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thehomothings · 3 years

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Analysis of Kite's conflicting moralities, relationship with death, and the toll reincarnation may take on one's psyche

So, today I decided to compile all the thoughts I have had about Kite's interesting worldview since the first time I saw him into one post, mostly for my own sake, really. If you're familiar with the few posts I've made, you know it's gonna be a mess, but hopefully a comprehensible mess.

A heads up, this is going to be spoiler-heavy, and very much deal with subjects of death and dying as a whole. Also, some of these conclusions are drawn from my own experiences and close brushes with death, I'm not going to go into much detail but it might get personal and definitely dark. I'm not even sure if I can call this a meta-analysis, and I'm obviously no expert, so mayhaps take all of this with a grain of salt.

Been getting into drawing lately, and during the more simple and mindless part of the painstaking process of dotting every single star in this, I let my thoughts wander through the latest part of the fic I'm writing, and I got a better grasp on what exactly made Kite such an elusive character to me.

I'm not quite sure why I got so attached to Kite. Perhaps it was the air of tragedy surrounding him, how despite his sordid past he remained still open and gentle even if outlined by a healthy dose of cynicism.

But sometimes, I think it's the fact that he is so paradoxical. He's brave, yet fears death to such a degree that creates a whole Nen ability around it, is a pacifist yet will not hesitate to spill blood for his own sake or someone else's. Despite the many ultimatums and warnings of 'I will not protect you', he gave his arm and then his life to save Gon and Killua. He approaches each hunt and battle with a clear plan of action in mind, but his Hatsu takes the form of a roulette that gives him random weapons which are never what he wants, but what he seems to need for that exact situation, which he cannot dispel without using. When he draws a weapon, the decision is locked in and his or his opponent's fate is sealed. That's why each time he dubbs his weapon a bad roll. Every time he has to gamble, he sees himself as having run out of luck. When it comes to having to choose between himself and somebody else...well, there had never been a choice. In fact his aversion to using it may feed into its sheer power that we, unfortunately, saw too little of.

Let's go over his very first appearance when he saves Gon from the mother Foxbear.

It's not hard to see the strain searching for Ging has put on him; he's rash, prone to anger and punching a child for daring to get into trouble. In his mind, he's failing at his most important task, has not yet earned the right to call himself a hunter despite being in possession of his very own hunter license.

After killing the mother Foxbear and raging about having done so, he says this interesting line:

So yes, he finds killing for any reason rather irksome as most would do, yet I think something deeper caused him to absolutely lose it in this scene:

He had not been aware of Gon's identity, and despite being an animal lover and a naturalist, he made a choice to save the human instead of allowing nature to run its course. In fact, he says: 'No beast that harms a human must be allowed to live.'

How does one weight one life against another? How is the worth of it determined? The value of life... an impossible choice he's faced with and a choice which he seems to regret to some degree.

The Foxbear cub.

Here, he's speaking from experience, a tangible loss he has felt himself, and a hard and bitter life he does not want to impose on the cub.

His backstory is exclusive to the 2011 anime adaptation but there are hints alluding to it in the manga, for example, the fact that he does not seem to know his birthplace, or:

The choice of words is chilling.

Reading between the lines, one could draw the conclusion that he is an orphan. Something supporting this hypothesis is how he visibly deflates after Gon tells him his parents have (presumably) died.

So we see he is willing to go against his own moral code of not killing as to not doom another living being to the life he led, a lonely, hopeless existence that could barely be called one. He saw it best to put down the cub rather than leave it to die a painful, slow death.

The reason Kite himself isn't as cynical and cold-hearted as one would be after witnessing cruelty in its rawest form is those small crumbs of human kindness which he may have found in Ging.

It was not only a chance at an honorable life being Ging's apprentice gave him, but it also 'saved' him from being broken and twisted into what he hated and worst of all, death.

If we take that one minute of backstory as canon to his character-which I find myself inclined to do- these quirks of his make much more sense. He lived on the run. He lived on the knife's edge between giving up or pushing forwards. He lived as so a wrong move could be the difference between survival and the end.

Between rock and a hard place creates a mentality of black and white, absolute good or extreme evil, this or that. Except in reality, it's much harder than that. Deciding who to save and who to strike down is a heavy burden to bear.

It's almost easy to see how struggling to keep surviving could lend itself to a crippling fear of death and subsequently developing a Nen ability which once more goes against his own moral code in order to give himself a second chance...yet something about it strikes me as unlikely when I look at it this way.

Living life knowing it could end at any moment has the opposite effect, at least for me it did. One comes to accept that it is fleeting and while not eager to let it go, when death eventually and inevitably does come, there is no fighting it.

Especially when there is no hope that tomorrow will be a better day than this one.

Frequent near-death experiences numb one's fear in a way, even if it drives them to take precautions that render it unlikely to happen again and results in c-PTSD, but still, it does. It sparks a certain nihilistic view of 'if it all can end so easily, then what's the point of it all?'

Unless there are things to live for, a sure promise of a better future, and Ging gave Kite that. When he faced the threat of losing his second chance at life:

Really, what else could lead someone to develop the ability of 'the hell I'm going to die like this'?

I think a separate event, an even more brutal near-death experience that almost cost him his life as the hunter he so strived to be set him off to develop the secret roll of Crazy Slots, what I call Roll No.0, Ars moriendi. Unlike other weapons, it cannot come up in random and is directly summoned by him, or better said, summon by his overwhelming will to keep going and hopelessness of fighting a losing battle. I don't believe roll No.3 was the weapon that allowed him to reincarnate. I've named that one Wand of Fortune, a sort of armor instead of an offensive weapon since I find it hard to believe Kite, a Conjurer, would not focus on defences as well, and I will go into both mechanisms of these weapons hopefully in his backstory.

Despite knowing this battle to be a pointless one and being acutely aware of his soon to be demise, he did not immediately draw Ars moriendi, no, he stayed back and fought for the sake of the boys, kept Neferpitou occupied until they could reach safety. We can see evidence of this in the aftermath of the battle that seemed to have gone on until dawn, a torn apart landscape only signaling a fraction of the devastation that was Kite's power unleashed. It still wasn't enough.

In the anime sub I watched, when Gon apologizes to Ging about Kite's death, Ging said a sentence that infuriated me, because it belittled the utter suffering of the NGL trio.

"He would not die in your place." (No screenshot, sorry)

And I remember practically shouting at the screen, screaming 'how could you possibly say that? Of course he did. He absolutely did die in their place. How could you not know your own apprentice? Why-'

It was only last night that it hit me why Ging would say that.

Once upon a time, maybe Kite would not have given his life for anybody under any circumstances, even if he had a way out of it all. He would still need to die to come back to life.

His Thanatophobia could be attributed to the (possibly untreated) PTSD of the near-death experience in his later life, being so certain of dying that finding himself alive afterwards drove him to never want to go through that again. He quieted his fear by creating a sort of a loophole, that even if he lost the battle he would remain. Ging remembered that, but as evidence shows, something changed. Maybe he healed a bit, perhaps growing up dulled his fear to a certain degree, but eventually when it came down to his life or another's, he didn't choose himself.

Now, I can hear you saying 'but he didn't die, so what are you going on about??' And so I reply: Yes, he is alive, but he did die. He experienced that painful, horrible moment of staring death in the eyes and thinking 'This is it, this is the end', went through the actual process of having his soul removed from his body. And that moment stretches into infinity, ten lifetimes condensed into the mere seconds before oblivion.

Dying isn't so hard if one stays dead.

It's not so easy to open one's eyes and find oneself alive again after that, no matter how much that is the heart's desire. It's difficult, nigh-impossible to reconcile with life and walk amongst the living when everything had been so final, when death had been accepted to its fullest.

So Kite awakens, the twin of Meruem and back from the dead, his mind and identity both intact and fractured. In that he is Kite is no mistaking, yet he is not the same gentle pacifist whose first reaction upon sensing a monster's aura was to shield two kids from it at the cost of his arm.

I don't think many of you are familiar with Zoroastrian ideology, but Togashi is known for loving his religious imagery, and it's not only Christianism he derives inspiration from (evidence of which can be seen all over Kite's character and resurrection).

In Zurvanism-a branch of Zoroastrianism- there is talk of the twin spirits: Ahura Mazda -epitome of all that is good- and Ahriman -epitome of all that is evil-, the parent god Zurvin decides that the firstborn may rule in order to bring "heaven, hell, and everything in between."

Upon becoming aware of this fact, Ahriman forcibly tears through the womb to emerge first. Sounding familiar yet?

Zurvan relents to this turn of events only on one condition: Ahriman is given kingship for 9000 years, and then Ahura Mazda may rule for eternity.

Meruem ruled for 40 days, his death leaving the throne vacant for ant Kite, wearing a dead girl's face and seeming to be brewing some nefarious plan. No more is there any sign of that unrelenting pacifism and the sanctity of life he held so high, losing his own may have only served to show him how meaningless the pain and suffering he went through had been, dying only to be reborn as a member of the species that killed him. It may be that he has no desire to rule over the remaining Chimera ants or create an army of his own-

Yet I dread to think what a broken mind possessing limitless power might do to the world.

And that's it. If you made it this far, thank you for reading! If you found it interesting, stay tuned, as I think a lot and I will make it your problem.

#Cw: talks of death and PTSD #When I say I unknowingly projected onto him #I can't tell if writing this was cathartic or torturous #and I gave myself heart palpitations so this is enough for today #And yes I refer to ant Kite by he/him pronouns because misgendering him on the account of his body being afab is just ignorant #even if I think skrunkly's genderqueer af and actually wouldn't mind she/her #still i wanna push the trans ant kite agenda #So yes this is how I unknowingly picked up Kite as a coping mechanism even if out attitudes towards death are practically opposites #don't mind your grandpa trauma dumping #What I'm saying is get ant Kite therapy before he sinks the world #I love reimagining Kite as a villain and I don't know why #Kite hxh #hxh kite #kite hunter x hunter #kaito hxh #hxh #hunter x hunter #meta analysis #theories #fic rambles #Icarus waffles #Kitkat #gon freccs #Ging freecss

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shihalyfie · 3 years

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Regarding Konaka’s influence on Tamers (or how much he actually didn’t have)

(Rest assured that if you’ve had a conversation with me recently about this issue, I’m not vaguing you; this conversation has come up a lot in the last few weeks, especially in my private chats, so this is just me deciding that I should write something about this for once since it’s been weighing on my head lately.)

I think, right now, with what happened regarding the DigiFes debacle, a lot of people are having complicated feelings about how to feel about Tamers, and this is completely understandable. I think there are also some things that may be inevitably unavoidable, such as starting to second-guess certain nuances in the series and what they might lead to. All of that is perfectly reasonable, and in the end, it’s going to be up to everyone to decide how they feel.

In light of this, a lot of people have been bringing up the fact that, while Konaka was the head writer, he was by no means the only person working on it. This is very much true, but I’d like to add something else to the equation: this is an issue that goes much deeper than the usual claiming death of the author for the sake of sanity. The full picture is that Konaka has always had much less influence on the series than the fanbase tends to attribute to him. Official statements have been very clear as to not attribute the entire series to him, and, among all the other controversial statements he’s made, Konaka himself has at least been very active about crediting the other staff members as far as their influence on the series! The idea that he was the only person who ever did anything substantial for Tamers is something I’ve been warning against since long before any of this happened (if you want proof, I have a post from April with this sentiment in it), and right now we just happen to be seeing what’s basically the worst possible outcome of the fanbase constantly worshipping him like the only real creative heart behind the series to borderline cult-like levels...when that’s never been true, and has resulted in unfairly taking credit away from people who deserved it.

I’ll go into detail below, and I hope this can help people understand the situation better and sort out how they feel about it.

Note that I make references to his infamous blog in this post, which I’m deliberately refraining from directly linking for obvious reasons, but all of the information is still there, so it should be verifiable if you decide to look for it yourself.

Personally, I’ve always found it really bizarre how there’s been this obsession with portraying Konaka as some kind of auteur whom the entirety of Tamers depended on. I’m not saying this out of spite towards him, because, again, even he himself was very insistent on disclaiming credit for things he wasn’t actually responsible for (he was quite humble in this respect, actually). Not to mention that I think it’s a mistake in general to constantly pin a single person in a multi-person production as the sole heart behind it, and the Digimon fanbase has historically had this strange double standard behind it when it comes to uplifting him as the only heart behind Tamers when nobody says that about any of the head writers for...anything else. (How many times has Nishizono’s name ever popped up when talking about Adventure? People are usually more obsessed with talking about Kakudou or Seki.) Konaka’s work is certainly distinctive, but Tamers had a lot more going on besides just that.

In fact, based on his own statements on the matter and all of the other official information we’ve gotten about Tamers production, while you can’t really quantify such things, it’s generally been estimated that Konaka was responsible for something like only a fourth of the series. Which is an incredibly low amount compared to what the fanbase would have told you before all of this happened, because of this fixation that he must be the genius mastermind behind the whole series. Not only that, this “brilliant auteur” image of him was so inflated that people were attributing way more of 02 to him than he deserved; 02 episode 13 was the only thing he contributed to the series and he was specifically brought on as a “guest writer”, and the overall plot of the episode was determined by the rest of the production staff and not him -- but ask the fanbase and they’ll tell you stories about how he invented some grand planned arc for 02 that got cancelled, or even that Tamers exists because of a “writer revolt” from him and other writers not being allowed to do what they wanted. (You know, as much as I understand 02′s a controversial series, it would be really nice if people didn’t make up completely baseless stories like this just to scapegoat it...)

I honestly cannot emphasize enough how much of the problem we’re in right now has been horribly enabled by the weird pedestal the fanbase has been putting him on. This is to the point where there’s even been a double standard where some of the more unpopular/criticized elements of Tamers must not have been the fault of a brilliant writer like him, and in fact was forced on him by the executives (this excuse had always been brought up anytime someone doesn’t like something about Tamers, just to make sure the image of him as a perfect writer was maintained). Turns out, as per his own admission on the infamous blog, while he wasn’t the one who initially had the idea of putting Ryou in, the part that rubbed the fanbase the wrong way -- that he came in as an accomplished senior who was better than everyone and played up by everyone in the cast -- was unabashedly his idea (he apparently was enamored with the idea of having someone like Tuttle from the movie Brazil). Again, this is a weird scenario where even Konaka himself has been more humble about this issue than the fanbase’s perception of him; he fully admitted whenever he had trouble writing certain parts. For instance, he doesn’t actually like writing about alternate worlds, felt they were out of his comfort zone, and only wrote in the Digital World because the franchise needs one; he’d stated that if he’d had his way, the Digital World arc wouldn’t have come in as early as it did, which might be a pretty shocking statement for a Digimon fan to hear.

If you want even more specifics, here are some extremely major parts of the series that Konaka was not actually the one behind:

The character backgrounds. Konaka stated on his blog that he wasn’t interested in going too much into character backstories because he felt it was too plot-limiting to say that a character is the way they are thanks to something in their past or background (basically, he cares more about plot than character for the most part), and that he’s also not into worldbuilding. Certain things like Ruki going to a girls’ school were supplied by Seki, who infamously loves worldbuilding, family backgrounds, and character settings.

Certain nuances of Ruki’s character, especially the part where she’s pigeonholed into uncomfortable places due to being a girl, were informed by Yoshimura Genki, writer from Adventure and one of the head writers of 02 (who eventually would go on to create an entire career out of feminist cinema).

According to the posts on his blog, Impmon’s character arc didn’t have much input from Konaka himself and was largely written in by Maekawa Atsushi (also a writer from Adventure and one of the head writers of 02).

The whole concept of Yamaki being redeemable in the first place was something Konaka didn’t originally plan for; he’d initially intended to make him a straightforward antagonist, but, of all things, his Christmas song, combined with the input of the other writers (especially Maekawa) humanizing him, led to the development where Yamaki eventually changed sides and became sympathetic. (This makes Konaka’s recent stunt revolving around Yamaki a bit painfully ironic.)

The director, Kaizawa Yukio, was deliberately picked because he didn’t have experience on the prior series, for the sake of changing things up, and he spent Tamers as a period of studying what Digimon should be like. Based on what he’s hinted, it seems Konaka's writing style and choices were able to have as much influence as they did because Kaizawa approved of them -- that is to say, Konaka’s detailed imagery and descriptions were extensive enough that Kaizawa could go “sure, let’s go with that.” But in the end, nothing Konaka did would have gone through unless Kaizawa and Seki (among many others) didn’t also approve of it or provide input. Moreover, Kakudou Hiroyuki (director of Adventure and 02) has also been stated many times to have been a valuable consultant on invoking Digimon so that the new staff could understand what to aim for and how to get the right feel (and also assisted with providing stuff for the mythos, such as the Devas). Nevertheless, Kaizawa also seems to have had his own strong opinions and input on the story; he especially seems to get passionate when it comes to the topic of making the story something the kids watching it could relate to and imagine. (He would eventually go on to direct Frontier and Hunters, along with several episodes of the Adventure: reboot.)

