

“Having an eye for beauty isn’t the same thing as a weakness,” Peeta points out. “Except possibly when it comes to you.” - Catching Fire, Chapter 15 “You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?” - Mockingjay, Chapter 16

It takes me longer than usual to finish trading with the new butcher. She’s originally from Ten and came here after marrying a soldier from Thirteen. She refused to live underground any longer and he tried living in Ten, but felt too exposed and jumpy in the flat plains of that district. Twelve was their compromise. But I haven’t had the chance to build the kind of rapport with her that I had with Rooba.

Rooba. I make a mental note to ask Peeta to draw her for the memory book tonight. We’ll both have memories of her that need to be recorded.

When I finish with the butcher, mostly satisfied with the cuts of deer meat and the coin I walk away with, I make my way over to the bakery. Usually I’d help Peeta close for the day. I got lucky catching the deer so close to the fence, but it still took time for me to bring back enough help to drag it to the butcher.

Surprisingly, there are still a handful of customers in the bakery. Unusual, this late in the day. I hasten my steps, thinking Peeta might want some help getting rid of the chatty customers, and seeing me after a hunt usually does the trick.

As I reach the window, though, I slow my pace. It’s not just any customers. It’s the Lassiter girls. They moved here after the war with their father, who used to be the head foreman at a perfume factory in District One. Apparently someone thought his skills would translate well to running a medicine factory, because that’s what his job here is. And his five daughters -- Neroli, Dior, Ambrette, Clary, and Opal -- aged twenty-four to sixteen, spaced two years apart down the line, are each just as beautiful as the last. Gossip holds that they each have a different mother, and while there’s been no confirmation from their father on that point, they’re each so strikingly different in looks and coloring that it wouldn’t surprise me.

They’re currently clustered near the counter, a bouquet of undoubtedly sweet smelling flowers. Their dresses a rainbow of eye-catching hues in expensive looking fabrics. All I can do is snort as I think of how dull and dingy their clothes would’ve been if they’d lived here when there was still a coal mine. But their hair, although different shades, all gleams in glossy waves and curls and curtains of shimmering silk in the bright lights of the bakery.

I hear Peeta’s laughter then, followed shortly by the twittering chorus of the Lassiter girls’ giggling. Ugh. They cannot be serious. Not my Peeta.

None of them are married yet, and there’ve already been several District Twelve men turned away from their front door step with dazed looks in their eyes, like they couldn’t believe they’d actually dared to propose to one of the Lassiter girls. And while this group ambush of my Peeta gives me an idea of what sort of partner they might be looking for, it’s unacceptable.

I push through the bakery door and attempt a smile. Neroli sees me first. The oldest, and by far the smartest of this bunch, our eyes meet and her lips curl in a smile. She’s dressed in a dark, forest green dress. Her dark, almost black hair swept to one side, into a long, sleek ponytail. There’s no denying that she’s stunning. Long, sooty black lashes frame her pale eyes that I’ve never been able to decide if they’re blue or gray. Some part of me knows that if I were somehow more beautiful, I might look like her.

Neroli glances at Peeta, then back at me. She inclines her head slightly towards me, and I’m not certain what she means until she speaks.

“Father will be wondering what’s keeping us,” she announces to her sisters. “Come on. Get your purchases and let’s leave these two turtle doves alone.”

She still pauses to say something to Peeta before she and her sisters clear out, but the glance she throws my way before shutting the door behind her makes me think that maybe Neroli and I might’ve been friends under different circumstances. When I finally manage to look at Peeta, he’s head down in the cases, cleaning them out.

“Lock the door for me? How was your day in the woods?”

“Not bad,” I tell him as I throw the bolt. “I got a deer.”

“That’s great!”

“Put this in the cold storage while I sweep?” I hand him the package from the butchers and he hands me a broom across the counter. It’s one of my usual chores and it isn’t long after that we’re headed home. But all through dinner, I can’t get the image of the flock of Lassiter girls twittering around him out of my head.

I distract myself after we clean up the kitchen with the memory book, telling Peeta about the deer today and how things went with the new butcher. We share a few memories of Rooba while he sketches her and I write them down in draft. We manage to finish her page and seal it into the book before it’s very late.

And while Peeta showers with me, and stands next to me while we brush our teeth and get ready for bed, he somehow feels distant. As I lay down and watch him as he carefully removes his prosthetic, I can’t help but think again about the Lassiter girls.

“Goodnight, my love,” he murmurs as he turns to me, slipping his legs under the covers and cupping my cheek in his palm before kissing my lips once, softly.

“Goodnight,” I respond and blink when he turns out the light and lays down.

But I can’t get comfortable. And behind my closed eyes, I see a still ravaged Peeta, the hijacking reversal barely even begun. His knuckles pale as he gripped the bedsheets beneath him and restraints holding him down, safely away from me.

“You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty.”

I huff out a heavy breath and jam the heels of my palms into my closed eyes, trying to push the image out of my brain. He’s laying right here beside me. He kissed me and called me his love just minutes ago. What Peeta and I have puts the stars in the sky and the poets’ words on the page to shame with its depth and significance. That’s far better than some superficial beauty.

And yet the words still slip past my lips.

“Peeta,” I whisper, and he hums in response so that I’m not sure if he’s fully awake or not. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

There’s a few seconds of silence and then I hear the sound of the sheets rustling as Peeta turns over to face me.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s just a question,” I say and smack my hands down onto the bed, right at my sides. They’re still clenched into fists and I try to hold back the sudden, ridiculous tears welling up in my eyes. Because his hesitancy to answer tells me what I need to know. How stupid of me to ask.

“Katniss, honey,” he breathes and moves through the dark, pulling me into his arms. “You will always be as radiant as the sun to me,” he tells me and I snort, wishing I’d never told him that phrase or how I’d once used it. “No, I’m serious. Katniss, you take my breath away.”

“But I’m still not particularly pretty. At least not as pretty as Neroli Lassiter, am I?” I poke and I can feel his frame stiffening besides me.

“No. Oh no, no, you can’t believe what I said that day, Katniss.”

“But you were right. I’m not very big.”

“And we both looked like shit that day because we’d been through too much shit. That doesn’t mean I meant it, Katniss. You have to know I was… I was trying to hurt you that day. Hurt you the way I thought you’d hurt me. Because I thought you’d used me, chosen Gale and the rebels, and left me to die or worse in that arena.”

“I know,” I say and finally manage to turn over into his embrace, burying my face in his chest as he caresses my back and whispers a hundred apologies for his careless words. I inhale his scent and let his hands soothe me.

So when he slips his fingers beneath my chin, I let him lift my face to his. I close my eyes and savor the brush of his lips against mine.

“You once told me that I had a weakness for beautiful things,” he whispers. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” I answer without pause. I can smell the horses and feel the warmth of Cinna’s glowing ember costume. I can see Peeta in front of me, radiant and beautiful, and smiling in amusement at my assessment of him. “But you don’t have a weakness for beauty. Only an eye for it,” I remind him.

“So yes, Neroli Lassiter is a beautiful woman--”

“And her sisters?” I prod and I can feel Peeta smiling against my lips as he kisses me once.

