#when he needs it; just as he does for them. He's so stubbornly self sufficient and it worries them. But they're equally as stubborn and

[dootplusone]

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Thinking. Abt this but with Bones. Like. Post-Tholian Web? Post-Mirror Mirror?

For AOS, could be after Into Darkness and/or Beyond.

A Bones who's just. So anxious. So stressed. So overwhelmed that it starts taking a toll on his health. Maybe he doesn't even realise - or maybe he does and tries his best to push through it until it knocks him on his ass. Kind of in the vein of "You don't actually know how tired you are until you stop. And then you just physically cannot start again." It becomes his new baseline, a problem that just brews and storms in the distance.

And he just carries on. And keeps going and going and going until one day he realises that 'Oh fuck, I'm not okay' and has about 5 seconds of warning before he straight up collapses, doesn't matter if it's on the bridge, in the madbay, on a planet - he's going down. (Maybe a repeat of Tholian Web where he just straight up faints into Spock's arms? Full whammy, why not)

Maybe it's a high-tension situation getting resolved that does it. The pure relief of it reminds him of how tired he is. How tired he's been for a while. His body sees that momentary rest and goes "More of that, please. And I'm not asking."

And he's so rendered by it that he doesn't grumble about being coddled like he normally would when he wakes up. He knows not to fuck with the medbay staff - they're just as firm as he is on recovery, and that's not by accident - and he knows that Spock and Kirk will be hovering, because they see any problem as something they, too, should shoulder the burden of.

...And because they're some of the most protective people in the damned universe. And that goes for pretty much all the people on board the Enterprise.

In some scenarios, it's just a case of letting his body and mind rest properly. In others, there's a lot more recovery involved than anyone initially expects. Luckily for him, he has a found family who are determined to be there with him at every step. It just takes a couple reminders, every once in a while.

#leonard bones mccoy #star trek tos #star trek aos #whump #back on my bullshit #aos bones fretting over Jim and Spock and their injuries; completely forgetting that hes also a little worse for wear #thinking back to dustykneed's post abt him being fucked up and grieving after ST:ID and. Lets just make it even more physical #After the issues they face from that; Spirk are more aware of Bones' tendency to brush things off. are more equipped to take care of him #when he needs it; just as he does for them. He's so stubbornly self sufficient and it worries them. But they're equally as stubborn and #loving. Unstoppable Force meets Immovable Object. I feel like post ST:ID is where they kind of Learn that Bones keeps shit on the down low #Because like. Bones will complain. Unless it's smth that's just affecting him. And then he suddenly keeps it to himself. When he complains #abt that whole fiasco he complains abt Jim dying. Abt Spock almost dying on that planet. About how they all almost died. But he doesn't tal #about how HE almost died from that fucking torpedo almost blowing up on him. Not a word. Jim forgot it had even happened until like. Carol #brings it up in passing. Maybe she has nightmares on the incident. But he realises Bones has just NEVER fucking mentioned it despite him #being the master complainer. That sets off the first alarm bells. And then maybe Uhura asks Jim how Bones is doing bc she knows that Bones #would just say he's fine. But Jim is like ??? Bc why wouldn't Bones be okay. And then she realises that HE HASN'T realised that Bones is th #kind of motherfucker to suffer in silence. and she's like Jim. Jim he literally ran himself to the ground trying to revive you. Jim. Are yo #kidding me have you NOT TALKED ABOUT THAT??? ANY OF IT??? Thus... Jim realises or maybe even Remembers what Bones is like #bc maybe at some point he DID know Bones well enough to know when he's fucking himself over. But all the Bullshit that theyve gone through #and the fact they work in entirely different parts of the ship kind of. Alienated them a bit. And suddenly hes like. Oh. Oh No. Oh FUCK. #because Jesus how the FUCK does he even approach this. But he manages it. And Spock gets in on it too as he slowly gets to know the doctor #And then post-beyond its like. Yeah. All three of them gang up on each other. That includes Spock and Kirk making sure Bones is as Fine as #he always says he is. #anyway. Yeah. I just think Bones probably stresses and overthinks too much but god forbid anyone comfort him. Self sacrificing bastard #wow this is a lot of alphabet soup im so sorry AHAHA

[puckinghell]

Acts Of Service | Elias Pettersson

Summary: When people have different love languages, sometimes it’s hard to understand what the other is trying to say. 4 times Elias shows you he loves you, and the 1 time you tell him.  Words: 7.5k (whoops) Note: This concept was very interesting to explore. Also yes, this entire thing was written because of that one picture of Elias in that blue sweater stepping out of the car like a fucking GQ model. 

----

(Some time ago)

“Didn’t you say there’s an apartment free in your building?” Brock asked as soon as you answered the phone, forgoing the “hello”.

“Hello, Brock, my very good friend, how nice to talk to you! How are you doing?” you deadpanned.

At least he had the decency to sound ashamed. “Ah, yes, hi. Sorry. I’m just in a hurry and it’s important.”

You frowned. “Why? Are you looking to move?”

“No.” Brock laughed. “Stetch would kill me. No, it’s about the rookie. Petey? I told you about him. Swedish, quiet, best fucking hands in the league.”

Yes. Brock had told you about the rookie, although you still thought it dumb to call him that. Brock was basically still a rookie himself.

“What does that have to do with my apartment building?”

“He said no to having a billet family but everyone on the team thinks it’d be good for him to have someone to kinda look out for him a bit. He’s never been to Canada before this, you know, and he’s never lived on his own either. His English isn’t that great and everything is new for him. And since you’re such a caring, loving person, we thought…”

“You thought I could babysit him?” you finished for Brock.

“It’s not babysitting. Just, being friendly if he needs anything. Obviously we’re there for that too, but it’d be nice to have you so close by.”

Close by would be an understatement: the free apartment was across the hall from yours.

You weren’t sure if this sounded like something that you would necessarily want to do, but you did feel a bit sorry for Elias: you’d met him at a team thing earlier that week and he’d looked completely lost in the midst of all the Canadian hockey slang that you barely managed to follow, even after having been friends with Brock for years. He mostly kept to Eagle, spoke in Swedish, and his eyes flickered nervously across the room whenever anyone else approached him.

“Fine,” you sighed, “I’ll talk to my landlord. But you owe me, Blondie.”

Brock was happy enough that he didn’t even call you out on the nickname.

1. 

“Have I told you lately how much of a lifesaver you are?” You lean across your desk, resting your chin in your hands. Elias looks mildly amused as he hands you the papers.

“Nearly every day,” he says, “but then I save your life every day, so that seems fair.”

You grab the papers from his hands.

“You’re a lifesaver and the love of my life, Petey.”

You think back to when Elias just moved into your apartment building, only because Brock thought he needed someone to look after him. You could laugh, now, thinking about how wrong he’d been.

Elias is the most self-sufficient, independent person you know. You don’t think he’s ever needed anything from anyone. Like in hockey, where he can make the play and score the goal all at the same time, Elias has his life together.

Unlike you.

Despite the fact that Elias hadn’t needed much help from you, you had become very fast friends. His quick witted sarcasm always managed to make you laugh and he liked how upfront and honest you were with him about things. It was easy, too, to spend time together. With him living just across the hall, you found yourself wandering to his apartment whenever you were bored, and he showed up at yours often when he didn’t feel like cooking.

Just because he could cook, didn’t mean he always wanted to.

And ever since the two of you had become friends, Elias had your back. When you needed someone to water your plants, or feed your cat Puck – Brock had named him – or, apparently, bring you the important work papers that you forgot at home after having worked on them all weekend.

You groan as you flick through the papers. “I thought I was going to die. Without these I can’t finish my presentation.”

“When is it?” Elias asks, eyes searching behind you. You know he’s looking out for your asshole of a boss, who will use any excuse to yell at you, especially the unannounced visit of a friend.

“Tomorrow. I got all the content in these papers here, but I still have to make the PowerPoint.” You sigh. “It’s still so much work.”

“Oh.” Elias’ face lights up. “Almost forgot. Brought you this.” Triumphantly, he reaches down and comes up with a paper bag from your favorite coffee shop.

The words fall off your lips in a gasp. “You didn’t!”

“Strawberry scone and a large caramel macchiato with soy milk.” Elias grins. “I also got you a chocolate chip cookie for later.”

“Marry me,” you proclaim, as you make grabby hands for the bag. The coffee is precisely what you need and your mouth is already watering at the idea of the food.

“Get me a ring, then,” Elias jokes, as he starts getting up from the chair.

Something tightens in your stomach, so you quickly take a bite of the scone: anything to push those feelings to the side. It works a little, and at the very least it tastes amazing.

You’re just friends. If you were gonna be anything more, Elias would’ve made a move already. Or, if you’d been brave enough, you would’ve: but he’s never said anything to make you think he’s interested and quite frankly, you’re not that brave.

“Thank you,” you say, mouth still full of scone, and Elias wrinkles his nose at that as you knew he would.

“I’m going to the store now,” he says, “anything you want me to pick up for you?”

“Wine?” you ask, hopeful. “I’m gonna need it after today.”

Elias rolls his eyes at you, but when you come home after the most grueling day at work there’s a bottle of rosé sitting in your fridge, next to a bag full of your favorite Thai take out food.

Love you, you quickly text Elias, even though you know he can’t answer because the game is about to start.

You take some time showering and putting on comfortable clothes, then situate yourself on the couch and put on the game. It has already begun, and you know it’s not gonna be an easy one, against the Bruins.

It’s not until the first intermission, when you check your phone, that you see there’s a reply from Elias waiting for you.

It’s just a simple heart emoji, but it makes your heart race anyway.

2.

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I can barely hear you.” Fiona’s tone is disapproving, and you pull your mouth away from where you’d pressed it into your arm to scream.

“I said, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me!”

She laughs. “It’s just a car, Y/N.”

You don’t necessarily like your job, but Fiona is one of the reasons you’re still putting up with it. She’s not just a colleague anymore, slowly turning into a friend and someone you confide into about everything – even about your Elias problem – and you love her, but sometimes you could murder her.

“It’s not just a car,” you bite. “It’s my only mode of transportation, because you know how much I hate taking the bus, and it’s broken, and I probably can’t even afford to get it fixed. And now I have to walk home, and it’s raining.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Fiona admits.

After a long day at work, you couldn’t wait to get home and watch The Bachelor until you fell asleep, your cat in your lap. However, when you finally got away from the office and stepped into your car, it was clear the universe had different plans.

It didn’t start.

After trying approximately 15 times, you’d screamed, nearly cried, hit the steering wheel, and then went back inside to scream and cry a little more at Fiona’s desk.

“I just wanna go home, Fi.” You know you sound miserable, but you honestly can’t help it. Taking the bus always heightens your anxiety, so you avoid it at all costs: however, walking home in this pouring rain doesn’t seem like much fun either.

And Fiona can’t even bring you home, because she takes the bus to work like a normal person.

“There’s a simple solution to this, you know,” Fiona says. She starts to organize the papers on her desk, a clear sign that she’s getting ready to leave the office as well. “You could just call…”

“No,” you interrupt her, knowing exactly where she’s going with this. “I can’t call Elias. He’s got the boys over today and I won’t interrupt his fun with my misery. Besides, he does too much for me already, I can’t ask him for more.”

“Right,” Fiona drawls, “but when he hears that you were stuck here and didn’t call him…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.

Elias would be furious.

One time, you were on a night out when you got a little too tipsy and didn’t realize your phone had died. By the time you noticed, all your friends had already jumped in their respective Ubers, but you had been too busy chatting with some girl you didn’t know to order yours, and now you couldn’t because you didn’t have a phone. 

You knew you could’ve asked any random person to order you an Uber, or at least to borrow their phone to call Elias – it’s not like you didn’t know his number by heart – but that felt like too much. It had been 3 am and he had a game the next day, so you decided to walk home.

When he found out the next day, he got so mad he didn’t talk to you for 4 days. Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore and just sat on his couch pouting at him until he spoke to you again.

“Something could’ve happened,” he’d muttered, explaining to you why he got mad in the first place. “And I’m your best friend, and you should know me enough to know that I would much rather you wake me up than you walk home alone.”

You did know that, and he was your best friend, and you’d promised him you’d never do it again.

It’s only that promise, that causes you to reach for your phone.

“I’m texting him, but if he’s busy, I’m walking,” you tell Fiona stubbornly. She ignores you, which is probably fair enough.

Hey, you busy right now? Are the guys still there?

The answer comes right away. What’s wrong?

Damn, he knows you too well. You quickly explain the situation and before you know it, Elias is on his way to come get you, and Fiona is bidding you goodbye after you promise her you’re fine on your own for the twenty minutes it’s gonna take Elias to get there.

You’re just checking your email on your phone when you hear the bell at the front door.

“I’m coming!” you call out. You hurry to grab your bags and then walk quickly to the door, where Elias is standing with his car keys between his fingers.

“So Bella finally gave up, huh?” he asks, a sly little smirk on his face. He always teases you with the fact that you named your car.

“Yes, and I know you told me,” you sigh, and it’s clear that he immediately – and correctly – reads your mood.

Without a word, he opens his arms, and you gratefully fall into them, hugging him tightly to your body. There’s very little in the world that brings you more comfort than one of Elias’ hugs: although being on Elias’ couch wearing one of his old hoodies watching some stupid reality show might come close.

“Let’s go home,” Elias finally mumbles, and he holds out an umbrella when he lets you go.

It’s raining really hard, and you know he has to park his car a little bit away because there’s no parking in front of your office, so you take it.

“You could’ve just called, I would’ve ran out,” you tell him sternly, but he shrugs.

“But then how would you have gotten the umbrella?”

You would tell him you’re not made of sugar, but as soon as you step outside the rain clatters loudly against the fabric of the umbrella and you realize you would’ve really, really hated to not have it, so you stay quiet.

Instead, you walk after him as he runs to his car and opens the passenger door for you. It’s still running, and the heater is on: only then do you realize you’re quite cold.

This morning they said it would be nice outside, so you didn’t bother to take a coat.

It’s quiet in the car for a while, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the silence that only comes when two people understand each other, and combined with the soft music that is playing on the radio it lulls you into a false sense of comfort.

Until you realize something.

“Oh God,” you groan, “I’m gonna have to call someone to tow Bella to a mechanic.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Well, you could just leave her there.”

Normally you would’ve at least playfully punched his arm for the sarcastic tone in his voice, but right now you’re too busy freaking out.

“And how am I gonna get to work tomorrow? Don’t you dare say you’ll bring me cause I know you’ve got morning practice and it’s super out of your way. Fuck, why did this have to happen to me?”

You let your head fall against the window. The glass is cold against your cheek and it’s enough to stop the spiraling in your brain at least for a second.

“Hey.” Elias’ voice has lost all sarcastic edge. It’s gentle now, and he’s speaking low as if not to startle you. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll call the tow truck and the mechanic and get your car fixed. And Brock lives close enough that he can take me to and from practice and you can just take my car to work.”

It’s… a reasonable solution, but once again something that Elias has to go out of his way for, even just a little bit, and you feel something warm bloom inside your chest.

“Okay,” you answer, the stress already ebbing away. “Thank you. You’re the best.” You reach out and place your hand on his knee, squeezing slightly. “Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Elias mumbles something incoherent. You think you see some color on his cheeks, but surely that’s just because the heater is on, because there’s no way he’s blushing over something you said.

You turn off the heater, and let your thoughts wander as Elias drives you home.

3. 

Traveling is fun, but traveling for work is instantly a lot less fun. You really don’t know how Elias does it.

You’re feeling run down and jetlagged when you come back from your work trip, which is ridiculous cause you flew to Toronto, not to freaking Europe. But it’s late at night and the three days you were away were so busy you can barely remember sleeping at all.

Fiona slept on the plane, so she looks a little more alive than you when your feet touch the ground at Vancouver airport.

“Is Elias coming to pick you up?” Fiona asks, as you’re both walking through the gate.

You shake your head. “I’m sure he would’ve insisted if he could, but he’s in California right now. They played the Kings tonight and they’re playing the Sharks the day after tomorrow.”

“I wish I was in California,” Fiona says wistfully. It’s cold and wet in Vancouver and it wasn’t much better in Toronto. The tiredness doesn’t help: it feels as if the cold of the night is slowly creeping into your bones.

“Come on then, I’ll drop you off.” You thank Fiona and follow her to her car. Normally you wouldn’t have minded taking an Uber, but right now you just wanna get to bed as soon as possible.

“If I fall asleep, just let me sleep here,” you mumble, resting your head back against the head rest. Fiona laughs as she starts the car.

“No way, you’ll freeze to death.” She squints outside. “Do you think it’s gonna rain?”

“It always rains,” you say, despite the fact that it’s not raining at the moment.

Fiona turns onto the highway. “So, are you finally gonna put up that bookcase you bought?”

Involuntarily, you groan. “Stop, don’t remind me.”

Your old bookcase is big and ugly, and it has been a thorn in your eye ever since you moved in. The person that lived there before you left it there, and you only kept it because you couldn’t really afford not to.

Four weeks ago, you finally allowed yourself to buy a new, prettier bookcase.

But…

“It’s just so big,” you whine, repeating the excuses you’ve been giving Elias every single time he raises a judgmental eyebrow at the old bookcase still standing in your living room. “It’s gonna take forever to take it apart and then it’s gonna take me even longer to somehow get it all downstairs and get rid of it.”

“And then you have to build the new one,” Fiona nods understandingly. “And you’re not good with furniture.”

“Hey,” you protest, but it’s weak. You’re not good with furniture, which was proven when you tried to help Fiona move in and didn’t manage to help her put together anything at all. Instead she ended up with a table with three legs. 

You even tried to read the manual, but it’s just not your forte.

“I’ll do it,” you add, “I promise you I will. Just, maybe not this weekend…”

Fiona laughs, but she doesn’t call you out on the fact that it probably won’t happen during the week either.

Finally, you arrive at your building. You can’t wait to go to bed, and you thank Fiona multiple times before dragging your luggage upstairs. When you open the door to your apartment, Puck comes running up to you, meowing and weaving between your legs.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you tell the cat sternly. “Petey sent me many pictures of you sleeping in his lap and I know he feeds you chicken when he thinks I won’t notice, so you got spoiled this week.”

You lovingly scratch Puck’s ears, before flicking on the light and kicking the door behind you in the lock.

Instantly, you notice the difference.

Your apartment isn’t big: real estate in Vancouver isn’t cheap and your job isn’t great. You got this place mostly for the location, and you like the big windows in the apartment and how it manages to get in light even during the darkest of winter days.

One corner of your living room, however, was always darker than the others. The bookcase took away the entirety of the white wall, and it created a dim lit, sad looking corner.

Now, it’s open and bright, as your new bookcase stands proudly in its place.

There’s only one person who would’ve done that.

The phone rings a few times, but you know the Kings game ended a while ago so you let it ring. After a while, Elias picks up.

“Sorry for the background noise,” is the first thing he says. “We’re on the plane. Taking off in a few minutes, probably.”

In the background, you hear some yelling. Probably Jake.

“You put up my bookcase,” you blurt out, ignoring Elias’ statement. “You put it up and all the books are in it and the other one is gone.”

Elias sounds a little smug when he answers. “Well, it’s not like you were ever gonna do it.”

“Thank you.” To your own horror, you can feel tears burning behind your eyes. “Elias, seriously…”

“It’s nothing.” You can hear Elias’ smile even over the phone: you know everyone always makes fun of his deadpan tone when he talks to media but with his friends, his voice always betrays everything he’s feeling. “I know you were worried about it, and I know how much you hated that old one.” He laughs. “I get why now, by the way. It took me and Brock like four hours to get that thing out.”

“Brock helped too?”

“He did.” Elias is silent for a while, but in the background you hear another voice. “Brock says to tell you that I forced him. But that’s not entirely true.”

Entirely. You know Elias definitely did force him.

“Tell him thank you too.”

“He says you’re welcome,” Elias says, quick enough that it makes you think Brock didn’t say that at all. “We’re about to take off so I have to put my phone on airplane mode. But call me tomorrow okay? I wanna hear about your work trip.”

“Okay.” For some reason, you can still feel the lump in your throat. You didn’t notice it momentarily, while you were focused on Elias’ and Brock’s bickering, but now it’s back, and with a vengeance.

Fuck. You just…

“I miss you.” You blurt it out before you can stop yourself and if anyone would ask, you would blame the exhaustion and the fact that Elias can’t see how wet your eyes are over the phone.

“I’ll be back soon,” he answers softly, and his voice is gentle in a way that makes you think he knows about the tears, anyway. “And when I am, we’re gonna take a whole night to eat food and stare at that bookcase, because it needs to be appreciated after the effort I had to put in to build it.”

You laugh before quietly saying goodbye to Elias and hanging up the phone.

In the kitchen, Puck sits in front of the fridge. When you open it there’s a pan with chicken.

For Puck the note next to it says, and you send Elias a picture of Puck with his chicken.

“He spoils you,” you tell your cat. You decide to ignore the fact that he kinda spoils you, too.

4. 

When you open the door to your apartment, you’re met with the smell of garlic.

After yet another shitty day at work, you can already feel the lump in your throat building again. You didn’t even tell him, this time. In fact, you carefully avoided his texts because you knew he’d clock that something was wrong.

Fuck. That’s probably where you went wrong in the first place; usually you never ignored Elias’ texts.

“Hello?” you call out into your own apartment.

There’s soft music playing and there’s light coming from the living room, but the amazing smell that tickles your senses is clearly coming from the kitchen, so that’s where you go.

Elias is standing at your kitchen counter, chopping a carrot.

“Hey,” he greets, smiling your way. “I’m making dinner.”

It’s almost too much, how domestic it looks. And how right: like he belongs there in your space, waiting for you to come home.

Suddenly there’s the overwhelming urge to go towards him, so you do. His arm immediately lifts, creating space for you in the crook of his body, and you slip under his arm easily.

“How did you know?” you mumble into the fabric of his worn Canucks hoodie. It smells like him, a scent that reminds you of home as much as your mother’s signature dish.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” Elias hums. His arm tightens around your body. “So I figured you could use some good food and a bath.” His head motions towards the general direction of the bathroom. “I’m running it as we speak.”

God. You love him.

It hits you, then. You knew you had a crush on him, knew you wanted to kiss him and hold his hand and feel his hands on you. But it’s more than that, now.

It’s the realization that you want to share everything with him. The ups and the downs. The bad nights and the bright mornings. You want him in your kitchen, but more than that, you want it to be his kitchen, too.

Fuck. You’re so royally screwed.

Because he does this, and he does so much for you, but he’s never said anything, anything at all, to indicate that he wants that. Or has even considered it, thought about it.

Maybe it’s never even crossed his mind. Maybe he takes care of you like he would take care of a sister.

“Hey.” Elias’ voice is gentle as it pulls you out of your thoughts, back down to earth. “You’re shaking. Go take a bath, and I’ll finish dinner, and then we’ll watch How I Met Your Mother. I wanted to watch the next episode but I waited for you.” His grin is a little lopsided. “Isn’t that chivalrous of me?”

It is, and normally you would tease him for it, but you can’t really think or speak, so you just nod.

“There’s wine in the fridge, if you want a glass,” Elias says. He holds out a wine glass, already waiting for you on the counter.

And who cares that it’s only a Tuesday: you deserve it, damn it, so you open the fridge to find the wine.

You’re met with more than just that.

“You bought groceries?” you ask, your eyes traveling through your fridge. You hadn’t gone grocery shopping in like a week, and when you left for work this morning the fridge was basically empty. Now it’s so full you wonder how you’re gonna close the door.

“How else was I gonna cook anything? You only had cat food left,” Elias tuts. You’re not surprised to find Puck at Elias’ feet, waiting for him to inevitably slip him some human food.

“Did you get…”

“Your coconut yoghurt? Yes.”

He did, and he got basically all your staples, and nothing you wouldn’t buy yourself.