So in other words, looking at this, a lot of these things that people emotionally connected to and loved about Tamers are things that literally were not his personal creation, and were largely contributed by the other writers! Of course, Konaka’s “creator thumbprint” is very obvious -- he was the head writer, after all -- and all of this had to go through his own vetting to make sure he personally liked it as well -- but nevertheless, you can see that this very much was a collaborative effort from head to toe, with him being very open about this fact himself. Insisting on making sure that this fact is well-known isn’t just a coping mechanism to try and remove his presence in the series, but rather a desire to get people to seriously stop giving him credit that really should be going to others (especially since, again, even he himself was very diligent about assigning that credit).

In the end, I’ll leave you with another thing to keep in mind: Konaka doesn’t get paid anymore for Tamers work (unless they make something new like the DigiFes thing), so continuing to buy Tamers merch and supporting the series through fanart and such will probably end up going more towards the Digimon IP as a whole. Basically, if we’re just talking about Tamers specifically, what degree this is going to matter is only really relevant to the content in the original series, which is now twenty years old and remains unchanged. By Konaka’s own admission, he wasn’t into all of these conspiracy theories until 2010 at the earliest, so while it’s understandable to be a bit wary about the themes in Tamers having traces of the base sentiment, the original series itself does not seem to be an outlet for alt-right propaganda, and it’s probably forcing it a bit much to read into it that way. Konaka’s also repeatedly insisted that all of his attempts at a Tamers sequel have been rejected and that he’s been doing increasingly strange swerves to get around members of the original cast not entirely being available, and the Japanese audience has turned out to not be very fond of the contents of the 2018 drama CD and the stage reading for reasons entirely separate from the politics, so it’s also unlikely we’ll be getting a Tamers sequel from him or something in the near future.

So -- at least for the time being -- what’s done with him is done, and the remaining question is how all of us feel about Tamers. I think everyone will have differing feelings on it, and that’s perfectly understandable. Personally, given everything I just said above, I’m going to continue treating it as a series very important to me, and one that many people (including, as it seems, a very different Konaka from twenty years ago) worked on with a lot of effort and love, although you may see me getting a bit more willing to be critical about the series and its themes thanks to my concerns about some of the sentiments in it and what they imply. I also completely understand that there are probably people whose associations are going to be much more hurt and who will have a much harder time seeing the series the same way ever again, and I think that’s reasonable as well. But at the very least, going forward, I hope all of us can understand the depth of this situation, give credit where it’s due, and not force credit where it’s not due.

#digimon #digimon tamers

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brownandblackpearls · 3 years

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🦇𝒯he 𝒱isitor (Alucard Tepes x BlackReader)

PART 1 SUMMARY:

While trying to escape the clutches of criminals and cutthroats, you stumble across a castle beyond imagination. The corpses staked at the front aren’t enough to keep you out. But after entering, you begin to wonder what you got yourself into, and what the castle is hiding within its walls...

─── Alucard x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── explicit smut

─── TW// slight gore, general mentions of rapists// Fantasy, vampires, hurt/comfort, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, magic user, cute bats, gardening, cooking, cottagecore MC, castlecore Alucard.

☾ next.

┌───────────━┿──┿━──────────┐

└───────────━┿──┿━──────────┘

You fight through the underbrush of the woods, hurrying as quickly as your feet will allow.

They’re on your trail.

You’ve been evading these criminals from the last town you’d passed through, but they just keep stalking after you. They’d been all too eager to see a lone, beautiful woman traveling with no companions, no guides, and no guardians.

They had tried and failed to corner you alone several times in the town and on the roads, but you haven’t made it this far on your own without some learned skills. A finger-bolt of lightning at one’s eye, a fire-heated palm tight on another’s wrist, swings of sharp dagger at all of their torsos, their throats.

Anything and everything to escape. It’s not your first sticky situation, and it probably won’t be your last.

You know how to be quiet. How to hide. And when it comes down to it, you know how to swindle and how to fight, if need be. You try not to resort to that, not out of compassion or concern for the heathens that try to best you...no. You just know that you’re not as skilled as some of the rigorously trained ex-militia and rogue bandits that prey on loners in towns and off the roads.

You don’t know exactly what they want. A woman to toss around between themselves and torture before they descend on you like wolves? A new girl to sell on the black market? A pretty decoy to get carts and wagons to stop on the roads, allowing them to abush, raid, rape and kill as they please?

Whatever it is that they want, you’re not giving it to them.

‘They’ll have to catch me, first.’

You duck and dodge branches, bobbing and weaving through the trees before the forest finally begins to clear. You keep your hand on your dagger’s hilt, just in case.

Who knows what hides in the woods?

Finally, you come to a clearing run through by a small creek. The dense woods have seemed to disperse here, and now all that you can spy are peaceful glens and swaying flowers. Deer jump away through the grass, hares run into their holes, and fish shine from the stream.

It feels…safe.

But you’re not one to be foolish, and so you continue on. Hoisting your basket closer, you can’t help but spy a garden as you pass through the glen.

Fat tomatoes hang on vine, bright orange carrot tops sprout from the soil, green onions, zucchini, berries and fruits….

…Someone has made a garden here. Hopefully if they’re the gardening sort, then they’re the safe sort. You quickly fill your basket with a few items, tuck some coins hidden near the stalks in apology for your ransacking, and carry on.

Finally, the glen ends, the forest stops entirely, and you stumble upon something entirely unexpected.

'A castle...? Out here in the middle of nowhere...?’

A grand, gothic castle of castles, spirals up towards the clouds in the sky. You gaze up at it in awe, sure that there is nothing else in the world quite so large or so spectacular. You’re certain that had the woods not been so oppressive and thick on the way in here, so wide and strenuous, that you would’ve spotted the castle for what it was miles and miles and miles ago.

You whistle low, impressed as you step forward. You take only a few steps before you stop.

A ripple in the wind draws your eye.

Two barely clothed bodies impaled on stakes tower before you, death etched onto their faces. The spikes go through them, hidden by the soiled shifts they wear and rising high up and out through their mouths. It is a grisly sight indeed. Unfortunately, you’re no stranger to ‘grisly’ in these lands.

You move slower, more carefully than before.

Assessing the bodies, the blood is long dried on the stakes and the petrified flesh. Most of the meat is gone, pecked away by crows most likely, and the flesh that remains is hard and dried out.

You have dealt with your fair share of monsters, but you’re not too sure you want to risk running into the one who did this. It was done with malice, strength, and a raw fury. A nonchalance for human life, it seems. Much like the same nonchalance shared by the evil men you run from.

You hear faint voices call from the trees.

They’ve tracked you. And they’re coming closer.

“We can’t come here. It’s cursed ground. Don’t you know who this castle used to belong to?”

“Yeah, and they’re dead. No one’s seen em’ for ages. But I see little footsteps. Have a feeling the lass went this way.”

You freeze, glancing between the bodies, the huge castle door before you, and the mouth of the forest.

It’s the castle and its possible hidden horrors, or the men on your trail.

“Skin like ebony, that one. Pretty mouth, doe eyes. She’d sell for a pretty penny.. We wouldn’t have to raid for months.”

“…Or we could keep her to warm the cold nights.”

Your mind races, trying to choose.

You could fight the men, still. But there are many of them, and just one of you. Your magic is somewhat abysmal without knowledge to guide you, and your dagger won’t measure up to prove the little sword skills you do possess. Your words will probably not get you out of this one, either. Not this time.

“I’d rather make her scream.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you Macon? But you did that to the last one, and now we’re out here hunting a new lass instead of enjoying the old one.”

‘That’s it,’ you decide.

The castle it is.

You sprint away from the woods as fast as your billowing cloak and dress will allow, ignoring the foul smell of decay and passing between the bodies. You feel as though you’ve irrevocably crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed, a decision made that can’t be taken back.

You will live with it, you decide. Better that, than capture.

Racing to the front of the grand doors, larger than the largest buildings you’ve witnessed in life before this day, you bang raptly against the wood and stone.

For a moment, nothing happens and you feel as though you will be caught right at the footsteps of this castle.

Then, you hear a doldrum, a creak and whirring of machinery and mass movement. The door shifts open just slight enough for you to slide through, making a gigantic noise in it’s wake.

Quick as wind, you push through and fall to the floor, turning to see the grand door begin to shut closed behind you.

The men stand before the staked bodies, unwilling to pass them and watching you as the doors close you out of their sight.

“You’d be better off with us murderers and thieves, woman!” One shouts futilely. “For even our hearts aren’t as black as the monster’s in those walls!”

The door shuts him and the rest out. You harrumph and stand, wiping the dust off your dress and looking away.

Fuck him. And fuck his threats, and fuck his horrible little friends. Any black-hearted beasts you come across, you could handle well enough.

At least…that’s what you tell yourself to keep a brave face. Better that than nothing.

You look around.

The inside of the castle is larger than life, grand, and dark. Everything is clean and without dust as you would’ve expected from such a structure…an army couldn’t keep this clean…yet it feels unlived in.

For a moment, there is nothing but heavy, oppressive silence. You listen for a breath, a sound, but can hear nothing outside of your own increasing heartbeat.

You turn, looking to the top of the staircase.

Your eyes tell you there is nothing there, but your instincts tell you something else.

Suddenly, the lights of a thousand candles sweep on throughout the grand hall, illuminating a massive stone staircase and a figure standing at the top of it. You have very good sight, but the room is so large that you can barely make out the figure, even with the candlelight.

Nothing is said, the figure is motionless, and you begin to tremble. This must be the one who lives in this place…not an intruder or a vagrant. You don’t know how you know, but the figure is too large, too looming, and too confident even in its vagueness of detail for you to assume it to be anything other than the owner.

The one who likely staked those unfortunate souls outside the walls.

You feel as if the mysterious figure is waiting for something, and you don’t know what to say. But something must be said.

Your voice is as steady as your fear will allow.

“My name is ———. I come from afar. I am…I am seeking refuge…if you will have me.”

“Refuge from the men outside.”

The voice carries through the empty hall, lilting, low, and deadly. You hear hints of refinement in the speech but they are not enough to hide the white hot lethalness you sense underneath. A rage that you cannot even begin to place or name.

“Y-yes,” you stumble embarrassingly, affected, “from the men outside. They followed me here. I have nowhere to go.”

“And so you feel entitled to my protection.”

“No!’ You exclaim, shaking your head. You stopped expecting assistance from people long ago. The life of a lonely wanderer is just that...lonely. “I inconvenience you, and for that I apologize sincerely. Just…just refuge. I can be on my way after they depart.”

“To where...?” The disembodied voice says as calm as a pond at night, yet you feel the ripples that lie beneath.

“Nowhere,” you breathe.

“…And you come from?” The figure disappears like a mist, yet the voice remains.

“I…nowhere,” you gasp honestly, truly afraid now.

“Lies.” The voice spits viciously, sounding closer then far away, as if it’s bouncing around the space of the great hall.

“It’s t-true!” You insist, your trembling hands reeling in towards your chest in a futile attempt of protection from the unseen danger. “I hail from nowhere! I belong to nowhere! I have little. Just refuge, sir. A night, even!”

“I could grant you refuge,” the voice assumes, “or I could send you back out to those men and be bothered with none of you.”

“You wouldn’t,” you breathe, daring a chance to hope.

The voice chuckles humorlessly, dry as dead leaves.

“Perhaps,” it toys. “But I also wouldn’t allow a mysterious woman of mysterious origins to stay in my castle, learn of my ways, only to run back to the outside world and send a horde of farmhands sprinting over to slay me. Wouldn’t be the first time. No, I think I’ll keep you instead. Are you willing to make that bargain with the Devil?”

You pause, your mind blank. You search for an answer to reason with this...this...your thoughts race.

“Look, I know I’ve come into your abode unannounced and rather…rather rudely, making demands, but I must implore you—“

“—Answer me!” the voice barks, making you nearly jump out of your skin.

'That’s it.’

“You’re a prick, you know that?!” You blurt.

“…” You can hear the confusion in the empty air. “…Pardon?”

You push on, figuring that if you’re going to be staked by the unseen castle-owner or given up to the men outside, or toyed with any longer by any of this nonsense, that you may as well speak your mind one last time.

“You know good and goddamn well that I am not running into a fantastical, creepy castle of myth decorated by corpses on the front porch for the fun of it! As if I care or even believe some farmhands could handle much less defeat you when you can clearly impale full grown adults and work such a place as this—!”

“...”

“—And how dare you tease a woman scared out of her wits, can you even pretend to try to put yourself in my place?! Do you know how long I’ve been running from those idiots? If I had your strength I’d’ve staked them myself and added them to your lovely, little welcome collection as a visiting gift, because believe me, I’m sick of running from morons and monsters! I’m not above spilling blood! But as I said before, I possess little, and come from nothing, and journey towards nothing. From that, you can figure I can’t do much in terms of protecting myself besides running into large, spooky places and begging their arrogant owners for some rest—”

“.....”

“—So, I’d very much appreciate if you stopped toying with me and make your decision on whether you’re going to kill me, kick me out, or keep me, because I’m tired of trying to figure this all out by myself and I’m tired of the anticipation. So what’ll it be Mr. I-Like-to-Leave-Corpses-Outside-My-Castle-and-Harrass-Visitors?”

You huff after your rant, waiting.

The voice is silent for a long, long moment, before an accusing tone reverbs back to you.

“You’re the one who barged in—“

“—You’re the one who opened the door!” You return, throwing your hands out in frustration.

“I didn’t, the castle did.”

“Oh, well fuck me, then. I suppose I ought to thank the ‘castle’ and head back out to let those hoodlums try their worst. So long, strange sir! It was interesting, arguing with you.”

You turn on your heel, over this entire day, and knock at the door raptly. You tap your foot as you wait on the castle, arms crossed and dagger in your hand to strike the nearest hoodlum that likely awaited outside. What a day, you couldn’t believe this shit.

The machinery whirs once more and the door barely opens before a large, leather gloved hand reaches past your head and slams the towering door back, closing it shut. The strength the act takes is incomprehensible, you think.

Inhuman, you realize.

The hairs at the back of your neck raise long after the presence behind you appears. You feel no breath on your neck, yet you know someone stands behind you. You can’t look away from the large, gloved hand on the door. You’re afraid to see exactly who stands behind you.

A man...? Or something else entirely….?

You try to speak but gasp instead, short and shocked.

Silence reigns before you get a hold of yourself and choke something out.

“Y-y-you’ve made your decision then…I presume...?” You stammer into a squeaking volume, your anger long gone and replaced by fear once again.

“Don’t make me regret it…” The voice sneers, close enough for the breath of it to shift your hair and the baritone to reverb over your skin. A chill runs up your back and you can do little to hide it. You feel as though the figure behind you is impossibly tall, imperceptibly assessing, and spying every single thing you do.

You feel the presence lean in over your shoulder, a mouth right next to your ear.

“…or you will regret it, visitor. That, I can promise.”

You gulp loudly, nodding your assent without turning around. You feel frozen to the spot. The hand withdraws and your shoulders unclench only a fraction. You feel as if a predator had been standing behind you, and has decided not to destroy you...for the moment.

You wonder if you are right, and why your cheeks suddenly feel so hot when your heart is beating so fast in terror...?

“I’m going to clean the trash off of my porch,” the voice states eerily. “Don’t touch anything until I return.”

As quick as a blink, the presence disappears entirely.

You finally turn around, alone and confused.

There is nothing but the large castle hall, looking back at you.

───────────━┿──┿━──────────

AN: Do not under any circumstances copy, repost, or edit any of my work. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

☾ next.

☾ check my blog for more imagines.

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thewriterowl · 3 years

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Ugh Owl. I read starbound anon’s dad vader fic cos you recced it and now i’m suffering waiting for an update, why’d you do this to me 😭 can I please get some fluffy doting dad vader head cannons to tide me over?? Pretty pretty please??? 👉👈

ISN'T IT AMAZING?? That fic is killing me.

Ok, let me think of something...I may be super influenced by the Rod is Mightier than the Lightsaber cause, well, how could I not?