“And her sisters are, too. But you’re the only beautiful person I have a weakness for. No one else has left a lasting impression the way you have.”

I can’t help but smile stupidly at the repetition of his words from the cave. The reminder that somewhere amongst the acting for the cameras, we always had at least a sliver, a taste, a fraction of or at least the roots of something real.

“I’m still a goner for you, Katniss Everdeen, real or not real?” he whispers, and I already know the answer. I know what he wants me to say, because it’s true.

“Real.”

#words are peetas thing not mine #everlark fanfiction #everlark #post mockingjay #i don't even know what this is #but here you go anon #enjoy #anonymous #look at that ask

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iamthecomet · 5 months

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what if what if slice of life aether in the infirmary. what does he get up to all day? what are his little quirks? what does he do when there arent any sick siblings to help? does he have to shoo away (nicely) the ones that come in pretending to be sick just to spend time with him? does he actually like when they do that???

thoughts comet, pls give them ♡♡

Oh ABSOLUTELY I can share some thoughts! Not quite a ficlet, not quite headcanons, about Aether and his infirmary "job" under the cut.

Aether likes the infirmary best in the middle of the night. When he first got summoned he ended up on night shifts--better for training according to Omega. A good way to be eased in.

Aether knows it can get chaotic any time of day. And that he's lucky that this infirmary is relatively low key. They're not juggling trauma after trauma. Instead it's a lot of flu outbreaks and broken bones and stitches. The occasional childbirth. The rare devestating injury. But for the most part, it's quiet. Especially at night. Aether feels at ease on a night shift. Espeically now that so much of his pack is off on tour and he's back here--he doesn't have to think about his empty bed if he's here. The part of him that hasn't gotten used to it yet can just pretend everyone else is still here--asleep. It's sad he knows, but he's doing what he can. He makes his rounds. Smiling warmly at the siblings who also work nights. He's the only quint ghoul on duty. It makes the infirmary feel like his. It's not something he ever though he'd want--but now...now it's good. Feels right. He goes from room to room, peeking his head in. Checking vitals of sleeping patients, smiling easily at the ones who are still awake. Slipping into their rooms and talking to them. Doctor questions and regular questions. Where they grew up. What brought them to the Abbey. What they do and who they are, all while he digs into himself to lessen their pain, or their fear, or their insomnia. Allowing them sleep. When everything is quiet, and there is no drama, no chaos, no blood. Aether sits at the nurses station and reads a book. Scrolls on his phone. Texts his packmates. Shooting Dew and Mountain messages asking about their show tonight, what the crowd was like, where they went to eat after. Are they sleeping on the bus? In an hotel? Mountain responds with words, answers to his questions. Dew just sends him pictures. One of the crowd just before he walked on stage. Another of his burger and beer after the show. And then him in his bunk, dimly lit, sticking his tongue out at Aether from hundreds of miles away. The time differences make it easier, the further they get from him the more he talks. Aurora sends him pictures of every strange attraction she begs to stop and see. Swiss complains about Dew. Rain complains about Swiss. Dew complains about Aeon. Cirrus swears she's going to strangle Mountain. It makes him feel like he's with them. It makes him miss them less. Sometimes Sunshine comes and sits with him. Either at the beginning of his shift--or the end. Sitting down in the chair next to him and resting her head on his shoulder and taking in the quiet sounds of the infirmary. Machines whiring. Soft snores and sleepy breathing. A muted cry of a very new baby from down the hall. Aether is grateful for her. For the company, and because without fail, whenever Sunny shows up, so does someone else.

A bleeding sibling. A sick cardinal. Sister Imperator herself with a headache so bad it could wake lucifer himself. And sometimes, a sibling who just wants to sit with Aether. To know him. Who claims a belly ache, or a sore throat, just to feel the touch of his quintessence. He's not sure why. Doesn't think his magic does anything special to humans, but Aether isn't stupid. He knows a fake illness when he sees one. And if he was Dew he'd tell them to shove off. He'd scold them. But he isn't Dew and he doesn't. Aether likes people--humanity especially. So even though he can smell the lie on them, he helps. Always.

#comet writes #ficlet #kind of #comet canons #aether ghoul #slice of life ghouls #ghost fic #ghost fanfic #ghost fanfiction #soft #really just an outline of an average night at the infirmary #I don't even know what this is #it's just words thrown at a page #I adore Aether so much

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911onabc · 3 months

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#i don't even know what this is #am i going to get in trouble for the station 19 joke #idc #911 #911 on abc #911 abc #poll #polls

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bubbarnes · 10 months

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“... you can see me as a secret mission”

the winter soldier getting ready at hydra quarters to go and meet captain america

#i don't even know what this is #but bucky x taylor is my favorite thing okay

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justcommander · 2 months

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So Tiffany now has a harem with Gary, John and Lisa?

. . .

Are there application forms I can sign to join?

i can't believe this thing is still going--

Unfortunately Anonymous. She's being a real bitch to Gary, pretty much taking ANYONE he might be focusing on. Either he wants you first or she isn't interested.

#i don't even know what this is #faith the unholy trinity #anonymous #john ward #tiffany robinson #lisa pearson #those two aren't there too willingly you know #even Lisa-#sometimes i think i should make an ask thing for her but then i realize i can't keep up with anything at all #let alone an ask thing #my art

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halfagone · 1 year

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Ooh! I've got an idea of how the Anti-Ecto Acts could be stopped from ratification. Let's say it's a DPxDC crossover universe, for the sake of this argument. The GIW and Fenton parents- as well as plenty of other anti-ghost people, I'm sure- are trying to lobby for the Anti-Ecto Acts only to find out that the law doesn't pass because there's this one single House of Representatives member that doesn't believe in ghosts. And therefore! The Anti-Ecto Acts must be for something else that they're hiding from the public, and ergo, he refuses to sign off on it. He had been on the fence, and he was the last vote needed for it to pass on to the next stage. And because he chose not to, he is the only reason it doesn't pass.

So the Fenton parents petition him and try to explain to him the scientific 'evidence' they have on ghosts, and the HoR member still thinks it's bullshit because ghosts have to be magic, if they do exist, so there's no way any of this scientific baloney is true. But the Fenton parents don't give up, and keep presenting him evidence and information in any way they can after he continuously stone walls them or gets them kicked out of his office (and really, they're lucky he hasn't gotten a restraining order against them), but then! One day, he actually starts to listen to them. He sits there and looks at all the evidence contemplatively, and they think they've finally won him over.

📢

WRONG

From their list of evidence, he points out every single ectoplasmic entity that came to Amity Park that was not a ghost or even human shaped. Like Cujo or Wulf or even Undergrowth. He argues that these guys can't be ghosts! Even the ones that are human-shaped surely can't be ghosts; Kryptonians are human-shaped but they aren't biologically human! And therefore, these guys must not be ghosts of any sort, and they must be a whole other species of being! And we all know that alien or extraterrestrial species are protected under the Metahuman Rights Act and- gasp, have you been trying to convince me to ban an entire species, OUT OF MY OFFICE!!