“Honestly,” you say, as you finally reach for the bottle and pull your head out of the fridge. “I don’t know what to say, Petey. Thank you. I had such a sucky day and now it’s already endlessly better.”

This time you know you’re not imagining the flush on Elias’ cheeks.

“It’s fine,” he says. “You should go take that bath before it goes cold.”

You want to say more: to tell him time and time again how amazing he is, how much he means to you, how thankful you are. But you know once you start, you can’t be trusted to not say the one thing you don’t think he wants to hear.

So you say nothing, and simply go to take your bath.

+1

But you think about it.

You think about it all throughout Christmas, where you don’t see Elias at all. You think about it during NYE, when you get a drunk SnapChat from Elias with his brother, right at midnight.

At least, you figure, he’s not kissing any girls.

You’re not kissing any boys, either. You’re at a NYE party with Fiona and it’s fun, it is, but it’s not the same as it would be if Elias wasn’t all the way in Sweden.

You miss him like a limb, and you know it’s not fair because he rarely gets time to go home to Sweden and he deserves that time with his family, but you can’t say you didn’t wish his time off ended already.

When it finally does, it’s not Elias you see first. Troy is throwing a late New Years party, just to welcome everyone back to Vancouver as they get ready to start the season back up, and when you arrive at his house it’s early enough in the evening that there’s only a handful of people there.

“Y/N!” Brock calls out, opening his arms to give you a big hug as you enter. “Missed you!”

You laugh. “Get off of me, you giant. I’m gonna drop the wine.”

“Not the wine,” Troy says dramatically, tearing it out of your hands. His eyes are sparkling when he thanks and hugs you, and then Brock is ushering you into the living room, where Jake is talking with Quinn.

Or talking at Quinn. To be honest, you never really know when Quinn is paying attention.

“Y/N!” Jake exclaims, much like Brock had. “I’m glad you’re here, we need your input on something.”

“Okay?” you ask, curiosity instantly taking over. Whenever Jake and Brock get together, it promises to be an interesting evening.

“We’re trying to decide Brock’s love language.”

It’s sudden enough that you laugh. “His what?”

“Love language,” Jake explains. “Like, how he shows people he loves them. He says it’s quality time, but I think it could be physical touch. He’s always touching people.”

“Jake is deflecting because his love language is physical touch,” Brock scowls. “I think I know my own love language, Tuna.”

“Hold on.” Unfortunately, you have to press the pause button on their discussion. “What options do we have?”

You’ve got no idea where they got this from, but it doesn’t really matter. You’re always down to share your opinion on stupid stuff with your favorite boys.

“There’s gifts, quality time, physical touch, words of affirmation, and…” Brock pauses, and you can nearly see the wheels in his head turning.

“Acts of service,” Quinn offers, which proves that he was actually paying attention.

“Mine is physical touch,” Jake says determinedly. “When I care about someone, I always wanna be touching them, and when I’m in love with someone that’s like twenty times worse.”

“Poor girl,” Quinn mutters, and the conversation gets paused in order for Jake to put Quinn in a headlock.

“I think yours is quality time, actually,” you tell Brock when Jake is done murdering the rookie. “Your ex was always on her phone during your date nights and I remember it drove you crazy.”

“See,” Brock says proudly. “Quality time baby. If I’m there I’m there.”

“What about yours, Huggy?” Jake asks. “Physical touch would make sense, since you’re called Huggy.”

“I’m not called Huggy,” Quinn deadpans. His face is devoid of any emotion, but you know him well enough to recognize the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He reminds you of Elias, when he does that. “And if we were going by nicknames your love language would be fishing.”

Everyone cracks up on that, and then the doorbell rings and Bo arrives.

The topic gets put on hold, then, because Bo is instantly talking about Gunnar’s first Christmas and Brock is talking about becoming an uncle again and you feel warm and happy on the couch with your wine, squeezed between Brock and Troy.

Until, a little later, you realize someone is missing.

“Where’s Petey?” you ask Troy. “Isn’t he coming?”

Troy shrugs. “Should do. But you never know with Pete.”

It’s not entirely true: if Elias promises he’ll be there, he will be there. But, to be fair, he usually doesn’t promise that to anyone but you, and you hadn’t asked him to come, this time.

You figured he just would.

“What about Petey’s love language?” Brock asks idly, not knowing he’s opening Pandora’s box for you. “Definitely not words of affirmation, huh.”

Troy laughs.

“Nah, Petey’s an acts of service guy. He’s always doing shit for Y/N.”

You would protest if you trusted your voice not to shake. As it is, you stay quiet and hope the flush on your cheeks gets mistaken for a wine flush, and not an Elias flush.

Brock brightens. “Oh, yeah! Getting her car fixed, making dinner, building her stupid bookshelf, feeding her cat… He is a typical acts of service guy.” He bumps against your shoulder playfully. “I hope you appreciate his showing of love, Y/N. He rarely does that shit for me.”

Troy snorts. “That’s cause he’s not in love with you, Boes.”

“He’s not in love with me either!” you squeak, unable to stay quiet any longer. You know if you don’t derail this trail of thought very soon, it’s gonna end badly for you.

Both Troy and Brock look unimpressed, at that statement.

“Yes, he is,” Brock says slowly, as if explaining something to an unruly child. “He drops whatever he has going on to do small things that make your life easier. That’s literally the same as him screaming I’m in love with you from the highest rooftop in Vancouver.”

“He’s not like you,” Troy continues, a little more gentle. “When people have different love languages, they don’t always understand what the other is trying to say. Your love language is words of affirmation. You’re always telling Petey how amazing he is. But he doesn’t see that as a declaration of love, or whatever. He thinks you tell everyone that they’re amazing.”

You do, to be fair, but not as often as you tell Elias. Because he’s…

Well. Amazing would be an understatement, actually. He’s everything to you.  

Things are starting to make sense, like puzzle pieces fitting into place. Suddenly, you start wondering if there’s more to his acts of service than plain friendship, or him being a good guy.

It’s not like he does stuff like that for all his friends. He helps them out, sure, but he always goes above and beyond for you, usually not even needing to be asked.

But he’s not in love with you, surely? He hasn’t said anything…

But maybe words aren’t his thing. Not like they are yours: the way you can’t stop yourself from gushing into Elias’ ear even when you know you should stop.

What if Brock and Troy are right?

You don’t get much time to think it through, because that’s when Elias finally appears in Troy’s living room, looking endlessly cool in his blue sweater, wearing his glasses. He’s sending death glares at Jake, who wolf whistles from the corner, but then his eyes meet yours and they soften.

“Hi there,” he smiles, reaching out to you. You immediately jump up and launch yourself at him, any previous conversation about the two of you momentarily forgotten as you curl your body into his, his arms tightening around your waist.

“Missed you,” you hum into his shoulder, and you’re rewarded with a grin you can feel against the skin of your neck.

“Are you sure hers isn’t physical touch?” you hear Brock ponder, and you would flip him off if you could be bothered.

You can’t. All you can be bothered doing is plastering yourself to Elias’ side and not leaving him alone even for a second, the rest of the night.

It works at least for a while, until he asks: “Do you want another drink?”

“I’ll go with you,” you say, not willing to part with him yet, and you ignore the knowing look Brock shoots you as the two of you find your way to the kitchen.

Elias immediately goes for the wine, because he knows you better than anyone else.

“I asked my dad about the job,” Elias mentions casually, as if it’s not a big deal at all. “He thinks he can get you an interview.”

“Wait, what?”

Suddenly your heart is ticking in your throat. Before he left for Sweden, Elias had mentioned that his dad knows a guy who works for a similar company as you’re working for now: apart from the shitty boss you have or the ridiculous low salary you get paid. It’s your job, but better, and Elias promised you he’d get his dad to ask if there were any open positions.

There were. And you sent in your application not thinking there was gonna come much from it, but now…

Something warm washes through your chest, like your heart grew three sizes. Of course he asked, of course he made it happen. Looking out for you, always and at any time, from any distance.

“It’s not a done deal,” Elias warns, oblivious to your mental breakdown. “But he said he thinks they’ll like you and he’ll put in a good word for you.”

You squeal and throw yourself in his direction once again. Elias laughs as he catches you, fingers curling in your hair where your face is pressed against his chest.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

“It’s about time you get rid of that dumb job.” You can hear the frown in Elias’ voice. “They don’t take good care of you at all, it’s not good for you.” The distaste is obvious and it’s adorable. You pull away.

“I don’t need them to,” you say, carefully. You can still hear Brock’s words in your voice, and you figure it’s worth a try, probably. “Because you’re always there to take care of me.”

Elias’ cheeks darken substantially.

“I mean it when I say I don’t know what I’d do without you, Elias.”

“You’d be fine,” Elias waves away the compliment as you figured he would. But this time you’re not backing down.

“Maybe I would be. But I wouldn’t be as happy.”

They say when you really love a person, you’ve got to show them. But you’ve never really known how to do that, instead you always use your words to tell them. But it seems like Elias isn’t believing you, not even now.

And you’ve got to fix that.

It’s not until you’re in Elias’ car on the way back home that you bring it up again. The party wasn’t really the time and place, but the conversation with Brock and the guys has been nagging in the back of your mind since it happened.

If you didn’t realize Elias’ acts of service meant something, maybe he doesn’t realize your words of affirmation mean something. And even if it doesn’t mean he’s in love with you – you’re really not that sure about that – you need him to at least know how much you appreciate him.

“You know I’m always there for you, right?” you start, carefully breaking the silence in the car. Elias shoots you a glance from behind the steering wheel.

“What?”

“Like, even if I’m maybe not as good as you are at realizing what you need me to do, if there’s ever anything I can do to help make your life a little easier or better I wanna do it. I’d do anything for you.”

It’s too honest, probably, and too much all at the same time. But Elias doesn’t look that surprised. In fact, there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You make my life better by just being you, Y/N. You don’t have to do anything for me.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach and you wonder how you’re gonna get through this conversation. But it’s one that needs to be held, so you press on.

“What is your love language, Elias?”

Now he frowns. “Have you been talking to Brock?”

Of course Brock talked to Elias before he talked to you. The traitor.

You decide to ignore that, for now. You’ll talk to Brock later.

“You know my love language is words of affirmation, right?”

Elias shrugs. “Brock did say that, but I didn’t know what you thought it was.”

“And yours is acts of service,” you hazard a guess. You keep your eyes firmly on Elias’ face, which is the only reason you catch the slight change in his expression.

Like a wall, crossing over his features. He’s trying to protect himself, although you have no idea why. Does he not get where you’re going with this?

“I can tune it down if you want me to,” he says, a little grumpily. He’s staring straight ahead at the road, stubbornly refusing to look your way.

And oh God, he’s truly not getting it, and this is going the exact opposite way you want it to go.

Troy did say that when people’s love languages don’t match, they don’t understand what the other is trying to say. But you honestly don’t know how you can make it any more clear to Elias.

Well, except…

“I love you,” you blurt out. “Like, in love with you love you.”

The words ring loudly in the quiet car. For a second, nothing about Elias’ expression, almost like he didn’t hear you. You can almost feel your heart sink into your stomach.

Then, he pulls over the car.

It comes to a stop at the side of the road, two wheels on the pavement and two still on the road. It is, objectively, not super safe, but it’s also 3am and there’s no other cars to be seen. Very carefully, without looking at you still, Elias turns on the hazard lights.

And then finally, finally, he turns to you and kisses you.

You weren’t expecting it but it doesn’t really matter: it’s like your heart and head both light on fire, and everything outside of the car simply disappears. It’s just you and Elias, and his lips on yours and his hands on your body.

It feels right. Like it was always meant to end up like this.

After what feels like ages, he pulls away. He’s smiling, and his eyes are bright blue in the dark car.

“I thought you said those kinda things to everyone,” he admits, quietly. His thumb is rubbing your side, his eyes fixed on that spot. Almost as if he can’t really believe he’s allowed to do that.

You don’t want him to ever do anything else.

“I thought you did those kinda things for everyone,” you shoot back.

Elias raises one eyebrow. “That bookcase weighed at least 300 pounds.”

You can’t help it: giggles are escaping your lips and suddenly you’re both laughing. The tension in the car dissipates instantly, and suddenly it’s just Elias again, your best friend.

Your best friend that you’re now allowed to kiss. So you lean in and press your lips against his again.

After all, kissing is a love language you think everyone understands.

(+2)

“I’m home!” Elias’ voice sounds through the empty apartment, and you immediately leave your spot behind the kitchen counter to run into the hallway.

With a squeal, you fly towards him, and he catches you easily as you knew he would.

“Hey, babe,” he laughs quietly, pressing a kiss into your hair before returning the hug fully. “Is that my sweater?”

“Maybe,” you admit, as Elias’ hands make their way under his own blue sweater, that you definitely steal from him most evenings. “Missed you. And I’m very proud of you.”

“I missed you too,” he answers. “Watched the game?”

“Obviously.” You roll your eyes, even though you know he can’t see it with your face still buried in his shoulder. “A hat trick, huh? I think that needs to be celebrated.”

“Oh?” Elias pulls away then, one eyebrow raised and a cheeky twinkle in his eyes.

“Not like that,” you scold him, lightly punching his arm. “Or, maybe like that. But first, I made Kalops.”

At the mention of his favorite Swedish food, Elias’ face lights up. A while ago, you asked his mom for her recipe and it’s one of the only Swedish dishes you can make, but you make it well.

“Also,” you continue, as you take his hand and start leading him towards the kitchen, so he can sit at the counter while you cook as he always does, “I called the electrician so the TV is already fixed. I know you could have done it, but I decided I’d much rather use that time to hang out with you. I took Puck to get his shots at the vet and I also used my free afternoon to take your car through the car wash.”

When you reach the kitchen, you twirl around towards Elias and his arms immediately circle around your waist.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he mutters, taking the opportunity to kiss you once more. “But thank you. I love that you took the time to take care of that for me. And I love you.”

“Look at us,” you tease, lightly tugging at the ends of Elias’ hair. “Speaking each other’s love language like that.”

“Perfect couple,” Elias agrees, and you smile back at him.

Somehow, you and Elias managed to create a language of your own: one that you could speak with nobody else. But luckily, you don’t have to.

Cause he came home to your shared apartment like he always does, and well. That’s the biggest act of service he could do for you.  

#elias pettersson #vancouver canucks #nhl fic #elias pettersson fic #elias petterson one shot #elias pettersson imagine #nhl writing

[syndianites]

A Queen Serve and Protects

Chapter Six

First Chapter –> Last Chapter –> Current –> Next Chapter TBA! Summary:

Post-Style Queen, Pre-Queen Wasp.

Chloe finds the Bee Miraculous, but instead of finding an obliging, subservient Kwami, she finds the Kwami of Order and Subjugation, and Pollen is not about to let herself be used like Nooroo was.

Granted, the only danger in a teenage girl is the damage she poses to herself. Can Pollen shape Chloe into a hero? Or will she stubbornly refuse to change and remain the bitter, harsh person the city has long since known?

[My take on how Chloe’s character could have developed] ——————————————————————————————

Pollen tapped the tablet pen on the table. School had ended and the duo was officially home.

“Chloe,” Pollen began. “It has come to my attention that you don’t do your own work.”

“So?” Chloe nonchalantly replied, crossing one leg over the other from where she sat on the chaise in front of Pollen.

Pollen tried not to roll her eyes. “So, I want you to learn how to be self-sufficient.”

Chloe scoffed. “I am plenty self-sufficient.”

“Really?” Pollen had a sweet smile on her face. “Then prove it.”

:readmore:

Before Chloe could make any remark, Polle flew over to her school bag. It looked more like a purse, honestly, with how much makeup and accessories she had stashed away inside. Seriously, what did you need an extra pair of heels for?

Pollen shook off the thought and grabbed the binder Chloe used for class, as well as her homework folder. Brining both items back to the table, she flipped the folder open. She pulled out the first sheet of homework she saw- something math related- and waved a paw at it.

Chloe gave her a dumbfounded look. “You want me to do that? Sabrina normally does.”

Pollen raised an eyebrow.

“Ugh, fine, I get it.” Chloe grumbled. “What does doing my own work have to do with being self-sufficient anyway?”

“When was the last time you did your own school work.”

“Ughhhh!”

Letting out a little giggle, Pollen decided to make a compromise, “For every question you get correct, I’ll let you ask a question about the Bee miraculous and its powers. However!” Pollen held a paw up before Chloe could get too excited, “For each you get wrong, you have to listen to some history and background on the miraculous.”

“Ooo-kay? How is that a loss for me? I still get to know what I want to know,” Chloe replied.

If only the poor girl knew.

Pollen beamed. “I’m glad you asked! You know how much you love our ‘Bee Nice’ Sessions?”

Chloe groaned.

“Anything I tell you will come along with lessons. I will tell you tales that are important for a number of reasons. And you have to sit through all of them!”

Chloe’s eye twitched. That sounded excruciating. Buuuut, she did want to know more about what powers the Bee miraculous could give her. It was just a simple math worksheet. Surely, it couldn’t be that hard. So Chloe took out a blank sheet of paper and began working.

She was wrong. So, so wrong. Chloe was by no means a bad student. She got solid B’s and pleased her daddy enough with her grades to get by. Did she need to have a study session with Sabrina before each test or quiz to get the contents down? Yes.

But that was all pish-posh. She figured if she could pick up enough for a test or quiz a day before it, she could do homework with no problem. Apparently, she hadn’t been giving Sabrina enough credit. That girl made it so much easier than this.

It didn’t help that her notes were a total disaster. Half-finished sentences, unclear instructions, and a clear lack of interest in each page. For a moment Chloe cursed her own apathy. She wanted to know more, damnit! 

By the time she finished she felt exhausted. Pollen, ever chipper, hummed as she looked through each question. She procured a pen and started making marks. That was a lot of red. Oh GOD, there was so much red.

Pollen tapped the pen to her chin in thought. Giving a nod, she wrote a score at the top of her sheet.

6/15. 

That was just under half! And that meant she would have failed had it been a test. Chloe resisted the urge to hit her head on the table. She could not afford to be forced into tutoring. Again.

Despite Chloe’s despair, Pollen was excited. This was better than she was expecting! Sure, she had been hoping for closer to a 75% or 80%, but Chloe at least had the idea down.

Plus this meant she could drill some more lessons into her charge.

Rubbing her paws together, she addressed Chloe. “Alright. Since it is almost an even split, let’s go back and forth with questions and history. I’ll start with a history lesson first, since you missed more than you got correct. But since I’m feeling nice, I’ll give you a choice here: Would you rather hear some history about my previous holders first, or about all the miraculous as a whole?”

“Your past wielders, of course! I need to know who would be so lucky to use the same miraculous as moi.” Chloe flipped her hair back to accentuate her point.

Pollen huffed. Nonetheless, she thought back to her past holders, humming all the while. Who would be the best to start with to help Chloe learn? 

She smiled as someone came to mind. “Now, before we start, I should say that we aren’t always deployed to battle some great evil. Sometimes, we are let out into the world to help inspire something. For me, I either inspire Order and Control. Or, when that gets to be too much, I inspire freedom from Order and Control.”

“Wait,” Chloe interrupted. “Why would you go against your whole Order thing?”

“I thought you wanted to talk about past wielders first,” Pollen brought a paw up to her lips to hide a smile. “To get into that would mean I would have to talk about all the miraculous.”

“Ugh, fine, whatever. Tell me the basics about all the miraculous first. But! You better tell me about your past users after!” Chloe conceded, pouting at the little god.

Pollen started again. “Like I said, we don’t always need a great evil to fight. At their core, each miraculous is meant to balance out their respective aspects. Tikki- Ladybug’s kwami- is the kwami of Light and Creation, for example. She is largely put out into the world to inspire new ideas and innovation.”

Chloe scrunched her nose in confusion. “Didn’t you say you also get put out to stop Order and Control? Why would you ever want to stop Light and Creation?”

“Well,” Pollen looked off to the side. “You can’t endlessly create. Tikki works on a more individual scale. She inspires Light and Creation in people as individuals. I, however, inspire Order and Subj- Control in a much larger scheme. After all, a bee’s focus is on the hive, isn’t it?”

“In any case, sometimes people burn themselves out when creating too much or spreading too much light. If you give and give and give, what is left for you? Nothing. And those left with nothing often crumble and fall apart- or worse. Tikki, when she is needed to, can either help her holder ease off themselves or help their holder teach others to let go of such demanding responsibility.”

Chloe nodded slowly. That… sort of made sense. “So it’s like when Adr- a friend of mine kept being happy and smiling even after his mother died to help others stop being sad. Because he wanted others to feel ‘lighter’” She made finger quotes, “Despite the tragedy that happened?”

“Yes, that could be a good example,” Pollen agreed. “If your friend gave away all his light and such to others, it could burn him out and leave him feeling empty and cold. Though, in this case I would lean more into the Peacock- he worked to give good emotion to others to cover their grief. But we’ll get there in a moment.”

“Plagg, Chat Noir’s kwami, is Tikki’s counterpart. He is the kwami of Dark and Destruction.” Pollen stopped as Chloe seemed to ponder that.

“If he is all about dark and destruction, wouldn’t that make him more likely to be evil?” Chloe mused.

Pollen, for her part, wasn’t bothered by the question. “If I am all about order and control, wouldn’t I be more likely to use and abuse people?”

Chloe bit her lip, but shook her head no.

“Exactly. Just because that is what we represent it does not mean we are prone to be good or evil. In the balance of all things, there IS no good and evil. Really, it just comes down to what a certain group likes or dislikes, or how a person’s morals are aligned.”

“Okay, no, Hawkmoth is totally evil. There is no doubt about that. How could taking control of others and using their emotions to turn them into monsters be seen as a good thing?” Chloe didn’t like the idea of Hawkmoth being in the ‘right’ at all. It went against everything he had done to Paris.

“Well,” Polled offered, “Does Hawkmoth see himself as evil?”

Chloe sat back in her seat. If movies were anything to go by, he probably didn’t. She sighed and motioned Pollen to continue

Pollen pushed on. “In any case, Plagg is often put into the world to ruin things. Surprising, isn’t it? But sometimes the best things are made in the ashes of destruction. Growing from losing things is important for many people. Like how your friend lost his mom- he likely felt sad and lost. But if he grew from that? He could learn to see that others will have his back and he can lean on them. Even in the hard times.”

Chloe looked away from Pollen. She was right, sort of. When Adrien’s mom died, Chloe had been there trying her best to cheer him up. Did it really work? No. But she helped him escape the house and run around the city with her, and watch stupid cartoons and shows, and sometimes, just sometimes, get him to smile.

“But losing your mom isn’t a good thing!” Chloe snapped back. “That devastated my friend and his family.”

“I know, and I’m sorry I painted it as such. Loss is a horrible thing to endure. But I wanted to make a connection to something you mentioned.” Pollen bowed her head. “Destruction is rarely a happy thing. But, a more positive example would be something more metaphorical- the destruction of insecurities, or breaking a bad relationship, or- or bashing down a wall so you can open up a room to have more space!”

Sighing, Pollen shook her head. “It is far too easy to see Dark and Destruction as a bad thing. Darkness can be used to hide when you don’t feel safe. Or it can be used to tone down how bright something is when you feel blinded. It can also be used as a complement and give things more depth.”

“Of course, Plagg has also been put out to tame destruction. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘fighting fire with fire’? It’s the idea that you fight destruction with destruction. But he can also help people see their bad habits, or the things that hurt them, and get them to reign them in and stop themselves before it’s too late.”

“Okay, sure, that makes sense. But didn’t you just describe Tikki and Plagg as opposites anyway? Light and Dark, Creation and Destruction? Why do they need to get people to go against their aspect when the other IS the opposite?” Chloe butt in.