Luke is Baby(tm) as we all know. he has Vader wrapped around his finger. Vader has to be careful because his first instinct is let Luke have whatever he wants. Luke is this heart of gold spot of sunshine who wants everyone to be taken care of and loved and forgiven and it just can't happen (this is Vader, not Anakin, after all) as he is to stay in his throne and rule the galaxy as he wants. Luke just needs to be the doted on prince as his father rules everything with an iron (but still nicer than sucky Palpatine) fist.

Look, Luke is a sub. I am going to die on this hill and you can never change my mind on this. Of course, there is nothing sexual between him and Vader, but even when he is rebellious, he has this instinct to follow orders when presented in a certain manner. He isn't aware what it is only when he is pushed just right he begins to do as told. Vader, of course, figures this out and is very...torn. He will not let this out to anyone but he will use it to his advantage. He only feels mildly upset about taking advantage over Luke's weakness but only mildly...especially when Luke get's stubborn and does something he shouldn't. Luke gets sulky but quiet and says "yes sir" and maybe "yes daddy" when he is really pushed. (Vader can understand this because when he was with Padme he was a switch and she was a Dom--this will never be different to me lol though I may read fics otherwise lol)

Now, Luke doesn't have to be this prince at all times. Vader wouldn't do that to Luke. Even he has a limit of royal imagery and such. Luke can drink and gamble, he can race (safely), he can do less-than-princely hobbies to keep himself entertained. Vader is also fine with him mingling with "peasants" that Vader approves of. Vader can see that most of them are better than senators and royals anyway.

Vader is bound and determined to have Luke follow in his mother's footsteps and have a crazy wardrobe of beautiful outfits. Luke is not interested. Too bad. He is too pretty to not be dressed up. He needs to be the envy of the entire galaxy. Vader doesn't want people lusting after Luke, but Vader is still Anakin...he has to show off and he is possessive, so he has to show off his prized possession of his baby son.

Luke just sulks.

Luke asks about Vader's time as Anakin and his mother often. Vader does his best to avoid some topics (his time on Tatooine, the loss of his mother, Obi-Wan) but he finds himself able to open up more and more with Luke pleading for more information.

It is probably through talking with Luke that Vader comes to the confirmation that no, Padme and Obi-Wan were not sleeping together.

Luke: (squinting at his father) Wait, you think they were together behind your back?

Vader: I do, my son.

Luke:...dad...from your stories...Obi-Wan sounds like a whore for Mandalorians.

Vader:....what?

Luke: I'm pretty sure he was sleeping with that commander clone. Not mom.

Vader: (ultimate dense idiot as everything clicks into place) HOLY SHIT HE WAS GAY FOR CODY.

Luke got his dense-ness from his dad but even he could tell Obi-Wan was head over heels for the clone, and anything in Mandalorian armor, even from the biased story-telling from his father.("HOW DID YOU THINK MOM WAS CHEATING ON YOU?!" "IT WAS OBI-WAN! I WAS ALMSOT PREPARED TO CHEAT ON HER FOR HIM! EVERYONE WANTED HIM!" "WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST ASK FOR A THREESOME?!" ".....OH MY GODS WHY DIDN'T I JUST ASK FOR A THREESOME?!")

Luke tells Vader of what he has been through, being careful to not include information that could hurt the rebellion. Vader is impressed about Luke's ability to take down the monstrous beings known as Womp-Rats, how he survived a Wampa, the info that he was a speed demon (Takes after his papa in that)

They find they have a lot of similarities.

Vader is probably the first person who learns that Luke really only likes guys. It's not uncommon in the galaxy by any means (I refuse to allow homophobia in a SCI-FI/Fantasy...it makes no sense so there is no such thing here, the end). So, Vader knows to file that away in the future if, for any reason, he will allow Luke to get married and wants to help his son with romance. (prideful Anakin peeks through; he knows he was hot stuff and had the attention of many people...maybe not to Kenobi level, but he had his own fans! so there)

Luke is surprise to learn he is so much like his mother. So many compared him to Vader. But Vader assured him that he may have a lot of similarities in looks to Anakin and may have his need for speed but his sweet personality, need to protect, nurturing, and selfless nature is all from his mother.

Luke may get a little teary-eyed over this. He's not too upset about being compared to Anakin...but he just thought he had nothing of his mother, so to hear he did really means a lot.

Vader is obsessive. he looks after his son and ensures his health and safety constantly. He cannot ever be at risk or he may just lose his already crumbled sanity.

Vader has no desire to ever see his baby get in a relationship. He has no idea how he'll ever be ready if it somehow happens.

#owl inbox #luke skywalker #darth vader

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according-to-the-laura · 2 years

Text

StackedNatural Day 137: 4x16

StackedNatural Masterpost: [x]

March 19, 2022

4x16: On The Head of a Pin

Written by: Ben Edlund

Directed by: Mike Rohl

Original air date: March 19, 2009

Plot Synopsis:

Castiel and Uriel ask Dean to torture Alastair for information. But when Alastair breaks free, Castiel starts to believe that there is a traitor among the angels.

Features:

Angels being murdered, Cas’ guilt, the tortured becoming the torturer, Alastair reveals the First Seal, an angelic exorcism, Sam killing Alastair, Uriel’s worship of Lucifer and conversion of angels.

My Thoughts:

Okay first of all, I apologize for the length of the “Notable Lines” section below, but in my defense, every single line of this script could basically be included. I already made some cuts and we’re still here.

This is perhaps a perfect episode of this show. It’s certainly in the running for my favourite episode of all time, up there with The Man Who Would Be King. I’ll let you know at the end of Stacked, but I was restraining myself from just screaming and making incoherent noises the entire time since I was watching with other people.

All of my favourite parts of season 4 are exemplified in this episode. Dean’s Hell trauma, Alastair, Cas being a badass, Cas being on the brink of rebellion, halo imagery, Sam’s demon blood powers, Ruby being manipulative, Uriel being manipulative, God being an absent father, and so many raw lines of dialogue that I literally cannot choose a favourite.

Season 4 Cas hits SO hard for me. I love Cas all the time, I love him in the later seasons with Jack and when he’s softened and become more human, but there’s something about how hard he wants to believe in Heaven, about how much he’s already feeling about Dean, that is super tantalizing to watch. I love him begging for a leader in Anna. I love that when Dean first starts torturing Alastair, we see Cas in a wideshot with dark objects between him and the viewer, figuratively the one who’s trapped. The shot where he’s haloed by the streetlight and it’s flickering as he contemplates rebelling and following Anna is one of my favourite shots in the entire series. And thanks to season 15, we know that at this point he’s already in love with Dean, even if he doesn’t know that that’s what those feelings are. After all, he already expressed that he has doubts way back in 4x07. According to the spnwiki, this was also the episode that Cas was supposed to die in (presumably where Alastair says he wants to kill him but can only send him back to Heaven is where it would have happened), but he was so popular with the fans that they kept him instead and started giving him Anna’s plots. So this is also the first time that Cas as a character breaks out of the narrative that was prepared for him, within the narrative by expressing doubt and in a meta sense by refusing to be killed by the writer’s room. Also insane insane insane that this happened by him being impaled through the back by a hook/rebar on a wall by an enemy. I completely forgot that that had happened. Wow.

Jensen Ackles’ acting is as good as it gets in this episod, as is the actor who plays Alastair’s. The way both of their faces twitch when they’re hearing something that scares them but trying to play it off. Demon’s in this season were still incredibly scary, Alastair’s scenes still freak me out 13 years later.

@Meg3point0 and I both think that Alastair is lying about John not breaking (he’s been dead for more than 10 months in canon at this point, and why would they give up torturing him after 100 years?). What better torture than to tell Dean that not only will he never live up to his father’s legacy, but that he’s also doomed the world at the same time?

Notable Lines:

“Uriel's the funniest angel in the garrison. Ask anyone.”

“My superiors have begun to question my sympathies. [...] I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions. The doorways to doubt.”

“You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out.”

“You left part of yourself back in the Pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?”

“Daddy’s little girl, he broke. He broke in thirty. Oh, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”

“I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There is no going back.” “Maybe you’re right. But it’s my turn to carve.”

“What you’re feeling? It’s called doubt.”

“And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.”

“For the first time, I feel…” “It gets worse.”

“Strange how a leaky pipe can undo the work of angels when we ourselves are supposed to be the agents of fate.”

“Our father? He stopped being that, if he ever was, the moment he created them. Humanity, his favourites.”

“There is no will. No wrath. No God.” “Maybe. Or maybe not. But there's still me.”

“It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate.”

“I guess I’m not the man either of our dads wanted us to be.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 10

IMdB Rating: 9.1

In Conclusion: Ben Edlund is my BEST FRIEND.

<< Previous Day | Next Day >>

#Stackednatural #supernatural #spn #4x16 #On The Head of a Pin #there’s so much more i want to say but I’m out of time #can we go back to calling it ‘receiving revelation’?#this directing is some of the best in the series as well

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darker-soft-starker · 4 years

Photo

Starker High School AU Pt. 7 (1...6)

tw: general Howard Stark warning

----

So, here’s the thing.

Peter meant to ask May about the letter the night he got it back from Tony, He really did. But then everyone was in such a good mood, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter that to satisfy his own curiosity.

So then he meant to ask the next day.

And he tries, he really does.

But the letter feels as heavy as an anvil in his desk drawer and Peter is too nervous to ask about it. Something always comes up or he gets too scared to shatter the image of the good, obedient nephew he is, one who doesn’t go rifling through mail not addressed to him, prying into personal business.

So he flusters and stumbles pretty badly for the first couple attempts. He changes topic quickly, pretending like he was going to ask about something else, asking himself where exactly his business ends and where his curiosity begins.

Once during a gymnastics comp he stopped mid routine to check on a rival who had fallen from the rings and injured themselves. His coach asked when he was going to stop being a goddamn martyr.

He shakes the Magic 8-Ball on Monday morning and asks the universe if it’s an appropriate time to approach May.

Reply hazy, try again.

Well, that’s not what his flagging courage had hoped for. He shakes it again.

Ask again later.

One more time, harder.

Better not tell you now.

“What the hell,” he whispers, placing it haphazardly upon where he took it. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s with the potty mouth,” May asks suddenly from behind him. He turns as she’s affixing some dangling earrings to her ears. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just - do you have a minute?”

She checks her watch. “I have about forty seconds. Is something wrong - are you okay?”

“No - I mean yes, I’m okay. Are...are you?”

“Top of the world, bubby,” she scoops her keys from the bowl, approaching him with a curious expression. “Why do you ask?”

There’s no easy way to ask without blatantly admitting to going through her things, and the last thing he wants her to think is that she can’t trust him.

“I just mean. If you weren’t. If there was something wrong, you would tell me, right?”

“Of course,” her face falls. “You’re acting strange, Pete.”

“I just worry, that’s all.”

You’re all I have left, is what loops over and over in his mind, but doesn’t say. She seems to hear it anyway, rushing forward and kissing his forehead, her perfume filling his nose.

“Everything is fine, bubs. The second it isn’t, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta go, but stop worrying okay? That’s my job. You have a good day.”

She hurries to scoop up her handbag and closes the door before he’s broken out of his thoughts long enough to reply. He sighs and shakes the stupid ball again before he leaves as well.

Cannot predict now.

Of course.

Just for once he’d like fate to be firmly on his side.

---

Something smells weird.

It’s sharp, chemical and not entirely unpleasant. Noticeable, however, sharp enough to cut through the usual musty smell of the library. It’s like apple cider, but overpowers the usual library smell of old books and dust and pencil shavings, a scent Peter has long associated with study, solitude, and the easing of his anxious heart from a gallop to a steady stride.

It’s not a bad smell, just misplaced.

And Tony’s been acting strange all study period. Like, weirder than normal - and his resting state of normal is already ineffably frenetic and bewildering, so this was an entirely different carton of eggs.

Peter doesn’t exactly want to bring it up, they’re kind of on a tenuously peaceful truce, a silent lay down of arms, so to speak.

Well, as peaceful as a truce can be while they call each other all sorts of names and rib each other over literally any sign of weakness, but still. They have some sort of an understanding now, and it’s all relatively innocent, good natured banter.

Mostly.

Peter for sure could have done without being called fuck-face-mcgee upon entering the library, but he’s willing to let it pass. He was late, after all.

“Anyway,” Peter says, sitting across the table from Tony, “so I think if we removed the monthly gym membership, we’d have an extra sixty per month that could go towards other stuff.”

“Like what?” Tony’s face pinches.

“I don’t know, like a college fund?”

“Ridiculous idea. I need that membership,” Tony rebukes, shrugging his leather jacket off, hooking it over the back of the chair. “When else am I supposed to get a reprieve from you and the cabbage patch?”

“When do I get a reprieve? I’m the money-maker. When do I get my break from work and childcare?”

“At work. What are you, like an art teacher or something? Your whole day is like a rich, white woman's vacation. Parents don’t get a lunch break.”

“Right. I’m sure watching Dora and burping an infant is as hard as teaching a class of thirty.”

“Wow. So dismissive. I mean, if you were a good spouse, you would give your withered and weary husband a break from screaming babies and shitty diapers.”

“Mhmm. That would mean I’d have to do something nice for you, and that doesn’t sound like me.”

Tony shakes his head. “We’re getting a divorce as soon as Molly is old enough to pick me as the superior parent,” he points to Peter’s papers. “Put that in the notes.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, willing himself not to lean over the table and smack the other boy.

“You are not the superior parent. You’re the deadbeat that forgets to pick her up from school and day drinks.”

“And yet, she loves me the most. You’re just the breadwinner who comes home grumpy every evening. I’m the cool dad.”

“Fine, keep your druglord baby. I never wanted kids anyway.”

“Fine. I’m keeping the car.”

“I’m keeping the apartment.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They snicker quietly in a rare moment of camaraderie before a lightbulb goes off in Peter's head.

“What if we used the membership, but cut costs elsewhere, like, cutting our own hair and stuff. We could save for a yearly holiday, go to the beach or something.”

“Florida! Disney, roadtrip, yes,” Tony clicks his fingers towards Peter, smiling wide. “Look at you getting all savvy. Call the judge, the marriage is back on.”

“You can’t go to Disney for a few hundred dollars, dumbass, that’s barely the price of admission,” Peter scribbles on his pad, making note of their ideas. “You ever been?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not even once.”

“That’s surprising. Isn’t that where all rich white people take their baby sociopaths to beat up their first mascot?”

“One, I was never a baby, I emerged fully grown, and two, could you imagine Howard Stark within a mile of the happiest place on earth? He’d have a fucking stroke,” his face changes like he’s had an epiphany. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

Peter doesn’t mention that he doesn’t personally know Howard Stark but is willing to take Tony’s assessment at face value. That being said, he can’t imagine Tony, now, voluntarily heading to Disney without coercion or the promise of copious quantities of alcohol. He’d probably smoke and cuss and scare away small children.

He mind lingers on that particular characterisation, and for a moment tries to picture what Tony looked like as a kid, if he was a chubby, toothless little brat, can’t help then imagining him with Mickey Mouse ears, gleefully running through his gigantic home, harried caretakers running after him.

He must have been the worst.

“I’ve never been further than Washington,” Peter offers, “but that was for AcDec, so it wasn’t like we got to see much.”

“You did Academic Decathlon?”

“Yep.”

“Ew, why would you do that to yourself.”

“I still do it. It looks good on college applications and it’s fun,” he shrugs. “I like it. I’m good at it.”

Tony’s hands cover his mouth, but it doesn’t stifle the rising apple of his cheeks or the mirth in his voice.

“I’m feeling so much second-hand embarrassment for you right now.”

“Shut up,” Peter huffs, kicking him under the table, satisfied when the other boy winces. He fails to smother his own wince when he gets a kick in return, right in the kneecap. “Nothing wrong with being an intellectual.”

“You’re a fucking nerd, four-eyes.”

“What about you?” Peter rolls his eyes, keen to change the subject. “Been outside New York?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his pen on the pad, looking anywhere but at him. “When I was younger I’d sometimes go on my dad's business trips to Europe or Japan or whatever. And we have a house in Malibu.”

“That sounds awesome.”

Tony snorts. He shuffles on his seat, sliding their notes over and making further amendments in quick strokes, the cheap pen spurting bright red ink over the paper like arterial spray.

“Oh yeah, it was a real blast.”

Spoiled brat.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?”

“With my family?” Tony looks up. “No, I’d rather stick my head up a turkey’s ass. You?”

Without warning, Peter’s hand flies to cover his mouth, unable to but snort at the imagery, He’s not sure if Tony just doesn’t get along with his family or if he’s still stuck in that churlish, ‘too cool to be around my parents’ stage of adolescence. It’s one the idiosyncrasies that would have annoyed Peter before, his ungratefulness of having a family that’s still alive would be just another thing for Peter to hate him for.