And that's how the Fenton parents get banned from Washington D.C. And that's why Danny picks out a political science major when he goes to college!

Win-win for everyone.

#dpxdc #i don't even know what this is #i just thought it'd be really funny to think about #XDD #also really convenient if i'm being honest #anti-ecto acts gets stopped by human skepticism #no counter protests needed

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fullg4sly · 9 months

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@f1blrcreatorsfest: week 1 - literature — charles leclerc x richard seiken + vita sackville-west

#i don't even know what this is #blame emily i adore her #charles leclerc #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #graphic design #graphics #poster design #f1blrcreatorsfest23 #f1edit #photoshop #mira's graphics #can you believe i didn't start doing these until a week ago

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theabyssgazesalsointoyou · 1 month

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hey guys so i wrote. something. lmao

#i don't even know what this is #the idea just popped into my head and i thought it would be gay as fuck #bmc #be more chill #richjake #jake dillinger #rich goranski #the abyss writes back to you

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aha-my-villainous-thoughts · 1 year

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@palavapeite is a very inspiring research study-buddy 😘

A lovestory in three illustrated manuscripts

A nasty lil bonus to spite God himself:

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd crack #i don't even know what this is

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thosehallowedhalls · 3 months

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Of Cloudless Climes and Starry Skies (1/?)

Pairing: Sebastyan Thorne/MC (Emma Rose)

Summary: There are many things that Sebastyan doesn't like about Detective Rose. Her loyalty to Trystan, for one thing. But the most unforgivable offense is the way she keeps drawing his eye.

A/N: All right, bear with me here. Although Trystan/MC is probably my all-time favorite Choices pairing, I spent most of CoP2 annoyed by how incompetent they were throughout the investigation (seriously, don't get me started on everything they did wrong) and by their refusal to acknowledge the elephant in the room, aka that they wouldn't be able to stay together if Trystan became king/queen. This story is the result.

Alas, what was supposed to be a short oneshot grew into a (so far) 8000+ multichapter story. It turns out that I forgot how much inner work Sebastyan needs to become a viable love interest.

Because most of the first chapter is Bas' perspective of canon, there's a lot of dialogue taken straight from the book, so you can easily skip that. The only scenes you can't skip without missing part of the plot are Sebastyan's early conversation with Vasili, and his last conversation with MC at the end of the chapter.

Frankly, I don't know if anyone will be interested, but well, I wrote it, so I might as well post it.

(One final note, I could never break up MC and Trystan, so they're only friends in this one.)

Chapter 1

Sebastyan watches his sister from the door, the familiar competing pangs of love and resentment making him pause for a moment to compose himself.

Then he sees the woman standing next to her. The immediate stab of attraction is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

One of Marguerite’s models? Unlikely. She has the looks for it, but Sebastyan knows that Marguerite won’t give her fashion line a second thought while Trystan is under arrest. A lawyer, perhaps?

Only one way to find out.

“Trouble?”

Marguerite folds her arms. “Bas, call off the guards and let us in.”

He looks back to her companion, catches her watching him. Up close, she’s even more striking. “Who’s this, Marguerite? Another of your aspiring models?”

“Emma Rose. Private Detective.”

Trystan’s pet detective, then. If he’d bothered to wonder, he would’ve assumed she looked… well. Not like this, at any rate. He clenches his fist against the absurd urge to take her extended hand. He wants nothing to do with anyone deluded enough to ally themselves with Trystan. “Oh Marguerite, you’ve armored her up. Isn’t that… optimistic of you?”

“We dress for the outcome we deserve. Play nice, won’t you, Sebastyan?”

“I don’t ‘play nice.’ If Detective Rose expects to be taken seriously, she would do well to remember that. And it’s Prince Sebastyan to her.”

From his experience with Americans, or really anyone who isn’t Drakovian, he expects her to step back. Instead, she meets his eye. “Prince Sebastyan, you should really practice your manners. Aren’t there protocols for how you treat your royal guests?”

Well. At least she’s got a spine. “I have impeccable manners. Which is why I only use them when they’re warranted.”

A boxer appears out of seemingly nowhere and steps protectively in front of the detective. It makes Marguerite smile. “The guards, Bas?”

He eyes the dog and decides that he’s not in the mood to lose a limb today. “I’ll call off mine if you call off yours.”

The detective lays a hand on the dog, soothing her. Sebastyan nods to the guards to stand back, leading his sister and her American into the palace. As they walk, he wonders if Marguerite has finally seen the light. Surely the news that there is new evidence against Trystan is too much for even her to ignore.

But then.

“I assume Trystan’s in his suite?”

“Why so eager for a reunion, little sister? You can’t still think he’s innocent?”

“I don’t think he’s innocent. I know.”

The stab of betrayal is sharp as ever. “Then there’s nothing left for us to say to each other.”

He gives her a mocking bow and strides away, leaving Marguerite and Detective Rose to their delusions.

He steps up to the courtroom steps with a dark sense of anticipation. After eight long years, Juliana will finally be avenged, and everybody will see Trystan for who he is. If only she had seen through him in time, she’d still be alive.

As he approaches the door, he sees Trystan and the detective standing together. She puts a hand on his arm, whispering something that makes his brother nod. Sebastyan’s eyebrows shoot up. For some reason, it didn’t occur to him before now that they’re probably sleeping together. Still, it makes sense. Trystan has never met a professional line he couldn’t cross – and he was cavorting with models even when he was engaged to Juli, so it’s hardly a surprise that he wouldn’t think twice before getting involved with his colleague.

He looks away. It’s time to get justice for Juliana, once and for all.

He tries to hide his trepidation when the detective calls him to the stand. He doesn’t know what she and Marguerite found that makes them think Trystan stands a chance, but he can’t believe that it will make any real difference. Trystan’s confession, and Juli’s letter, spoke for themselves.

Taking comfort in that knowledge, he glares at her as he takes the stand.

“Prince Sebastyan, how would you describe your relationship with Countess Georgescu?”

“We were friends. Good friends.”

“Then you should be able to recognize this.” She smiles and hands him a sheet of paper. The tightening of his stomach when their fingers brush is swiftly replaced by fury when he sees what she’s just given him.

“How did you get this? You’re not permitted to access my emails!”

“‘Your’ emails? So I’ll take that as a yes. Can you summarize its contents for the court?”

He grits his teeth. He’s not going to reveal to the entire court that Juli once said Trystan would make a wonderful husband. He’d rather be thrown into the dungeons. “It’s from Juliana. I offered to help her get out of her engagement, but she told me that she wanted to marry Trystan.”

“So this email, sent three weeks after the letter introduced as evidence by Ms. Zoric, is authentic?”

He wants to lie. But he knows it’d be useless. “Yes.”

And that’s it. With a few sentences, she makes it seem as though Juliana was writing to someone else. But it can’t be. He would have known if the woman he’d loved since childhood was courting with somebody else before Trystan.

Then the detective plays a new recording of Trystan’s interrogation, and Sebastyan is left to flounder. Could his brother possibly be innocent?

The thought doesn’t even have time to take root before he dismisses it outright.

Absolutely not.