Pollen brightened. “That’s technically later in this lesson, but I can touch on it now. You’ve likely noticed that Ladybug and Chat Noir came together as a pair, correct?” At Chloe’s nod, she continued. “That is because they are like Yin and Yang- opposites that complete each other. While other kwamis do have opposites, none quite work the same as Tikki and Plagg. They were once a single being- one that was the kwami of Balance.”

“Well,” Pollen rubbed her cheek, “They weren’t a kwami, per se. But that is too much to explain for right now. You recall how Hawkmoth’s goal is to get the Ladybug and Black Cat miraculous?”

“Of course, that’s all he ever talks about when he akumatizes someone!”

“Well, that’s because when you combine the two into one you can have any wish granted.”

“What!” Chloe slammed her hands down on the coffee table, startling Pollen. “That’s horrible! I mean, the power is cool, but if Hawkmoth got his grubby hands on that wish who knows what he would wish for!” 

“Exactly! But there’s a catch with that- whatever you wish for will have an equal and opposite consequence. If you wished for someone to come back to life? Someone else must die. If you want to have all the power in the world? Everyone else must become powerless. These may sound simple, but the gravity is just as dire as the wish would be grand.”

Chloe fell back. “So, if I- well, if I wished for my mom to love me..?”

“It depends,” Pollen shrugged. “Maybe everyone else around you would hate you. Maybe your father would stop loving you. Or, in a more subtle fashion, she wouldn’t love the real you, just a facsimile of you. Whoever she thinks you are. Sure, there are ways to make a wish that has a mostly positive outcome- for the one making the wish- but the consequence will always hurt someone. Even if it has to be a lot of someones.”

The two fell into silence after that declaration. It was a heavy thought. What could drive someone to want to change something so badly they would be willing to suffer or let others suffer for it? How cold hearted must you be? 

The whole thing baffled Chloe. She could just ring her father and have what she wanted with no consequence. Could she imagine doing something so drastic as to ruin someone’s life to make hers better?

Instead of voicing any of this, Chloe leaned forward. “So tell me about the other miraculous…”

#chloe bourgeois #chloe bourgois redemption #miraculous ladybug #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #ml fanfic #ml fanfiction #pollen (ladybug) #pollen #pollen the kwami #Kwami of the Bee miraculous #Bee miraculous #every time i get lazier and lazier with these tags #anyway if you reblog this i would kill for you uwu

[mandalorewhore]

Mirroring

PART THREE OF MOMENTS IN-BETWEEN!!

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2.6k AO3 link

Content: light angst, themes of anxiety, fluff, bonding, found family, subtle dinmera :), din learns how to communicate with kids

Summary:  Soft moments between Din and Grogu that the audience does not get to see In-between episodes, scenes, and seasons.  

A/N: this one is lighter/sillier than previous chapters, also there will be multiple Sorgan chaps owo

***

The kid won’t stop following Din. 

He doesn’t get it at first. If he’s being honest, he unconsciously expected to put the child down and come back to the child sitting right where he left it. The realization is slightly embarrassing. Of course, a baby isn’t going to sit nicely without supervision... even an odd baby with strange powers and the highest bounty Din has ever seen.

The child isn’t dumb or animalistic; Din knows that his physical growth relative to mental growth must be far slower than other species, especially since the kid has toddler-like mannerisms yet possesses enough strength to lift a full-grown Mudhorn with his mind. 

Din tries to not think about that, it’s too confusing to consider while he juggles running for his life. The child's powers don’t lend him self-sufficiency, the kid still needs help with feeding, bathroom breaks, and keeping clean. Din is struck over and over again with the realization that this child will rely on him for, well, everything. 

Even after choosing to lose everything for the kid, the reality of his situation is overwhelming enough to cause him some anxiety. The child will continually look to him for nourishment, entertainment, and probably affection. Definitely affection. He’s already seeking that comfort with the way he looks at Din, face so full of trust that it is almost uncomfortable to witness. The kid mirrors the bounty hunter’s actions, playing with the switches on the Crest console and attempting to follow him wherever he goes. 

He stubbornly waddles in Din’s shadow even after they landed on Sorgan, making his way through the lush woods on tiny limbs. Din learns to slow his pace once the kid falls a little too far behind. 

This planet is lovely. It is such a shame that they can’t stay. Warm, late-summer light breaks through the forest canopy to speckle the forest floor as if the lightbox antics from the night before have manifested in reality. The kid is just as distracted by the real thing, chasing the sunbeams and occasionally wandering to the side of the beaten path in a manner that makes Din nervous. He feels like he could blink and the baby will be lost in the underbrush. Once they get back to the ship Din will sit him down and have a chat about that habit. Hopefully, the little one will understand well enough to stick closer to him on their next excursion. 

He pauses in the shadowy path, smiling when a small bump at his ankle tells him the kid is keeping pace. He looks down and meets the baby’s dark eyes, the emotion within them is feverishly excited. The child babbles and points into the trees, swirling his hands around with an animated flair to gesture at everything and nothing. Din guesses he is trying to describe the woods.

The bounty hunter crouches down and listens attentively to the kids ranting, his large dark eyes so emotive that the language barrier is all but eliminated. Both the baby and Mandalorian nod and look around with exaggerated motions, the child's excited attitude rubbing off on him. Din doesn’t want to interrupt the moment but he knows they need to keep going if they want to make it back to the ship before dark. They’re still being hunted. 

The bounty hunter straightens with a heavy breath, settling his hands on his hips. “Come on little one. It will be dark soon.” The baby clutches Din’s calf and keens, a high whining sound that plucks the man’s heartstrings. The poor child is having so much fun here. For the millionth time, Din wishes that they could stay on Sorgan. If the baby weren’t under his care then he would just take down the shock trooper and claim the planet for his hideout… Unfortunately, that would bring too much heat onto the pair. 

Din tries again to convince the baby, raising his voice an octave to sound more excited, hopefully, it will catch the kid’s attention. “I’ll give you a treat when we’re back. How’s that sound, huh?” 

It works, he thinks. The baby perks his ears up and lets out a curious coo, backing up from Din’s legs and looking down the path. Din smiles again then starts up his pace again, a little faster now that the sunshine has taken on a deeper hue. 

They make good time, traveling several miles before dusk falls and the forest lays in shadow. It is a bit eerie now, bird song and animal calls have all but disappeared with the daylight. The only sound now is the rustling of leaves, insect buzzing, and an occasional breeze howling through the trees. Din flicks on his night vision setting and walks faster, forgetting in his haste that he needs to make sure that the child is keeping up. 

Seconds later, a twig snaps and Din whips around, the sound is just too loud and heavy for the kid to make. There’s nothing behind him, no movement in the woods, no footprints or body-heat register, and the path is clear. Everything is fine- Wait. 

The path is completely clear.

The kid is nowhere to be seen. 

Panic floods Din’s body, intense, choking pressure crushing his limbs and chest with enough force to rip the air out of his lungs. The sensation is akin to being sucked into space, although Din would take that fate over the current fear that overwhelms him. Hunter’s instincts take over as his body moves automatically to search the trees, prowling the space around him while his mind watches numbly from afar. It’s odd, he feels like a specter observing from behind the veil, unable to control his actions. The trees blur together, choking panic becoming harder to ignore with every second that passes in his search. 

He finds his voice. “Kid!” It comes out all wrong and hollow as if it were the cry of a stranger instead of Din’s voice. “Kid, where are you!?”

He ducks down to the forest floor, laying on his stomach and looking through the thick overgrowth at the child's eye level. Din hopes that the lower perspective will help him figure out where to look next, searching desperately for any eye-catching areas that may have drawn the kid. Unfortunately, nothing is out of the ordinary. Not even a suspicious twig.

Din sighs shakily and rises to his knees, about to give up and start grid searching when something catches his eye causing him to flatten once more. There was a flash of body heat on his current visor setting, the reddish-orange mark alarmingly vibrant against the darkness that surrounds him. Whatever produces the heat is only a few feet away, snuffling around a felled tree for its next meal. The fuzzy form is too big to be the kid, and if it eats meat then it may pose danger to a child the size of Din’s foundling.

Din doesn’t think before he launches himself at the creature. 

It shrieks as he lands heavily by its side, his hands shooting out to snatch the animal, a rodent, and flip it over, praying that its species is inclined to being herbivores. His answer comes in the half-eaten bark that tumbles from the rodent's mouth as it lets out a shriek, its wide mouth lined with round teeth and eyes dilated in fear. Din lets the creature go, his stomach tight with fear for the child and guilt for scaring the creature. It skitters away to its den, unharmed. 

The Mandalorian deflates, leaning forward until the forehead of his helmet rests on the forest floor. There is an empty place shredding inside of him, a place that was quickly woven by having the child at his side. It falls apart just as quickly. 

Din should’ve found him by now, a baby that young can’t hide so well as to lose a seasoned hunter. He'll go back to the settlement and scout out potential kidnappers, running the Guilds database program and comparing faces until he recognizes the culprit. Before that, he should scan the area again, just in case. Maybe the baby crawled down a den with one of those rodents. Din screws his face up in despair, turning to settle his temple onto the dirt before opening his eyes and-

There, in the hollow of the felled trunk, are two staring black pupils twinkling at him from the dark. A giggle bubbles up from the kid’s mouth, soft white bark spraying in every direction as he laughs.

Din is fucking furious. 

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

    Children's laughter fills the air like a symphony, fitting perfectly against the background noise of bird song, tittering parents, and working krill farmers. Din’s foundling runs on short legs to keep up with the human children, jumping as best he can to swat at hovering butterflies that tease the excited crowd. He fits in perfectly here, the happiest Din has seen in the short time they’ve been together. He should leave him here once the Guild calms down in a few months. 

    Din flinches from inside his hut, the thought hurts too much to consider.

    That will be months from now anyway, he doesn’t need to think about it. The only thing he should be concerned about is scouting the woods with Dune later, searching for the raiders that plague this community. For now, he can peacefully sit in his temporary lodging and observe life on Sorgan. It is a gentle one and, try as he might bury it, Din appreciates gentle things. 

    “Ow! Hey, he hit me!” One of the village’s children stands clutching his arm, glaring at his female friend who glumly scrapes the ground with a shoeless foot. 

    “I did not! It was the new kid.” The accused girl shoots back, pointing fervently at the little, green foundling who is standing agape in the crowd. “He did it!”

    Din straightens at her accusation, annoyance rising from his chest to heat his cheeks. Does she think she’ll get away with the lie? He thinks hotly.

His kid- the kid is too short to even reach any of their shoulders, let alone hit them. How dare she accuse the baby. Adjusting his helmet, Din stalks out of the hut and approaches the children, ready to defend the child against all offending claims but the other adults reach the group first. He recognizes Omera and freezes when she shoots him a sharp look, her eyes speaking wordlessly. Don't make this worse.

    “What happened here?” She asks in a firm, clear tone, pulling the three children closer to her and crouching to their eye level. The baby is transfixed, his mouth still hanging open as he twists his ears curiously at the woman. “Use your words and take turns please.”

    The hurt child, named Kaigo if Din remembers correctly, huffs loud enough for Din to hear from where he stands 20 feet away. Kaigo raises his chin and looks down his nose at Omera before answering her. “Winta wanted to catch the butterfly first but I’m taller than her and gooder at catching bugs, so she hit me. The baby is too short to even hit me!”

    Din nods. Damn right he's too short. And the kid doesn’t hit.

    “Better, not gooder,” Omera gently corrects Kaigo, brushing away a strand of hair while tersely turning to Winta, her daughter. “Winta, is this true? I’ve taught you about using your words before actions.” Winta seems to be fascinated by the dirt ground, kicking her foot and refusing to meet her mother’s gaze. 

Omera tries again, “Winta, look at me please.”

    “Fine! I did hit him. But everyone is obsessed with the new baby and Mandalorian, and I wanted to catch a butterfly so that everyone will like me again!” The little girl chokes up at the end of her confession, falling into Omeras lap with her arms wrapped around her mother. The baby makes a distressed sound and places his little hands on Winta’s knee. 

    Din takes this as his cue to join them, long strides leading him across the clearing in mere seconds. The baby runs up and hugs his ankle when he spots the Mandalorian while Kaigo retreats to his friend group with wide eyes locked on the warrior. A hush falls over the children in his presence, as the setting sun behind Din lays his shadow over their huddled group. Everyone seemingly holds their breath. The loudest sound is Omera’s soothing hand patting Winta’s back. 

    Din leans into one leg feeling awkward, he doesn’t know how to address the little ones firmly without scaring them. After a few tense moments, he clears his throat and turns to Winta.

    “I like you Winta. You have been very kind to the child.” The words come out halting and none too graceful but he means it, Winta and Omera have gone out of their way to welcome the bounty hunter and child, bringing him food and playing with the baby with open arms. Omera lends him a gracious smile when he speaks, a lovely sight that sends warmth throughout Din’s chest. Her daughter peeks from her hiding spot in Omera’s elbow, teary eyes stubborn and flashing in the sun. 

    “You don’t mean it.” She shoots back, harshly drawing her eyebrows together on her young face before burrowing into her hiding spot once more. The widow sighs and stops her soothing pats, stretching her arms above her head wearily. Din’s eyes catch on the curve of her neck then dart away, busying himself with picking up the baby who has started up a babble at his feet. 

    “Mando is nice, Winta. He’s helping us get rid of the raiders which he wouldn’t do if he disliked you. Come on,” she pulls the little girl upright and turns her reluctant body to face Din. “He’s helping us, sweetheart.” 

One of the young boys interjects, from the gaggle of children. “Yeah! He’s a good guy!” 

    Din nods at the boy then tries copying Omera’s earlier actions by crouching to the height of the girl, extending one glove to Winta while the other keeps the baby held against his cuirass. “I promise. Shake on it. Bounty hunter shakes are very serious.”

    Petulant eyes meet his own through the visor and he sucks in a startled breath, taken aback by the perceptive look. Most people tend to miss his eyes, always just slightly off enough to leave Din feeling unseen. The physical barrier of beskar leans into an emotional one as well. He’s noticing now that the children don’t miss his eyes as often. 

Winta slowly reaches out and grips his finger, shaking up and down so seriously that Din wants to laugh. He holds it back knowing it would only hurt her feelings more, instead, he says, “there. your very first guild contract.” 

Omera laughs softly and stands, picking Winta up off her lap and spinning her onto her back, child limbs wrapping around her slim figure like a spider. “Winta is not allowed to hunt bounties, sorry.”

“Shame. She is very skilled. Especially when it comes to catching butterflies.” He tilts his helmet knowingly at the little girl, who grins proudly back at him before remembering that she is supposed to be upset. Din smiles at her stubbornness, holding the foundling out to her to try and appease the attitude. Winta smiles and hesitantly holds the baby’s hand while he babbles and wriggles his ears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, frowning slightly in a way that seems self-directed. “I shouldn’t have lied. I like you. And I’m sorry Kaigo!” She shouts the last part to her friend. The baby laughs and starts flapping his arms, looking between his friend and the butterflies that still flutter just above the villagers. Winta squeals in delight and takes him in her spindly arms, hugging him tightly as he continues to imitate the colorful creatures. 

It’s so silly that even Din laughs. 

#grogu #din djarin #baby yoda #fanfic #star wars fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #fanfiction #Star Wars #found family #fluff #fluff fic #star wars imagine #dinmera #the mandalorian and baby yoda #father and son #angst #din and omera #omera #writing #bonding #pedro pascal

[mc-doppomine]

I love your analysis of Matenro!!!! Its my fav division too 💞

What do you think of Fling Posse? ✨

Aaaahhhh, thank you so much! I’m so glad that others enjoy my thoughts for this series.

As for Fling Posse, I am honestly hoping so much that KR is about to blow the lid on them in this DRB. Because right now, there’s just so mystique about them and a lot of threads that could lead to something bigger but it hasn’t yet. And right now, I think Fling Posse has the most growth to do to catch up with the other divisions. This isn’t me saying they’re not good, don’t get me wrong, but they are missing something for their team. 

(I guess we’re going to actual analysis because we all know I can’t just blurb.)

But I think that solely lies in HOW they came together. Which is distinct despite initially seeming like MTC’s way of coming together. Distinct being that FP are so immensely independent as people that their team kind of has suffered. Unlike all the rest of the divisions, FP was the one team that was only together ONLY for rapping together. And at least until they were at ‘serious’ risk of not making it to the 1st DRB (in the FP vs MTR manga) that they got better. Better. But they continued to strongly be just themselves. Which isn’t bad, it’s just that you have a higher chance of the ‘too many chefs’ problem. 

Lucky for them, they didn’t have that issue so much as simply being bested. It really could’ve gone either way for them. Personally, I do feel a bit more surprised about their friendship. Not saying that they’re not friends but mmm...I think it really depended on the media that came through for me. FP is one of those divisions that seemed a bit different in from the anime vs...almost everything else I’ve listened to? Like I think the anime is more of what FP gets into once they sufficiently convince the other members to go along with them. But that’s the main thing, if you notice a lot of their initial coming together for the track or chapter, they usually are asking ‘why are you bothering me?’ And it doesn’t always come across as that mean-spiritedness of like calling your friend a mean name that they’d laugh about. They do have a good time once it’s a bit of ribbing but there’s always that brash first few steps. 

Which, honestly, is mainly Gentaro being ‘why have you interrupted me this time?’ But to his credit, he’s like the only introvert amongst two high energy friends. And they are also crazy so he needs the time to regain the energy to be straight-faced through whatever bullshit is about to be pulled again. And speaking of Gentaro, he is such a driving force in FP too. Like he’s an unwitting mom friend and he is both aware of it and absolutely exhausted from it. But I do think he cares a lot. Too much to be honest. And I think that may be that part of Gentaro that is kinda romantic at heart. And that he doesn’t want to admit that he only met Ramuda and Dice for one day but if anything were to happen to them, then he’d kill everyone in the room and then himself. A little exaggerated but Gentaro does seem very attached to these guys when he honestly doesn’t seem the type to really make friends. Maybe their energy remind him of his friend or it’s that whole introvert gets brought into a fold because more outgoing person was like ‘I like you, let’s go.’ 

When it comes to his crew, Gentaro does have apprehension with Ramuda though and kind of rightfully so. His ‘liar’s intuition’ was not off about feeling something was strange with their leader and Ramuda KNEW that Gentaro had that feeling. But they never pried into each other. Gentaro because he could tell Ramuda would shut him out, making his snooping incomplete forever. Ramuda because...well, as far as he’s concerned, he already knows all he needs to about Gentaro. They are honestly such observant and calculating people that they kind of end up in cat and mouse deal. I say this because while I do believe Gentaro does care, I do also believe he is still using Ramuda to some extent for some unseen goal. He probably wouldn’t risk Ramuda’s life over it though. 

Ramuda’s whole journey of feelings could best be summed up as him catching feelings and instead of being glad, he’s like ‘No. God. Fuck! WHY?!’ He didn’t ask for this, you bastards tripped him! Like I feel like Ramuda went through this whole time fulfilling his whims because it’s the only time they would ever be filled. And he was running with it never being able to last because all it takes is one order and it’s done. He’s seen it happen. He’s made it happen. There’s no way he can stop it but...because there is some piece of him that aches for humanity. So, he considers his time with FP like sweets, little indulgences he is allowed until eventually he’s pulled away. But Ramuda still feels things and I felt like FP he was much more guarded than he was with TDD because he was still living down the pain he felt for...basically, taking someone important from people he considered friends! He hurt his friends and probably didn’t want to do that to them again. Which explains this false closeness Ramuda puts up with FP. 

Although they did get to him during the 1st DRB because Gentaro and Dice only cared about how Ramuda was and him doing things his way and on his own terms. Sure they didn’t know what was happening but they gave him courage to be unapologetically himself since that is what he wanted but he never thought of the weight of what that means. That sometimes being yourself means that you choose a path that isn’t easy. And Gentaro and Dice would know what that’s like. While I believe Gentaro is well off, I’m sure he’s still seen as a weirdo just because of how he dresses. It is stubbornly outdated when he lives in, arguably, one of the most trendy and up-to-date wards but he doesn’t care. He’s himself and to hell with those that make fun of him. And Dice, well, his habits make him do and say strange things. I won’t say he has no pride but he is...shameless, which can be very off-putting in the context of the things he’s done for money or the thrill. And Dice doesn’t care either. He’s doing exactly what makes him happy and that’s all that matters. Because they know, they could convey the sincerity in wanting Ramuda’s self shining through that it actually got him. With the 2nd DRB (which at the time of writing, the FP vs MTC CD is not out), I hope that they allow for more time of FP getting to deal with Ramuda’s ‘true self’ and Ramuda allowing that to show. Which...from what I’ve heard from those that have heard the full version of Black Journey....seems like a strong possibility.

Finally rounding off and probably both fortunately and unfortunately my shortest would be Dice. *cue my long and frustrated groan* He has so much to do with things but he isn’t used. Truly, Dice is underutilized story wise. And unfortunately I have the least to say because his is straight forward. He just does not care. Not that he doesn’t care about FP but he does not care about all the things THEY worry he wouldn’t like them for. He doesn’t care about their past. He doesn’t care what they’ve done. He doesn’t care who they decide to be to him. For Dice, I think it’s a simple ‘but I’m loyal if you feed me and I’ll never leave you because, well I need the food.’ It’s not actually that simple since Dice has never and would never leave FP despite someone that could possibly continually provide what he wants or needs (this lovely man named Rio exists). But I just think that Dice doesn’t really hold grudges. Even though they haven’t interacted this go around, I don’t think he really hates Hifumi and Doppo since that’s a lot time of time to invest in not liking them and I just don’t Dice giving enough shits to do so. I do mainly think it’s because if Dice respects them not prying into them, they’ll do so and not look into him. And it’s this lack of prying that earns both Gentaro and Ramuda’s friendship because they don’t want that. That and Dice would defend them regardless of if they could’ve handled the situation are not. All because they are friends. And nothing else. 

Phew. This is a lot. Like way more than the MTR one but that’s because it has so many moving parts. Like FP are so individualistic that you need to go for each one specifically. I hope that this was something close to what you were looking for lovely anon.

#Anonymous #long post #fling posse #ramuda amemura #dice arisugawa #gentaro yumeno

[demoanais]

This will all be moot in a month but I feel like I'm in danger of being misunderstood so I wanted to make my position more clear for the record:

I AM happy Sharon is shown to be hurt, angry and cynical. She's more than earned that. EVC is perfect for playing with the dark side of her character, she has plenty of great experience to tackle that duality. Exploring deeper layers of Sharon is a welcome shift.

I AM happy that the show acknowledges that Sharon was wronged after merely doing the right thing and has long been suffering the consequences of a punishment that vastly exceeds the crime. Of course that's changed her outlook, how could it not?

I AM happy that Sharon has still managed to build a stable life for herself despite all this pain; she is extremely self sufficient and capable and takes great pride in that. It's the emotional blow that stings her the most - she has survived but it never needed to be this hard.

I AM happy that she didn't welcome sam and bucky with open arms and chat like nothing was wrong. She gave up everything and look where it landed her; they were being naive and insensitive to think she'd so happily jump back into the fray for their sakes with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

I AM happy that despite her misgivings and distrust, she still lent her strength to sam and bucky's efforts because at her core, that's who she is. She hasn't lost her sense of morality even if her heart isn't exactly in it like it used to be.

I AM unhappy about the execution of all of the above.

For example, you have Sharon ask about new cap. Before bucky can elaborate, she cuts him to the quick by accusing him of blind loyalty to the mantle. But that isn't accurate. If bucky's so-called arc is anything, it's demonstrating how his insecurity and lack of direction are causing his grudges to overtake his better judgement.

For him, *everything* is personal. He was steve's friend before he was captain america's, and that's where meaning dwells for him. He doesn't want the shield back or blame sam for giving it up too easily because of some idealogical obsession with 'stars and stripes bullshit' - he thinks it's a slight to steve that sam didn't honor his choice and that it's more than just government issue gear to be passed around. It represents many things (many of them bad, as the show points out) but he doesn't care about all that. To bucky it may as well be a family heirloom, considering what little he has left from his former life.