Now, he thinks, he’s beginning to parse out when Tony’s being sincere and when he’s hyperbolic, finally recognising the latter as a mechanism to throw someone off a topic that makes Tony uncomfortable. He sees it - the warning lights and stop signs in barbed coding, wrapped up in dry wit and sarcasm.

Peter is like that sometimes, too.

And what the hell would Peter know about having a normal family.

“Yeah, actually, for once,” he says softly. “My aunt - not May - and uncle have a holiday home up north, so we’re staying with them over the long weekend.”

“S’cool. May’s family?”

Peter shakes his head. “Sort of - they’re not actually related, but May and Margaret have been best friends since college, so.”

“Is Margaret a babe, too?”

Peter throw a chewed-up pencil at him that he catches easily.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not,” he throws the pencil back, overshooting and hitting the shelves behind them. “What are we talking, on a scale of haggard to hottie.”

“I don’t know, man. You seem to have questionable taste in the people you are attracted to.”

Tony grins crookedly, eyes shining with something Peter can’t decipher. “Ain't that the truth.”

“What’s the supposed to --” he stops himself, suddenly recognising what the strange scent was that he’d been picking up. “Wait - dude, are you wearing cologne?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he responds. “No,” he denies, just as the bell rings. “Oh, look at that, time to get to class.”

Saved by the bell.

“So, this is it,” Tony nods, shutting the lid of his laptop as the bell signals the end of their free period. “We’re done. The assignment. That’s the last of it, right?”

Dazedly, he watches Tony stuffing his laptop and notes into his backpack, brow creasing as his mind catches up.

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“Send me your notes tonight, I’ll stitch them together with mine and send them back.”

“Okay,” he sluggishly collects his own notes, picking up the bag by his feet. “That’s - that’s good.”

“Well, Parker,” Tony slings his backpack on his shoulder, shuffling backwards, “we didn’t kill each other. I mean, not for a lack of wanting on my behalf.”

‘’Yeah, from Wednesday we’re free. We can go back to normal.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s grin fades. They stare at each other for a long moment that could have been seconds or hours, he doesn’t know, until the second bell rings.

“Hey, um --”

“I’ll send you the notes later,” Tony interrupts, sotto voce. “I gotta get to class. See you around.”

Something in his stomach deflates, sadly and slowly, like a balloon with a pinprick, emptying itself until it’s an uncomfortably hard to digest crumpled mass at the base of his stomach. He pastes on a smile and looks out the window, hoping the feeling doesn’t show in his eyes.

That’s when he notices the leather jacket Tony has left behind, still slung over the back of the chair.

“You left your…” he trails off, turning back, but Tony is already long gone, probably already halfway to his next class. Like a bat out of hell, Peter thinks wryly, picking up the jacket, the leather smooth like butter under his touch, still warm around the collar where Tony’s had been leaning against it.

No good leaving it here to get stolen or be tossed into lost property. He decides to take it with him, folding it gently over his arm. He’ll give it back when he sees him again, maybe after school.

“Nice jacket, Parker,” Flash says approvingly when Peter bumps into him out in the hall.

At first he thinks he’s referring to Peter’s ratty hoodie, and it confounds him for a moment because it’s decidedly not nice, but then he realizes he’s referring to the leather in his arms.

“It’s not mine,” he replies a little too late, because Flash is already down the hall, out of earshot.

Peter sighs. It’s beginning to become a depressing theme.

---

The weird feeling in his chest doesn’t subside all afternoon, and into the evening Peter is starting to think maybe he just has indigestion, like acid reflux or something. Must be the chilli surprise from lunch. Maybe he’d missed his meds.

He sends his portion of the final notes to Tony’s email, turns off his computer and switches on Colbert.

---

It’s not until hours later, well after midnight and the infomercials are playing, only then does his phone buzz against his thigh with a response.

Figures that Tony would be a night owl like him.

> soz was distracted > youtube spiral

Peter shifts downwards on the bed, holding the phone over his face. < s’ok < what were you watching > say yes to the dress < lmao really > lol no > anyway, looks good. ur notes > will print off for u to sign tomorrow < is that a compliment or an admission u were wrong about me

> neither. One subject does not a genius make > unlike me, an actual genius

In your dreams, dipshit, he wants to type, but doesn’t, not really keen to provoke a muddy discussion on who is the smartest (it’s definitely Peter).

< u left ur jacket in the library btw, I have it, he texts instead, his pulse jumping when Tony replies with crying emoji’s.

Tony sends him a snap, unexpectedly, a sad face that makes Peter snort. His face seems distressed, the caption reads, thought i lost it for good.

Shifting down further on the bed, he’s feeling suddenly and inexplicably courageous, fire burning up from his belly button to his fingers.

Peter takes a silly photo of himself and sends it back. > didn’t want it to get stolen < aw u care

“I do not,” he whispers to himself. > i do not. come collect it after school tomorrow or im throwing it out. < u wouldn’t do that to me > there’s a lot of things i would do 2 u > .... > um > lol

Peter’s face flames at the implication. He reads over what he just so carelessly typed, stomach positively knotted with embarrassment. Oh god, that is not what he meant. His fingers fly over the screen at record speed as he types out a response. < NOT LIKE THAT < I MEANT IT IN A THREATENING WAY < I’M LITERALLY GAGGING > yikes > ur dirty talk needs work < no it DOESN’T bc we’re not sexting > sure jan > damn. didn’t kno u had it in u bubs < i don’t have it in me > not yet > ;)

Despite the deep blush still heating his face and his heart galloping in his chest, a laugh breaks out of him. The phone in his hand vibrates again. > jk jk, not ever > need to bleach my brain now

Slowly gliding back to earth he types out a response. < ikr me too < ugh.

He puts his phone down on the bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling, amusement slowly fading. His pulse though, that doesn’t return to normal.

How could it when his mind suddenly runs away from him, evoking short-lived, but nonetheless strikingly vivid images of intertwined legs, planes of pale skin, and lush lips. How can the heat in his stomach escape when his thoughts conjure phantom sensations of a soft mouth sucking on his neck, the punishing grip of hands on his hips and the warmth and weight of another body on top of his own.

A forehead leaning against his, brown eyes that knocked his pulse off kilter.

The taste of nicotine.

Stop it.

That is dangerous territory right there. And a line he doesn’t want to cross.

Shaking his head, Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, looking anywhere for a distraction; his window, the posters on his wall, his figurines on his shelves, anything to douse the low-burning fire in his gut.

Standing, he heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, banging their crappy old heater with his fist to get it working again.

He takes a very cold shower.

----

It’s not that Peter doesn’t enjoy sex.

Not that he’s had it.

But he enjoys jerking off, at least. Like a regular amount, whatever that is for a teenage boy. He likes kissing. Likes thinking about one day being in a real relationship and exploring someone's body and he likes exploring what turns him on and what he doesn’t.

It’s just that he doesn’t let himself think of anyone he knows personally that way, no matter how conventionally attractive they are - not Thor, and especially not him.

Typically, his fantasies are people with vague features, sometimes with bodies like those he has seen in porn, all shapes and sizes. And that’s safe for him.

He doesn’t want to have to look anyone he knows in the eye and wonder what their lips would feel like pressed against his own. If they’re any good at kissing. If they’re the type to take control or cede it.

He does wonder, sometimes though. No matter how much he denies what or who he wants.

Because it doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a thing. Want is never superficial in his experience, it doesn’t feel good most of the time. It’s deep and sometimes dark, it sinks itself into him with its hooks and it tugs, and keeps tugging. It yields to craving and yearning.

Back in his bedroom, his eyes land on his wall-mounted mirror. It’s small. Like the Mona Lisa. Small enough that he doesn’t have to see his whole reflection if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to crave and yearn for anybody, because he knows it will always be one sided. He’s well aware that he isn’t exactly centrefold material.

Who is gonna look at his weird ears or thin lips, and think, shit, that’s the guy of my dreams. Not with his big glasses or the way his hair twists itself into frizzy, unruly curls once the gel wears off and he starts looking like an unkempt labradoodle.

Who would want to wake up next to him? No one.

So it’s better not to risk imagining anyone real. It’s only in his head that anyone could ever want him back.

His eyes go from the mirror to the jacket folded and placed on his desk. It was intended to be plain sight so he remembers to bring it in - out of sight, out of mind, is what Ben would say. He can still smell the cologne Tony denied wearing earlier.

Once he’s in bed, he turns to face the wall.

Out of sight, out of mind.

---

Maybe Tony subscribes to that mantra as well.

Peter forgets to bring the jacket in all week and Tony doesn’t ask.

---

Danvers wants him fit and ready to be harpooned into the mud by next week; that’s why she looks the other way when Thor and Peter take their informal training in the boundaries of the field, stretching out on the grass as the JV team runs their usual morning drills - drills Peter would have been a part of before his stupid injury and his stupid wrist-brace.

This school is stupid too. Now he has to pay to see a doctor so he can get medically cleared for a sport he doesn’t really care that much about.

Like he didn’t have enough medical bills to deal with.

In any case, he’s not really in a position to complain, because he has the opportunity now to run through his warm-up with Thor, who is taking his direction to spread his legs into a butterfly position so beautifully, even as his knees raise from the ground to make a v-shape, whereas Peter’s lie flat on the grass.

If the last few days had been different, he might have blushed and used the situation at hand as an opening to place his hands on Thor’s knees and applied pressure. But now he just smiles encouragingly and reminds himself that he has no chance - no place - and his hands do not belong anywhere but his own body.

And surprisingly enough, he’s okay about it all.

Thor was a good guy. Peter will never say no to having more friends.

It’s a dreadful, bitter morning. Icy cold, wind biting into his shirt, the grass below them is damp. He has to keep rubbing his hands together so he can restore feeling in his fingers.

To make things worse, Tony is back on the bleachers. White v-neck, jeans and dark sunglasses. Sprawled out over a set of steps, legs askew, arms behind his head, unmoving as if he were napping or sunbathing, appearing like a cocky main out of an eighties movie.

Or a king surveying his kingdom.

Rhodes and Potts slouch on either side of him, swapping phones over his idle figure, taking pictures and laughing amongst themselves.

“It burns,” Thor says lightly, hands on his thighs in an attempt to aim his knees to touch the ground.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, despite the ease in which he can lean in. “It just takes practice, dude. Twenty minutes a day, warm up and don’t over-do it. You’ll be limber in no time.”

“You can do this better than I can,” Thor argues, accent thick as he tries to lie flat like Peter.

“And you can lift a hundred pounds better than I can,” he tries to rebut, even as they switch positions, hip flexors aching with old injuries.

While the stretches are like second nature, he doesn’t miss the pressure of training for competition. The eagerness to get into a flat butterfly or oversplit. There was no argument that he spent nights on crunches back then, and he was somewhat toned - but he was shit at weight training. He hated lifting. Reps were more boring, more tedious and difficult and the diet required to give them any value was frankly not worth giving up a great hotdog or a loaded sub from Delmars. He wouldn’t go back to it now.

None of that old heat is there when he inspects Thor’s form. That quick simmer, the call to be closer. That terrible thing, want. All but gone. awe is still there, as he suspects it always would be with someone as outstanding as Thor, but the butterflies have very much flown away.

As he suspected would be the case. He has someone and they’re happy. With the cat out of the bag Thor had shown Peter pictures of his boyfriend all morning. He’d gotten a puppy, apparently, which just tickled Thor. He was so happy it was almost sickening.

When is it gonna be him that sickens someone with photo’s of his partner?

“Hey, Parker,” Tony yells from the stands, “you suck!”

Looking over, the idiot is raised on his elbows and grinning, like he’s proud of himself for a spectacularly unoriginal insult.

Rolling his eyes, Peter gives him the finger and he gets one in return.

His stomach twists and he has to duck his head to conceal his smile.

“Your husband is somewhat rude,” Thor says, following Peter’s example and switching from a pike to a lunge.

Peter looks back over to the stands. A cigarette now dangles between Tony’s full lips, sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose.

That’s how Peter knows he’s looking at him too.

Even from afar his eyes are round and mirthful, framed with ridiculously long lashes like a cartoon mouse, far too outlandish for any real person to have.

“He’s the absolute worst,” Peter bites his bottom lip, quickly averting his gaze. “It was an arranged marriage, to be fair.”

---

Wednesday comes and goes.

Their assignment gets handed in, Peter signs it off to say he did his fair portion of the work and Miss Ahn beams at the both of them when she is handed the thick binder, looking all too pleased with herself.

They have a presentation of their work next week, after Thanksgiving, each pair expected to give five minutes of their life pretending that they’re passionate about schoolwork in front of their fellow students who don’t care.

After that they are completely unburdened. No study sessions, no car rides, and no fries dipped in milkshakes.

They’re embarrassingly hailed as a prime example of people working through their differences, as if they had come together and were now friends or something.

From the front row Tony sneaks a furtive glance at Peter when she applauds them to the class.

“See, kids,” she says, “it wasn’t so bad working together, was it?”

Their eyes meet briefly.

“Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Tony declares, brash and loud, kicking his combat boots onto his desk in a leisurely display.. “That guy is the human equivalent of watching paint dry. Awful.”

“Oh, come on,” she chides. “Be nice.”

Not one to be outdone, Peter lets his horse out of the gate too.

“Singular worst experience of my life. I once had a root canal without anaesthetic and it was less painful than working with him.”

“Alright, boys, that’s enough out of you,” Miss Ahn sighs deeply, walking to the front of the room. “Mr Lang, how did you find the assignment?”

“Very informative…”

From the front row Tony turns in his seat and winks at him.

----

“Thanksgiving plans?” Natasha asks, leaning beside his locker, smothering a smile as he struggles to get his locker open for the nth time that day with one functional hand.

“Visiting my Aunt and Uncle,” he says, finally prying the damn thing open. “They’ve got a place up at Otisco Lake, so. Probably watching old movies and swimming all weekend.”

“Oof,” his friend winces. “That’s a trip. Think the May-Mobile will make the distance?”

The May-Mobile of course to the ancient, ‘89 Volvo 240 that May has been driving ever since Peter was born. She adores it and refuses to trade in, despite the fact that it rarely gets driven, practically haemorrhages gas, and has cost more in repairs in the last five years than the actual value of the car. But May really loves it. It's sentimental. She says it was the car Ben and her picked out together.

“It better make it,” he dumps his books in, closing the locker. “I don’t want to spend the weekend waiting for AAA in the middle of nowhere. What’s your plans?”

She shrugs, walking with him down the hall.

“Probably go and annoy Yelena. Was supposed to spend it with Bucky and his mom, but that ain't happening.”

He bumps her shoulder sympathetically. “Do you think you two will get back together?”

“Probably. But he’s got a shitload of grovelling to do first.”

“Don’t maim him, please. We need him on the team.”

“No promises.”

“Speak of the devil,” Peter adjusts his glasses, spotting Bucky at the base of the stairs talking to somebody. He gets startled, heart jumping when Natasha grabs him by the waist, pushing him towards the wall and inching them closer to the stairs.

“What are you --”

“ -- Shh, I want to listen. Who is he talking to?”

Craning his head, he finds himself in for another surprise when he sees that the other person he’s talking to is --

“He’s… he’s talking to Stark - what...?”

She shushes him again and Peter listens, curious now too.

“... what do you want, Barnes?” Tony visibly grimaces, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tucking it behind his ear. “Make it quick. I got places to be and your noxious stench gives me headaches.”

An announcement goes off over the loudspeaker over their head, calling for Brendon Bennett, a dick of a senior, to move his car from where he has blocked a teacher from leaving. It would be funny at any other time, but as it goes, he misses a chunk of their conversation.

“...Rogers isn’t the boss of me.”

“Yes, he is, and I’m not getting suspended again because you’re a pussy and he has roid-rage.”

“I just need an ETA. C’mon, pal, I really need this.”

“I’m not your pal and I don’t give a flying fuck what you need.”

Ever the easy going guy, Bucky puts his hands up placatingly as a group of students file down the stairs, causing enough noise that Peter misses whatever is said next. As he strains to hear he tries to draw the line between the dots, but comes up short on exactly how these two are connected.

“That fucker,” Natasha mutters near his ear.

By the time the students clear, Tony’s descended the stairs and begun to walk away

“I have better things to do than to sit around and wait for you,” Bucky calls out, giving him the finger.”

“And yet you will.”

Not in any possible lifetime was Peter going to address that he was weirdly relieved that Tony didn’t flip him off in return, some part of him petulantly thinking that’s our thing, but that’s wrong - Peter and Tony are not friends and they do not have things, even when they do, it’s not like a thing thing.