He downs a glass of whiskey. He barely feels the burn anymore.

“Slow down, Bas.”

He shrugs off his brother’s words. “How did this happen? How can everybody be so goddamn blind to who he is?”

Vasili’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know. But they are, and we’re not going to accomplish anything by getting drunk.”

“I’ll feel better, at least.”

“For how long? You’ll only feel worse afterwards. And you know you have a meeting this evening.”

“Two meetings. I arranged to meet Nadja after I’m finished trying, and probably failing, to talk sense into Markarov.”

His brother’s glass stops halfway to his lips. “Nadja? Whatever for?”

“Because regardless of what happened yesterday, she’s still the best lawyer in Drakovia, and we need her to pass the Act.”

“Do you think she’ll want to help?”

“She told Trystan she’d be happy to honor Juliana’s legacy. I don’t see why she wouldn’t want to help us. It’s the same goal.”

Vasili snorts. “You can’t possibly believe that Trystan wants to honor Juliana. More likely, he wants to bribe Nadja into sabotaging the Act.”

He stops short. “You really think so? But why? Father and the queen have already reinstated him. The Act’s passing isn’t going to change anything for him personally.”

“You know he’s always had it out for you. Trystan may be an idiot, but he has enough of a brain to realize how much this means to you. Ergo…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Sebastyan does it for him. “Ergo, he’ll make sure it fails just to take a shot at me?”

Vasili doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Sebastyan’s anger heats up anew. “We will get Nadja on our side. Somehow.”

“I take it you have a plan?”

He nods, the cogs in his mind turning. “You know that married man she had an affair with when she was at university? I very much doubt she wants that getting out.”

His brother’s face is a mask of concern. “Be careful, Bas. Nadja doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll take blackmail lying down. She’s more likely to tell his wife herself to spite you. And she’ll sue you immediately afterwards. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

He hesitates for a moment. Then he thinks of Trystan, lethally irresponsible Trystan, as king. Sitting on a throne he doesn’t deserve, ruling Drakovia into the ground. All while Vasili, who loves Drakovia like Trystan never has and who would be a good and just king, is ignored and called a bastard behind his back.

Really, there is no choice.

“I’m doing this, Vasili. For Drakovia, for Juliana, and for you.”

Sebastyan walks back to the palace after spending ten minutes in the gardens. He needed some time to breathe past the anger of his failed meeting with Nadja. He knew she wouldn’t take kindly to the threat of blackmail, of course, but he wasn’t expecting quite that level of rage – or the accusation that he’d tried to frame Trystan.

He doesn’t need to frame anyone. Whether it was intentional or not, Trystan is still responsible for Juli’s death. And it’s only a matter of time until he makes another reckless decision that results in harm to Drakovia and her people.

He can’t let that happen.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice it until he’s almost at the doors: utter chaos. He flags a passing maid.

“What’s going on here?”

She twists her hands together. “Your Highness. There’s been a death in the palace.”

His heart stops. “Mother? Vasili? Marguerite?”

“No, no. Not a member of the family. It was that lawyer, the famous one. Nadja Zuric.”

It feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. “Nadja’s dead?”

A hand falls on his shoulder. “Bas, let Anya get back to work. I’ll fill you in.”

Vasili leads him to the throne room where most of the family are gathered. Sebastyan tries to process what Vasili just told him – that Nadja was found murdered in Trystan’s suite. Grief and rage intertwine within him, his earlier doubts solidifying into a grim certainty. Of course Trystan killed Juliana on purpose. And now he’s killed Nadja as revenge.

Then the door opens, and Trystan and the detective walk in. He opens his mouth to say something that Vasili wouldn’t approve of, but she takes control of the situation without a qualm.

“We have several alibis, no motive, and a suspiciously messy murder. Someone’s clearly trying to set Trystan up…”

“Again.”

Oh really? His hands tighten into fists at the blatant attempt to get Trystan off the hook for murder again. It’s probably lucky that she barrels on before he can get a word in.

“No one’s leaving this room until we get some answers.”

Kaspar crosses his arms. “Is that so? Who died and put you in charge?”

It’s terribly crass – but Sebastyan can’t help but agree.

Vasili, as usual, is better than that. “Poor taste, Kaspar.”

Emika speaks up, their tone dripping sarcasm. “Fine, I’ll say it nicely. Blood and guts is Royal Guard business. Why are we all here?”

He doesn’t miss the quick glance skywards, as though she’s praying for patience. At another moment, coming from somebody else, the gesture would make him smile. “You’re here because the palace is an active crime scene. Where I’m from, protocol requires me to preserve the crime scene. My associates will handle it from here.”

“Mr. Watanabe and Ms. Webster didn’t want you all traipsing about.”

Predictable as ever, Astrid shudders. “Ew, as if I would! My Louis do not need a sole touch up right now.”

“Astrid, a woman is dead.”

Lydea raises a single eyebrow. “Oh yes, we know. In your room.”

“I didn’t do this!”

“It does bear mentioning you said that last time.”

“We’ve proved Trystan’s innocence, Vasili.”

Marguerite’s show of support rankles enough that Sebastyan can’t stay quiet any longer. “Then how is it that women always seem to drop dead in your presence, Trystan?”

Trystan’s face blanks, his hands closing into fists. “Screw you.”

The detective jumps to his brother’s defense. Once again, he wonders if they’re sleeping together. “Sebastyan, your brother is armored with an alibi. He was with me from 7 pm until now.”

Ha. “Pardon me if I don’t blindly trust Trystan’s closest American confidante.”

“He was with your father and I for the rest of the day. So you can put your grudge match back in your pocket, Sebastyan.”

“Do we all have to be here? I’m in the middle of a super important argument with my boyfriend, and I crafted the winning text.”

“Yes, you do. We need to know where everyone was. Now.”

Marguerite and Vasili easily share their alibis, but an argument follows when it's Lydea's turn. Sebastyan tunes them all out, trying to make up an alibi for himself, when the sound of his name brings him back to the moment.

Astrid sighs, dramatic as ever. “Um, hi. Are we all forgetting that Bas totally loses it when it comes to Trystan? No offense.”

For God’s sake.

“She’s right, Bas. You do take particular delight in my downfalls.”

“I don’t need to frame you for that. It’s easy enough just to let them happen naturally.”

“But you did have a history with Nadja. More than the rest of us.”

He absorbs the pain of Marguerite’s doubt without flinching, but he can’t help the rising of his voice. “I’m a politician, not a murderer! Nadja and I were friends once.” His next words come out in a rush, and he hopes that nobody can detect the lie in them. “I was in a meeting with Markarov at the legislative building!”

He’s so caught up in the ensuing argument that he completely forgets about the detective – until her voice rises.

“Stop arguing! There is a dead woman in this palace!” The disdain in her eyes as she sweeps her gaze over them stings more than expected. “I know you’re all ridiculously blasé about murder in this country but have some damn respect.”

Even Kaspar looks somewhat ashamed. Sebastyan didn’t know he had it in him.

“You’re right of course, Emma. You must think we’re dreadfully petty.”

“And useless. This is getting us nowhere.”