Of course, this is all what he has to overcome, to (re) establish his own position and identity in the world, and sharon isn't as privy to those struggles as the audience is. Allowing bucky and/or sam to actually elaborate on their issues with walker could have created an in for her to point out some hypocrisy or naivety on their part. But the opportunity was swiftly torpedoed because we really, really need the audience to get that sharon 2.0 is 'awful' now.

So what could she have criticized bucky for instead? Lucky for her, that problem was looking her right in the face drinking her expensive liquor. There is very little justification for the stunt bucky pulled behind sam's back by freeing zemo, and I can only assume consequences are around the corner. Yet again, bucky isn't seeing big picture, he's consumed by his own personal relationship to zemo and the super serum. He acted unilaterally based on his own fears and self doubts but wants to present his actions as logical and well reasoned. Zemo can help in the short term, but what is the cost?

Sharon, being the seasoned cynic she is now, would have seen through that in an instant. How difficult would it have been to jab at the irony, bucky being 'free' according to his therapist but chained to this person who used him as a tool, who continues to exploit his weaknesses, who seems to be far more in control than bucky is in the situation they're all in. Bucky is trying to prove something, he doesn't seem to be sure what that is yet, but he's stubbornly blinded himself to the possibility that he's going about it the wrong way. That is something that sharon could have rightfully called out, but for some reason bucky's most egregious flaw is presented as.... being steve's best friend.

Then you have her dealings with sam, who's problems are more from the other side of the spectrum. He isn't really allowed to bring his personal feelings to the table, he has to deal with the intense pressure of taking on a loaded persona when it may not actually ring true to him in his heart. He also trusted steve and had faith in what that specific cap stood for, but does that mean he's willing to put the whole system on his own shoulders now? He's trying to think above and beyond, about the legacies before him, about his own place in history when all is said and done.

Sam is all about big picture at this stage, and his journey would presumably have him work from the outside in. That's why the glimpses of his family life are invaluable, they give us that contrast between his day to day realities and the loftier, more abstract idealism of the falcon's (or cap's) heroism. His exploration is about staking his own personal claim on the symbolism of that shield, not just for his own sake but for the sake of those who will now look to him as a leader and an inspiration.

To be fair, I think some of sharon's dialogue with sam is marginally better, but still ultimately misses the mark. I envisioned an exchange where she might belittle his decision to continue acting as a representative of the same organization that failed her so spectacularly, suggesting he should tread carefully lest he find himself discarded once the government no longer finds him useful or compliant.

She...sort of got close to saying that? If I squint really hard I guess? But it's off because it's less about the posturing and politics of their roles and of 'the machine' so to speak, than it is about striving to do right when you can. It feels like she's criticizing the inherent value of what they try do rather than the shortcomings of the framework itself. If I get vibes that this sharon seems to waffle on whether or not she regrets what she did in CACW, that's not a good thing.

Bureaucracy, red-tape, iconography - all of the things walker is being parceled with; can you disentangle yourself while refusing to leave the system in the same state as you found it? If I want to be charitable I can chalk this up to semantics, but they haven't given me many reasons to be charitable so far.

Then you have the whole utterly nonsensical bargaining over her pardon (the stupidity of that particular exchange pointed out multiple times on reddit, of all places) and sharon's not-so-subtle suggestion that sam is basically lying to her when he says he can get her pardoned.

If she's trying to say she doesn't believe he actually has the pull to accomplish that, or that he's underestimating how difficult it would be, it's one thing. But saying that he's merely 'pretending' to clear her name is completely unfair. I don't care how ~jaded~ sharon is, there's no plausible reason for her to consider sam capable of such a lie and I find that an insult to them both. Naturally, I place blame squarely on kolstad's writing, and not on sharon herself. It's plain as day he didn't give a wink to a single implication he made with his script, nor does he care to do so.

Am I foolish for thinking her arc could be handled with more coherence? I like to think I'm already controlling for the lackluster quality of MCU writing in general; this actually surprised me. I expect basic and juvenile, but at least there's consistency. Frankly, I think Feige put a little too much slack in the reins here and the characters are paying the price.

Could I be crying wolf too soon before giving everything a chance to pan out? Of course, that's always a possibility and I'd be more than glad to eat crow if things turn out palatable in the end. Are the odds favorable that this will happen? Magic 8 ball says don't count on it, and I'm not in the habit of constantly lowering my standards until they're miraculously met.

#sharon carter #emily vancamp #anti mcu #sambuckysharon

[iceshard1011]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Characters: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Additional Tags: Wings, Tentacles, Self-Worth Issues, Platonic Cuddling, Scars, Miscommunication, kind of, because these dumb dumbs are determined Not To Talk About It, Mild Language, remus being soft??, Family Bonding, i mean what do you expect at this point, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, look this site is has been starved of soft remus and bonding creativitwins, that needs to be fixed, i will not rest until i have a sufficient number of happy creativitwins interactions in my life, No Romance, :). Summary:

Roman reached over and lifted it up, eyeing the ugly scar. “What happened here?”

Remus didn’t reply for a moment before he pulled away, tucking the tentacle out of sight. “Nothing much.”