Nat grips his hand and pulls him along when Bucky leaves as well, swiftly walking away to avoid being caught. His backpack jostles at the speed and he realizes he’s still clutching Tony's jacket from where he had retrieved it from his locker.

“What was that about?” He asks, struggling to keep up with his friend's furious pace as he’s led down the hall. “Tash?”

She drops his hand once they are outside, her disapproval near palpable, voice laden with fire and fury.

“That’s Bucky being a world class idiot, he’s gonna get himself expelled, I swear.”

Peter stops on the spot.

“Expelled?”

Something dark curls unpleasantly in his gut, heavy and not leaving.

“They have a thing,” she explains hotly, mouth turning down. “Bucky and Stark.”

“What?” Peter breathes, uncomfortably thinking back to the party and the way Bucky overtly complimented Tony’s body. “Like a.... like a sex thing? Did he cheat on you?”

“What? No.”

“Then what?”

Red strands whipping in the wind, his friend looks around to see if there is anyone nearby before leaning in to speak low. He leans in too, unabashedly curious.

“Do you remember when Bucky was having issues with his parents when school started?”

He nods, thinking back to the times Bucky slept over in the late days of summer and early weeks of the school year, once or twice a week to get away from the shouting in his own home.

Natasha continues.

“Don’t tell him I told you this, but he got really depressed and fell behind with his work and everything he was handing in was terrible. Danvers pulled him up and said if he didn’t get his grades up, he’d be risking his spot on the team. So Bucky paid Stark to write up a few assignments for him, apparently he was doing it for a few kids, like it was a thing.”

...Okay.

That was not good, and definitely disappointing, but -

“Rogers found out. He gave Bucky a warning, but with Stark he threatened to go to Fury.”

Peter thinks back to the fight between their captain and Stark and their fight not long ago. “That’s why they…”

“I’m told Stark snapped, but I don’t know. I found out about the whole paper thing after that and me and Buck fought about it. I just got so mad - he’s - he’s not stupid, you know?”

“I know.”

She exhales heavily through her nose. “He’s going to get himself kicked out of school and I’m so -- I could kill him. We’re supposed to graduate together and get away from our families and go to college, and then he does this.”

“I’m sorry, Tash, I didn’t know,” he hugs her, her body going stiff before relaxing in his hold. “That’s shitty. For both of you.”

“I’m sorry for thinking you were in on the loop.”

He smiles, self-deprecating.

“Nope, I’m as clueless as ever.”

“No, you’re just too good for that,” she shakes her head. “Look, I gotta go and blow off some steam. Please don’t tell anybody about all this.”

“I won't, I swear - but text me later, alright? Let me know you’re okay.”

She ruffles his hair before stepping back.

“You’re a bleeding heart, PP. Keep an eye on that, will you?”

Hearing a squeal of tyres, he whips his head around to the parking lot, the source of the noise. The Firebird squeals out of the lot and onto the road, the sound as angry, the glimpse Peter gets of Tony’s face, even angrier.

He turns back to Nat, but she’s already walked away. Which means she isn’t there to hear him mutter to himself.

“What are you getting into, Tony?”

----

His thumbs hover over his phone that night, as he writes i saw u with barnes today.

He quickly deletes that, not wanting Tony to think that he was following him or spying on him - or worse, thinking that Peter actually cares about what he does. He doesn’t. They’re not friends.

A dread settles in the spaces between his ribs, like thread trying to squeeze them together too tight, his lungs feeling compressed. Maybe it’s his asthma, or allergies.

It’s not and he knows it. He’s disappointed.

He rubs at his chest on his way home thinking about the scene they just saw and about what Natasha said. How is it that so many people in his orbit had this entire entanglement going on without Peter having any whiff of it? It really makes him wonder if they were they good at hiding it or was he just really fucking stupid. Stupid enough to think Bucky was doing okay, that Rogers wasn’t as sanctimonious as he appeared to be, and that Tony was --

Nevermind.

It’s none of his business and it’s not his place.

He knows better than to ask. It’s not as if he can forget all his own secrets that he clutches tightly to his chest, so tight it feels like he constantly walks through life with his fists clenched.

That and, like May, the real truth is that he can’t claim any entitlement to their trust. He eavesdropped in more ways than one these last two weeks. He tries to brush off that dry, sobering thought; it’s none of his business anyway and he has enough on his plate without getting involved.

When are you going to stop being such a goddamned martyr.

So then he thinks about the sheer fury on Tony’s face, how his - how he used to look at Peter the same way, and how Peter used to think that angry and bitter was Tony's default mood. That was that. The status quo.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair, was it. It was easier to dislike Tony when he was distant enough that Peter could pigeon-hole him into a stereotype.

Because Tony got into fights, sure, countless and petty, but he was the guy who pet puppies and snuck them food under the table. Not the guy who kicked them.

He looked like the puppy that was kicked, though.

Not angry.

Wounded.

And that’s what confuses Peter. Turns out he doesn’t really know anything about his friends.

Or Tony, it would seem.

----

May closes the drivers-side door and throws a packet of snacks into Peter’s face.

“Pretzels.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he adjusts his glasses where they'd been knocked askew.

“Sorry, I thought your reflexes were better,” she says, and by way of apology, lobs a packet of sour gummies more gracefully on his lap. “Your favorite.”

“Apology accepted.”

From a plastic bag she fishes out two cokes and places them in the centre console, a bag of red licorice and crackers follow, also making their way onto his lap. She always buys too much food.

Then they’re turning back onto the highway that leads them out of where they paused at Monticello, the radio jacked up loud enough to be heard over the tiny droplets of raindrops sporadically hitting the windshield.

They’ve left early enough that it’s still dark.

Fog still hangs low on the roadside, intangible pale wisps that seem to disintegrate upon crossing, the road dotted with other travellers, but not too crowded, enough so they can easily cruise the speed limit and sometimes over. The Bangles play on a cassette tape and, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, May looks so carefree, driving her sentimental car with the noisy engine, singing along to the same cassettes she’s had since she was his age.

Peter can’t bring himself to say what he wants to. About the letters. One in particular. He knows something isn't right but who is he to break the peace?

So, he doesn’t and they keep driving.

The fog lifts and the tunes continue, both of them singing familiar tunes from ABBA to George Michael and Peter let’s go of what he can’t control and loses himself in the buoyancy of nostalgia - neither of them can carry a tune for shit and it’s funny, and when he rolls his window down he sticks his hand out to feel the frigid air, it’s the most free he’s felt in a long time.

Football and his after-school duties and everything else just drifts away with the wind, at least for this moment.

It was like when he was a kid. The route itself is mostly dark and dull, and this time without Ben, but their usual car games of ‘dollar every time you spot a windmill’ and ‘how many minutes until the next town’ are fun and easily pass the time. This will be another memory that he will gloss over with fondness, how even the boring roads will seem like rapture.

When the sky starts to turn from black to grey they stop for early breakfast at a diner just slightly off their trail in Windsor, both of them famished despite the hoard of snacks and in dire need of coffee.

The car is beginning to emit pale plumes of smoke from under the hood as they arrive at Davis Grove, Otisco Lake in the early morning. The sun rises low over the horizon, a slow ascent that turns the sky grey and brushes wriggling streaks of color over the lake.

The house is exactly as Peter remembers it.

Panels painted slate blue, brown-tiled roof. Two-storeys with a wrap-around porch and a private dock only a short distance away from the entrance. A swinging chair on the lawn that comfortably fits three and a half people.

It looks exactly as it did when Peter first came here as a kid, plucked straight out of his memories in perfect form, like it was set in a liminal space that time refused to touch. A piece comes back to his being at this moment, something that he didn’t know was missing.

Aunt Margaret is already standing at the door when the pull up. She doesn’t look a day older than when Peter last saw her years ago.

“Oh, look at you,” she coos, wrapping Peter up in a tight hug, curls brushing his cheek, “my darling little Petey-pie.”

“Hey, Aunt Margaret,” he returns the hug.

“You’re so tall now, let me look at you,” she holds him at arm's length, warm eyes roving over his form. “Oh my goodness, haven’t you grown a handsome young man? Last time we met you only came up to my shoulders and had braces.” She turns her attention to May. “Isn’t he handsome?”

His aunt nods, smiling at them, both women gravitating into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, Peggy. Thanks for having us.”

“Our pleasure. You look even more beautiful than the last time.”

“Oh, stop,” May releases her, wiping at her eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

She tilts her head to the porch and takes May’s duffle from where she has dropped it to the ground. “Come on you two, inside. We’ve got the fire going and scrambled eggs on the table.”

Inside it smells like the best parts of his childhood. A burning fire and butterscotch and lingering musky-but-floral scent from the bowl of potpourri high on the mantel. Even the sounds are the same, the same coo of early birds in the burgeoning daylight, someone humming by the stove.

Margaret leads them into the living room, where her husband meets them halfway from the kitchen, oven mitts still on his hands when he spreads his arms wide to welcome them.

“My goodness,” he beams, “look what the cat dragged in.”

He wears a cravat at the same time he wears an apron, looking every bit the formal yet whimsical man Peter remembers him to be and a crushing wave of nostalgia comes over him so suddenly he can’t help but rush forward and embrace him.

“Welcome, Peter. It’s so good to have you here.”

“Thanks for having us, Uncle Ed.”

“What have you taught him,” he points his query to May as he releases Peter to hug her. “You know you can call me Jarvis.”

---

Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter and Edwin Jarvis had been young twenty-somethings when they first met. Both were born in England before moving to the US, but it wasn’t until they met at Margaret’s first college that their paths crossed. They worked in different departments, Peter thinks Ed was an engineer or something and Margaret an analyst, but the universe pulled them together eventually.

Margaret asked Ed out first and then a year later, May was the maid-of-honor at their wedding and Ben was reportedly a teary guest in the squeaky church pews.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

A photo of that day sits framed upon the mantle. May and Margaret have their arms around each other, Uncle Ben and Ed standing awkwardly at the sides of the frame, holding up flutes of champagne.

They look so young. Happy.

Peter observes the photo, smiling. He would have been a baby back then. Before his parents and Ben had -- well.

His mind does these weird calculations sometimes. Like, the May in this photo is only nine or so years older than how old he is now, and this moment, suspended in time, makes them closer than they have ever been, even though in real life they are over twenty years apart.

Looking at this picture, it makes him wonder how many people he knows now will live full lives and die of old age. How many people his age will stay forever young, and who will be in the future looking back at their time now, wistfully staring at pictures of those who only exist suspended in that time.

It’s funny, being a teenager. His peers are too young to die so they assume they won't. Even in their twenties and thirties or forties, death seems like an elusive thing that doesn’t apply to anybody until it does. It’s for the decrepit, the sick.

But in Peter’s case death comes like poorly aimed darts, always landing badly and scoring low. In his pockets, his hands turn in fists. He hopes the three people left alive in this picture get to grow old.

He smells her perfume before he sees her. Margaret approaches, bumping their hips together.

“This was a nice day,” she says softly, wistful. “I wish we’d kept more contact over these last few years.”

“Me too,” he smiles sadly, her expression reflecting his. With a hand on his back she leads him to the couch.

“Come on, munchkin, come sit. Tell me how you have been.”

---

“We weren’t planning on the big dinner,” Uncle Ed says as he finishes peeling a potato, handing it to Peter once he’s done. “But we’re so glad you two joined us. Neither of us have a lot of family here, you know.”

“Us neither,” Peter runs the peeled potato under running water to rid it of dirty residue before chopping it into quarters. “It’s really nice to see you again, it’s been way too long.”

“You really have grown into such a nice young man,” the man smiles. “Ben would be proud. Your parent’s, too.”

“Thank you.”

They haven’t got together like this since Ben died a couple years back. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Shit happened and it got harder to try. May got busier with looking after Peter full time and working more - and Uncle Ed quit his job and opened up a garage and Margaret lost a baby - all at the same time.

It was a lot for everyone. Even college best friends moved apart when fate put up walls at every turn.

It seems everyone in his circle is just does their best to survive. Or maybe that’s just what growing up is.

The remainder of their morning is spent eyeing the oven and skedaddling while Margaret prepares her pecan pie, ejecting them out of the kitchen with a forceful shoo.

“May says you’re playing football,” Ed says, leading him out to the lounge, passing him a can of soda. “How’d that happen? Last I checked you were doing splits over a pommel horse.”

Peter shrugs, tapping his can with his fingernails, idly paying attention to the football on the old TV. “Needed an extra-curricular, there was an opening and for some reason they accepted me.”

“You were so good at gymnastics,” Margaret comments from the kitchen, whisking away at her bowl. “I’m sure you’re exemplary in anything you do. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, sculling back the rest of his drink, bubbles burning down his throat. “Looks good on college applications in any case.”

“This kid,” May points to him with her beer bottle. “He does it all, I don’t even know how. He’s brilliant.”

I could do more, he thinks. He wonders again in that moment what it is that makes him so deficient that May couldn’t rely on him to accept the truth about their situation, that maybe he was just too naive. But he’s not. He’d drop his after-school activities and get a job in a hot second if he thought it would help. And for just a split-second he’s mad about that, about being kept in the dark.

But then he sees the strain around her eyes, how the bottle in her hands trembles ever so slightly, how much she makes the hard world soft around them. And it’s easy for him to let that feeling go.

“You’re still freelancing?” Peter asks Margaret, momentarily distracted when Ed’s phone lights up with a call.

“Excuse me, terribly sorry,” he says suddenly, picking up the phone and answering it, rising to his feet to converse in the adjacent room.

“Yes,” Margaret says, eyes lingering over where her husband has gone, his voice carrying over the walls in worried, muffled tones. “Well, consulting. I can work from home, which makes it easier to take care of all my non-existent children,” she gestures to the empty room around them.

“You could go work with Jarvis,” May retrieves a new bottle, popping the cap. “Look after the books, help him replace tyres.”

“Tempting,” Margaret says dully, rolling her eyes. “Can’t understand why I haven’t done that yet.”

Jarvis re-enters minutes later, hands held out apologetically; whispering to Margaret first before he addresses the room.

“Um, we have another guest coming up for dinner, if that’s alright,” he winces at their blank faces. “He works for me. Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite. You know how it gets over the holidays.”

Peter meets May’s eyes and shrugs. Anyone working under the business and is vouched for by his surrogate uncle is good by him.

“The more the merrier,” May raises her bottle.

After that, the kitchen needs his hands again.

---

The afternoon is spent preparing the sides, checking in on the truly gargantuan turkey and indulging their cat with nibbles and head scratches. May and Margaret spend the time drinking beer and cider, reminiscing their college years. It’s nice to hear the house full of laughter, given how somber the mood was when they were last all together.

“When did you get a cat?” Peter directs his question to Jarvis, accepting a peeler from him to attack the carrots.

The cat in question is completely black and delightfully plump, not overly so, but enough to indicate it’s decently fed but probably also a little lazy. Or maybe he just thinks that now that it lies tall on the peak on its scratching post, tail flicking idly while it watches them work tirelessly in the kitchen from above.

“Oh, about a year ago. Gives Peggy some company while I'm in the garage. She’s a sweetheart, this one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Friday the Thirteenth. Friday for short.”

“That’s, um, unique.”

“Was the day we adopted her,” Jarvis reaches up to scratch her. “And she’s a black cat, so, you know; spooky.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it. “I like it.”

“Not bad, huh.”

“Yep. It’s a better name than Molly,” he mutters, shaking a slimy carrot shaving off his fingers.

Jarvis pauses. “As in Ringwald?”

Peter sighs and continues peeling.

----

“Did I ever tell you about the time May came to class in a bathing suit?”

“I don’t think they need to hear that --”

“So we have this exam,” Peggy says, ignoring May, “Super important. Fifty percent of our overall grade. She comes in late, dripping wet, the biggest hickey on her neck I have ever seen --”

“Peggy.”

“-- Only thing saving her modesty was Ben’s shirt over her shoulders. I had to lend her a pen so she could sit the exam.”

“Did you pass though,” Peter asks curiously, shovelling a large lump of mashed potato into his mouth.

“Top grades,” she winks at him.

“She sat there for two hours, dripping water onto the ground and got flying colors. Meanwhile I’m the idiot who studied for weeks and got marked down twenty points for --”

The end of her sentence gets cut off by the sound of a car approaching the property, headlights flashing through the windows.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Ah, that must be…” Ed trails off, wiping his hand on a napkin before standing. “Excuse me.”

He goes to answer the front door, Margaret continues her story albeit much more quietly until the voices of Ed and their guest filter through, becoming progressively louder.