“With the queen’s blessing, Trystan and I will investigate the scene. You will all stay put. No one gets out of this one. Royalty or not.”

In lieu of pacing the room, which would give away his nerves to every single person from whom he’d rather keep them hidden, he turns to Lydea.

“I do believe you promised to help me improve my knife throwing.”

She gives him one of her Older Sister looks. “Now?”

“What else is there to do? Glance at each other suspiciously?”

“… Point taken. Let’s start with your stance.”

He gets caught up in the challenge, not quite forgetting the situation but putting it aside in his competitiveness.

“Damn it!” He scowls when he misses the mark. Again.

Lydea takes his wrist, adjusting its position.

“You’re always too tense. A fluid arm hits the mark.”

“Easier said than done, but I take your point.”

Astrid’s shrill voice catapults him back into reality. “Could you all please shut up? I’m going through something right now.”

That’s… unexpected. “You didn’t even like Nadja.”

“I’m not talking about Nadja! Gregor just dumped me!”

He rolls his eyes. He’s getting into position to try again when the detective and Trystan step into the room, a chill arriving with them. He sees her gaze flicker over Lydea a second longer than normal.

“Well? What have you discovered?”

Her face and stance are perfectly neutral, but he gets the sense of a leopard about to strike. “Our forensic analyst puts Nadja’s death at 7:30, only minutes before Trystan and I discovered her body.”

Not a surprise. She was with him until just before 7:30. Still, the words send a chill down his spine. The only other person who knew that Nadja would be in the palace was… was…

He slams a mental door against that thought. No.

Marguerite looks confused. “Shouldn’t you have seen the killer leaving the room?”

“If they’d used the corridor, yes. But the killer left via the secret passageway in my parlor.”

He feels rather than sees all his siblings look at each other. Emika speaks first. “Well, that’s intriguing.”

He frowns. So the killer is definitely one of them. “I didn’t think anyone was still using those.”

“Did you find any evidence in the passageway?”

“A trail of blood leading to the central chamber, where we found what may have been the murder weapon.”

“A dagger bearing the family crest,” Trystan says.

His shoulders relax. So he and Vasili aren’t suspects, then.

“Where is the dagger now?”

“Somewhere safe.”

Vasili speaks up, stricken. “If I can clarify… you genuinely think the killer is standing in this room? Right now?”

“Yes. And I know for a fact that at least one of you lied about your alibi.”

She turns her eyes on him, making him scramble for a way to explain both his lie and why he was even with Nadja in the first place… until he realizes that she’s actually looking about ten centimeters to his right. Lydea notices at the same time.

“You can’t mean me.”

And so ensues the tale of Getting Rid of Astrid’s Imprudent Partner, Round A Thousand. Really, he doesn’t know how Lydea isn’t sick of doing the same song and dance every three partners or so. Also, he wonders how Astrid never caught on before now. Then again, Lydea usually makes it so that Astrid gets to dump them first.

“On that note… are we finished for the evening? As much as I’d like to stay here and keep arguing, I am getting tired.”

Sebastyan frowns. Vasili seemed a little overeager to leave just now. Granted, he wants to be anywhere but this room too, but…

He firmly pushes the half-finished thought aside. He’s imagining things.

The detective nods at Lydea. “I’m guessing Colette will confirm everything you said tonight?”

“Not entirely. I sent Colette to supervise the security detail at Marguerite’s show after we left the restaurant. But the gatehouse guards can confirm I arrived back at the palace at 7:40pm, as will the security footage from the gate. And the opera house.”

“Fine. Looks like we’ll have to regroup and continue questioning tomorrow. I want guards posted all over Trystan’s room.”

“Done. Now can I go the hell to sleep?”

The queen intervenes. “One moment. Before we recess, detective… You are summoned to join us for dinner tomorrow night. Please continue your investigation there, and keep us abreast of your findings.”

The queen steps out, followed by nearly everyone else. Before stepping through the doorway, he looks at Trystan’s plaything. “Until tomorrow, detective.”

He sees her as soon as she steps into the room with Trystan, their body language conveying a very clear ‘us against the world’ message.

There is no way they’re not sleeping together.

She’s wearing a green dress that he immediately recognizes as one of Marguerite’s designs – one that complements Trystan’s attire. Gold jewelry adorns her neck and arms, and Sebastyan grudgingly admires the snake motif on it. He’s been in politics, not to mention a Thorne, long enough to know what the entire ensemble means. The detective meets his gaze, and he reads that same message in her eyes.

Game on.

He stands a little straighter. This is a battle he is not willing to lose.

As you wish, detective.

He finds himself watching her as she talks to Kaspar and Emika, and he can’t help but be a little amused by the twins’ failed attempts to fluster her. It’s been a long time since somebody confused either of them, let alone both.

He might have liked her if she wasn’t in bed with the likes of Trystan. Literally. He frowns, both at the unwelcome thought and its corresponding mental image, relieved that this is the expression the detective sees when she turns and their eyes meet. Unfazed, she starts walking towards him. His gaze flicks down her body before he remembers himself.

“I could do without the pleasantries, detective.”

“Why is that, Prince Sebastyan?” The slight mocking edge to the word ‘prince’ doesn’t escape him. His hand tightens on his glass. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I’m sure you know you look perfectly adequate tonight.” ‘Adequate’ may not be the best word, but he’ll willingly spend a full day with Patryk rather than admit to anything else.

“Is that your version of a compliment?”

“For you? I suppose it is. But that’s not why I was staring. I was trying to gauge whether my brother has slept with you yet.”

He expects her to react with either anger or embarrassment. Instead, she lifts an eyebrow. “Interesting. Do you think about your brother’s sex life often?”

He can’t quite hide his disgust. “Hardly. But Trystan’s never met a professional line he couldn’t cross. And here you are, his ‘partner’ from another continent, leading an investigation into family members he has no love for.”

“You’re questioning my impartiality?”

“Call it that if you like.”

“Sebastyan…” She leans in, as if to impart a big secret. He catches a whiff of… gardenias? “You caught us! I am def tapping that royal ass. What do you think we were doing before we came to dinner?”

He immediately regrets asking. “I don’t recall asking for that level of detail…”

“It’s okay, there are no secrets between family. Which is what we’ll be soon. Though I guess that technically makes you my subject too…”

He vaguely realizes that he’s gaping. “You’re not suggesting…”

“The biggest royal wedding Drakovia’s ever seen? Heck yes I am. Trystan’s promised me that I can wear a diamond-encrusted Stetson to honor my American heritage.”

… Ah. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Caught me again. All you need to know is that I’m a professional, here to find the truth. Marguerite hired us to prove Trystan innocent, and now the queen’s hired us to find Nadja’s murderer.”

As if on cue, his sister approaches them. “Are we finally talking about Nadja, the person whom everyone seems to have forgotten about in all this?”

Grief slashes at him, a vicious blade. “I never forgot about her.”

“Then you knew Nadja? I’d never have guessed, considering how inconvenienced you appeared last night.”