Oh, and wasn’t that a red flag if Roman had ever seen one?

~~~

The wedding affected everyone.

1k word fic under the cut :)

Roman’s wings were supposed to be red. A fiery red, too, with shades ranging from so pale it bordered on pink to so dark around the edges they were almost black-rimmed. The feathers on the inside were a white so pure it was blinding when catching sunlight. They were stunning and magnificent and beautiful.

Currently, the red was rusted and washed out. They looked like a bad dyeing attempt. The insides were dirtied and grey-brown tinged. Currently, they didn’t look majestic. Currently, they looked exactly how Roman felt: Pathetic.

The pair of extra appendages sprouting from the prince’s back only manifested in the closed confines of his bedroom or the separate world of the Imagination. They were always present, but they became heavy and solid and real at his back the moment his door shut. No one knew about them.

Except Remus, of course, given he was in the same position with those slimy, horrid tentacles of his. The pair had grown up with these features; it was evident that their young years spent play-fighting would leave their connected rooms scattered with slime and feathers. Unfortunately, though a wall now separated their rooms at this day and age, Roman couldn’t seem to get the connecting door to disappear, no matter how many times Remus knocked it down.

However, today wasn’t an ‘ignore Remus’ day. It wasn’t even a ‘put up with Remus through eye rolls and inward groans’ day.

Another loose feather was added to the growing pile beside him on the floor.

“You’re molting an awful lot,” Remus remarked at Roman’s back, his concentration on a particularly stubborn section of Roman’s right wing and a rebellious cluster of feathers that weren’t listening to his effort to straighten them.

“I’m stressed,” Roman admitted, plucking a baby feather from the inside of his left wing.

“This isn’t stress molting,” Remus said. “Stress makes your feathers all flaky and dry. This is different.”

Roman sighed and gave up on his wing, resting his head in his hands. “Can’t we just talk about something normal?”

“This is perfectly normal!” Remus protested. A scratch through the feathers, down the side of his wing made Roman shudder. “I mean, the standards are you having wings, so…”

Roman didn’t reply. Remus continued to work in silence. He didn’t have his tentacles manifested today. They tended to get restless and search for things to do when Remus was absent minded, and the pair had come to find that was both distracting and mess-making, especially with neat piles of feathers taking up residence on the carpet.

“Is it about last week?” Remus asked.

“It’s always about last week,” Roman grumbled. Remus bit the inside of his cheek in thought, which Roman couldn’t see, and continued to sift through his brother’s feathers.

“You’re going to have to do something about it sooner or later,” Remus said with a shrug. “Doesn’t have to be good. You could put spiders in Patton’s bed, or cut the power to the heating elements in Janus’ room. I did that one once. It was pretty funny; took him thirty minutes of shivering and muttering on his rock to realise nothing was happening. I recorded it.”

Roman didn’t reply.

“Of course,” continued Remus, “then he confiscated all my weapons and didn’t let me poison the coffee, so it wasn’t entirely worth it.”

Roman sighed quietly. He ran a hand through the feathers of the inside of his wing, fingering the tufts closest to his body. They should be as soft as a freshly groomed chinchilla’s fur, but they felt stiff and unhealthy.

“They’re dying,” he said as if they were houseplants not getting enough sun, but it made sense to him. He pulled back and gripped his arms while he glared at the floor. “I can’t even take care of these properly.”

He felt Remus’ gaze burning the back of his neck but ignored his brother. Chances were that he would get bored and leave. Roman would probably have a breakdown, then, but at least there wouldn’t be any witnesses.

Remus shuffled behind him, and a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. Except arms were supposedly not wet and slimy with suction cups on the inside. Roman opened his mouth to ask what Remus was doing, but then his brother was leaning over his shoulder and pointing to a bleached scatter of spots staining the tentacle curled around Roman’s ankle.

“That’s from running into a thorn bush in the Imagination,” Remus said, then gestured to another spot on a separate appendage. Roman blinked at the pale scar running upwards along the moist skin. “That’s from when Logan yelled at me when we were teenagers after I burned all his projects for a prank.”

“That was a dumb move,” Roman told him. Remus grinned.

“This one over here is from when I touched a curling iron to see how it would feel, and then got yelled at by Janus for it,” he said, and Roman wasn’t sure whether to sigh or laugh. “That’s why it’s a weird shape.”

“It does look odd,” Roman admitted. Remus bobbed his head against Roman’s shoulder in agreement. Roman eyed his brother’s wiggling tentacles, several of them finding ways to wrap around his legs, one even reaching up to curl over his wrist. He zeroed in on one, though, not itching towards him and instead twitching along the carpet. Its end looked to be chopped off, leaving a blunt stump awkwardly half-heartedly navigating its path.

Roman reached over and lifted it up, eyeing the ugly scar. “What happened here?”

Remus didn’t reply for a moment before he pulled away, tucking the tentacle out of sight. “Nothing much.”

Oh, and wasn’t that a red flag if Roman had ever seen one?

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Roman asked.

Remus shrugged. “Not anymore. It did when it first happened.”

Roman’s reply was a hum. Remus began to fidget with a cluster of feathers at the edge of Roman’s wing. Roman allowed him.

“What was it?” he asked after a long silence. Remus seemed caught off guard, but then he huffed.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Roman frowned. What did that mean? He tilted his head over his shoulder to watch Remus begin to gnaw on the side of his collar while he scratched at Roman’s wing.

“You can tell me anyway,” Roman offered softly. Remus shrugged again. Roman leaned backwards and patted the tentacles around his waist comfortingly. Remus didn’t return the affection, but he didn’t pull away. Roman decided it was good enough.

“Sorry,” Remus murmured, but Roman wasn’t sure why.

“You know that you can always come to me when your tentacles are hurt,” Roman murmured, tracing a long scar trailing along one of the slimy green arms.

“Why don’t you come to me when you molt?” Remus asked. Roman opened his mouth, about to retort, but Remus cut in,  “Without having to make me chase after you?” Roman closed his mouth. He sheepishly fiddled with the end of one of Remus’ arms as it curled through his fingers.

“My turn to apologise?” he asked. Remus shrugged. The quiet room suddenly felt oppressing and uncomfortable. It was much different compared to the atmosphere a few minutes ago, when Roman’s wings had first begun to be preened. He didn’t like it very much.

“It kind of sucks.” Remus’ voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “Sometimes I don’t even have to be around to get the scars.”

Roman swallowed. He wondered if he already knew what had mangled Remus’ tentacle. “I can try and make them disappear,” he volunteered quietly.

Remus, predictably, looked affronted. “What, the marks? And take away my battle scars? Who the hell do you think you are?”

Roman relented with a chuckle. “Alright.”

The room echoed with a knocking from the bedroom door.

“Dinner’s ready, kiddo,” called Patton’s voice. “If you have time to come down for a little while. Hope to see you there.”

The twins listened to the moral’s sides footsteps shuffle away. The tentacles around Roman’s waist tightened and Remus headbutted his shoulder with his forehead. “Are you going to go down?”

“Are you?” countered Roman.

“He didn’t ask me,” Remus pointed out.

“He might have.” Roman frowned over his shoulder. “You haven’t been in your room.” Remus didn’t seem convinced. Roman didn’t move to stand up.

“You’re not going?” Remus sounded surprised.

Roman shrugged. “My left wing hasn’t been preened yet.”

“You should eat.”

Roman levelled his brother with a skeptical look. “And since when do you care about my health?”

“Since I found you sobbing in the corner of your room with your wings torn to shreds,” Remus snapped. Roman didn’t have an argument. Remus pulled back and stood, brushing off loose feathers. “Come on, you dumb slut.” Roman shot him a glare, but Remus was dutifully, stubbornly, ignoring his gaze. “If I eat, you eat. Deal?”

Roman considered it, then sighed.

“Very well.” He rose to his feet. He flared his wings, shaking himself. He pretended not to see Remus eyeing him cautiously and moved briskly to the door. “But I still need my left wing preened.”

“Don’t be greedy,” Remus snapped, in as much of an agreement as Roman figured he would get. “Maybe I’ll braid all the feathers so tight you have to shave your wings.”

“Stop being foul,” Roman said, holding the door open for his brother. The rude menace didn’t thank him as he darted out.

“You know that’s my whole deal, right?” Remus asked over his shoulder, his tentacles now having vanished. Roman listened to his brother rant as they travelled downstairs and were greeted by the others. The weight of his wings was still at his back as he sat down to eat, even though they were now hidden.

He smiled when Janus made a joke that made Logan fight to hide a smile and Virgil choke on his drink while Patton scolded them, and Remus made everything worse by adding onto the gag.

The food would be fantastic, as Patton’s cooking always was. Even Janus would compliment the meal, and Patton would go giddy with joy as he cleaned up. Janus stopped Remus snorting the crumbs on the table while Logan packed leftovers. Roman helped clean up, and he and Virgil washed the dishes in companionable silence.

He waved goodnight to everyone, the first to retire upstairs, and held the image of his family's smiling faces to his memory. He felt Remus watching him quietly as he left, but he didn’t acknowledge his brother. That was, until he found the gremlin waiting for him in his bedroom, perched on the edge of his bed in the dark with glowing green eyes like the gargoyle he was.

Roman fell asleep that night easily, with newly preened, fiery red wings.

#sanders sides #creativitwins #roman sanders #remus sanders #romangst #another remus fic because apparently that's all i write now #the other sides are mentions but they're not as prominent #tw scars #cross posted on ao3 #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #long post #short fic #wings!! #and tentacles #the boys... don't really talk #but they cuddle #because i said so #so it's good enough #if anything reblogs please do not tag ship #i'd probably have a breakdown #so spare me my sanity please and thank you :)

[lanzhanlanzhan]

Wei Wuxian - On Loving Lan Wangji

(Or 'I was supposed to be writing fanfiction but my character notes got ahead of me and now I have another meta')

One of the most charming things about CQL!Wei Wuxian is this: up to the end, I don't think he has realized that he is in love with Lan Wangji.

I mean, we know. The world around them knows. Heck, I think even Lan Wangji knows, because bless this boy, I think he resolved his own 'I am in love with Wei Wuxian' arc even before the show's half-way point.

Wei Wuxian, though? I don't think so. Funny enough, in CQL-verse, there were already hints of something promising between Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji even before Wei Wuxian's death, unlike in the novel where Wei Wuxian was completely in the dark and only developed feelings for Lan Wangji in his second life. CQL-verse though gave them that foundation of them being two people who were drawn to one another from the start, who became friends and even established a bond so close they can consider themselves as soulmates. Again, all these before Wei Wuxian even died.

I would like to once again send my heartfelt gratitude to Xiao Zhan for all those interviews that gave us a glimpse of his headspace as Wei Wuxian. In a few of these interviews, Xiao Zhan mentioned how part of Wei Wuxian's next life involved having to resolve things in the last one, and this actually included his learning to trust Lan Wangji again. 

In his old life, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji had to struggle with a beautiful relationship on the verge of collapse, brought by Wei Wuxian's seeming refusal to let go of his ghost cultivation path, and Lan Wangji's conviction that Wei Wuxian had to return to sword cultivation because any other path would harm him. The tragedy of it all was that they were both in the right—Wei Wuxian required an alternative path to fight for what he believed was right despite having lost his golden core, and Lan Wangji (who did not yet know about Wei Wuxian's core) was also correct in that ghost cultivation was affecting Wei Wuxian's psyche. All these came to a head at Nightless City, with Wei Wuxian, heartbroken over having lost the people he fought so hard for, went against the whole cultivation world. In that state, he also saw that Lan Wangji was still against him, tried to stop him, even though Lan Wangji himself was still conflicted though his heart was still with Wei Wuxian in the end. 

Now, this time it would be Wei Wuxian's character song that makes things interesting. His character song seems to be set while he was in that space between his two lives, looking back at a life that strayed so far away from where his good intentions would have wanted it to go. He recounts his life, but interestingly and heartbreakingly, when we reach the chorus, although the words are actually never the same, the lines are nonetheless about the same single thing:

Chorus 1:

I have tried to take a jar of liquor with a smile

And once fought with the most beautiful person in Gusu

Chorus 2 (here, the lines dedicated to the subject are even longer):

I was once stunned by someone

And teased the cloud patterns with my fingertips

The sudden vibrations of a zither

I wonder why I am remembering these deep in my dream

Chorus 3:

I also once had someone in the mortal world

To love and to long for

The chorus always starts talking about Lan Wangji—and yet, it doesn't really sound like Wei Wuxian fully realizes how much this person means to him. He looks at it from a distance, perhaps because it was a life that was already over and he was regretful about how things had ended. The feelings are bittersweet—and just wow, those lines where Wei Wuxian calls Lan Wangji as "the most beautiful person in Gusu" are just too powerful for my poor, weak heart. Note though that with Wei Wuxian, this could mean either he did think of Lan Wangji as the most beautiful person in Gusu, or he just took it for granted that Lan Wangji was known as the most beautiful person in Gusu. Or it could be a bit of both, with not a lot of overthinking because... ah, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.

Fast forward now to after Wei Wuxian's resurrection. We know he and Lan Wangji were not in a good place because Wei Wuxian hid from him at first. He got anxious when he heard the juniors talking about Hanguang-jun, and actually discouraged them from calling him over. This was the man he once called his soulmate! How bad of a fall-out had theirs been for things to change so drastically. It definitely took some time for Wei Wuxian to feel comfortable around Lan Wangji again. 

Two things, I think, softened Wei Wuxian. First, Lan Wangji's drunken confession in CQL-verse was that he regretted the events leading to Wei Wuxian's death. It made Wei Wuxian realize why Lan Wangji was looking for him in the first place, all this time. He sought to comfort Lan Wangji and explained that he was not to blame. We can see Wei Wuxian was moved by how gently he took care of Lan Wangji that night, drunk as he was. 

Second was Lan Xichen telling Wei Wuxian about the events after his death, what punishments Lan Wangji endured and how he retained his faith and conviction about Wei Wuxian even after all of that. Even the story about their mother was telling; it was a glimpse of how strongly and stubbornly Lan Wangji loves someone, and how deeply that love goes, even if he does not say anything in words. Lan Xichen reminded Wei Wuxian of how adamant and persistent Lan Wangji had been about saving Wei Wuxian in his past life. Wei Wuxian said that it was unnecessary for Lan Wangji to have done these things, to suffer through his loyalty to Wei Wuxian especially when Wei Wuxian was already dead. But somehow it must have proven something to him, too, and gave him a sense of security with Lan Wangji.

After these things, love (or at the very least, trust and attachment) just seemed to develop naturally from there. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are good together especially as "partners-in-crime", so to speak. They are a very effective team, and while this goes to show how naturally compatible they are, the adventures they go through just also strengthen the bond between them. What finally cemented their relationship in this second life, resolving any other doubts Wei Wuxian might have had with Lan Wangji, was that face-off at Lanling, where Lan Wangji had the opportunity to deny Wei Wuxian again in order to retain his respected status in the cultivation world. Lan Wangji refused, announced that he knew it was Wei Wuxian from the start, and told Wei Wuxian that it wasn't so bad, walking in this path of his. 

They were noticeably inseparable from there. What makes my heart sing about this is that this time, Wei Wuxian is more actively sticking to Lan Wangji. He needs no one else other than Lan Wangji, has complete faith in him. Back in Yi City, we saw how confident he was that Lan Wangji would win against Xue Yang, he was not even worried when he took the kids to safety. Then at the Burial Mounds, when he drew the spirit attraction enchantment on himself to drive away the corpses, he refused any other help, saying Lan Wangji was enough to protect him. 

There were many other instances. In Lotus Pier, he was constantly with Lan Wangji, and even presented him to his family. He accepted insults about himself from Jiang Cheng, but not even his guilt towards Jiang Cheng would allow him to let his brother insult Lan Wangji. Even his asking Lan Wangji to take him away from Lotus Pier after the confrontation with Jiang Cheng was telling, because Wei Wuxian used to be self-sufficient and was uncomfortable asking for help. But he was doing so freely with Lan Wangji. 

Even before entering the Guanyin Temple, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji had a conversation about Wen Ning—another staple in Wei Wuxian's life—needing to find a life for himself. Interestingly, the thought that Lan Wangji (who was about as attached to him as Wen Ning was) similarly needed a life free from him did not even occur to Wei Wuxian. He would let Wen Ning go, but Lan Wangji stays.

Then, at the Guanyin Temple, when he found out that everyone seemed to know about his losing his golden core, Wei Wuxian checked with Lan Wangji first, asking, "So do you also know?" By this point, Lan Wangji had become a far first in his mind, far from everyone else. Wei Wuxian looks to him first, and before facing anything else that remained against him, he has to check first that things between him and Lan Wangji were okay.

This is also why the last episode is so heartbreaking. After the events at the temple, Wei Wuxian whisks Lan Wangji away and makes a run for it. Escaping did seem to be his intention, too, because when Wen Ning and Lan Sizhui—the most harmless, loyal people to them both—caught up to them, Wei Wuxian looked disappointed that they were caught.

Of course, he then learned that Lan Sizhui was none other than their beloved A-Yuan, and that was a heart-warming reunion all around. Eventually though, Lan Sizhui and Wen Ning said their goodbyes, and Wei Wuxian turned to Lan Wangji, wondering where they would go. He never thought to even ask Lan Wangji where he would go, never thought it would be anywhere Wei Wuxian wouldn't be, because already he learned to be secure that Lan Wangji would never leave his side. In a way, he took it for granted that Lan Wangji would no longer leave him, but to be fair to Wei Wuxian, after everything that had happened and given his own feelings towards Lan Wangji, it was an easy assumption and mistake to make, to have that sense of security towards someone to whom one's heart was so drawn to.  

Somehow though, I do think their parting might have done Wei Wuxian some good. Again, Wei Wuxian is a dense motherf*cker not the type who digs deeply at his own mind and feelings (heck, the boy falls asleep during meditation, and never forget the 'Do you like Mianmian?' incident), doesn't label things and just rides those feelings out openly and freely. Time apart from Lan Wangji could have given him more space to assess what he was feeling for the guy, what it meant to miss him, how badly he was missing him, and so on. And we know he missed him badly, because who in their right mind would play their theme song atop a mountain, looking like they were about to cry? How afraid he was to look behind him and find that maybe Lan Wangji wasn't really there, that it was all in his head… oh, Wei Ying. 

So, yes. We did not get the "I love you's" (nor "that night, I really wanted to sleep with you!" lmao) in the drama, but this also makes sense because Wei Wuxian probably also did not even know, or did not know what to call it, or whatever the heck they were. But spending those days (perhaps even months or years) away from Lan Wangji were clearly difficult for him, enough for us to know that their reunion would bring Wei Wuxian such relief, he likely would never let Lan Wangji go again. And maybe, just maybe, when they meet again, that's when it all comes to Wei Wuxian, the feelings he isn't able to keep anymore, and he would just burst out, "I miss you! I love you!"

#so is friday meta night going to be a thing #how do these things just happen #but really though wei wuxian #i love this boy #and i especially love the CQL version of him #my eternal thanks to xiao zhan for giving us such a wonderful and lovable wei wuxian #i adore him #may he be happy with his lan wangji #meta #the untamed #chen qing ling #cql #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #cql spoiler #because i suppose this would be the entire show

[brideofedoras]

Under Covers, pt 2

Rating: 18+

Warnings: mentions of masturbation, arousal and sex dreams

Word count: 2900+

Under Covers

Thank you all for the lovely responses to Under Covers, I know that surprise twist was evil of me (but I don’t regret it, it just felt right!).  I received a few requests for a part two, and a suggestion for it to be Cooper’s POV.

So... here is Uncer Covers, as told by Cooper...

And, because I’m just as horny for William Cooper, there will be a part three!  Mwuah!  Love all of ya!

@urban-trek-thru-middle-earth​ @emily-strange​ @nora-hewlett​ @to-boldly-nope​ @pandaqueen7799​ @bakerstreethound​ @portals-to-a-new-world​ @below-average-fangirl​ @writerdee1701​ @ladyreapermc​

Cooper reached for the travel mug in the console… but his fingers curled around nothing.  A quick glance away from the early morning traffic showed an empty cup holder.  “Well, that’s just typical,” he snarled grumpily.

His morning was off to a fan-fucking-tastic start, with a burnt Hot Pocket, his much-needed second cup of coffee forgotten on his desk at the office, and a restless night filled with some incredibly hot dreams of the only person he could one-hundred percent trust at work.

Ember.

She was a blessing, whether she knew it or not.  Quiet, intelligent, efficient, with an uncanny ability to anticipate his needs.  Beautiful.  Sexy.  A big flirt who had done a lot for his ego and self-esteem these past few months, and making him remember he was still a red-blooded man.

Last night’s solo sex on the back deck with a cigar and bourbon, fantasizing about having her on the glider swing or spread out on the patio table… bent over the deck railing…  

“Down, dammit,” he glared down at his crotch when he felt that familiar stir.  

Evidently that quick wank in the shower earlier hadn’t helped.  

God, he hated waking up horny.

It was going to be a dreadfully, painfully, long weekend, he thought as he signalled to pull into the parking lot for Ember’s apartment building.

When the file detailing the op landed on his desk he had immediately known he would assign Ember as his partner.  She did not have a lot of field experience, and had zero undercover experience, but she was a quick learner and self-sufficient.  He’d seen her wipe the floor during hand-to-hand combat training under Kordesky (he was supposed to be teaching that course, but at the time he’d been recovering from busted ribs from an op gone wrong).  Men three times her size hadn’t stood a chance.

It had both terrified him and turned him on.

But an entire weekend, maybe a tad longer, pretending to be a couple on a romantic getaway to nail a bad guy, with her…

Fuck, I’m screwed.

With a frustrated sigh he plucked his phone from the holder on the dash (strictly for GPS reasons) and pulled up the last text thread.

I’m outside.

His hazel eyes flickered to the old limestone building built in the ‘30s and remodeled, what, twenty years ago, into an apartment complex, wondering which part of the structure her apartment was in.  

His phone chirped in his hand.

Be down in a minute.

He groaned, his eyes dropping to his zipper once more.  I won’t.

If he survived the weekend, it would be a miracle.

He started to put the phone back on the clip when he realized he needed to tell her he wasn’t in his SUV.

Black Mercedes sedan.

Her response popped up a second later.  No Porsche?

He chuckled.  “No, no Porsche,” he mused out loud.  He’d thought about it, the sweet little Roadster the CIA had confiscated a while back.  Gorgeous car… but not ideal for a six hour drive to North Carolina.

Didn’t want to look like a man going through a midlife crisis, he texted back.

A classic sports car and a sexy young woman would most definitely make him look like he was.  Well… so would the Mercedes, but it drove like a dream and wouldn’t kill his back or ass for the long trip.

You’re too young for a midlife crisis.

“Oh, you’re flirting, Sweetheart,” he groaned.  He shook his head to clear it before pressing his hand hard against his crotch.  “Behave, dammit, stay down.”

He had no idea when he’d find the opportunity to handle that particular issue.  The little bungalow on the beach they’d be calling home for the next few days only had one bedroom.  Light, airy, lots of windows and a door opening out onto a veranda, a king size bed--

He pulled himself from his thoughts when he saw Ember step out of the building.

“Fuck.”

God damn was he screwed.

Ember was dressed in a snug, scoop neck tank top and cutoff shorts that showed off her long legs.

Legs he’d dreamed of wrapped around his hips.  Draped over his shoulders.  Hooked over his elbows.

“Now is not the time to rehash your favorite fantasies, William,” he scolded himself as he climbed out of the car.  He took the opportunity to adjust himself and straighten his plaid shirt to try to conceal the ridge in his jeans before he walked around to the trunk to open it.

Did she nearly trip over her own feet?

He kept that question to himself as he took her suitcase from her and stowed it next to his.  He carefully shut the lid before turning his attention on Ember.

“Get in the car, Kid.”

She immediately bristled before storming off.

Oh shit, he sighed heavily as he watched her yank open the passenger door.  He quickly rounded the car to climb into the driver’s seat.  “Easy there, Tiger,” he looked over at her.  “You okay?”

She shut the door and buckled up before taking in a deep breath.  

Yeah, Cooper, you hit the wrong damn button by accident, he realized.  Better salvage this and fast!

“Yeah.  Sleepless night.”  Her smile was faker than the phony IDs his buddy had made for them in high school.

Yup, wrong button.  

He frowned in sympathy.  “Worried about the op?”  He was giving her a bullshit excuse for her temper flareup and he knew it, but he also knew Ember would not admit him calling her “kid” had upset her.    

Her smile fell, allowing him to see how tired she was.  “You could say that.”

“You’ve got the easy job,” he reminded her as he started the car.  “Look pretty, flirt, be coy.”

Inwardly he flinched.  Wow, Cooper.  That was smooth.

“You call that easy?”  The blush staining her cheeks was downright adorable.  “I can’t flirt my way out of a paper bag if I tried!”

He grinned.  Either she’s in denial about flirting or she’s clueless that she’s a natural.

“‘Your tie brings out the gold in your eyes, Boss’ ring a bell?  Or ‘You’ve got a bit of powdered sugar on your cheek’?”

God, he could still feel her hand cupping his jaw and her thumb brushing over his cheekbone.

Her blush grew brighter.  “A compliment and a gentle warning before a meeting are hardly flirting!”

“You were flirting,” he grinned even more.  “And the plate of extra cookies left over from your Christmas dinner?”

“Figured your kids would like some cookies, and I had more than enough left over!”

Uh-huh.  A whole plate piled high with monster cookies, his favorite fucking kind?

“That’s what break rooms are for,” he couldn't help but chuckle.  “Pretty sure Sanderson would ask you to marry him if you bring baked goods in.”  

Please forgive me.

Ember shuddered and turned a little green.  “Pretty sure he lives in his parents’ basement.”

“Yeah, he has that personality,” he slowed for a stoplight.  “Not your type, then?”

Please say no.  You deserve so much better than him.  Or me.

“Have you ever heard me flirt with him?”

He busted out laughing at her sassy rebuttal.  There’s my girl, he struggled to get the mirth under control so he could speak again.  “No, no, I haven’t,” he shot her a look.  “You can give Wilkes a run for her money in the ice queen department when you’re dealing with him.” 

She finally smiled.  “I hope you’re giving me a compliment and not calling me a frigid bitch,” her own voice was laced with a touch of humor.

“She’s the frigid bitch and she wears that badge with pride,” he pointed out.  “She made Sanderson cry a couple of times.  You’re at least polite.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be,” she mused.  “And I don’t flirt.”

Oh, Honey.

“‘You’re too young for a midlife crisis’?”  He struggled to keep another grin at bay.

“Not flirting!”  She twisted away from him.

But not before he glimpsed the splotching blush dotting her chest.

His mind went south before he could stop it.  Does she blush like that after an orgasm?

God dammit.

“What is it, then?”  He mentally shook himself to get his mind back on the conversation.  He winced when her head thumped against the window.

“The truth.  Thirty-five is still young,” she sighed.  “Age is only a number.  What matters is how you feel inside.  Take Grandpa-- er, Henry, for example.  He’s eighty-five, still working downstairs, running circles around the younger desk jockeys.”

“I need to find out what his secret is,” he joked.  Sometimes he needed more energy to make it through the day.

“No!”  Her voice squeaked.  “You don’t want to do that!”

His jaw dropped as he looked at her.  “Wait, he really has a secret?  What is it?”  He needed to know.

She blushed again.  “Nope,” she shook her head as if she were trying to shake off an unpleasant thought.  “It was bad enough overhearing it.  I’m not telling you.”

Oh.

Must’ve been something dirty if she was blushing like that.

“H-how long of a drive is it again?”

Did her voice just crack?

“Six hours if the traffic isn’t bad,” he answered.

“Straight through, no stops?” 

He chuckled.  “I’ll make a couple of stops, I’m not a monster.  You have breakfast yet?”  He glanced over to see her shake her head.

“There’s a coffee shop up ahead,” she pointed out.  “They have donuts and breakfast sandwiches.”

His stomach grumbled quietly.    “Any recommendations?”

“The omelette sandwiches are to die for,” she paused to cover her yawn.  “They come with sausage and cheese.  You’ve already had their donuts.”

His mind tripped back to the massive powdered sugar donut that had led to her soft touch that fateful afternoon.  His unintentional groan at that memory bordered on sinful.  “Might have to order a dozen for this weekend.”

“Better make it two dozen.  I’m not crawling out of bed before ten a.m. this weekend.”

No, down, he stubbornly told himself off at the images popping into his head.  “You’ve already claimed the bed, huh?”  He inwardly grimaced at the husky and teasing tone in his voice.  Who’s flirting now, Cooper?

“Figured it was a given since I’m a woman and you seem like the kind of guy who would take the couch.”

She had his number.  Damn, she really is good.  “Sweetheart, my back can’t take sleeping on couches even for a little catnap anymore,” he signaled to turn into the lot for the coffee shop.  

Liar, he ratted on himself.  He’d spent too many nights on the couch before Michelle asked for a divorce when she finally decided she couldn’t take being a CIA agent’s wife anymore.  If it weren’t for his kids he would not have gotten the couch for his new place.

“The bed’s a king, isn’t it?  We could share it.  I promise to be on my best behavior.”

He coughed to cover a strangled groan.  Share a bed with Ember?  All weekend?

Fuck.

“What?”  She asked.