“Sorry to intrude, I know it’s the holidays --”

Wait. That voice is familiar.

“Nonsense,” Ed interrupts, “you know you’re welcome anytime. You’re practically family, kid. Come in, we’re eating now, you’re just in time.”

Peter’s fork clangs loudly on his plate when he sees their visitor, unable to keep his grip on the utensil as his limbs start to tingle. He forgets how to breathe for a second, entire body going hot.

Ed’s arm is around Tony Stark and they’re approaching through the living room, heading right for them. There’s a fresh cut on his lip and an ugly, wreath of bruising around his jaw and neck, deeply purple, speckled spots of burst capillaries visible from even where he’s sitting.

The worst part isn’t the intrusion. It’s how Tony looks unlike himself; he looks small and skittish, gaze flicking nervously around the room, arms curled around his waist. Something in his chest starts to feel the closer he gets, weird, hot and unwieldy, burning, like a hot poker has been drawn across his sternum.

“You’re the best, Jar...vis,” Tony trails off when he spots the Parkers, eyes zeroing in on Peter.

“Um,” Peter says, sharing a surprised look with May, not knowing what else to say.

But then suddenly Tony is shaking his head, shrugging out of Ed’s embrace and backing up, the skittish look gone and replaced with anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. No fucking way.”

Then he turns, and leaves.

----

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny, @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers@starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar , @starkerforlife6969, @css1992, @parkerrbitch, @fuckmemrstark, @blankblankityblank, @ilovemoreid, @blaquedecember, @killmylonelysoul, @notfor-temporaryuse, @arvaen, @chaos-with-a-pen, @notnormallaura, @portiamarie02, @bloodymisanthropist, @ser-no-tonin, @staticwhispersinthedark

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #ironspider #high school au

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wallgirl · 3 years

Text

The Little Nereid Part 5

2200 words, part five of a nine part fanfiction (it ain’t over til it’s over, babes)

Poseidon x OC

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful.

Categories: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending; no NSFW content

---

Since their conversation that night, Dynamene had been in high spirits. Poseidon seemed so much more tangible, so much closer, now that he had allowed her a glimpse into his mind. She found herself yearning for one more moment with the two of them alone. There was so much more she wanted to know about him. She wanted to hear his thoughts on everything. It was a curiosity stronger than anything else she'd felt.

She spent the following days in a dreamy haze, humming her way through chores and afternoons on the beach with her sisters. It seemed like any moment her thoughts were allowed to wander they travelled back to that night with the black ocean and crystalline sky, and those dark eyes that had held her within for the first time in a thousand years.

"Dynamene," called one of her sisters. Dynamene started from where she had been tracing her fingers absently through the warm sand, lost in her dreamy reverie.

"Yes?" She asked, gathering her wits about her.

"You've been sitting there day-dreaming the whole afternoon," Thoe complained. "I thought you were going to help me wash these shells out. I want to make them into bracelets."

"Oh, right," Dynamene blushed, getting to her feet clumsily. "I'm sorry, I'm coming."

From higher up on the beach, closer to the rocky cliffsides, Ianeira watched her sisters converse. She sighed and shook her head at Dynamene's absent-mindedness. "She's completely out of it."

"Spying, are we?" An unexpected voice came from Ianeira's side. Ianeira smiled wryly as she turned to the speaker

"Bold words coming from you," she quipped at Eione, who had come to lean against the rock next to her. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, to be honest," Eione shook the water from her strawberry locks. "Just looking at the view. Guess the difference is that you seem to have an ulterior motive. What troubles you?"

"Dynamene has been... rather out-of-sorts lately," Ianeira answered, turning her gaze back to the Nereids on the beach. "I'm worried about her."

"She's just being a young girl, isn't she, though?" Eione asked, following Ianeira's gaze to Dynamene. "We all went through that phase. Some worse than others." She gave a nostalgic sigh.

"Yes, and we all cringe at it when we've come out on the other end," Ianeira replied. "But her case is... different, and not for the better. I just don't want Dynamene to fall into any trouble."

Eione stared at her sister for a few moments before grinning. "This involves Lord Poseidon, doesn't it?"

It was Ianeira's turn to stare at her sister. "Did Actaea tell you?"

"Did Actaea what? No, silly. I heard your conversation at breakfast last week." Eione tapped her ears. "You all always underestimate these ears of mine. Nothing escapes my hearing, even when I'm not trying."

Ianeira sighed in frustration and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "I guess it can't be helped, then. Just don't tell any of the others. I don't want anyone else to worry."

"It's too late for that, sister. Everyone already knows," Eione stated matter-of-factly.

Ianeira froze. "Everyone, you say?"

"Oh, Ianeira, look at her!" Eione cried, sweeping her arm down towards the beach. "She's only been acting this way after her birthday meeting with Poseidon! He gave her that bracelet, and she hardly ever takes it off! She spies on him when she sees him pass in the halls! She smiles at him! Do any else of us smile at him?!"

Ianeira bit her lip. "I know. I just don't know how to discourage it..."

"There's no use in that, dear sister," Eione sighed, resting her chin on her hand. "She's completely fallen for him." She looked down towards the beach with a resigned expression.

Ianeira stared at Dynamene in fear. "I am afraid for her."

"You have very right to be. Poseidon really is a sea serpent in a man's skin. If any of the other Olympians asked for our heads on a platter, he'd say, 'whose, and how soon?'" Eione shook her head. "But we can't rein in Dynamene's feelings anymore than we can stop the sunlight. Her feelings are her own."

"I know," murmured Ianeira. "But I have an idea." She briskly turned away. "Swipe Actaea and bring her up to the palace. We need to talk."

"Aye," Eione sighed, running her hand through her frazzled tresses. "I hope you know what you're doing, Ianeira. Too much meddling will only make things worse." She stared back at their youngest sister, hastily sorting shells with Thoe, completely unaware of her elder siblings' exchange. After all, the heart wants most that which it cannot have.

An hour later, Dynamene was following Thoe through the palace, arms laden with sacks of seashells. "Do you really need this much, Thoe?" She whined, shifting the weight in her arms.

"Of course. I'm going to make two for everyone so there's no complaints. I figure that equals out to about 40 shells per sister. Of course, a few will break in the process, so make that closer to 45. Then, multiplying that by every sister, of which there are 49... oh, I shouldn't forget one for Nerites..."

Dynamene groaned silently as she listened to Thoe ramble on, but then a subtle shift in the air nearby caused her to halt. It was a sensation she'd been in-tuned to ever since that night on the beach; the ever-so faint sound of Poseidon's heartbeat.

She quickly set the sacks down, and Thoe turned to look at her in bewilderment. "What - where are you going?" She cried as Dynamene took off down the hall.

"Just the bathroom, I'll be right back!" Dynamene called, her voice distracted. She hadn't had the chance to talk to him since then; she couldn't let herself miss this opportunity.

He was headed out the main doors to go to the ocean. Dynamene sprinted at first to catch up before skidding to a halt just out of sight. Her heart pounded with indecision. Should she make her presence known? Then again, he must already know that she was close by.

"Dynamene," Poseidon said with his back still turned. She jumped before shyly stepping forward from behind the pillar.

"Lord Poseidon," she said quietly.

"Hadn't we already spoken about spying?" he asked, turning partially to look at her.

"I'm not spying, my lord. Just observing," she replied boldly, twisting her hands.

"Hm." He turned away and continued through the open doors out onto the deck. Dynamene remained where she stood, bashfully looking at her hands.

"Weren't you following me?" He called without breaking his stride. She gave a gasp of happy surprise before taking his cue to resume following him, this time close to his side.

""I haven't seen you since last week," she said quietly. "You must be very busy, per usual."

"Movement of tectonic plates in the western Indian Ocean was causing unwanted activity," he said matter-of-factly. "I decided to check in on it myself, seeing as no one else is qualified to do so."

"Ah, yes," Dynamene bumbled. "Tectonic plates. I forget that they call you the Earth-shaker as well."

Poseidon's gaze flitted to the side for a moment. Was he annoyed, or... amused?

"So you'll be spending more time there for the foreseeable future, I take it?" She asked, clasping her hands behind her back.

"It shouldn't take more than a week. Fixing the problem requires a delicate balance, but nothing I haven't handled many times in the past."

"Mm," Dynamene responded, not sure what to say. It wasn't like she had a deep understanding of his work, but she did know what tectonic plates were, and that their movement was capable of causing disaster. Perhaps it was a bigger deal than he was letting on. "Please don't strain yourself," she whispered. She knew he might take the statement as a slight, but she was earnest in her sentiment.

His eyes shifted to her face. "You concern yourself with my well-being?"

That wasn't the response she'd expected. Her face flushed an even deeper red. "I mean no disrespect, my lord."

"It is not possible for me to strain myself. I am a god. The ocean and its movements are my purpose. Concern yourself no longer." Poseidon's words weren't those of anger, but of fact.

"Of course," she murmured. "I have faith in you and your abilities. You are the god of the seas."

By now they had arrived down to the beach. They had come a good distance from the palace, and Dynamene realized they were headed towards a small cove just a little further off. She wondered what his purpose was in going there.

Once they were in the cove, still and serene aside from the splashing of sapphire waves, Poseidon halted. Dynamene waited as he took in the horizon, seemingly scanning for something.

"Come closer," he said, kneeling at the foot of the waves. She stepped forward and knelt beside him, their arms nearly brushing. He took her hand in his and held it into the cool water. Dynamene stared, trying not to come undone from the unexpected contact.

"Close your eyes," he commanded, and she did. Just like before, a surge of energy flowed from him to her. Her eyes darted underneath her eyelids, searching the imagery that filled her mind. There was a vast darkness - the seafloor, perhaps? - then a glint of something orange. Those must be underwater volcanoes. A sudden loud boom, almost deafening despite the fact that she wasn't really hearing it, sounded, making her body jolt and her eyes fly open.

"Those are the plates shifting," he explained. "That's the sound they make as they run against each other. That sound has been repeating for several days. The sea life around it is getting agitated." His gaze rose back to the horizon. "I must return to the fault soon and break up the edges that are making that hideous noise. Only then will the area return to peace."

Dynamene realized that he was still holding onto her hand, and her heart skipped a beat. This time, his grasp was rather gentle, as if he were afraid she'd break if he used too much strength. She was getting up the courage to squeeze his more tightly when, to her disappointment, he pulled away.

They stood, and Dynamene followed his gaze out to the ocean, fascinated. "It's amazing that you can sense all that," she whispered, eyes wide. "I'm a sea-nymph, but I had no idea... It's incredible."

"It is a sense that can improve through practice. Continue using it and you'll be able to pick up on more." Poseidon began to retrace their steps back to the palace. "I needed to check up on the situation anyways. Things are getting worse; I must return as soon as possible."

Dynamene's face fell at the mention of him leaving once more. "I see." She tagged along behind him at a larger distance this time. "Say..." She swallowed hard. "Could... Could you maybe take me along there someday? The deep-sea vents and the strange fish... It all looked so fascinating."

He paused and turned back to her once more. She stared up at him earnestly, seeing her own reflection in his eyes. His eyes trailed down to her wrist, where the bracelet sat faithfully in its place of honor on her wrist. Dynamene followed his gaze, confused.

"You're wearing the bracelet," he said quietly.

Dynamene blushed. "Of course. It is... beloved to me." Her fingers lingered gently on the glistening beads.

"You weren't wearing this beloved gift when we spoke on the beach," he replied.

Dynamene's skin prickled in embarrassment. I wasn't wearing it because I was upset with you. "I wasn't sure if I should wear something so fine to the water." Why are you bringing this up now? Did me not wearing it bother you?

Poseidon stepped closer to her, and she stopped breathing. She knew he heard her heart racing, but she wasn't ashamed anymore. It wasn't like she could hide it anyways. At least she could hear his now as well, just as steady and rhythmic as before.

"I will give you another," he said, his words rather quiet. "It's dull to wear just one bracelet. A pair is more suitable."

Dynamene's eyes widened. Her thoughts momentarily shut-down in the face of his offer. "I will gladly wear both," she answered after she'd drawn a breath. "I promise."

"I know," he said simply.

She was unable to hold back a wide smile of joy. The one bracelet for her birthday had been more than enough, and now she was going to receive a second? She knew the gesture was not meaningless... But what, exactly, did it mean?

His expression was less rigid as he took in her smile. Then he continued to walk once more. "I cannot waste any more time. I have an audience to hear before I return to the Indian Ocean."

Dynamene's eyebrows rose. He heard audiences at most thrice a year, so this was unexpected news. "An audience? I hope it's not anything - or anyone - bad."

"No," he responded simply. "The audience is your sisters."

Dynamene halted, her expression filled with shock. An audience with my sisters... about what? I wasn't told anything.

Deeply concerned, she ran to catch up to him.

---

Author’s Notes: This chapter took a little longer once again. Like before, I ended up rewriting part of it, but that’s fine. I once again ended up closer to my vision by doing so. I wanted to have it up last night, but a headache kept me from finishing it.

Dynamene is a bold girl sometimes, isn’t she? But now that she knows Poseidon won’t kill her, she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. not about dying anyways

Okay, but was he going to kill her in part 4? He was prepared to, depending on what she said. He brought his trident for a reason.

But he could’ve killed her for listening in either way, so why didn’t he?

Because, deep down, he does have a soft spot for the Nereids. They’re ocean spirits, and they’ve made up his court for a thousand years; that’s as close as it gets for him. Killing one Nereid means pissing off the rest of the family, and that’s a hassle to deal with. Also... her feelings for him are interesting to him, and not something he’s dealt with from anyone else before. At least, no one he knows. Perhaps he’s selfish and doesn’t want to lose that.

Maybe there’s more to it, but that’s what he tells himself.

#record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok poseidon #poseidon x oc #poseidon #shuumatsu no valkyrie #fanfiction

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karlyfr13s · 3 years

Text

Oathkeeper Chapter 2

It was supposed to be a CS one-shot, but then the CSMM crew got ahold of me and now we’re in multi-chapter mode. Thanks to the ladies for their inspiration, enabling, and cheering me on. Looking at you @teamhook, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @gingerpolyglot (tell me if you want added, and coach the newbie in where these actually belong).

A HUGE thank you to @veryverynotgood who is the most radiant beta and gives me flails that keep me going through the self-doubt.

Links in case you missed Chapter 1 or prefer to read on ao3

Note: the rating is now M due to violent imagery.

Killian’s first week in Storybrooke was unconventional and more than a little confusing. Everyone in the whole bloody town seemed related, or at least so interconnected there may as well be blood involved; it drew attention to him and he spent most days certain he was being watched.

Certainly there were fewer eyes on him than on the young Lost Boy, Felix, and for that Killian was grateful. He observed the woman everyone called Granny as she put the lad to work with a nearly endless list of chores, always under her watchful, scrutinizing eye. In want of conversation one evening, he’d inquired about the choice to take on someone such as Felix. That had earned him a derisive snort and an eye-roll that rivaled Emma Swan’s when Granny explained in no uncertain terms that she was well-equipped for the job.

“Listen, Captain,” she leaned on the bar as he sipped a rum, “if I can raise Ruby through puberty as a damn wolf, I can handle one scrappy Lost Boy. What he needs is a strong guiding hand, and a good dose of responsibility--that Pan let those kids run wild.” Killian tipped his glass to her at that assessment, knowing all too clearly how the lads were deceived and used throughout their time in Neverland. “Structure, Hoo--it’s Killian, right?” she amended quickly. “Kids need structure and routine. You’d do well to remember that.”

Not for the first time, Killian wondered exactly how much Granny overheard and knew as she watched her patrons come and go. In fact, she was the only one in town who referred to him by his given name, most simply opting for Hook or Captain if they were being pleasant. Or ‘the pirate’ if they happen to be Emma’s father, he added. His ponderance was abruptly interrupted when the door crashed open and an exasperated looking Emma quickly crossed to the bar and sank down one stool from his own.

“This one calls for a whisky on the rocks, Granny,” she huffed, casting a sidelong glance at Killian’s own glass. “You too, huh? Must be going around today.” He watched as she shucked her red leather jacket, tossing it aside on the barstool between them and he gave her a moment, offering a quick clink of his glass once her own libation arrived.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Killian kept his voice light, noting the tension in the set of her shoulders and jaw.

She heaved a sigh and he made a valiant effort to focus on her stunning green eyes rather than the assets her movements showcased in that moment. “The short version? I’m sick of my mother,” she tripped on the word, “trying to be my life coach. I’m tired of inane ‘loitering’ reports from the surliest dwarf, and I cannot seem to get--” her momentum was immediately interrupted by the door and a sudden call across the diner.