Does she have an abysmal memory, or is she trying to psyche him out? Because he knows he told her just last night that he and Nadja were once friends. Still… “A harsh, but fair observation. Yes, I was lucky enough to be one of the few people Nadja called a friend. As were Marguerite and Juliana.” He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to know, but... “Was it… Was Nadja’s death painful?”

The detective’s face softens. “Nadja died in agony, but it was over quickly. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few seconds for her to bleed out.”

“I…” He inhales shakily. “I see. Thank you for your candor.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how was your relationship with Nadja before she died? Were you still close?”

“We…” He stops himself in time. What is it about her that makes him want to tell her the truth? “Actually, I do mind.”

He’s not giving Trystan’s… ‘partner’ the courtesy of honesty. He pivots and stalks away to meet Lydea and… a flicker of unease runs down his spine... Vasili.

Goddamn it, he knows that his brother didn’t kill Nadja. It’s the detective’s fault that he’s unable to fully shake off his suspicions.

“So, Trystan! You’re back! How was the Moldy Apple? I always preferred LA myself. Theres so much more culture over there. Plus, the people there are way hotter and friendlier than New Yorkers.”

Em- the detective chimes in. “Patryk, should I teach you how conversations work?”

“What?”

“If you ask someone a question, you need to give them time to actually answer them. Like this.”

“Are you seriously trying to school me right now? How many followers do you even have?”

“When you’ve been associating with cretins online so long that you need to be reminded of etiquette by a commoner, accept the lesson.”

He almost smiles.

The conversation soon turns to the investigation, and Sebastyan doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried about the lack of resolution. Which one of his siblings is behind this? He has no trouble believing that they’re almost all capable of murder, except for Marguerite and… his certainty falters. Damn it. He won’t let Em-Detective Rose get to him.

As the night unfolds, he wonders who will poison her first – Patryk or the twins? Then he sees his younger brother start a livestream, like the irredeemable fool that he is, and knows.

Oh well. If she wants to meddle with what doesn’t concern her, she can deal with the consequences. Still, he’s a little disappointed when she drinks the wine without a qualm. He had higher hopes for her.

“Slow down, cowboy. Wow, Trystan, your new friend’s kind of a lush, huh?”

“Emma’s an adult. She knows her own limit.”

“I can’t help it. This Drakovian wine is delicious.”

“What’s so different about it from New York wine? Like, flavor profile-wise.”

“It’s not from a box, perhaps?” Emika chimes in.

“I’m no wine expert, but I’m getting notes of plum… chicory… and almonds.”

Patryk and the twins laugh, and god, he'll never not find the sound irritating.

“Get ready for the fireworks, viewers. Our good friend is about to bloooooow.”

If he had any doubt about the nature of her relationship with Trystan, his brother’s reaction would put them to rest. Furious, he snaps, “Shut that thing off, Patryk. Emma, how much did you drink?

She tilts her head and smiles, a triumphant look on her face that makes his stomach tighten. “Not one drop.”

“Aw, man. What a buzzkill! Eighty thousand people tuned in live to watch someone crap themselves at dinner.”

Clearly out of patience, she rolls her eyes. “You think I came to the world capital of recreational poisoning without learning what to look out for?”

Trystan throws Patryk’s phone across the room, and damn, but the detective means a lot to him, doesn’t she? “My partner is not fodder for your content.”

He yanks her out of the room. When her eyes meet Sebastyan’s on her way out, he can’t quite hide the grudging respect in his.

Well played, detective.

After retiring to his room that night, he can’t sleep. He tries going over the wording of his latest legislation draft, but it doesn’t help. He doesn’t know why he can’t relax. It has been one of the most excruciating weeks of his life, by rights, he should’ve fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He gives up and groans. He does know why he can’t sleep, damn it. As infuriating as it is to admit it, he’s attracted to Em– the detective. Oh, it’s purely physical and entirely temporary – she’s almost singlehandedly responsible for inflicting Trystan on Drakovia again, which means that he’d cut off his own hands before he touches her. But this knowledge doesn’t seem to go far in convincing his hormones. The lingering soft notes of her perfume, so unexpected in a woman like her, haunt him.

He grits his teeth. Normally, he’d indulge in a brief fantasy to take the edge off. But there’s no way in hell that he’s bringing himself off to a woman who’s sleeping with his brother. Any brother, but especially Trystan.

He closes his eyes again. Her face instantly appears in his mind, an unconscious mockery on her part.

This is going to be a long night.

Sebastyan is leaning against the pantry door, a bowl of popcorn in one hand, when he hears steps. He tenses when he recognizes the sound of paws on marble. There’s only one dog in the palace, always accompanied by a specific person. A person he’s not ready to see, not after the dream he just had.

“Oh.” Emma comes to a stop in the doorway. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“It’s quite all right, detective. Please, don’t let me keep you.” Translation: I was here first, so get out. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and something like amusement flashes in her eyes.

“I’ve heard insults more kindly meant,” she says admiringly. “That’s quite a skill you have there, Prince Sebastyan.”

As always, she manages to make his title sound like a mockery.

“I’m not the only one,” he mutters. He flicks his gaze down her body, refusing to let it linger there. “Were you at a tea party, detective?”

She meets his eyes. “Close. I was at the Georgescu estate.”

His hand tightens around the bowl. “You went to Juliana’s house? Why?”

“Trystan and the countesses had some amends to make.” She waits a beat. “They made them.”

His immediate fury over this apparent capitulation by Juliana’s mothers is… not replaced, exactly, but set aside when he notices the look in her eyes. Appraisal. She’s waiting for his reaction to the news, which makes no sense in this context.

“I see. People do tend to let Trystan off the hook for everything. But I admit, I expected better from Noemi and Eloise.”

“What would they be letting him off the hook for, exactly? We proved during Trystan’s trial that he didn’t kill Juliana.”

“That doesn’t mean he was good for her.”

“From what I’ve heard, she felt otherwise.”

He isn’t surprised by the pang of bitter jealousy. It’s come to be familiar over the years. But he is surprised by how… blunted it is. Like a tender scar that’s been grazed, so different from the usual sharp stab.

He holds the detective’s eyes. “And look how that turned out for her.”

“You’re still convinced that her relationship with Trystan led Juliana to her death, then?”

“Of course.”

“… How?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How was a loving relationship responsible for a woman’s death? Even you must realize by now that Trystan couldn’t have killed her. So why are you so convinced that he’s responsible for her passing?”

“Everyone saw how drunk he was that night. He must have been all but unconscious when Juli needed his help.”

Something shifts in her expression. Anger wells up inside of him when he recognizes just what that something is.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not saying you do. But you lost someone you loved too. There’s nothing shameful about being pitied for that. And I prefer to call it compassion, anyway.”

Easy for her to say. She’s not the one with half a country pitying her, the other half looking down their nose at her.

“Shameful or not, I neither need nor want your compassion.”

“Sorry, Sebastyan, but that’s not how compassion – or feelings in general – work.”

Unbidden, his eyes drop to her mouth. “I’ll grant you that one, detective.”

“I have a name, you know.”

Of course he knows. When he woke up from his impromptu nap forty minutes ago, it was with her name on his lips – and the scent of gardenias in his nostrils. “I prefer to use people’s titles.”