“You’re flirting again.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she frowned at him.  “My brain loses its filter when I’m running on very little sleep.”

“Always an excuse,” he rolled his window down.  “What kind of coffee?”

“Just ask for the Emberleigh special, they’ll know.”

Cooper was pretty sure the barista, Tomer, was eye-fucking him.  Not the first time that had ever happened, but it sure as hell was the first time a guy was so bold about it.  And the not-so-subtle looks he was giving Ember were poorly hidden.  

Oh, yes, I’m gonna be the topic of conversation the next time she stops in, he chuckled to himself.  It was both amusing and flattering.

By the time they hit the freeway his two breakfast sandwiches were demolished and she was barely finished with hers.  He shifted to get comfortable.  Long trips by car were never fun, the miles monotonous and the seat unforgiving.  

Flying had not been an option.  The department could not justify using the jet for a weekend op, which left commercial flights.  He personally hated that option.  Checking weapons and other tools of the trade through security was a headache he did not want to deal with.  It was easier to drive.

“Should we go over the parameters again?”

It never hurt to go over plans a few times, and with this being Ember’s first undercover op he wanted her prepared.

The breathy “no” from her caught him off guard.

He shot her a quick glance.  “Seat reclines if you want to take a quick nap,” he swallowed the groan at the mental images of her stretched out on her back in that leather seat, him leaning over her…  He shifted in his seat when his jeans grew a little tight again.  “If you want to turn the radio on, go for it,” he cleared his throat (and his head).  “I listen to just about anything.  Except for the new crap.”

“Yeah, I can’t listen to that stuff, either.”

Thank god.

“I can Bluetooth my phone if that’s okay?”  She asked softly.

“Go for it,” he nodded.

When the opening guitar licks for one of his favorite songs began to play he grinned.

God, if this song wasn’t the ultimate euphemism for sex.  And the tempo.  Jesus Christ.

And the fact that Ember had the Scorpions on whatever playlist she had?  His crush on her grew that much more.

It reminded him of his high school days, his first car, T-tops off and cruising the strip rocking out to AC/DC, pretty girl in the passenger seat.

Sometimes he missed those days, not having any responsibilities other than keeping his grades up for football.  

He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and sang along off-key.  He found himself really getting into the music and tried to tone it down, but after catching Ember trying not to stare he decided to put his all into it.

And all bets were off when his favorite Def Leppard song came on.  

They played random road trip games when he wasn’t rocking out.  Counting state license plates.  Slug bug (or punch buggie as his little Katie loved to holler, especially when she saw the blue ones).  Billboard alphabet.  Count the road kill (gruesome but it worked).  I spy.

When she yawned for the tenth time in about as many minutes he realized why she was playing the games.  She was trying to stay awake despite repeated suggestions to recline the seat back and take a nap.  He even threatened to sing her to sleep.

She stubbornly insisted she needed to stay awake to help him watch traffic.

Somewhere along the way she did fall asleep.  He smiled to himself when she sighed in her sleep and shifted to get comfortable in her seat.  As carefully as he could he reached over to slip her sunglasses off and laid them on the dash.

No way was he waking her up any time soon.  She needed to rest up.  

He was humming along to “In The Air Tonight” and miming the drum solo above the steering wheel (it was a federal offense to not perform the drum solo) when a soft whine came from the passenger seat.  He quickly glanced over at the distressed sound.  “You okay over there?”  He pressed the button on the steering wheel to turn the volume down even more for the radio.

She shifted in her seat, head lolling toward him before a quiet snore reached his ears.  He chuckled and shook his head before he turned back to watch the road.  They were ten minutes from the nearest fast food restaurant and despite still being full from breakfast he needed to go to the bathroom and stretch his legs.  He just didn’t have the heart to wake Ember up quite yet.

A few minutes later she drew in a deep breath and moaned.

That moan sounded suspiciously like his last name.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Ember shifted and moaned again.  “We… shouldn’t…”

He felt his cock begin to stir at the soft little sounds coming from her.  Sounds he had fantasized about more than once.

“Oh… god…” she squirmed.

Fuck, his jeans were uncomfortably tight.  Cooper flipped the turn signal and checked his mirrors before exiting the freeway.  

Her moans and gasps were more frequent now, with his name whined out a few times.  He drew in a shaky breath, that last guttural moan damn near making him cum right there.  

It would be cruel to wake her up, he thought as he pulled into McDonald’s parking lot.  But he could not sit in the car and listen to her have a sex dream about him.

“Oh… god… Cooper…”

The way she was panting.

The way his cock was throbbing dangerously.

He hated himself, for having no choice but to listen to her pretty little sex dream sounds and for waking her up before she could…

No.  Do.  Not.  Think.  About.  It.

“Ember,” he gently squeezed her shoulder before he chickened out.  “Wake up, Sleepyhead,” he murmured gruffly when she blinked her eyes open.  “We’re stopping for lunch.”

She looked disoriented, and he kicked himself for interrupting that dream.

He pulled away, breaking contact before his body could overrule his brain and pounce on her.  “I’m surprised you fell asleep with my singing.  Never worked on my kids when they were little.”

When she remained quiet he looked over.  “No comment?”  

“No!”  Damn, that blush was beautiful on her.  “N-no, I… I guess a smooth car ride combined with a sleepless night put me to sleep.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” he agreed as he pocketed the keys.  “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.”

#william cooper #william cooper x ofc #red #sex dreams

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Four

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still don’t have a working title yet, but the current favourite is ‘Mark Needs a Hug’ 😅 This one is set directly after the teaser. I’ll hopefully be able to post some more tomorrow but that depends entirely on how much the next part fights me during the editing process...

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Any hopes that the warm fuzz clouding over his mind would lift by morning are quickly dashed.  

A shrill alarm snaps Mark out of a light doze, sentencing him to the wrath of a crushing headache which cannot be blamed entirely on alcohol. Any thoughts of getting up and facing the day are discarded. Heavy, unblinking eyes remain fixed to the ceiling above, the muted colours swirling as his vision blurs, and a shuddering exhale tears through his chest as fatigue immobilises his limbs, confining him to the mattress. Contrary to what he’d hoped as he drifted into slumber, he retains enough memory of the previous night’s events that he doubts he can ever convincingly slip back into normality.  

It takes tortuous effort to direct his gaze towards the bright red phone resting on his bedside table, but the thought of calling his friends is enough to have his throat closing from dread. They wouldn’t understand. Words have a habit of eluding him even at the best of times, and he doubts he has the ability to string together a sufficient explanation for why he feels like his life has been irrevocably altered. Not in the space of a single phone call at any rate.

Eventually he does summon the strength to drag himself out of bed, albeit the specifics as to how he accomplished such a monumental task elude him as he stares blearily at the bathroom mirror. He even succeeds in throwing himself beneath a scalding spray in the shower before locating a shirt and jacket combo which almost matches, but that’s the extent to which his normal routine is preserved. Breakfast is not an option of course; the mere thought of searching through his fridge for something to eat is provocation enough to have bile rising in his throat. No doubt he had clear plans for the day at one point, but those too are mercilessly cast aside. Instead, his focus becomes narrowed to one very specific focal point. Matthew may well have vanished into the night, but his influence stubbornly clings to Mark like a terminal disease.  

Countless hours are spent retracing his steps from the previous night. As the thick haze pressing against his skull intensifies, he allows instinct to take over as his feet carry him through the now-deserted ballroom. Seven identical corridors ultimately lead towards this room - the beating heart of the hotel - but it takes Mark no time at all to identify the unassuming door through which Matthew slipped away. Traversing the convoluted maze which lead to that impossible corridor takes significantly longer, but in spite of the many random twists and turns, the route appears to be fused to his brain like a hot brand. His innate familiarity for the hotel’s many secrets has always served him well, though he wonders how long that will last considering the location he seeks shouldn’t exist in the first place.

It’s less surprising than it should be when his memories direct him to a dead-end. Mark had expected little else, though disappointment still hangs heavy in his heart as he draws to a premature halt outside Room 217. The sleek black door stares at him enticingly, daring him to turn back the way he came and try another route, but he knows for a fact that he has not taken a single false step. Last night there hadn’t been a hotel room here at all. Instead, the hallway had stretched onwards to yet another junction, directing him onto the impossible corridor with the impassive statues and the cupboard which played host to a menacing red light, right up until it hosted nothing but a broom and several layers of stacked bedsheets.  

Mark must linger a little too long. His funk is shattered when the door opens to reveal an ancient woman with papery white skin and pursed red lips, dressed in elegant black furs with emeralds draped around her neck. She surveys him intently with deep hawk-like eyes, wordlessly demanding an explanation for his presence which he is incapable of offering. When he makes no attempt to break the spell, she simply shoves past him, muttering something about “bloody day-drinkers" as the door slams shut behind her. Mark sways on his feet, wondering if the old bat’s assessment is somewhat correct and if he’s still trapped within the throes of an alcoholic daze, but he discards that thought quickly. In retrospect he barely had anything at all last night, and he suspects that his mind has been poisoned by something far worse.

Undeterred by the corridor’s absence, he spends the rest of the day searching the length and breadth of the hotel for answers. It occurs to him at one point during his mad escapade that he doesn’t even know what he’s searching for. A solid hour is wasted flitting among slot machines and poker tables in the vibrant casino, half-expecting Matthew to appear around every corner. He would certainly blend in here with greater ease than he accomplished in the ballroom, given the neon colour scheme and lurid eighties aesthetic. Many of the guests frequenting this establishment choose to do so in hideously expensive suits which become less and less affordable the longer they stay, but the oddballs are more numerous here than anywhere else in the complex. The specific oddball he seeks does not make a reappearance however, nor do any of the patrons admit to knowing him when Mark lures them into a casual interrogation, and he eventually abandons the gamblers to their vices with an air of dejection.

When he’s not searching for Matthew, he preoccupies himself with trying to convince his brain that he didn’t imagine the strange corridor last night. He does a pretty terrible job of it too. The endless twists and turns of identical hotel corridors with their identical high ceilings and identical oak doors and identical potted plants become dizzying fast. Even when he’s certain he’s covered the guests’ quarters from root to stem, the overwhelming sense of déjà vu with every new hallway he stumbles upon makes him wonder if he’s been trapped within an endless maze.

Christ knows what he must look like when Jamie eventually finds him. Mark leaps out of his skin when he’s dragged back to reality by the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder - frantic and wild-eyed - and not even the sight of his friend is enough to calm his racing heart. Jamie looks equally startled, raising his hands in mock-surrender as a fleeting smile betrays his deep concern, and Mark can only stare blankly when his friend explains that he’s somehow missed three meetings today including a guest pick-up and their band rehearsal and oh, by the way, what the hell is going on?

Whatever sorry excuse leaves his mouth must suffice. He even manages to play a show that night, sans rehearsal and with his mind a million miles away from the stifling overhead lights and the gawping guests. He performs the entire show on autopilot. Lyrics he’s been singing for years escape his lips with the aid of pure instinct and little else, and while he fumbles the words once or twice, the crowd don’t seem to mind. The concerned glances darting between his bandmates aren’t lost on him, but he cannot bring himself to care. Instead, he uses what little mental faculty he has left to scan the faces in the crowd in search of Matthew, or one of Matt’s pursuers at the very least. His efforts ultimately prove to be fruitless, though he can’t say he expected anything else.

The show ends in the usual uproarious applause, despite the fact that Mark’s investment in performing has never been lower. Before the crowd has even begun to disperse, he finds himself galloping towards the stairs. He pointedly ignores the naked concern in Jamie’s eyes and Nick’s questioning “Mark?” in favour of abandoning the stage as quickly as his feet will allow, storming towards his suite without so much as a backwards glance as he swallows down the sting of defeat.

The following two days pass in a similar blur, albeit a far less productive one. This time around he has the foresight to cancel his meetings and rehearsals first thing in the morning, feigning illness as a half-baked excuse. He even manages to convince the orchestra’s conductor to play some additional shows in exchange for a lofty fee. Beyond that, however, he accomplishes very little. The strain of exhaustion confines him to bed for the most part, and any sleep he gets is scattered and restless. More often than not he wakes with his heart in his throat and a dull throb tearing his skull apart, emanating from the spot where the dreamlike apparition of Matt’s pursuer has just planted a bullet.  

(On occasion the nightmares will involve him discovering Matthew’s body instead, pale and sightless, though he can’t say those dreams make him feel any better than the ones in which he is the one reduced to a lifeless mass of flesh and bone).

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

An insistent, nagging voice tugs at his attention from the periphery, but for once he feels inclined to ignore it. At the present moment, the small poker chip in his hand seems much more fascinating as he flips it between his fingers. Much as he tries, he cannot remember where he found it. Perhaps he acquired it on his wild goose chase through the casino; either that or it was already living on his desk as a souvenir, won during a wild night out many moons ago. Its origins don’t particularly matter in the grand scheme of things. What matters is that its weight provides a pleasant distraction from the lecture he is currently fighting to drown out.

“-ark!”

He clenches his eyes shut and flinches as his peaceful bubble bursts into vapour, leaving his nerves exposed and frayed. The poker chip slips between his fingers, clattering on the hard wood of his desk before slipping to the floor, and he forces himself to take a steadying breath before his resolve can shatter. Breaking apart now will do him no favours. Especially considering that the one who’ll bear witness to his unravelling is the last person he wants to reveal any weakness to.

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?” Murphy observes when Mark finally draws his eyes towards the screen. The scathing edge to the man’s tone is not lost on him, but overall his voice is impressively calm. One could be forgiven for believing that he wasn’t seething with liquid rage, but Mark knows better. This call is taking place a whole four days earlier than scheduled, which is a frankly terrible omen as far as he’s concerned.

A particularly startling detail is the fact that Murphy appears...unsettled. He’s clearly trying to conceal that fact with all his might, but Mark knows how to read Murphy’s expressions better than anyone. That same anguish has faced him in the mirror too many times to count. Upon answering the call, he had been struck by the messier appearance of Murphy’s hair – eyes fixated on the stray curl obscuring his forehead – alongside the added lines carved into his brow; had found himself honing in on the tightness of his jaw and every minute twitch that rocked his slender frame. Something is preying on Murphy’s mind – more so than his usual troubles – and Mark doubts he wants to uncover the source of that unease.

“Sorry,” he forces out eventually, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking an exaggerated breath to sell his exhausted façade, not that there’s much falsehood to it. “Haven’t been feeling well lately. Zoned out for a bit.”

As excuses go, it’s rather paper-thin and they both know it. Mark reluctantly meets Murphy’s gaze, schooling his expression into one of apologetic sincerity, and he can’t help but wonder if the persistent impassivity on the other man’s face is equally forced.

“Hmm,” Murphy hums dismissively, settling against his high-backed chair and capturing Mark with eyes which appear almost black in the office’s dim light. It must be late wherever he is, which only heightens the impression that Mark is eating into his time like a disruptive child having to be held back after school. “And are you back with us now?”

“Yeah,” Mark says without thinking. Experience has taught him that any other answer will not be tolerated. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Murphy doesn’t appear convinced. Large, piercing eyes continue to bore through Mark via the computer screen, and he cannot help but shift uncomfortably in his seat. The similarities between the pair of them appear starker in this moment than they have in years, albeit Mark imagines he must look like a second-rate version of the put-together businessman facing him. Their resemblance has never felt like a crueller coincidence, especially as any certainty about his own identity is already crumbling to dust in the wake of Matthew’s weighted farewell.

Eventually, Murphy stops trying to dissect Mark with a gaze and merely huffs a sigh, before launching into the topic he seems to have been waiting for all evening.

“I’ve been reliably informed that you had some...interesting company the other night.”

The man’s delivery remains remarkably flat, but the accusatory undertones are clear as day and Mark releases a choked laugh that surprises even himself. Of course this is about Matthew. Mark is honestly stumped as to why that fact even surprises him. Why else would his boss call him out of the blue if not to address the weird fucking circumstances of the other night?  

He wonders who the whistleblower was. One of the guests? Andrew? The barman had certainly struggled to keep a straight face when he’d served Matthew the other night; his judgement of Mark’s choice of drinking partner clear as day with every sideways glance. Shame. Mark has always liked Andrew. Not enough to trust him, perhaps, but enough that the possibility of his thoughtless betrayal stings.

“Y’know what, I’m actually impressed!” he admits, a crooked smile lingering on his lips as he shakes his head. “Didn’t expect you to be so upfront about the fact that you’re spying on me.”

“Enough with the games, Mark!” Murphy snaps, his resolve finally shattering. A twinge of satisfaction tugs at Mark’s heart as he watches that impenetrable exterior bend a little; the cracks beginning to show at last. Whatever game is truly afoot is clearly shaking Murphy to his core, despite his valiant attempts to hide it. “Do you mind explaining to me why you were with him?”

Him. No name, no identity of any sort, yet Mark doesn’t need to ask who exactly has Murphy so riled up. Treacherous curiosity sinks its claws into his brain as he wonders what influence Matthew could possibly hold over a man like Murphy, but he doesn’t dare ask. Not yet anyway.

“I wasn’t with him,” he retaliates, with perhaps more bitterness than he intends. The underlying insinuation hardly offends him, but the thought of his every move being observed and speculated upon even in the supposed freedom of his evenings is enough to make his skin crawl. “I wanted to get drunk. So did he. We just happened to do it in the same place and figured we might as well chat for a bit like normal people.”

There’s a minute shift at that, so subtle that Mark doubts anyone else could have picked up on it. The moment is so fleeting that he finds himself second-guessing if what he saw was real or imagined, but the heaviness settling in his chest - coiling around his heart and lungs – is enough to assure him that it was genuine. That Murphy’s eyes had widened, albeit only slightly, and his breath had caught on a sharp inhale. If Mark didn’t know him better, he may even begin to suspect that the man was afraid.

“Did you discuss anything in particular?” Murphy asks eventually, schooling his voice into one of flippant curiosity. His effort to convey only mild interest is admirable, though Mark has to conceal a proud smirk when the man’s eyes dart to the side, betraying his lingering unease. He thinks he can just about handle the suffocating awkwardness of their conversation so long as he gets to watch Murphy squirm as well, like a feeble woodland creature caught in a trap.  

“Good scotch and theoretical physics if you must know,” Mark snaps, exerting far less energy on keeping his voice level than Murphy is. He pulls his gaze away from the screen as white-hot rage simmers in his veins, making every breath feel as though they’re being yanked from his ribs. The temptation to plant his fist in the screen is momentarily overwhelming – it would certainly put an end to this infuriating conversation – but he settles for clenching his hands in his lap until the knuckles go white. On any other day, he would be able to control himself where Murphy is concerned, but at this particular moment he finds he cannot even recognise himself. No doubt the fault for that lies more with Matthew than Murphy, but Matt isn’t here to face Mark’s confused wrath. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

Silence washes over them like a towering wave during a storm. Mark’s breathing suddenly feels unbearably rapid and, in the absence of external stimuli, his heartbeat pounds against his eardrums with enough ferocity that he can feel the blood rushing to his head. On the screen, Murphy recoils as though slapped, and his body stiffens as the weight of Mark’s outburst settles in the air. Mark forces himself to look and wishes he hadn’t; feels dread coil in his gut as Murphy’s face goes white and his jaw clenches with the effort of containing his unmistakable loathing.  

Such ugly rage is not something Mark ever wanted to see on a face so strikingly similar to his own. The mere sight of it makes him feel like a child. Suddenly he’s five years old again, crouched beside his mother’s shattered vase with the football-shaped culprit cradled in his arms; heart in his mouth as he waits for her to return home with hot shame flaring in his cheeks. Only, Murphy’s temperament is nothing like his mother’s, who had simply laughed off his mistake and urged him to be more careful in future as he hugged her tightly (“Or at least aim for the green one next time love, you know I hate that one...”). No doubt if it were physically possible, Murphy would reach through the screen and throttle him until his eyes rolled back into his skull, and Mark has never been more grateful for the colossal distance between them.

Hours seem to have passed by the time Murphy’s deep scowl morphs into a sardonic smile, the edges of his lips tugging upwards with visible effort, and it occurs to Mark that the man’s undisguised fury may have been preferable.

“Careful now,” Murphy says in a low voice, head tilting to the side as he traps Mark under the weight of his gaze. “Need I remind you that you still answer to me?”

Mark thinks that even if he wanted to speak, he wouldn’t be able to. His throat feels tight, to the point where he wonders if Murphy has figured out how to wrap his fingers around his neck from thousands of miles away. His heart continues to race as though he’s just completed a sprint at the Olympics, and his eyes feel impossibly heavy, seeking recompense for all their hours of lost sleep. In the end he settles for answering Murphy’s question with a minute shake of his head and hopes that it’ll be enough. He’ll be damned if he utters an apology as well.

The gesture seems to suffice. Murphy drops the degrading smirk and draws his lips into a tight line, but his eyes soften and he sits back with a sigh which seems to carry all his pent-up frustration with it. In the ensuing quiet, Mark is left with the distinct impression that he’s just dodged a bullet; not for the first time this week.

That thought, as so many others have over the past three days, bring him back to Matthew. Or rather, to Matthew’s mysterious assailants. They certainly hadn’t been associated with the hotel any more than Matt himself had, and Mark can’t help but wonder if Murphy was the one who sent them. Sending armed individuals into a hotel full of innocent civilians seems extreme even for Murphy, but his apparent hatred for Matthew may have overwhelmed any sense of moral decency he still possesses.  

Which of course brings his mind back to Matthew himself. For all his eccentricities, he certainly hadn’t seemed threatening. Nor did he seem to have a particular agenda, and even if he did, he hadn’t been particularly forceful in trying to convert Mark to his cause. All they’d really done was discuss some theoretical possibilities which Mark had no interest in believing. While he cannot deny that Matt’s questions have been looping around his brain endlessly, he still can’t bring himself to question the nature of his reality with too much scrutiny. Whether that’s because he truly believes Matthew to be a madman or because the possibility that he may be right terrifies him more than he’s willing to admit, Mark cannot say. All he knows is that life was much simpler before he met that mysterious traveller, though that doesn’t mean he has any desire to betray him on Murphy’s behalf.

Murphy considers him a threat though. He may not have admitted as much out loud, but his demeanor has been screaming it loud and clear from the moment Matthew was first referenced.

“Who is he?” Mark asks, inwardly scolding himself for doing a terrible job at hiding his desperation for answers. At this point in time, he thinks he may burst if forced to endure any more mysteries.

“Nobody you should concern yourself with,” Murphy offers dismissively, though he must sense Mark’s curiosity strongly enough to throw him a bone. Albeit a paper-thin one that’s been used as a dog’s chew toy a tad too long. “In saying that, I would strongly advise against interacting with him further. He’s dangerous, Mark. If left to his own devices, he will destroy everything you’ve built.”

‘Everything I’ve built or everything you’ve built?’ Mark finds himself pondering as his brows furrow with confusion, though he thinks better of voicing it. ‘Dangerous’ is not an adjective he would have used to describe Matthew, and if he’d sought to harm Mark or damage the hotel in any way then he’d done a piss-poor job of showing it. Contrary to his hopes, Murphy’s response has simply left him further in the dark, and he’s beginning to doubt he’ll ever be able to crawl out of it.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t yet addressed the biggest question remaining from that night. The detail which had left him unable to sleep as his mind replayed one specific moment over and over, like a highlights reel condensed down to ten critical seconds.

“He recognised me,” Mark admits, voice small and lifeless as though all traces of energy have been sapped from him. Perhaps he truly has been drained. Murphy’s always had that effect on him even on the best of days.

“Of course he did,” Murphy scoffs, and the bitter amusement in his eyes is enough to make Mark’s blood boil. “You’re rather famous, or so I’m told.”

Oh, he’s well aware of that. Except that isn’t the issue, not the crux of it anyway. Matt had certainly acknowledged his status often enough to make it clear that he knew who he was, but as the night had worn on, his aloof attitude had morphed into something approaching fondness. With his final words, Matthew had bade farewell as though addressing an old friend, despite the fact that Mark could have sworn blind that he’d never laid eyes on him in his life.

Only, as time has passed, that line of thinking has started to feel less and less accurate. Even during their conversation he’d been plagued by a nagging sense of familiarity which had been quickly cast aside, though the fact that Matt acknowledged that same familiarity has reignited his curiosity in the aftermath. And while he cannot pin down a specific memory, he has found himself plagued by occasional... flashes. Tiny details, like remnants of a half-forgotten dream or individual components of a jigsaw puzzle with several missing pieces.  

He sees a mass of people sitting at round tables in one flash. The spark of a camera in another. Scattered laughter and a lingering sense of self-consciousness as he takes in the faces of the crowd. A desperate need to be anywhere else coiling in his alcohol-soaked gut. Perhaps the setting was a fancy dinner somewhere, though at one point his brain brings up the possibility of an awards ceremony and something vital clicks into place.  

He only catches a glimpse of Matthew in one of those puzzle pieces; the fleeting memory coming to him during a fitful doze in the wee hours of the morning. He looks markedly younger, with tamed flat hair and a suit that somehow appears more awkward on his skinny frame than his ridiculous neon jacket had, but his eyes are bright and his smile is sincere in an environment where so many smiles seem feigned for Mark’s benefit. Any concrete recollection beyond that image remains locked away, though Mark had awoken with the words, “Saw you guys playing the other day, you sounded great!” circling his head like a pack of vultures.

Despite his efforts, he cannot combine those flashes into a coherent whole. They feel too scattered, as though someone has taken a scalpel and carefully removed all the connective tissue from the scene. At times he finds himself doubting that the memories are even his. They feel too detached from his current existence to slot easily within his known lifespan, and surely a fancy dinner or ceremony with that level of grandeur would have stuck in his memory beyond mere snippets of recollection? Surely such a significant event would be memorable enough on its own, rather than concealed behind an impenetrable brick wall?

“That’s not what I meant,” he manages to spit out, and he could swear that some of Murphy’s smugness fades at that utterance. As his next words threaten to spill forth, Mark takes a deep breath and lowers his gaze, feeling his resolve waver with each passing moment. “He called me Alex.”

With his eyes trained on the hardwood floor beneath his feet, Mark misses the way Murphy freezes as his admission is released into the open. At the end of the day, this is the true issue which has been gnawing at his heart since Matthew christened him with that random name; one which he’d mindlessly accepted without argument. The name has spent a considerable amount of time circulating his mind these past three days, bringing with it a persistent ache which grows in severity the longer he dwells on it. It’s the same ache which plagues him whenever his mind strays towards home, or whenever a childhood memory returns to him unbidden, or whenever he considers taking someone back to his room only to be seized by an inescapable sense of guilt. It’s an ache which shouldn’t belong, yet is as much a part of him as his flesh and blood. And much as the prospect disturbs him, the name ‘Alex’ seems to fit him like a glove in a way that ‘Mark’ never has.

Which doesn’t make sense. One of those names was given to him at the moment of his birth, whereas the other has only been used in reference to himself on one occasion. His attitude should be the complete opposite, and yet somehow hearing the name ‘Alex’ felt like he’d been handed an important puzzle piece without knowing what he was supposed to do with it.