“Ems, there you are!”

“--a single minute of quiet,” Emma finished lowly while Neal sauntered over and leaned against the counter, placing himself between Killian and her.

“So, I was thinking we could grab dinner. You know, you, me and Henry? Or maybe just you and me if Regina has--”

“Neal, I’ve had a long day. I am going to enjoy this drink, maybe a second, and then I am eating whatever I rummage out of the pantry at Mary Margaret’s since she and David are out on a date.”

“So you have the place to yourself?”

Killian understood the insinuation and clenched his jaw. He started counting backward from ten while he listened to Emma try to redirect Neal’s plans, and when he heard the other man’s second attempt to garner an invitation he reset the clock and started the count at twenty. Perhaps she cares for him, he reminded himself. She is tired and had a difficult day, but that does not mean she has chosen not to be with--

Her voice was suddenly raised and Killian felt like he was about four steps behind the conversation as he snapped to attention on the words she spat at the man across from her.

“Just go-- go, Neal. This isn’t happening. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. It is not happening .” Whatever expression she held in that moment must have been truly glorious to earn Neal’s melodramatic scoff as he stormed out the diner and slammed the door behind him.

Granny simply poured a healthy splash of whisky in Emma’s glass in reply before shuffling back to the kitchen as she had witnessed the whole interaction mere steps from Killian, who just now was actively working to control both his expression and the thoughts wheeling through his mind at her parting shot. What exactly was not happening between them? Where did that leave him?

Killian glanced over at Emma, her eyes ablaze as if challenging him to comment on the interaction. “Darts are quiet,” he offered congenially, smiling what he considered his most winning grin.

That earned him a quick bark of laughter. “And a little violent,” she smirked.

“Aye, that too, Swan.”

She held up her glass and they shared their second silent toast of the evening. “I could use a little of both,” she added as she got up, glass in hand and the beginnings of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“I hear rumor they even sell food at this establishment,” Killian pressed his luck a bit as they collected the two sets of darts and set up.

“You don’t say?” She shook her head at him and he watched her consider the offer. “Loser buys?”

“Of course, love.” He sketched her a bow, flourishing his hand and making a show of it to cover up his surprise.

“Not your love,” she retorted, sinking a bullseye on her first try while Killian considered how grateful he was that Granny accepted doubloons. Where had she learned to play like this?

...

Granny hollered last call only moments after Emma bid Killian goodnight, a lightness to her steps as he watched her go. “Looks like that went well,” Granny called over as she wiped down the last table.

“Aye,” he tossed Granny a wink, “and she stayed for three games. And dessert.”

For the life of him, Killian couldn’t decipher Granny’s laugh at this simple observation until the double-entendre dawned on him at last. He was tired and perhaps he’d imbibed one too many glasses if he was the one missing the joke...it was then he noticed Emma’s jacket still laying across the barstool where she’d first dropped it.

“Seven hells,” he took off to the sound of Granny’s whooping call as she warned him the sheriff walked fast and he’d better work for it. Work for what exactly? Killian mused as he jogged out into the night, no easy feat in full leathers with more than a bit of drink in him. He spotted her golden hair in the lamplight down the street and called out, thinking it the better option than startling her.

She spun on her heel, wobbled slightly, and burst into laughter as she leaned against the lamppost for support--clearly he wasn’t the only to enjoy one too many this evening. Ever the gentleman, Killian held her jacket out and ignored her comment about being chased down Main Street by a pirate.

“Princess,” he began, calling far too loudly given the hour, “chivalry demands I return your cloak, lest you catch a chill on this dark night.” She shushed him less than successfully as she giggled and fell into step beside him-- Emma Swan can giggle, he mused. “As well,” he continued, voice full volume and bordering on a bellow, “I must see you safely to your door. No doubt there are ruffians about, and all manor of unsavory ne’er-do-wells, all seeking mischief against such an elegant,” he chuckled as she staggered slightly, “and graceful lady as thee.”

“You’re such an idiot, shut up! Do you want the whole neighborhood awake?” Her scolding was half-hearted at best considering her idea of a whisper could likely be heard across the street.

“Do you think they’ll call the sheriff, love” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she swatted his chest. “Surely you wouldn’t throw a man in the brig for an act of noblest courtesy,” at that he draped her jacket over her shoulders while she led the way and proceeded to spin a tale of his own unimpeachable valor as a young sailor. When they reached her dwelling, she turned to face him before heading up.

“Why do you always get it? Nobody gets it.” He raised a brow at her question. “Gets me. Like Neal,” she slurred the name and rolled her eyes. “I have a shitty day at work and he decides to make some weird pass at me through the kid ? But you,” she leaned in and poked Killian in the chest, keeping her index finger pressed against his sternum. “You’re the...the flirty pirate king and you just...throw sharp shit at a wall with me and buy me drinks. You didn’t even check out my ass more than once.”

He absolutely had, but far be it for Killian to correct the lady when this seemed to be going somewhere rather interesting.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she slurred.

Before he could suggest this was likely a bad idea as she would potentially regret whatever her next words were to be, she pulled him down by one of his coat lapels and whispered loudly, “My mom is Snow White, right? So she’s all about ‘true love’ and ‘happily ever after’,” her whisper became what he thought was an imitation of her mother, though he doubted that Snow White had ever been six whiskies and two rums deep.

“So she thinks that Neal is like...my Prince Charming, but here’s the secret: he’s not a prince! He’s a con-man, and he sure as hell isn’t charming. So whoops, Mom! Wrong bet!” She laughed and let go of his coat, poking the end of his nose and whispering something that sounded like the noise boop in the most infuriatingly impossible-to-understand gesture he’s witnessed yet. She gave him a glassy-eyed smile, and in a parting shot that left him speechless, she cupped his cheek and in a much softer tone murmured, “Goodnight, Killian.”

---

The morning arrived after less rest than he’d like, but Killian snapped awake as the sky first began to turn a dusty rose on the horizon. This was very likely the best mood he’d found himself in for quite some time, and he mused on the past twelve hours as he fiddled with the magic hot-water dispenser until he got the temperature just right. Unlike the Jolly , Granny’s provisions in terms of hygiene were lavish and he assumed they cost her a small fortune if Ruby and the guests enjoyed them as much as he did, but Granny assured him the soaps and amenities were provided, so he took great joy in letting the warm water run over him as he lathered up, breathing in the herbal and lemon scent so unlike the harsh lye soap he was accustomed to. This world without magic had its charms, and hot water on demand was his latest favorite.

He arrived downstairs for his other new-world favorite - coffee - and Killian was pleased to see Emma already at the counter, though she looked a great deal less chipper than he felt. “Good morning, Swan,” he sauntered up to take a seat at her left. “Beautiful morning, don’t you think?”

She grumbled something about a headache and before Killian could reply, Granny swooped in and all but insisted she sit and have breakfast. Despite her protests, Emma wound up delayed in her arrival to her post that morning as she was cajoled into a substantial pile of eggs, bacon, and toast. “Complain all you want, Sheriff,” Granny eyed her as she set a matching plate before Killian, “but you two need to soak up some of last night’s fun. Now, eat.” After obligingly refilling their mugs with steaming hot coffee, to which Emma added more than a bit of cream and sugar, Granny retreated to another table as the morning rush filled in around them.

They ate in companionable silence until Emma glanced over and opened with, “I beat you at darts, didn’t I?”

“Aye, two wins to my paltry one, Swan. I’m only grateful we chose not to wager more than dinner and drinks on the game, or my pockets would be a great deal more empty.” She smirked at his comment, and the two chatted as they worked through their breakfasts, both seeming to come alive as Granny had predicted.

He should have known it was all going far too well.

The bell above the door chimed, and the bustle of the patrons picking up coffee and pastries on their way to work or leisurely enjoying their breakfasts fell to a whisper. Killian stayed perfectly still as he heard the man limp toward the counter, the gentle thud of his cane giving him away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Emma roll her eyes at his clipped “Miss Swan,” and Killian stayed frozen to the spot, not trusting his reaction in front of the woman who not only was increasingly important in his life--a thought he’d sort out, or studiously avoid, later--but also represented the local law enforcement.

He heard few of the words exchanged between the Crocodile and Granny, though neither appeared pleased to be having the conversation. Instead, his pulse pounded in his head and his vision clouded as he clutched the edge of the counter. Killian had the distinct image of grabbing that gold-topped cane and flipping it, beating the man about the head until nothing recognizable remained. Until the gold handle dripped red. He could leave him on the floor of this place, twitching as the last impulses of his brain forced him to dance to a soundless tune; Killian could simply walk to the Jolly and set sail, free of the memory of this vile excuse for a man.

Except that he could do no such thing. He sat next to the sheriff in a small town diner surrounded by people who already distrusted him to varying degrees. He was trapped in a land that was not his own and had no way-- nor will --to return to his own. He was a captain without a crew, and as his mind raced through the numerous ways he could rid himself of this loathsome creature he knew now was not the time and certainly not the place. Simply put, Killian refused to put Emma in a position where she would be forced to see the darkness that lurked within him. So he let it pass, and let the Crocodile go for today.

It wasn’t long after the disruption that Emma took her leave, and Killian lingered at the counter as he mulled over what to do with his day. Most days he helped Granny with the more physically demanding repairs around the place, but he felt caged and in need of something more challenging.

“Appreciate you not taking his head off in my diner,” Granny remarked banally once the place emptied. “You have any idea what it takes to get blood out of white grout? Oh, don’t look so surprised; nothing smells quite like fear and rage rolled up in one, and I could smell yours from across the damn room.” She waved dismissively and filled two mugs, sliding one to him and keeping the other for herself. “It’s hot chocolate, and you need it. Little liquid comfort never hurt anyone, so drink up and tell me about it.”

He sipped hesitantly, but the woman was certainly right about the comforting power of the elixir before him. Killian thought about his next words as he breathed in the sweet steam from his mug, letting the cup warm his hand as he held it. “You could...smell my emotions?” He felt it best to begin with the obvious inquiry and prolong the tale of his darkest day.

“I could also hear your heart-rate skyrocket the second you knew who came through that door, so I’m guessing there’s some history there. You don’t have to tell me everything, Killian, but I need to know if I can trust you when you’re in here. Gold comes in to collect rent monthly, and every now and again he has lunch as well. I need to know you’re not going to take a kitchen knife to the bastard while I’m serving sandwiches.” She levelled a scrutinizing gaze at him and waited.

Killian set down his mug and scrubbed his hand over his face, realizing he was in need of a shave, then realizing he was further delaying the conversation. He sighed, knowing there was only one right way forward. “I will not spill his blood on your grounds, Granny, not unless he spills mine first. You have my word.” She nodded once, waiting for him to continue. And so he spent the sunny morning explaining how he lost his hand to the Dark One. While Killian left out much of the story of Milah, he could not entirely avoid her role in the tale, explaining simply that the man she knew as Gold had killed the woman Killian loved right in front of his eyes. Granny was sympathetic and asked few questions, letting him choose how much to reveal. It was cathartic, in a way - a chance to tell someone this piece of truth. A chance to be heard.

When they were finished, Granny spoke briefly of her wolfish nature, a truth which Killian enjoyed as it made her acute hearing and perceptiveness make far more sense. “I know your heart-rate also picks up around a certain sheriff,” she added as Killian slipped on his greatcoat, readying himself to find busywork on the Jolly . “And I know hers does around you.” She eyed him closely then, searching for he knew not what. “Be careful with her, Killian. I don’t know everything--I’m not sure anyone does--but I can see enough to know she’s been hurt, and that hurt hasn’t fully healed. In fact, I’m damn sure the source of it just waltzed back into her life.”

He nodded his understanding and left her to her work. Given the woman’s preternatural understanding of her patrons, he was not about to argue. He chewed her words over in his mind repeatedly as he spent the rest of the day checking that everything aboard his beloved Jolly was in tip-top shape. While his life may be constant chaos in this world, at least he could be assured his ship was as perfect as ever.

#cs au #captain swan #cs ff #csmm #killian jones #emma swan #captain swan au #karly tries her hand at writing

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bondsmagii · 3 years

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anonymous submitted:

Let's talk about sleep paralysis! I have some wild theories, feel free to believe them or not, but this has been my gatherings after over 15 years of experiences. So - after years of Slffering from it, I've slowly learned how to control my sleep paralysis. I can morph them into cool/interesting incidences now, and have even begun using it as a jumpoff for lucid dreaming. (Disclaimer: Not reccomended if you can't control it yet, please don't try to induce SP unleash you're TOTALLY prepared for it. I don't want anybody to get hurt. And still, I cannot guarantee my own results. This took YEARS of practice.) Anyway, I've found that if you're able to force one small body part to move or jerk your head (repeatedly til it works), you can break out of patalysis at will. It takes some high focus, and becoming conscious of your physical body vs your sleeping self. You CAN move, it's just difficult. Jerk your head, snap your eyes open, or set an alarm if this planned. You'll feel intense heaviness upon waking and a strange desire to fall right back to sleep, but you'll need to sit up straight and fully wake yourself up to end it, otherwise you'll just resume it as soon as you fall asleep again. There's probably a reason for that, actually. What I may have learned through these trials is that sleep paralysis might just be the nightly beginning of the sleep cycle that we aren't meant to be conscious for. Let me run my theory by you. There was a point in my life where sleep paralysis would occur every single time I slept. Every night, it'd start with a buzzing hum that I'd kind of "melt" into, like tinnitus slowly washing over til it's all you can hear. And suddenly, I can't move. Horrific entities bearing down on me.I don't need to go into detail, you've been there. I didn't understand why, until I slowly realized I'd been conscious of the entire business of falling asleep - and that it was a several-step process. Body falls asleep first, mind follows. That's why most people don't remember the act of falling asleep and just seem to become conscious in dreams once they've already begun without you. You're paralyzed because your body is dreaming and you aren't supposed to be conscious yet. It's perhaps a REM stage that's supposed to be painless, nothing. I tested this theory by forcing myself to be calm through my nightly episodes. They would happen regardless, so I may as well try to make them less horrific, right? I would slow my heart rate using breathing exercises. I observed what was happening rather than panicking, and noticed that crushing weight on my chest slowly shift into this peaceful, almost pleasant sinking-down feeling. Like heavy water pulling you down, like a cool blanket of static coccooning around you. And sink down I did - right through this strange buzzing dark haze and directly into dreams. Most of them starting lucid. I was completely conscious of them, sometimed even seeing the dream world "load in" and fill in textures and buildings and skyline. It was surreal. I tested this over and over, and every time got the same result. If I "survived" the paralysis and just calmed, I'd drop into dreams. Sometimes I'd litrrally feel myself sink into my bed, going "below" consciousness. Soon I mapped out the enitirety of the process. Waking, pre-sleep imaginings, those imaginings getting surreal as my brain drifted, static hum overtaking, the ordeal of paralysis, and then I'd sink into what I began calling "The Platform". It was this shifting midpoint between dream-awake where it'd allow me to choose my own dreams. Sometimes I'd see dreams floating movie-like in bubbles at the edge of a void, sometimes I'd see a hall of doors, sometimes I'd literally land on a platform and build dreams from nothing, sometimes I'd fall straight through the void and start the dream flying. Now, as an aside, I am someone who experiences chronic nightmares. Almost all of my dreams have some "horror" element to them, to the point where I've learned to forcibly wake myself up by snapping my "real" physically eyes open. Now I'm overall

able to exert control over them, and overall more conscious of the state of dreaming. I can enjoy them like first-person horror movies and nope the hell out when shit gets too Sideways. The only ones that get me bad now are ones that feel real enough to hurt (real world fears like loved oned dying) ordered ones that deal with a specific phobia that makes me lose my shit. A lot of the method seems to do with "feeling" your real body outside of the dream and understanding that your dream/metaphysical(?) self is a separate entity. I wish I could describe how to do that better - its sort of how you center your body during grounding excersises. Forcing myself awake from nightmares and yanking myself out of sleep paralysis feel extremely similar. I've given myself a sort of Eject Button. Anyhow - I began talking to my SP entities and exerting some gentle control over the whole scene. Changing the power dynamic, de-escalating scary situations by joking with the entities, standing up for myself or catching them off guard. I still get terrifying incidents where I'm attacked or forced to view esoteric horrors, but, well.. I'm a horror movie fan. Sometimes creepy imagery is cool and enjoyable, and now I can cut it off if I want to. I'll even sass them if they get rude. I think I differ in beliefs with you in that I do believe that SP has a spiritual aspect (the same way that dreams do), but I recognize the psychological element as well. I think they go hand in hand, and in finding this I've been able to turn something that was deeply traumatizing into something pretty neat. Thanks for listening, friend. I'm sure this is long and rambling, but I felt like I needed to tell someone, and you seemed like the right person to tell. Be well, I hope you have pleasant dreams, or at least that your nightmares are very cool.

this is actually very impressive, because yeah. this is exactly how and why sleep paralysis happens! I always find it interesting when people arrive at a theory through their own investigation, and it adds up with official findings -- if the time and the place had been a little different, you would have been the person to pioneer the theory! but essentially yes, this is precisely why it happens and why it can be used as a platform for lucid dreaming. when you sleep, your body enters a natural state of paralysis to ensure that you don't injure yourself while sleeping. sometimes this goes wrong, but the usual failure is seen in sleepwalking -- the paralysis stops, the body wakes, the mind does not, and the person wanders around acting out their dreams or perhaps going about their usual morning routine on autopilot.

sometimes, though, it's the other way around. your brain is still awake, but your body is asleep. your dreams translate as vivid hallucinations, you can't move because of the natural paralysis (and this feeling translates itself as a heaviness, especially on the chest, resulting in the all-too-common description sleep paralysis has become known for: the feeling of something sitting or pressing on your chest) and the feeling of dread is likely because of the realisation somewhere deep down that something is very wrong; that you're not supposed to be experiencing this. some people theorise that's why sleep paralysis is overwhelmingly a terrifying event -- rarely do you hear stories of pleasant hallucinations, and this is likely because of the fact we're terrified on some level, aware that something is very unusual. combine this with the fact that sleep paralysis happens to most people only rarely -- once or twice in their lives -- and it's clear that many people don't have the opportunity to understand what happened and become familiar with it.

you're also correct in your observation that moving a small part of the body can snap you out of it. generally it's better to focus on a small part -- moving all of you is too much, but focusing on a small part like a finger or toe is much more effective. it takes a lot of effort, but the effect on the paralysis is instantaneous. the dread and the heavy feeling may take a while to pass, though. another trick to minimise how unpleasant sleep paralysis is is to keep your eyes closed. you can still sense things, and some people might hear things, but overwhelmingly the worst hallucinations are visual. keeping your eyes closed means you at least don't have to see what's crawling up your bed!