At least the people from whom he’s trying to keep his distance. This woman as case in point.

“Wow. Were you born an old man, or is this a more recent development?”

He rolls his eyes. People are always needling him for being too serious. More than one ex used the word “intense.”

“What are you doing here, detective?” He asks in lieu of answering.

“Oh.” She looks around, as if only remembering where she is. “I was hungry.”

“I’m afraid that the chefs are gone with the king and queen, so you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

“Chefs? Plural?”

“My father tends to take his meals with my mother. The queen habitually dines alone. It’s easier all around to have two chefs.”

Emma makes a face. She doesn’t explicitly say that she finds this ridiculous, but her expression does it for her. “Right, well, that doesn’t help me now.”

“I’d tell you to feel free to cook for yourself, but Maria and Lukas are particular about this kitchen. They don’t even like sharing it with each other.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d know them well enough to be aware of that.”

He shrugs. “They’ve both worked here a long time.”

Emma eyes his popcorn. “I don’t suppose there’s more of that?”

Wordlessly, he reaches behind him for a second tub and holds it out to her. She looks at it, then back at him.

“Care to do the honors?”

“Checking for poison, detective?”

“Absolutely. Poison me once, shame on the Thornes. Poison me twice…”

He can’t help it. He grins at that.

“You’ve taken to Drakovia better than I expected.”

“Considering that your expectations were nonexistent, that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“Oh, it’s not. Merely an observation.” He strokes Alice’s head absently, only realizing what he’s doing when he notices Emma’s gaze resting on his hand.

“I didn’t realize you liked dogs, Sebastyan.”

“I haven’t spent much time with them. The queen isn’t fond of animals, so there are none in the palace or on the grounds.”

“I would’ve thought she was a fan of snakes at least.”

He snorts. He’d pay good money to see Queen Viktoria interact with Orlenna. “In theory. But she prefers them far away.”

“Look at that, we have something in common.”

“Spent a lot of time with snakes, have you?”

“Not until I arrived at this palace,” she says dryly.

He chuckles. For once, he feels… comfortable around her.

“I should go. It’s getting late.”

“Me too. Early meeting tomorrow.”

But they stay where they are, eyes locked. His heart beats faster.

Then her phone chimes. The change in her posture, the way she angles the phone away from him… it isn’t hard to figure out who’s behind that text.

“Brother dearest, I take it?”

She spares him a glance. “If you mean Trystan, yes. Excuse me.”

Emma walks out, leaving him with no doubt that she’s on her way to meet with Trystan. At a quarter to midnight.

So he was right about them.

The armor hardens again. As far as he’s concerned, the last half hour never happened.

#crimes of passion #sebastyan thorne #detective rose #emma rose #sebastyan x mc #playchoices #i don't even know what this is #play choices

16 notes · View notes

mister-eames · 8 months

Text

Arthur and Eames and moments of casual/not-so-casual intimacy:

(Pre-relationship)

Slipping the others lighter into their pocket for them after borrowing it

Checking each other for injuries during a violent dream

Leaning close to one another when inspecting dreamscape models/blueprints

Brushing fingers when handing each other weapons, cigarettes and paperwork

Messing up each others tie/cufflinks

Acts of service while the other is sick/injured: patching each other up, bedside surveillance (watching for enemies), checking temperatures, checking pupils.

(Dating)

Casually placing hands on hips/waist in passing

Fixing each others tie/cufflinks

Messing up each others hair

Leaning close enough to press their sides together in the kitchen, the office, sitting thigh-to-thigh in the back of a taxi

Back rubs

Pinching on the bum

Acts of service while the other is sick/injured: brushing their hair for them, bringing them food, giving them meds.

(Married)

Washing and cutting each others hair

Pinching in the boob

Feet in each others laps

Zerberting

Leaning foreheads or temples together

Tugging playfully on the others earlobe

Curling hair behind their ear

Belly rubs

Acts of service while the other is sick/injured: holding out the tissue to blow their partners nose because they cant stand the wet sniffling anymore, bringing them food, helping them wash up, bedside surveillance (making sure they take their damn meds).

#arthur x eames #inception #i don't even know what this is #i got my hair done yesterday and during the head massage i was like hmm #how can i make this about arthur and eames #how can i be the MOST self indulgent #eames gives the best head massages and thats canon #nolan told me so #he moonlighted as a hairdresser for three months

20 notes · View notes

chicgeekgirl89 · 1 year

Text

Glitter and Be Gay

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Lexi Mitchell

Rating: K

Summary: When Carlos gets called to an incident at a Valentine's themed drag brunch the fallout is much worse than he could have anticipated.

Read on AO3

Of all the things Carlos had imagined doing today, getting called to a drag brunch was not one of them. And so far, it was not going well.

“Ma’am, I promise we are just here to help,” Carlos says for the third time holding up his hands in a non-threatening manner. They still haven’t even made it past the doorway, but he can hear some kind of ruckus going on inside.

“And I am telling you that if you keep calling me ‘ma’am’ we’re going to have words honey,” the queen tells him, her rhinestoned top glittering under the lights. “The name is Peaches.”

“Look, someone in here called 911,” Lexi says. “We are obligated to at least check it out.”

“My girls can handle it,” Peaches says, brushing them off. “We don’t need police in here and we don’t want police in here.”

“Peaches,” Carlos tries again, “if someone in there needs help and you don’t let us do our jobs, there’s a good chance you’ll be held liable. Please let us through.”

There’s a massive crash and several people cry out, startling Peaches. “Oh my god!”

“Okay, we’re coming in,” Carlos says, pushing past her.

The space is crowded, a long runway cutting through the middle of the tables and leading to a stage at the far end of the room. Every surface is covered in pink and red, feathers, confetti, and flowers making the space look like the inside of Cupid’s bedroom. But the most notable feature is the queen onstage who is in a wrestling match with what appears to be a very drunk woman over a bow and arrow. “Doll I don’t know who you think you are, but nobody touches my props!” the queen says sharply.

“I gotta fall in loooooooooove!” the woman shouts back, tightening her hold.

“Get it Loretta!” someone else whoops and Carlos follows the sound to a table right next to the runway full of other inebriated women, clearly Tracy’s entourage.

“What in the hell…” Lexi says and Carlos has to agree. Just when you think you’ve seen everything, Austin surprises you with chaos at a Valentine’s themed drag brunch. Perfect.

“Okay, ma’am, we’re going to need you to come down,” Carlos calls over the din of voices and music. He strides closer and holds out a hand. “Come on, off the stage please.”

“But I need to fall in love!” the woman, Loretta, yells and Carlos wonders if she’s high as well as drunk.

“Babydoll, ain’t nobody gonna want you like this,” the drag queen says, looking like she’s starting to break a sweat.

Loretta practically growls at her. “You are the rudest Cupid I’ve ever met.”

“Okay, you know what? Fine. All yours sweetcheeks.” The queen lets go and Loretta stumbles back a few steps, holding up her prize triumphantly as her friends scream and cheer her success.

“Great, you got what you wanted, let’s come down and let the professionals finish the show,” Carlos coaxes.