Realising that the silence has stretched for far too long, he lifts his eyes to meet Murphy’s once more, unable to mask his surprise when he notes an amused smile creeping across the man’s thin face. It doesn’t go far enough to reach his eyes – Murphy's smiles never do – but it has the desired effect of sending a chill down Mark’s spine as a sudden wave of dread sinks in his gut like a stone. He feels once again like he’s caught in a trap, and that impression only intensifies as Murphy’s voice spills into the room like melted butter.

“Well he was clearly mistaken, wasn’t he?”

As if on cue, an unmistakable fog descends upon Mark’s mind and caresses his scalp like a lover’s touch, attempting to soothe his anxieties and banish them to the lost recesses of his subconsciousness. Only this time he knows it’s coming. This time he knows to anticipate it. The instant a familiar numbing haze slips into his skull, he clenches his eyes shut and curls his hands into tight fists, resisting the mental intrusion with all the strength he can muster.

“His name was Matthew,” he inwardly screams into the void. “He knew me. I think I must have known him too. He called me Alex. His name was Matthew...”

He clings to those truths with a desperation he can’t explain, repeating them like a mantra in his battered mind. The fog doesn’t abate, but his efforts go some way in holding it back; securing his consciousness to the present moment, even as the temptation to drift into a pleasant lie persists.  

And then, just when things are beginning to feel a little too easy, he forces out an agonised cry as sharp pain lances through his skull and explodes behind his eyeballs.

The agony is so intense that he curls into himself, body taut and aching. Tears stream down his face and a fine line of sweat trickles from his brow as the pain pulses in time with his heartbeat; a persistent throb which feels like someone has stuck a hot poker through his temple and is now moving it back and forth. Forcing air through clenched teeth, he casts aside any sense of humiliation over his tears or involuntary whimpers, and instead focuses on the task at hand; clinging to his mantra with renewed desperation as he wards off the brutal assault on his senses.

“His name was Matthew. He knew me. I knew him too. He called me Alex... Am I Alex?”

He cannot say how long the pain lasts. The moment seems to stretch on for eternity with no end in sight, and he wonders whether the agony will cause him to pass out or simply kill him outright. Every breath escapes in the form of a choked gasp and long hair clings to his face as a film of cool sweat coats his brow, but he refuses to stop fighting no matter how sweet the thought of release might be. At one point his eyes must have opened again, but it makes no difference at all. His vision whitened out long ago, banishing the relative comfort of his suite to the realm of distant memory.

And then – at the critical point where he begins to consider surrender – the pain stops. A choked sob tears itself from his throat and he has to swallow his own bile before it can spill onto the floor. His breathing remains shaky and uneven, but he no longer feels like he’s suffocating, and with considerable effort he loosens his grip on the armrests before they can snap. For those first few seconds his mind feels so blessedly quiet that he’s tempted to let exhaustion claim him right there and then, but he somehow manages to cling to consciousness. Something still feels wrong. There’s a wave of anxiety creeping beneath his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and it occurs to him far too late that his vision has yet to clear. All-consuming white has morphed into a muted blur, the image before him crackling like television static, and when he lifts his eyes in the general direction of the computer screen, long seconds pass before he realises what’s wrong with the image before him.  

Murphy is gone. That much is evident even before his vision starts to clear. The image on the screen is too dark to resemble the light teal shade of the man’s office, and the vaguely humanoid blob in the centre of the frame is clearly not the outline of the man Mark knows all too well. Nothing can truly prepare him for the moment his vision clears though, and he finds the air being sucked from the room as his blood turns to ice.

In Murphy’s place is a creature which looks as though someone has dug up a corpse and bathed its yellowed bones in molten silver. Only the lower portion of its skull is visible; a gaping socket resting where a nose may once have been and a wide jaw braced in a wordless snarl. Obscuring the eye sockets and cradling the upper half of its face is an oversized helmet - not unlike a motorbike helmet on Earth or the VR mask resting in a case by Mark’s feet - with thick grooves embedded in the metal lining and a pair of screws giving off the impression of eyes. The image looks like the monster a child would conjure when asked to describe the creature lurking under their bed, and the mixture of assorted screws and plates embedded in a fading skeletal torso make Mark wonder if the being was once human, before someone set about replacing all organic components with metal.  

It occurs to him that he hasn’t dared move a muscle, nor has he so much as breathed since his vision cleared, and he can feel his lungs screaming in protest. He doesn’t dare move, however. Not even to breathe.

“-ark?”  

The spell breaks. The image before him shatters in the blink of an eye, though not before Mark sees the creature tilting its head and relaxing its jaw into what might be a smile. Light returns to the room and his lungs sing with relief as he finally provides them with precious oxygen, though his heart is still promising to exhaust itself if it doesn’t slow its pace soon. Frantic brown eyes turn to see Murphy sitting in his usual spot with an unusually relaxed expression, as though nothing untoward has happened in the interim. In comparison, Mark imagines he must look like a frightened deer caught in the headlights; wild-eyed and rigid, with hair clinging to his forehead and sweat soaking through his shirt. The grotesque image of that... thing still lingers in his mind like a horrifying echo, even when he casts a glance over the room to see nothing out of the ordinary. The only plausible explanation he can summon is that the creature was a hallucination, similar to the impossible corridor from the other night.

And yet, somehow, that explanation doesn’t sit right with him. No matter how impossible it may seem, his instinct screams at him that the vision was real and not simply the product of pain-induced delirium. He cannot explain where this certainty comes from, other than this; when presented with the most horrific sight his brain could possibly conjure, the main impression which lingers in the quiet aftermath is a vague sense of recognition.

“Earth to Mark?” Murphy says, forcing Mark’s attention back to him once more. To his surprise, there’s a sense of enjoyment lurking beneath the man’s tone rather than anger, and the crooked smile combined with a single raised eyebrow betrays a pervading sense of amusement. “I was merely suggesting that if you should run into dear old Matthew in future, I want you to report him to me immediately. Do I have your word?”

He isn’t sure what to say to that. The words make sense individually, but in combination they make a jumbled soup which refuse to coalesce into anything solid in Mark’s mind. In light of everything that has transpired in the last ten minutes, Matthew seems like an insignificant memory, though Mark imagines that couldn’t be further from the truth. Every inch of his body hurts and his brain can’t focus on anything without being rocked by aftershocks of pain and terror. He wishes he could wipe the smug smile off Murphy’s face. God only knows what spectacle that man must have borne witness to as Mark fought off wave after wave of agony, but his clear enjoyment of Mark’s discomfort is setting his teeth on edge. It almost feels like Murphy knows what Mark has just experienced; as if he knows what he saw and is now basking in the satisfaction of watching his plaything’s torment. Almost as if...

As if he’d orchestrated it. As if he’d planned every second of Mark’s anguish and set it into motion from the safety of Earth, like a bully holding a magnifying glass between the sun’s rays and an unsuspecting ant and watching it burn.

“Mark?”

That assumption can’t be right. Matthew’s theory can’t be right. And yet, all other explanations are currently in the process of eluding him. Even when he turns away from the screen, he cannot get the image of Murphy’s smug satisfaction out of his head.

“You have my word,” he utters, almost as an afterthought, too tired and defeated to argue further.

Not that it matters in the end. They both know the promise is a lie.

#Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Arctic Monkeys #Muse #my fic #writing

[phantoms-lair]

The Two Werewolves of Scooby Doo Part 4

Okay, this was supposed to be the last chapter, but it ended up being a lot longer than anticipates, so I split it into two.The good news is I’m already halfway through chapter 5

Previous Part

~

 "I know what you're about to ask me, and no, I've made no progress." 

  "Like, we're running out of time." Shaggy said, running his hand through his hair. "The new moon's the night after next." Vincent was right in that without being around a human to lash out at, Daphne's evenings were much better than the first. Wolf Daphne was perfectly content to run around the the area outside Vincent's home chasing lightning bugs, or begging Shaggy for things like ear or chin scritches. 

 But better didn't necessarily mean good. The complete loss of control weighed on Daphne, highlighted even more by the fact that she could remember what happened when her body was outside her control. In the couple hours of sleep she would grab after sunrise, she was plagued by nightmares of what could go wrong. As such, she'd given Vincent a timeframe for the cure. They had through the New Moon, when no transformation would occur, and the day after. But before sunset on that day, if no progress had been made, Shaggy would bite her, thus turning her into a 'true' werewolf.

 And Shaggy didn't want that. He really didn't want that. But Daphne was suffering and he didn't want that either! He respected that this was her decision, and he would honor it, but that didn't stop him from hoping against hope they'd find something beforehand. 

 But so far everything had been a dud. Vincent had tried various remedies, even a de-aging potion to see if Flim Flam's young age was the reason the curse hadn't affected him. It hadn't worked, but Daphne had made an adorable werewolf cub. 

 "I am aware of the date Shaggy, but this is largely a process of trial and error. We don't even know which of the thirteen cursed them, each of which could require a different methodology." Vincent sighed. He understood Shaggy's concern, as well as his desire to help his friend, but there was only so much he could do.

 "I still think it has something to do with that drink." Scrappy said, crossing his arms. 

  "I fail to see how, but it's worth a shot, I suppose." Vincent let out a tired sigh. "I don't have any other ideas at the moment. Of course it will take some time to break down the brew into all possible magical components." 

 "There's a much quicker way, Vince." Flim Flam offered. "I can just drink some." The assembled group looked at him. "What, I'm the only 'normal' human here who could be affected. If it does nothing, we've ruled it out. If I turn into a werewolf too, Daphne can actually stay inside for the night, since there's no one here for her to attack. I'm actually safer that way." He shrugged. 

 Vincent fixed him with a look. "Flim Flam, you understand while identifying the drink as the culprit would narrow things down immensely, it could still be quite a while before I figure out the counter." 

 "I know, but it speeds things up, and I'd actually be in less danger. Besides," Flim Flam shuffled his feet. "You guys have been pretty good to me, and I want to help."  "You know you don't have to do this," Daphne said entering the room. Her clothes and hair were flawless as always, but her makeup couldn't quite hide the bags under her eyes. 

 Shaggy bowed his head. "I wish I could-" 

 "Shaggy, you're the only reason this situation isn't 100% worse, so don't feel guilty you can't be the guinea pig." Daphne chided. "And I'm serious, Flim Flam, you don't have to do this."

 "Well, I choose to." Flim Flam said stubbornly. "It's worth a shot." 

 "A very against the odds shot, which is the only reason I'm agreeing to this." Vincent summoned a tankard from...somewhere...that had SHaggy reeling back with a look of disgust. "However, first I want you to swallow this." He handed  Flim Flam a small object. 

 "It looks like a fossilized hairball." Flim Flam said critically.  

 "It's called a bezoar. It will nullify any poison you ingest." Vincent explained.

  "Won't that mess with the curse?" Scrappy asked. 

 "Not at all. A curse is not poison. Wolfsbane, however, is an extremely deadly one, used as a common form of execution in ancient Greece. The wolfsbane in this has been detoxified as much at it can be, but it's barely safe for an adult. It is absolutely not safe for a child without precautions like this." 

 "If it's so deadly, why put it in a drink? Much less the town specialty?" Daphne wondered. 

 "Hope makes you do stupid things." Shaggy answered, a touch bitterly.

 "Rope?" Scooby asked. 

 "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you figured it out." Vincent sighed. "The drink was originally an attempt to self medicate. They hoped that such a powerful werewolf repellent such as wolfsbane would ward off the curse. It didn't, but without anything else they could do, they kept at it. That's why they drink it right before sunset." 

 "So they almost poison themselves every night just trying to weaken the curse? I feel kind of bad for them." Daphne said. 

 "I don't." 

 "Shaggy!" 

 "What? I don't." Shaggy crossed his arms. "Like, they were actively trying to keep us from leaving Daph. Which means either they were planning on killing us in their werewolf forms, or trying to get us cursed too. And either way, I'm not feeling sorry for them. We, like, didn't have a choice in this. They made that choice, and they did it during the day. They knew what they were doing." 

 "I...I never thought of it that way. I just thought of them as victims of the curse like me...which is exactly what they wanted us to think." Daphne slammed her fist into the castle's stone wall. "If Scrappy and Flim Flam were right, and it was the drink they served us that carried the curse, then they purposefully tried to curse us so we'd feel sorry or at least kinship with them. And since children can't safely tolerate the drink, they were writing Flim Flam off as dead either way."

  Daphne growled. It wasn't a wolfish one, but it made her rage perfectly clear. "Oooo I wish I could turn into a monster right now and rip them to shreds." 

 "I can do that." Shaggy said, though he looked deeply uncomfortably. "I mean they hurt you and..." 

 Daphne took a deep breath, trying to release her anger. "You could never live with yourself if you did that and I could never live with myself for asking you. I'm just...just a whole lot of bad feelings right now. Thank god tonight's the last time."  

 "Yeah," Shaggy said less than enthusiastically. 

 "And possibly first time. Bottoms up." Flim Flam swallowed the bezoar, then took a large sip of the drink. "Hey not bad." 

 "That's because you're not a werewolf." Shaggy said, wrinkling his nose. He really couldn't understand how people could tolerate that smell, much less like it.  

 "I suggest we all get some rest this afternoon. Between a potential second werewolf and Daphne's cursed self being let loose around my house, I suspect tonight we will all need it." After so many all nighters studying the curse, Vincent knew he certainly did. 

 "Inside? But what if the drink doesn't turn Flim Flam?' Daphne fretted. 

 "Between Shaggy, Scooby, Scrappy, and myself we are more than sufficient to make sure no harm comes to him." Vincent reassured her. "I am far more concerned for my upholstery's safety than his." 

~

 "Last time." Daphne said as she watched the sky turn pink from her window. "Shaggy, really, thank you for everything. Not just keeping me company and corralling me during the night. but being willing to...I know you don't want to." 

 "I really don't." Shaggy admitted. "But your curse is so much worse than mine. I don't want you to go through this anymore either." 

 Daphne sighed. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened?" 

 "Maybe." Shaggy answered. "Are you going to tell Velma and Fred about this?" 

 "I don't know. Not yet. I don't like keeping secrets from them, and I'm not opposed to them knowing. But right now I just don't want to talk about it. It feels too raw." 

 "Maybe one day," Shaggy said for both of them. 

 "One day,"  Daphne agreed as the last rays of the sun, and thus her human mind, vanished in the light of the thinnest sliver of moon.

 It was easy to tell when Daphne stopped being herself. Her whole demeanor changed, relaxing. She nudged his shoulder with her muzzle, tail wagging.

 “Like, at least someone’s having a good time.” he commented, rubbing her neck. He didn’t know if the change was tiring. The first night he wouldn’t have thought so, as she’d tried to attack Flim Flam almost immediately. But every night since had started with the wolf being very docile and wanting affection. Later she would want to explore or run around, but the start of the night was always quiet.

At least it was until a walkie talkie crackled to life.  "I told you guys!"  Scrappy's voice came from the other side. "I told you wolfsbane turns people into werewolves!"

Shaggy grabbed for his radio. "Really? Then Flim Flam is...?" 

 A small yip came from over the device, which made wolf Daphne's ears perk. She looked at Shaggy expectantly. 

 "You want to see another werewolf huh?" Her tail wagged harder. "Well, I guess we can go." Shaggy's feelings were decidedly mixed. They were one step closer to an answer, but it meant Flim Flam was cursed too. The only small mercy was he would never have to deal with the memory of needing to attack humans, since as he pointed out himself, he had been the only normal person there. 

~

 They had reached the living room when the two youngest members of their group joined them. Like Daphne, Flim Flam seemed to have no remnant of his human personality. He and Daphne Wolf stared at each other for a moment, before both jumped on the couch,making happy noises. Daphne Wolf began licking the top of his head, like one packmate grooming another. 

 "Dawww" Scooby cooed at the sight.

 "Like, Daphne's not going to be happy if she gets hairballs." Shaggy comment, feeling a bit torn. The two were so happy, it was obvious the curse werewolves craved each others company, and he'd been keeping Daphne away from the others. But at the same time he didn't trust them, even without their minds. These were the people who had hurt Daphne, and he wouldn't give them a chance to get their claws into her.

 "I truly did not think this would work." Vincent said, entering the room. "I must wonder if one of the ingredients was the original vector, or merely an additional one. Either way it should-" He was cut off by twin growls as Daphne and Flim Flam both rose from the couch, fur standing on end and teeth bared. 

 "Guys NO!" Shaggy moved between them and their intended target, but Vincent had his own ideas, lifting the amulet around his neck ever so slightly. Shaggy was no stranger to fear, it was the emotion he was most familiar with, after all. But he'd never felt anything like this. This cold clutching at his heart, his muscles tensing so much it hurt. Fear so intense he felt he'd almost come around the other side to nothing. 

 Then it broke, and the sudden absence of the fear was enough to push all three werewolves into bolting. "A bit too much?" Vincent asked the gobsmacked Scooby and Scrappy.

 "Rust a reeny rit." Scooby replied, holding his paws barely apart.

~

"Raggy! Raggy!" 

 Scooby's voice broke through the panic that was driving him, and Shaggy shook himself out of it. Vincent had told him, told him, about the whole aura thing, but he hadn't been able to think when he was faced with it. "That was terrifying, man. Like, Mr. Van Ghoul was not kidding about being terrifying to werewolves." Werewolves, oh no. "Did you see where Daphne and Flim Flam went?" 

 "Ruh-Ra," Scooby shook his head. "Rappy rent rafter Rim Ram." 

 "I guess that leaves us to find-" There was a sudden sound of shattering glass. "Daphne just went outside, didn't she?"

 "Rep." Scooby confirmed. 

 Shaggy sighed, "Like I just hope she went through a bottom floor window." 

 She had. And left a clear trail of upturned soil and broken twigs and branches in her path is her rush to escape. With such an easy trail to follow, it didn't take overly long to find her, curled in a ball at the base of a great rock, shacking. 

 Shaggy and Scooby both curled around her her, making reassuring sounds until the shaking stopped. "You good to go back Daph?" Shaggy asked in a gentle tone. 

 Daphne's ears went back, looking scared at even the idea of returning to the castle. "Hey, don't worry. You know Vincent would never hurt us. And besides, Flim Flam and Scrappy's still back there." 

 Daphne let out a small, whine, clearly not happy, but still got up. 

 "Like, I know this won't make you feel better now, but believe me. Human you is going to find me coaxing you into a spooky place hilarious tomorrow." Shaggy assured her as they made their way back. 

 "You found her!" Scrappy waved at them from the broken window. "Did you find Flim Flam?" 

 "Not yet, I figured I should guard the window so he couldn't run out." Scrappy explained.  

 "Good thinking." Shaggy agreed. "I guess we check his room first?" Sure enough, the door was slightly ajar. With a sigh of relief Shaggy opened it, only to freeze at what he saw inside. “Zoinks!” Quickly he tried to shut the door, but he wasn't fast enough as Daphne slipped in the room.

~

 Flim Flam fled as fast as his legs could carry him. When he’d first seen the figure something deep inside him had taken over, driven him to attack. But that was swiftly overridden with the sense of danger and evil that suddenly radiated from it.

 All he could do was was flee and in his rush he’d lost track of the others. So he headed towards the only place that was familiar, the room he’d woken up in. He hadn’t slowed down in time though, and as he burst through the door he collided with a dressers, causing something inside to wobble and then fall off, shattering on the ground.

 Flim Flam dove under the bed and huddled there, ears poked for any sounds, from his friends to the scary man. But there was nothing. There was, however, a smell. It smelled tasty and was coming from whatever had spilled on the floor.

 As scared as he was, he was also curious. Slowly he inched his way out from under the bed, ready to duck back under at moment’s notice. He tentatively took a lick and shuddered as a strange sensation flooded through him. His thoughts became sharper, clearer, more...

 More human! He was thinking like a human! Flim Flam did a double take between his very human hands and clearly still nighttime sky. He glanced down at the broken bottle on the floor and couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across his face.

 For years he’d been written off as a pint-sized conman, but here was proof his Lotsa Luck Joy Juice was the real deal. It had broken a werewolf curse set by one of the thirteen evilest spirit’s in existence!

 “Zoinks!”

 Shaggy’s sudden cry caught Flim Flam by surprise and his head shot up just in time to see the werewolf version of Daphne barrel past Shaggy and into the room.

 Flim Flam felt his heart jump into his throat. He’d been kept far away from Daphne in her transformed state. She’d apologized profusely and he hadn’t held it against her. But the memory of her trying to attack him as still there and now those teeth were an inch from his face.

 Shaggy was there in an instant, hand on Daphne’s shoulder to hold her back.  But Daphne wasn't trying to pull forward to attack, like she had two weeks ago. Nor was she happy like earlier this evening. Instead she just cocked her head to the side before looking at Shaggy. 

 Shaggy shrugged at her. "Like, I think she's confused 'cause you were a werewolf earlier and now you're not. Actually, I am too." 

 "I found the cure. Flim Flam's Lotsa Luck Joy Juice!" Flim Flam said proudly. "Wolf me drank some that spilled from the broken bottle." 

 "That's great!" Shaggy exclaimed. "Is there more? Like without the chance of broken glass." 

 "Well no," Flim Flam admitted. "I kept that for posterity, the rest went into the Flying Mystery Machine's gas tank." An odd name for a plane, but who was he to argue. "But I can make more!"

 “Sounds great,” Shaggy sat, more collapsed,on the bed. It was as if the knowledge that there was an end in sight released even more tension than he’d known he had. His limbs felt noodlely but honestly he felt better than he had in two weeks. “How long does it take?”  “A few days at most. Might take less if Vince has everything I need to make it.” Flim Flam said offhand.

 Shaggy felt his heart sink. They only had a little more than a day. Daphne had made it clear this was her last night transformed by the curse. “What can I do to help?”  Flim Flam thought for a moment. “Nothing. Sorry Shaggy, Part of the process involves silver, and you shouldn’t be near that.”  Shaggy wanted to argue that scars from silver burns would be worth it to save Daphne, but Scooby was giving him a look that said he knew what Shaggy was thinking, and he should stop thinking it right now.

 “Re ran relp,” Scooby indicated himself and Scrappy.

 “Yeah, okay.” Flim Flam nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

 “And Vincent too!” Scrappy added. 

 Daphne let out a slight yelp, then a whine, looking at Shaggy pleadingly.

 “It’s okay, Vincent won’t hurt them,” Shaggy tried to reassure her.  "I know he felt really scary, but we've been living with him for weeks, remember." 

 Flim Flam shuddered. "I know he told us about that, but experiencing it was a whole 'nother thing."

"Like tell me about it," Shaggy suppressed a shudder himself . "I should probably keep Daph away from him till morning. She was really spooked." 

 "Don't blame her." Flim Flam knew it would be a while before he forgot that feeling. "See you on the flip side." He carefully walked past where he and Daphne were before taking off. 

 "Re rot rhis," Scooby promised. "Rit's ronna re rokay." 

 "It's gonna be okay," Shaggy repeated, still not sure he completely believed it, even though he wanted to. Hope was a dangerous luxury.

#The Two Werewolves of Scooby Doo #Scooby Doo #There are times in Scooby Doo when they go alls well that ends well and the bad guy faces no consequences I feel they really should have #To All The Ghouls I Loved Before was one of those times #Also Shaggy is a LOT less tolerant of people who would turn others into werewolves

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 60: By Firelight

Lance is a good husband. Keith is *mostly* cooperative.

First  Previous  Next

Lance is sitting in front of the crackling fireplace, his own cloak wrapped around his shoulders, Keith’s draped over his lap. It’s unbelievably cold, like every night since he’s been here, but staring up at two slivered moons crossing paths above him, Lance can’t bring himself to care.

He’s neglecting his duties, but he hasn't really had the chance to look at the moons before, never stared up at the sky and seen another body so very near. On Altea, it’s so, so easy to feel like there’s nothing and nowhere else. It’s so easy to feel alone.

Sometimes, he wonders if that’s why his people looked to the stars before the Galra. Perhaps the moons made them feel less alone. Then again, maybe not given that the first thing they did when they finally achieved space travel was go conquer other worlds…

Ah well. To each their own. Not like the Alteans didn’t have their collection of occupied territories-

“Hey.” Keith, smiling at him, braid drawn over his shoulder, end disheveled from anxious fiddling. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”

“I thought about retiring, but I wanted to stay up and watch the moons.”

“I see. Can I join you?”

“Of course. Want some dinner?” When Keith nods, Lance hands him one of the last remaining bowls he’d set beside himself for passersby. “You might want to scoop from the middle. I haven’t stirred it in a while and it’s cold, so it’s probably the only bit that isn’t scorched or chilled.”

Keith smiles, ladling some of the stew into the bowl. “Thank you for cooking.”

“Someone came by and shoved some ingredients and a recipe at me. I don’t think that they were expecting me to do a good job, but I did. Or so I’m told.”

“I bet that made them mad,” Keith chuckles, moving aside the red cloak in Lance’s lap so he can sit sideways against his chest. Lance pulls the cloak up over Keith’s legs to help him stay warmer. He’s shivering a little, but seeming unbothered otherwise. Accustomed to the cold. He tosses another log on the fire anyway, watching sparks dance against the starlit sky.

“The only thing they need to be mad at me is you, beloved. We both know that.”

“They don’t need that to be mad at you. They shouldn’t be mad at you at all. You’ve done nothing to them.” He takes another bite of Lance's stew.

Lance smiles, kisses the base of Keith’s large, fluffy ear as Keith’s tail finds his ankle. “Sometimes nothing is just as bad.”

“I suppose… This really is good, by the way. You did a wonderful job.”

“Thanks, beloved.”

Keith sets the empty bowl aside, turns to sit between Lance’s legs, facing the moons. Lance pulls the cloak up to the Galra’s chest to keep them both warm. “The moons will be new soon.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah. It’s something that happens roughly once a centaphoeb… I was born under the new moons. It’s the darkest night you’ll ever see,” Keith whispered.

“Hm.” Lance stares at the sky, at the gaping voids in the stars where the looming silhouettes of the moons black out the sky. “Sounds terrifying.”

“Existentially, yes… Last time it happened, I was all alone. It was so dark and scary.”

“I can imagine.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, enjoying each other’s company, listening to the crackling of the fire. Lance knows Keith needs it, just as much as he knows he hates to ask. Keith’s not one to make himself that vulnerable, to actually use the word ‘need’. He knows the Galra is just itching to go back to his usual self-sufficient ways. Keith’s not the type to enjoy being tethered to any one person, not even Lance.

“I feel like by the time your season’s actually over, you’re going to be sick of me,” he murmurs.

Keith’s fingers lightly squeeze his wrist. “I could never be sick of you. Though sometimes I do miss solitude. Nothing against you, obviously. Just sometimes I want to be alone for a little while.”

“Thace says it’s not good for you to be alone.”

“He’s probably right,” Keith murmurs, sighing. “But people can be… so much. Sometimes I just need silence.”

“I trust you to know what you need, when you need it.”

Keith drags Lance’s hand -the one not around his waist- into his lap, toying with his fingers beneath the blanket. “Are you ready to tell me what happened this morning? I could tell you’d been crying.” He kisses the underside of Lance’s jaw. “It worries me when I see you cry. You usually bury all that in your work.”

“Romelle doesn’t recognize my sister anymore,” Lance whispers. “I just- We’ve tried so hard to bring her back, and nothing works. My father says that it’s not in her best interests to try anything else. She suffers for it, and it doesn’t work. I agree with him, but it hurts. For decaphoebs, she seemed fine. Thriving, apart from a few headaches. Running around with me, Allura, Adam, and Lanval, getting into trouble… I miss that. I miss the four of us just being able to have fun together.”

“Growing up sucks,” Keith whispers.

“It really, really does.” Lance’s eyes search the sky, looking for familiar stars, but it’s hard to tell which ones are which from this new angle. “How was your day? I know this morning wasn’t fun.”

“Well, I accidentally called my mother a breeder, so… Could have been better.” The Galra chuckles.

“I take it that’s a bit of a derogatory term?”

“Not just a bit. Basically, I implied all she’s good for, or that bearers are good for, is pushing out kits.”

Frowning, Lance twists his head to look his spouse in the face. “Is that really what you think of yourself?”

“Sometimes. I mean, I am expected to bear your children. It’s kind of the reason I was selected. Well, that, and my uncle wanted to get rid of me.”

“Keith.” Lance winces at his sharpened tone, at the slight droop to Keith’s ears. “What exactly do you think is going to happen when we have children?”

“I don’t know… I guess I assumed you’d be running the kingdom and I’d be raising our kits? But I don’t want that. That’s fine for some people, but I want to be able to do other things. I want to be other things-”

“Do you really think I could run a kingdom by myself? I mean, I’m flattered, but there is no way I could do everything I could do without you. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. Listen.” Lance pushes some hair out of Keith’s face, trying to reach the luminescent eyes underneath. It falls right back into place. “We’re partners, beloved. Everything we do, we do together.