But Loretta isn’t persuaded. Instead she starts parading back and forth, the bow and arrow being leveled at random audience members.

“I think we’re going to need paramedics on this one,” Carlos says and Lexi nods, turning away to call into dispatch on her radio. “Ma’am! Please get down before you hurt yourself or someone else!”

“Are you going to get her off the stage or what?” Peaches says as she pushes her way into the room, hands on her hips.

“I thought you didn’t want us here,” Lexi says.

“I don’t. But since you claim you keep the peace, go right ahead. Get us some peace.” Peaches gestures toward the stage where Loretta has now found a feather boa and is using it to put on quite a show.

Carlos and Lexi exchange looks. “I don’t do stages,” she says.

He squint at her. “What do you mean you ‘don’t do stages’?”

“My mom tried to put me in pageants when I was five. Didn’t end well.”

“Oh my—-fine,” Carlos says with a roll of his eyes. He walks toward the stage and uses one hand to hoist himself up. “Okay, ma’am, let’s go. You need to come with me right now.”

“Hey!” she says. “You’re ruining my show.”

“It’s not your show,” Carlos says patiently. “So you need to come down. Let’s get you off this stage, maybe have some water and we’ll see how you feel.”

Loretta flips her boa around her neck and sends him a menacing look. “You’re stealing my spotlight.”

“Loretta,” Carlos says. “This is the last time I’m going to ask. Please come down off the stage with me.”

“No!” she yells, throwing the bow and arrow at him and then taking off through the curtains into the backstage.

Carlos ducks under the projectile, then follows her into a narrow, dimly lit back area. There are clothing racks full of dresses and props, along with random furniture pieces, lighting, and sound equipment. He trips over a cord on the floor and when he regains his balance, he’s lost sight of his quarry. “Loretta!” he calls. “I just want to make sure you’re okay! Please come out and let’s talk.”

There’s no response other than the sounds of the crowd on the other side of the curtain. Lexi still hasn’t made an appearance, god only knows where she’s gotten to, so Carlos slowly starts to move down the hall to his left. “Loretta?” he calls again.

He opens the first door to find a small utility closet. He’s closing it back up again when there’s a creak further down the hallway. He begins to move toward it and then the next thing he knows he’s being shoved from behind into an open dressing room where he goes crashing face first into a vanity.

The world explodes in a cloud of white and Carlos sucks in a breath only to begin immediately coughing and choking. He rolls over and blinks and for a moment he thinks he’s gone blind, because he can’t see anything but a silvery haze all around him.

There’s a scuffle happening nearby and when his vision finally clears he sees Loretta on the ground, Lexi working cuffs onto her wrists from behind. “You are under arrest for assaulting an officer,” Lexi is telling her.

“I just want to fall in love,” Loretta says pathetically as Lexi pulls her upright.

“Where the hell were you?” Carlos gasps, struggling to sit up in the debris from the smashed table.

“I ran out to the stage door,” Lexi says. “Thought I’d cut her off.”

“Yeah well, next time, maybe get over your stage fright and stick with me,” Carlos grouses, trying to asses whether he’s broken anything.

“You okay?” Lexi asks as he gets to his feet.

“Yeah I think so—“ That’s when he catches sight of her face. “What?” he asks. “What’s wrong.”

“Oh. Oh Reyes…”

XXX

T.K. is putting the finishing touches on dinner when his phone rings, one of his favorite pictures of Carlos lighting up the screen. “Hey baby,” he says, tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he adds a little more seasoning to the pot. “You almost here? Dinner’s just about done.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. He pulls it away and checks to make sure the call is still connected. “Helloooo, Carlos, can you hear me?”

T.K. hears a sigh. “Can you open the door please?”

“Open the door? Open…open our door? The loft door?”

Another sigh. “Yes.”

T.K. turns off the stove with a frown. “Did you break both your arms today? Why do you need me to open the door?”

“T.K. just, please. Open the door.”

Confused as anything, T.K. hangs up, crosses the loft, and undoes the lock. “Okay, I’m opening the door, what the heck—“ the question on T.K.’s lips dies immediately as he catches sight of his fiancé. “Oh my…”

“Please don’t,” Carlos says between gritted teeth.

T.K. sucks in a breath and tries to hold back the giggle bubbling up inside him. “Okay um, I, hi, how are you? How was your day?”

“Not great.”

“Is it…Carlos…why are you covered in glitter?”

It’s everywhere. Scattered into his curls, across his face, down his neck and arms. T.K. can’t see his legs, but he has a feeling they’re as equally spangled as the rest of his husband. He looks like he was attacked by a Joann’s Fabrics.

“There was an incident at a drag show,” Carlos tells him, looking like it is costing him everything just to get the words out.

“An incident. Like you were…hugged for too long by a queen?”

“Like I was shoved into a brand new shipment of body glitter,” Carlos says shortly.

T.K. takes a long moment to process that. “Mhmm. Yeah. Okay. That um, that must have been, upsetting.”

“It wasn’t great,” Carlos huffs.

“Did you get hurt?”

“No,” he says shortly, then thinks for a second. “A couple bruises maybe. I’m fine.”

“Well that’s what’s most important,” T.K. says. “So, are you going to come inside or…?”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t.” This is the most bizarre conversation they’ve ever had.

Carlos looks almost like he’s in pain. “If I come inside then there will be glitter everywhere. Forever.”

“I don’t think it will be that bad,” T.K. tells him.

“T.K.” His name is ground out, meaning Carlos has reached his maximum level of frustration. “Glitter is a menace. Once it gets somewhere you can’t get it off.”

“And that’s what I had to open the door. Because you don’t want to touch it.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re going to what? Stand out here in the hallway forever?”

“I…don’t know.”

There’s a long moment of silence. “Did you try taking a shower?”

“Of course I tried taking a shower!” Carlos snaps. “I took three showers at the station!”

T.K. grimaces. If this is what he looks like after three showers…he might have a point. “We could take you to a car wash?”

This gets him a withering glare. “T.K. be serious.”

“Babe, I genuinely don’t know what you expect me to do right now,” T.K. says, once again fighting a laugh. “I think you’re just going to have to come inside and deal with the sparkly consequences.”

Carlos hesitates, so T.K. slowly reaches out and takes his work bag from his fingertips. “Come on. It will be okay. I promise.”

“You’ll help me vacuum?”

“Absolutely,” T.K. says, taking a step backward into the loft. “I will help you vacuum and scrub and soak whatever you need me to.” That makes him think of something. “How’s your uniform?”

“DOA,” Carlos says in response. He sighs another heavy sigh and takes a step inside, shoulders hunching up like he’s trying to stay as small as possible.

“Well that’s a bummer. You don’t think it could be a new, softer, more approachable look for the APD?” T.K. catches the menacing look on Carlos’ face and immediately backtracks. “Sorry, sorry. Not a time for jokes. I’ll stop.”

He’s definitely calling Lexi later to see if he can get the body cam footage.

#Tarlos #Tarlos Fic #Carlos Reyes #TK Strand #911 Lone Star #911lsfic #Glitter and Be Gay #I don't even know what this is #Humor #Fluff #Nonsense

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