"You don't have to worry about me being absent or anything like that. I’m not my father, Keith-”

“I never said that! I know you’re not your father!” Keith’s alarm softens to something far more gentle. “You could never be your father, Lance. You’re too… you.”

“Yeah,” Lance whispers. “I know we’ve only known each other for a year, and we’re still learning a lot about each other. I mean, I learn new things about you every day. But I know you well enough to know that you could never be content being just one thing. Be everything you want, and if what you want right now isn’t parenthood, we have time. We can wait until your next season, a decaphoeb, a centaphoeb- However long you need to be ready for that. Then, when you are ready, we can do that.”

Keith tips his head against Lance’s chest, snuggling closer under the cloak. There’s always going to be a bit of conflict within himself, Lance knows. Keith is easily the best thing that’s ever happened to him, but the circumstances under which they met will always sting. The best he can do for his spouse is make sure it never happens again.

“What do you want, Lance? Are you ready?” Amethyst eyes stare up, glowing gold, glittering and almost hard, stubbornly waiting for an answer.

“I am so ready. I’ve wanted to be a father since I was a little kid.” Lance grins, thinking of all the times he imagined being a parent. “But like, I’ve got a couple milophoebs of life ahead of me, and so do you. We’ve got time for both of us to be ready first. We’ll live big, full lives, Keith. No matter what.”

The Galra’s still staring at him, but his eyes are soft, warm even with the unsettling glow of his night lenses. Lance isn’t sure if he ever truly found that nighttime gaze frightening, instead of mesmerizing. He knows it doesn’t frighten him now. How could it, when Keith’s looking at him with so much love? What could Lance have done to ever deserve it?

“Lance?”

Lance jolts from his thoughts. “Keith?”

“I love you.”

“Aw-w, Ke-ith.” Lance grins, presses their foreheads together just to hear him purr. “I love you too. To Daibazaal and back. Literally.”

“Literally.” Keith presses a smiling kiss to his lips. "Thank you, Lance. I- I feel better now."

"I'm glad. Tell me when you decide?"

"I'll tell you when I ready."

"Good." Lance beams down at his spouse, even as their cloaks slip away. As their lips meet again, Keith rises onto his knees, threads dark purple fingers into silver-white hair, the very tips of his claws scratching at Lance’s scalp. His own hands find Keith’s cheeks, cradling him close. Lance can’t help but giggle at the feel of Keith’s thin, raspy tongue, the way it feels against his. It’s just so different from his own, smooth tongue.

Sighing, Lance seeks out more, chasing after Keith’s taste. It’s delicious, intoxicating, the most he’s had after months of sudden nothing. So when Keith draws away, he follows a little before he remembers.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs, hands trembling in Lance’s hair as he presses their brows together again. “I’m sorry.”

“Never,” he whispers, thumb grazing Keith’s cheek. “Come on. We should get some rest. It’s super late.”

“Yeah. Especially since we’re training with the Blades tomorrow.”

“Ooh, I wonder if Adam will do some training with me. It’s been ages.” Because he’s feeling generous, Lance scoops Keith up into his arms. He only gets a glare and an elbow for his trouble. It’s just as good. Or at least amusing.

“Adam can fight? I just assumed he nags his enemies to death.”

“Oh, yes. He uses a double-ended polearm. He has multiple different ones, with different heads on either end.”

“He would have that- Can you please put me down now? I’m not a baby!”

“I’m trying to be romantic!” Lance sets his spouse down, tugging on the end of his braid so Keith knows he’s playing, not upset.

“You can be romantic by letting me walk and then cuddling me for the rest of the night. How’s that?”

“...Sounds really nice, actually.”

“Then let’s go.”

Settled down for the night, Lance rubs the base of Keith’s ear. It’s not something he really needs anymore, but it seems to make him happy, and definitely makes him smile, so why not? The way Keith purrs, tucks his head firmly under Lance’s chin as he twists his tail back around his ankle just seals the deal.

Nothing will ever top this.

“Goodnight, Lance.”

“Goodnight Keith.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

[authenticaussie]

Also, please consider the idea Ace is the Avatar. In his opinion, this kind of responsibility and lack of freedom and target on his back is as bad as being the son of a pirate king, so... Luffy knows, but keeps quiet. Very few others know. There may have been an attempted execution once, which is the first time he found the Avatar state. Once everyone is out Marco has many questions.

you are HITTING me where I LIVE man hhgh in avatar aus tbh I avoid making One Character the avatar bc like, I ALWAYS SORTA FEEL BAD FOR ALWAYS MAKING MY FAVOURITES THE VERY MAINS??? And the avatar is THE!!! main of the world aljshdjg you know??

BUT ANYWAY ACE AS THE AVATAR IS SO PAINFUL OH MAN. His existence is kept secret because of his heritage, and YOU KNOW WHAT?? I’m gonna say he’s an airbender because culture is different in OP and their avatar-finding-test is the one that’s the least specific. At least compared to my theories on firebenders + canon info on earth benders 

Also like...man this is gonna be dumb, maybe?? But I love Lucky’s au about it SO. Celestial Dragons are airbenders! >:T  Rouge was one of them, and an airbender, but Roger was a nonbender. Rouge basically never used her bending, except in secret, because being an airbender is THE biggest “hey you’re a celestial dragon” tip off. 

However, Ace only really uses his airbending to supplement his physical attributes he uses it to jump around the forest and make himself go faster. He doesn’t own a glider, and he’s Not a classic airbender bc he has no-one to teach him, but....it helps, because when he asks if roger has a kid, he doesn’t realise what do you think of airbenders is equally as dangerous a question. He learns from Sabo about his heritage, but neither of them know that much and they’re both self-sufficient kids, they don’t think to ask anyone. So Ace always has more problems with being Roger’s kid than he does with being an airbender. 

Riiiiight up until Sabo’s boat gets upturned in a suddenly stormy sea, and he hears the voice of the people who took Sabo from them, projected across the water with the Celestial Dragon’s airbending. He doesn’t...hate airbending after that, but the idea that he...he’s like the people that killed Sabo. It hurts. 

Soooo he stubbornly decides to learn a new element. And does. 

His response to this is: HAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK. (Everyone knows what the avatar is. The most powerful bender in the world, but the idea that it’s Ace? He can’t compute. It shouldn’t be him, people talk about the Avatar all the time!) 

Anyway Luffy’s hype but Ace swears him to secrecy, and decides he just won’t use airbending again. That he’ll bend with Luffy and he’ll never let it slip that he’s the Avatar, and that will be the end of that - the world can survive without him. It doesn’t need him (for what it’s done to Sabo...for how it’s tried to hurt him- him being roger’s son AND the avatar seems like... cruelty, to reveal.) I think in this AU Luffy may be an earthbender (considering what I did to the airbenders aljskhd pft)

So he spies on Garp when he teaches Luffy, learns how to earthbend, and figures out reeeeal easy how to lie to Garp. After all, Ds are known for their crazy physical abilities. Because Ace only ever used his bending to support his physical skills, it’s easy enough to- lie and pretend, and once Garp starts to question the idea that Ace is an airbender, Ace pretends to discover that he’s an earthbender. Garp’s pretty happy to have another person to touch, even if he is a bit confused as to how Ace got earthbending.

Also lmao just!!! imagine!!! When he eats his devil fruit he’s sorta like really?? I lost my ability to swim for a power I already had??????? Duece shoulda had this :/

But he really likes fire, and being fire, and- and it’s a relief, to be able to bend another element, and have his devil fruit be an excuse. It eases some pressure that’s been building in his limbs for years. When he joins WB’s crew he hangs around the firebenders with the excuse that they SURELY know how to deal with fire, and he needs to learn, but he totally studies their techniques and the structure of bending more than how being a logia works, which the other few elemental logia he runs into finds weird. 

AND THEN TRIGGERING THE AVATAR STATE O O F 

Honestly?! Ace is probably BARELY holding onto not going into the avatar state at so many times in his life - sabo’s death, teach’s betrayal - but the idea that he’ll lose another brother- that he’ll lose Luffy? He can barely think of it

So in front of everyone - every camera, every person tuned in to watch his execution - he goes into the Avatar state, accidentally curbstomps akainu, and then drops thanks to physical malnutrition. He’s out! 

And the whole battlefield like....stops? Because- they can’t kill the avatar, it’s basically INGRAINED in their society that they can’t kill the avatar, and so the marines end up a second behind the pirates, with their goal to save. 

I bet Ace really doesn’t like being questioned about it, though. So many secrets have been revealed, he almost died, Luffy almost died-- he’s been starved for months and he’s beaten and bruised and his dad is dead but everyone keeps calling him Gold Ace, Gold Roger’s son, and nobody has any idea what to do with him being the avatar. 

There’s some pirates eager that they have the world’s most powerful bender on their crew, some who think like Squard, about Ace’s relation to Roger, some who are catatonic with grief over their dad and the people they’ve lost...The whole world has changed in a day and nobody knows what the new equilibrium is. 

THIS IS ALSO SUPER LONG AND I FEEL LIKE IT’S REALLY HARD FOR ACE TO ANSWER QUESTIONS ABOUT HIS PAST AND BEING THE AVATAR SO I’MA LEAVE IT HERE

#nari is writing #portgas d. ace #one piece #avatar au #fave #12freddofrogs #ask aussie #bip bop nari drops

[anryuuepic]

Sevonis Vinsord Bio

Name: Sevonis Vinsord

Species: Ghiasuli

Race: Redscale

Role: Border Grand Knight within the Ghiasuli Royal Guard. A capable person who both helps to keep his Grand Master in check and look out for his fellow Grand Knights. Someone who believes that the Ghiasuli society needs to change, and secretly works to do exactly that. 

Affiliation: Royal Guard 

Gender: Male

Age: 31

Height: 6’5

Appearance: Sevonis is a tall, ridiculously intimidating man. His stature alone cuts an impressive figure, but the sheer power of his build does even more so. He’s very muscular, with tanned skin, dark mahogany-colored hair worn loose and straight, falling to his shoulders, and chiseled features. He has a fair amount of facial hair. His eyes are a rich, deep red, and his expressions vary from stern scowls to warm, gentle smiles. 

Special Abilities/Strengths: Sevonis carries himself with an almost regal grace. He’s not nobility of any kind, but his knightly personality makes him come off as just the right mix of intimidating and impressive. He’s highly responsible, sensible, and capable, and can more or less run an entire Regiment on his own. For the society he lives in, he’s very progressive, and believes in equality and fairness towards people of all kinds. He’s powerful both physically and mentally, with simply impressive strength and intellect. 

Weaknesses: Sevonis tends to be a bit too prideful for his own good. He sees himself as a truly good person, and this often clouds his judgment when it comes to his own actions. He can be too serious and intense, more than a little stubborn, and too independent for his position and role. He tends to think that he can handle everything on his own– something which has gotten him into plenty of trouble in the past. He often carries the idea that he can make better decisions for people than they can for themselves.

History: Sevonis’s family, as is necessary for anyone of rank in the Royal Guard, had some level of power and influence. However, Sevonis climbed the ranks almost entirely of his own skill. His youth was fairly unremarkable, save for an early decision that the way his kingdom operated was unfair on many levels. Sevonis grew up in a family that didn’t pay too much attention to him, meaning that his strange ideals were allowed to flourish unsupervised, creating a true oddity in Ghiasuli society. 

Relationships: Sevonis’s relationships are decent. He’s not one to have many close friends, but he gets along well with casual acquaintances. He’s capable of being very polite and social, and always looks good in public, even if he doesn’t get particularly close to anyone. Within his Regiment, Edmund finds him to be loyal, useful, and skilled, while Licinia sees right through him, quickly assuming that he’s hiding something. 

Personality: Sevonis is an interesting individual. Despite his almost ideal situation, he’s not satisfied with much of anything. He considers himself a progressive who’s working towards the world’s change, and as such, often falls into the pattern of belief that he’s always right. He always appears collected, regal, poised, and knightly, but can also slip into levels of intensity that harm those around him. He’s stubborn and stubbornly self-sufficient, with an active dislike of having people help him with anything. He can be very mature, but just the same, he can get far too carried away. He’s kind-hearted, but doesn’t know how to truly be a good person. 

Interests: Sevonis likes time to himself, being influential, protesting unfairness, and seeing the results of his work. He dislikes excessive physical contact, old-fashioned values, and being tied down with work. His hobbies are going on personal patrols and spending time reading up on history. 

Abilities: **TO BE ADDED**

Miscellaneous: Sevonis gained his current position six years ago. He’s considered himself to be something of a revolutionary since his younger teenage years. He tries to be chivalrous towards everyone, women in particular, but often winds up trying to make people’s choices for them. He greatly underestimates Licinia. When Edmund is incapable of making his own choices, Sevonis tends to step in. His massive build and intense personality make him one of the more feared members of the Guard. He has an unmatched talent for wearing down the people around him. 

Connotative description: A “progressive” member of the Royal Guard who believes in equality and justice... all while believing himself to always be in the right. Kind-hearted, but exceptionally misguided and prideful.  

#Sevonis Vinsord #Bio #Royal Guard

[apveng]

She Is Not Kara, Damn It!

Here is the third part of my story. The first part, Khao-Shuh, is here. Second part, Why Do You Need Supergirl, Anyways?, is here.

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

“Alex, are you listening to me?” Alex picked up the dress that lay on the floor and held it up for her daughter to see. And, hopefully, accept. “This, Hope. You are wearing this to school. Not a Bat Woman custom.”

Into the phone, she added. “Of course, I am.”

“The Bat Woman fever is not down, yet?” Kelly asked sympathetically.

“No, Mommie. I am wearing black and red to school today. Ms. Hamza would love it. She loves Bat Woman. She told me so.” Hope stubbornly shook her head.

“I did ask you not to bring her so many Bat Woman comics.” Alex glared at her daughter. “But, when does anyone ever listen to me?”

“Ha! I could recite all the issues that you bought her, Dr. Danvers.” Kelly retorted.

Alex ignored that inconvenient truth.

She assumed her no-nonsense mother expression and said clearly, “Hope. No. You are not going to wear Bat Woman to school.” When her daughter’s chin tightened in response, she added. “And, no means no. You can wear your Bat Woman costume on Saturday, not today.”

“Kel, I need to go. Otherwise, she will never listen to me.” Without waiting for Kelly to say goodbye, she hung up. And then rolled her sleeves for battle.

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

Apparently, Kelly hadn’t considered her own warning sufficient because she got a call from Nia as soon as she reached her office.

“Hey! Alex, how is it going?” The overly bright voice, not to mention the odd timing, confirmed her suspicions.

“I am alright. I am not going to lose my head to a White Martian pretending to be Kara. Can we get this over with please?” Alex returned. The way her friends acted one would think she was an irresponsible teenager not a 36-year old working mom who had served as the director of the DEO.

Nia protested. Thankfully, a call over the intercom announcing J’onn, M’gann and an unnamed visitor saved her. “Gotta go, Nia. Duty calls.”

She steadied her breathing, snapped a professional smile on her face and opened the door, closing and securing it after J’onn, M’gann and the stranger—the stranger who looked nothing like Kara—came in.

“We thought it best for S’lynn to come here in another form.” J’onn said once they were seated.

Not knowing whether to feel grateful or irritated, she looked at S’lynn Sh’onkend. According to the report M’gann sent over, S’lynn was a soldier and had been with the rebels for nearly a hundred years. She carried herself like a soldier too. Easy and full of self-assurance but alert and ready to move at a moment’s notice.

So, different from Kara.

“Thank you for agreeing to do this.” She meant the words. To have been fighting so long for peace, against your own species, and now to come to a completely strange planet and agree to go incognito against her own people. It was a lot to ask of anyone. She had nothing but admiration for this woman.

“Of course, Dr. Danvers. I couldn’t do anything else.” S’lynn returned.

Brief and to the point. Alex liked this woman. Of course, that might change once she saw her in Kara’s form.

After a round of thorough questioning about Kara, she nodded at M’gann. “She is well prepared, M’gann. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Realising she was stalling, she nodded at S’lynn. “Would you change? We can see how well you can copy Kara’s mannerism and demeanour.”

Thankfully, unlike her friends—who seemed to have forgotten that they voted unanimously for this very thing—none of them protested. S’lynn stood up, and as Alex braced herself, changed into Kara.

No amount of preparation would have saved her from feeling like being run over by a truck.

This after all her preparation. After she had gone through old albums and videos that she hadn’t glanced at for so many years. Rifled through memories that she had buried so deep that she hadn’t realised she could even access them. Listened to songs and jokes and game nights each of which sliced like knives.

Only the sympathetic look on the woman’s face, so unlike Kara—who would have been at her side eyes full of worry, not looking from six feet away with a stranger’s distant sympathy—saved her from completely losing her mind.

She had to go through her breathing routine before she could regain her composure. J’onn, M’gann and S’lynn waited without commenting. She was grateful for their forbearance.

“Alright. Could you show me how she, I mean you, walk, fly, act? Just anything Supergirl or Kara Danvers may have reason to do.”

“Yes, Dr. Danvers.” The voice—so familiar, so beloved—sent another set of chills through Alex. How had she got the cadence so pitch perfect? It was almost as if she had taken training from Kara herself.

Alex’s wonder, admiration, and dismay only grew as she conducted the tests. There were a few differences of course. Mainly in how S’lynn reacted to and acted with Alex—she was as familiar with Alex as she was with M’gann, her mentor and leader, her actions full of respect and affection; but the warmth that Kara kept specially for her, which Alex had missed every day, every moment since Kara left, was missing. In everything else, S’lynn was the perfect Kara double. Even J’onn couldn’t have done better.

She supposed she should be thankful that S’lynn couldn’t imitate Kara’s intimacy with her. Otherwise, she might have been in trouble. The way her heart pounded, double-time when she saw certain actions, so familiar and so strange, she wasn’t sure she was completely safe.

There was nothing to be done about it but to be vigilant of her own heart. She had made a promise.

So, she continued.

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

As that first week passed, Alex found that she could actually use S’lynn as a data point for her detection program—now renamed, quite originally, “SK”, after S’lynn and Kara. At least, it wouldn’t make industry leaders raise their eyebrows like Kara’s imaginative product name had. M’gann gave her the go ahead and a few other rebels who could help her, so it wasn’t long before all her focus was diverted from El Mayarah to SK.

It was still hard for her. She found herself continually taken aback at S’lynn’s ability to play Kara so perfectly. Even accounting for Martian ability to share memories, which gave S’lynn J’onn’s and M’gann’s memories of Kara, the quality of the work was beyond her comprehension. Thank goodness no Martian can read her mind any more, or she wasn’t sure she could have kept up the façade in front of all the people she was working with. As it is, she found it tough to keep her cool around her colleagues and S’lynn.

She had to remind herself, constantly, that S’lynn is not Kara.

It also made her work itself difficult. Her earlier detection program had been based on mind waves and a few communication cues. The limited availability of test subjects had constrained her. J’onn and the few she knew maintained other forms only for short periods, so the very immediacy of their act was built into her models. It, she realised, was different when they had someone like S’lynn who had everything near pitch perfect. Alex couldn’t after all find a person who was as familiar and close as she was to Kara for every employee who worked at every organisation under threat from infiltration.

Biometrics, such as fingerprints and retina scans, were of course out of the question since these were perfectly copied by even the least prepared of her Martian subjects. DNA scans pretty much defeated the purpose and was too wide and intensive in scope to help given that the infiltration was already underway. And there were privacy concerns. She needed something unique to Martians but something that wouldn’t give warning or impinge on anyone’s privacy.

What was she supposed to do?

“Problems?”

Alex heart went into double-time at the voice. She is not Kara, Damn it! She took a moment to settle herself. “Just trying to identify the one characteristic that makes a Martian a Martian.”

S’lynn drew her eyebrows together. Oh my God, how does she get even that little squiggle that Kara gets when she worries about something correct? “Given we need to rule out DNA and mind waves, I am not sure either.”

Alex was about to nod when a sudden explosion startled them both. As always, without waiting to move, Alex was at Kara’s side in a flash. It was when she caught the hand, bare except for the material from the suit, that she faltered. Not, Kara, S’lynn. She remained frozen for a moment and had to be pulled down by S’lynn.

As they remained huddled on the floor, S’lynn’s arm around Alex, waiting and wondering whether the project has been discovered and if they were under attack, for the first time since M’gann had announced her plan, Alex felt at ease. What an idiot she had been. She had kept her physical distance from S’lynn believing that it would only increase her pain. Turns out, all she had to do was touch S’lynn’s skin to realise, deep within her soul, without a shadow of a doubt, that she wasn’t Kara.

She lacked Kara’s warmth that always brought sunshine to Alex’s mind. Of course, she did.

The door opened and Brainy called. “It is alright. It was just a test gone wrong.” He reached them, gave his code, and then pulled Alex up. “Director Danvers, are you alright?”

“I am not Director anymore, Director Dox.” Alex repeated perhaps for the hundredth time in the last week.

“Ah! Yes. It is you being back at the DEO. Some portion of my mind refuses to accept the update.” He tapped his forehead in thought. “I don’t know why.”

Alex rolled her eyes and waved her arm at the door.

Once Brainy left, after giving her an overview of what had gone wrong outside, she smiled at S’lynn. “I have found the solution to our problem.”

S’lynn brightened. “You have? What is it then?”

Alex’s smile broadened. “Turns out you are not Kara.” At S’lynn’s confused look, she explained. “I mean, your body temperature is different from a Kryptonian’s.”

S’lynn slapped her forehead. “Of course. We should have realised.” She looked up at Alex hopefully. “Now, we could get the detector made easily, right?”

“Yes.” Alex nodded. “So, let us get it going, Supergirl.” Alex said that last with relish. They were careful to use “Supergirl” whenever they were together, “Kara” being out of the question. Alex had been professional about it. And, it had been hard. Now though, she can say the title without her heart doing a confused little dance. S’lynn was not Kara.

She would never confuse any shapeshifter with Kara. Why had she thought she would?

With her heart both light and heavy, Alex got back to work.

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

Notes:

I will have the next chapter ready in a couple of days. Thank you.

Any scientists/engineers reading this, please don’t curse this lapsed engineer for her product design and modelling skills. Thank you.

I used this cool name generator for S’lynn’s name.

#Kalex

[iztarshi]

Hobbies

Touga doesn’t spend a whole lot of time on hobbies. When we see him he’s mostly either scheming or doing very little besides looking pretty. He does have a few leisure activities though.

Kendo

Boxing

Horse riding

Motorcycling

Kendo and boxing fall into a category as martial arts, particularly ones he can look cool doing (although you’d think boxing carried too much risk to his looks). Kendo, in the present, also seems to be tied to his relationship with Saionji, his interest in it waxing and waning as his interest in connecting with Saionji does. Saionji comments that Touga hasn’t been to the club for a long time in The Rose Crest, implying he stopped after getting Saionji expelled. Perhaps he saw that as a permanent victory and didn’t feel the need to test himself against Saionji until things started to go sideways for him with Akio. Or perhaps he did feel bad enough about that and Saionji’s car ride to avoid Saionji for a bit. The only time we see Touga practicing kendo alone he’s doing it to bait Nanami.

Horse riding, motorcycling and, as a kid, cycling are all connected as involving going somewhere and being in control of where he’s going. Also, all three are situations where Touga takes passengers. The motorcycle has a sidecar, implying he doesn’t usually use it alone (probably he takes girls on it), the bicycle wasn’t built for passengers but he carried Saionji and Nanami on the back, and the one time we see him horse riding he’s coerced Utena into riding with him. The horse riding incident is especially telling because he drops her. Having forced her into a position where she has to accept that he’s in control and be looked after by him he can’t actually keep her safe.

*

Nanami has even less leisure activities than Touga. She spends so much time, energy, and even creativity on bullying that that’s almost a hobby in itself. She claims to do kendo (because Touga does) but we never see her practising and she doesn’t even use the right kind of sword, although she is pretty good. What does she do?

Party planning

Cooking (maybe, but she at least put a bento together herself)

Flower arranging (while cowbelled)

Tea ceremony (at the end)

Party planning seems to be the more legitimate side to Nanami’s approach to bullying. The way she approaches it is high energy, creative, and all about social manipulation. The purpose of Nanami’s parties is to impress everyone, we don’t see her enjoying the company of the people she invites. Given Touga’s behaviour around girls, the parties he attends actually cause her a high amount of anxiety while they’re going on.

The flower arranging and tea ceremony are interesting for being similar. They seem to suggest that when Nanami’s able to calm down, whether through magically induced means or character development, she enjoys quiet, meditative pastimes and leans towards the feminine and traditional.

*

Juri’s hobbies are

Fencing

Bowling

Modelling (technically a job, but I doubt she needs the money)

Fencing takes up a lot of her time, since she not only practises it but teaches it. It’s a major part of her identity and most things around Juri connect back to fencing one way or another. She’s extremely perfectionist, constantly testing herself against everyone around her, although she cautions Miki against that same perfectionism.

Bowling is a low stakes hobby. The fact that we see Juri posing and bowling a strike suggests that she’s still a bit of a perfectionist who likes drawing attention to her skill, but no one takes up ten pin bowling to impress people. It’s nice that Juri can genuinely do something for fun, and presumably with people other than the student council since Nanami had no idea she bowled.

Modelling seems to be almost a status thing. It gives Juri contacts outside Ohtori, adult contacts at that, and adds to her impressive aura by making her part of the “adult world”.

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Miki is much busier than, say, Touga, but 90% of what he’s busy with outside of playing the piano seems to be studying. He’s doing college level courses and his parents have high expectations for him, which sometimes seem to be all the higher since Kozue refuses to let them have any expectations for her at all. Outside of that the things he does are

Playing the piano

Fencing

and that really seems to be it. Playing the piano is tied up both in his parents expectations and in his own nostalgia, to the point he seems uncertain whether he even enjoys it anymore. He says at one point he’d give it up if he didn’t still hope for his music to reach Kozue, yet he spends almost all his time on it.

Fencing is possibly better for him, since it is at least tied solely to the present and something he’s striving to improve at rather than believing there was a perfect time for it which is past. Still, it seems to be tied up with expectations of perfection, and, of course, with the duelling game. How much of Miki’s desire to improve is about the desire to win Anthy?

I did not start writing this expecting to wind up feeling that Miki’s life is emptier than Touga’s.

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More than any of the others Saionji’s hobbies seem to be things he actually likes to do rather than having anything to do with expectations or image.

Kendo

Carving

Camping

Cooking

Kendo is part of his image, of course. He’s the captain of the kendo club and very proud of it (if not a little bitter that he knows Touga could have had the role if he’d wanted it). But we often see him practicing kendo alone, and while he does seem to have some of Juri’s star status he doesn’t think about it much and we only see it through Wakaba’s eyes. He fairly often seems to be using the meditative nature of katas as a self-soothing technique (until Touga inevitably interrupts it). Kendo lets him both calm himself and channel his aggression in appropriate ways, things he has very few outlets for.

Carving is clearly something he’s done before, no one learns to do it well in a day, but it’s also something you wouldn’t guess at. He’s not seen carving elsewhere and he doesn’t seem to keep his own carvings (although we do only see his dorm room in the dark). It’s not something he has any particular reason to be embarrassed by, but it still seems to be something he mostly hides.

Saionji’s got a really nice tent and a portable hot plate. Given he doesn’t seem prone to spending money, this makes it seem like camping, cooking, and combining the two are things he’s done before and possibly does regularly. This is definitely something he hides, given how defensive he is when Nanami catches him. Hiding the camping part rather than the cooking is possibly less about embarrassment and more about the point being to get away from people. He’s just been screwed over by Touga, who knows where he lives and is impossible to get rid of when he wants you for something. He’s camping out tonight, and Touga doesn’t know where he is.

We only see him cooking eggs, so it’s hard to say how actually good at cooking he is. But it seems like a Saionji thing, like the carving. Something that requires care, concentration, and skill. He also lives alone and, while he’s in a dorm and might have food provided, he has a stubbornly self-sufficient streak that makes me think he’d know how to cook for himself.

The apron is… adorable :D The logic behind it seems to be that being caught cooking would be embarrassing anyway, so he may as well wear an apron he likes when no one’s going to see it.

In some ways Saionji seems more… whole than a lot of the student council, at least in this sense. Whereas they’d be starting from a position of figuring out what they even liked outside of their image, Saionji knows what he likes, he’d just have to stop hiding it away.

#revolutionary girl utena #meta #I may be biased in Saionji's favour