I'm like you in the way that I enjoy horror, and I also find sleep paralysis fascinating. now that I know what it is and how to get out of it, I very often just let it run its course -- at least until things get too repetitive or spooky, and then I snap myself out of it. it's absolutely incredible to see what tricks the human mind can play. the hallucinations are so incredibly real, and it's a brilliant opportunity to observe while being in no real danger. only a couple of times have I come across something genuinely paranormal during a sleep paralysis episode -- or what I thought was one, anyway. thankfully it doesn't mimic it exactly, so I can continue to enjoy watching the wild shit my brain comes up with in relative peace.

#sleep paralysis #anon #long post #submission

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wrightaboutthat · 3 years

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Unnecessary Yearning ~A Narumitsu One-Shot~

Summary: "You should have heard him talking about you after the Steel Samurai case! He kept saying 'Wright...Wright...Wright' over and over!"

Stricken with new feelings, Edgeworth attempts to carry on with his work and make do. Only, visions of a certain attorney lead to methods turning a little less than professional.

Written from Miles' POV.

Tags: Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Longing, Arousal, It's what the kids call, Denial, Mr 'I'm saddled with unnecessary feelings' Edgeworth lol like YEAH OKAY SIR, How's that going for you, Canon Compliant, Yearning

Additional Notes: Hello everyone! This is my first work in the Ace Attorney fandom. Glad to be tipping my toes into the universe, and super excited to finally be writing the boys. Thank you so much for reading! <3

You can also read the work on AO3 here [x]

It’s going to be a long night. My brain feels utterly thick and heavy from all which weighs down on me: evidence to sift through, cases to win, and losses to be recuperated. The latter two earn a stiffening of my figure, bits of bitter venom surging through my veins to match. I try not to mull over them too much however, what with all the deeper implications they carry. No; far too complex and far too unnecessary.

I instead focus on the present, focus on the current matters that await within my office. My silver gaze momentarily scans the various files atop my desk, before drifting over to my stewing tea. I straighten a bit, attempting to hone in on the delightful fumes, the tantalizing call of work to be done..

...But still, does my mind feel oddly muddied. Unsurprisingly, a scowl furrows my face as a result.

Walking to grab the warm tea, I momentarily turn my attention towards the world beyond my window. The lights of the city below glimmer and flash as activity bustles on. The last bits of setting sunlight cast dramatic colors upon the horizon. Unfortunately though, as I continue to stare, something else tantalizingly flashes within the reflective sheen. Or someone else, rather.

Him. Him.

Ahh. The man who rose from the ashes of my past. The man who viciously inserted himself back into my life. The man who dared to make me question my own reality. So he’s to blame. He’s the culprit. He’s the reason behind the present strangeness. He was indeed the trigger behind previous emotional oddities, so it only makes sense that he’s tormenting me now.

...Or does it?

My frown grows- particularly when the swirling imagery doesn’t fade away. In fact, it grows all the more detailed, all the more vivid. It’s like my brain genuinely teases me for a few fleeting moments, letting me see him and all that he is. That sickeningly corny grin on his face. The way he sheepishly runs his fingers through his hair. The image of him behind me, slamming us into the very surface providing such visions...

I startle something terrible, backing away with a bubbling mixture of revulsion. How unexpected and heinous. How dare he. How dare he affect me so. How dare he insert himself into my workplace where he’s not welcome.

And how ludicrous that I let him.

I clench my jaw and walk back to my desk, fingers knotted through my hair. There’s work to be done. There are matters to attend to. There are things that call for my attention. And none of them should deal with him.

But they do. Dammit, of course they do; with my subconscious stumbling from their presence, they scream the loudest of all. They dare to surge to the forefront. Because while case papers are visibly scattered before me, while knowledge swims within, he’s there in front. Flashing before my trembling vision, waltzing to the tip of my subconscious, and settling in the worst possible manner between the apex of my thighs.

No...

This cannot be happening. There’s no possible way this can be happening. I try to think of something else, anything else. All the work that needs to be done. That vile security guard from our case prior. But I can almost hear him chuckle at my lackadaisical efforts. And thus, does my strangely bewitched body mewl in delight, persuading me to hopelessly swell further.

I fume and begin to walk around the room, hoping to shake it off. Perhaps laps will serve me better. Perhaps getting my blood flowing will pull it from more problematic locations. But alas, I see him, I hear him, I feel him. I begin to bulge something terrible against my pants, the tight fabric no longer comfortable. It’s painful even, especially with all my movement, chaffing and rubbing atrociously.

But I don’t want to give in. I don’t want to fall into such vile acts. I don’t want him to hold such power over me.

And yet...

It’s like he materializes behind me, his hands gently yet firmly grasping my hips. He stills my furious stride, before I can practically feel his breath against my ear.

“You’re a mess, you know that?”

I grit my teeth. I want to argue. I want to deny it. But when I feel his hands starting to guide mine, when I’m lead to the fly of my pants, I really have no objections to his point. I can feel his grin against my neck then, and I can’t help myself; I shudder despite the rampant denial.

I still try and stop. I still try and hesitate. But the more I wait, the more painful it gets. The more I stall, the more vivid the visions become. A confusing and overwhelming mixture of emotion bubbles up then. I’m furious, but desperate. Appalled, yet curious. I consider things just a second more...

And then I’m deliciously coaxed; with my back facing the window, with my body towering over my desk, I unzip myself and allow the product of his doing to spring free.

The typical groan of relief departs my throat, but it’s hushed, captured as I bite my lip. A second later, my brow furrows something fierce, continuing to dance between enjoyment and revulsion.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” I can picture him saying, leading to a furious blush and stronger swell. Would he say such a thing? I cannot be certain, yet all rings clear within my subconscious. So much so that I growl at him.

“Shut up, Wright...”

“Yeah yeah. Now shhh,” he murmurs back through reveries, “Just enjoy yourself, Miles.”

Miles.

My name, so rarely uttered, growled off his lecherous tongue...

My eyes roll, and I grasp myself then. I wrap my fingers around the taut, soft skin. I firmly grab the stiffness was as he likely would. And it takes every bit of my power to not release a growling groan into the quietness of my office.

My office.

My eyes, slick with both a furious and midnight sheen, fly back open at the notion. I stare at myself in horror, stare at how utterly erect I am. All because of him. All because of him.

I grit my teeth; how long will this dreaded back and forth go on? And which side will come out on top? Naturally, I careen for the reasonable, for the chaste maturity. But unfortunately, and unbelievably, my mind is no match for my body. My mind is no match for his spell. Because just as my grip lessens, he manifests behind me once more.

“I worry about you. You work way too hard, Miles,” he subconsciously murmurs in my ear, his vocals deeper and more honeyed than usual.

“Wright...”

“I like you saying my name like that,” he chuckles, and I can almost feel the flick of his tongue against my earlobe, “But I like you putting all your troubles to the side even more. So relax, dammit. Don’t be such a hardass...”

His tease, his care, his sultriness...It’s all too real. It all feels too real. I release another growl of frustration, but feel myself being tugged into the rabbit hole further. I begin to relent, begin to cave, allowing his very image to guide me down and down and down.

And so when I finally begin to move, when I finally begin to pull and tug, it’s entirely his essence.

He works me. He strokes me deeply. He topples my body towards the awaiting mahogany desk. Though I wish to deny it, though I wish to bellow in protest, it feels...utterly incredible, like it never has before. It’s intense, and electrifying, and unbelievably arousing. Once more are my eyes rolled away from view, noises of pleasure circulating around my chest. I have to fight against them, swallow them down, but yet again, does the attorney come out on top. The vision of his fingers, of his work, naturally pulls a centered vocalization from my lips.

“Wright...” I growl, “Wright...Wright...”

I’m rewarded with his voice in my ear once more. “Just like that...Fuck, Miles...”

My stomach clenches; would he even stoop to such naughty vocabulary? Would he even dirty his softer tongue so? Hearing it feels forbidden, yet so very divine. My hips practically buck, riding the reverie and falling deeper.

“Wright...Wright...Wright...”

The passes become harder, faster. His name grows louder, deeper. My mind falls grayer, darker. But of course, similar patterns are followed. Of course, the tug-of-war that is my reality is suddenly yanked in the opposing direction once more.

Because a series of loud raps on my door yanks me far harder than my own hand, startling me something terrible. My head whips up towards the mahogany barrier just in time to hear the reason, the culprit.

“Mr. Edgeworth, sir?”

Magma still burns in my veins. Evidence still twitches betwixt my fingers. His voice still moans in my brain. So very quickly, despite it all, do I bellow back to the damned detective.

“NOT NOW.”

Despite the fire I’m standing in, I can feel the saddened deflation on the other side of the door.

“B-but, sir...”

“PAYCHECK, GUMSHOE,” I snarl, attempting to instill as much threat and as little waver as possible.

He whimpers like a gloomy pup, before finally, thankfully, backing away.

“Y-yes, sir...”

His footsteps depart, but a bit of my fantasy is stolen along with him. It’s like pieces of foggy bliss are yanked out the door and down the hallway, loosening my grip on myself and the situation. Am I safe? Am I free from them?

As if to taunt, I feel myself twitch, and he manifests once more. I feel him again: the heightened movements of his panting chest against me, the ragged groans in my ear, the twinge of his teeth against my neck...

No. Safe from Gumshoe’s interruption perhaps, but still locked deep in the throes of Wright’s intrusion. How utterly strong he is. How much of a hold he has on me...

“Nngg...”

I groan in both frustration and persistent arousal. I want to stop. I want to latch on to the interruption and calm back down. But I can’t. I’m transfixed. He has me.

“Accursed attorney...” I growl through my teeth.

Right on cue, I can see that smug grin of his, sending droves of new warmth barreling down my body. And thus, does the cycle begin again. It only takes a few strokes to fully get back into it, but then I’m unimpeded, unshakeable beneath his spell. The angry, shaky breaths manifest once more, and my hips are coaxed back into movement.

I’m what they would refer to as “pent-up” I suppose, everything zinging to life at the thought of that damn man. His energy, his confidence, his very essence...

My lips curl into a snarl, coupled with the tightening of my hand. Anger and disgust towards the situation does no good; in fact, it only serves to amplify. And as such, I’m thrown into an endless loop, the fiery emotions driving me higher and higher. The more I push away, the more he pulls. The more he pulls, the higher the inferno roars. I’m practically jerking, practically trying to fight against the inevitable. But it’s no use.

I can see myself furiously pounding him into the very desk I’m leant upon. I can picture him folding me over the couch and having his way with my sorry form. I can imagine my angry body knelt before him, marveling in what I’m about to consume...

My entire lower half gives a mighty quake, and I tighten in a plethora of places. I’m going to finish. He’s going to make me finish. My ebony-soaked eyes reel about my surroundings, before flashing with a realization. I need to capture the evidence. I need to halt its sullying path. I need to be utterly inconspicuous about this.

So in perhaps the last allowed second of logical thinking, I snatch a handkerchief off my desk and blanket it over the incrimination. And there I hold as I utterly plummet into flames. My face wretches, my muscles tense, and consequently, comes a most forbidden hiss.

“Phoenix!”

And out it all spills. My anger, my deeper complexities, those wretched feelings...It floods against my fingers and into the handkerchief, my vision flashing white with every sharp burst. My jaw clenches something terrible, the temptation to yell through the release so very tantalizing. But I stay hushed. I manage to keep it contained to shivering grunts and rolling snarls. Instead, my body takes the brunt, my hips jutting with each intense crest. My legs begin to liquify, and my form begins to shake, so with a final spurt, do I collapse forward on my desk with a hand, the wretched evidence in the other.

I heave and gasp through the aftershocks, straining for normalcy to return. I claw my way down from the mountain, trying to get away from the outrageous act. It’s very difficult to do so when I can picture him stroking me into utter completion, whispering lecherous praises and deeper affections into my ear...

I straighten myself and slam my hand on the desk, disgust desperately surging through my veins to block it all out. One look at the soiled handkerchief and my equally dirtied hand amplifies this, my face contorting into a deep scowl.

I was really just enraptured by my urges like some hotheaded grade schooler. I really just turned my place of work into a place of dirtied fun. I really just pleasured myself because of him.

Because of Phoenix Wright.

Damn him. Damn him damn him damn him...

My clean hand comes to capture my face, my fingers harshly grasping my temples. I take a moment to hide away from it all, perhaps in a better attempt to deal with the rampant feelings flowing through. Regret, disgust, anger...But where the icy emotions exist, as do the fiery still, to my dismay. Deeper desire, longing, yearning...

I’m no better off from such an act. The more primitive urges are satiated, yes, but I’m still atrociously in limbo, atrociously in the middle.

I tuck myself back in, clean my hand with tissues, and throw the wretched handkerchief away. I focus on adjusting my attire, on straightening my cravat, on re-composing myself...

...Yet I still find myself unable to do much else than stand with both hands leant against my desk, deep in thought and emotions. I heave a harsh sigh, trying so hard to make sense of it all.

How did this happen? Why did seeing him after all these years lead to this? How could I be so foolish? I doubt we’re really even considered friends, and he’s certainly not...mine.

My eyes widen at the mere thought, before I force further bile to manifest. No. He’s not. And he won’t be. He’s my rival, if anything. Nothing more. Perhaps I was simply carried away by the excitement of our banter, the passion brought to the table. Perhaps my body simply craved an outlet for stress and tension. Yes.

But despite the logic that presents itself, despite the perfectly sound explanation, I still can’t move. I still can’t put it aside and simply get back to work. Nor can I rid my thoughts of that idiotic, passionate, absurd, torturous man.

Dammit indeed.

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tincankam · 3 years

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Henry and Mingan Discussion (Revived)

As we all know, there is a particular episode in season 5 that left us all a bit devastated and left us somewhat dumbfounded on how that episode went. Season 5 Episode 4 - “Judas Wolf” was an episode that I feel needed to be changed drastically. As I have spoken to other fans they feel the same way and I think there are a few ideas that can thus fix the episode and even the show then on after. Season 5 and 6 weren't the best because of Longmire being handed over to Netflix, in turn, they just changed everything and ran it into the ground in my opinion. But this very episode, this very dramatic and sensitive episode could have changed Henry’s dynamic and the show from then on. There will be spoilers so please read at your own risk. Also, I am not a specular writer nor am I the smartest person so if I happen to leave anything out or leave more plot holes than the original, please forgive me for I have a small squirrel brain.

Right off the bat, we as the watchers are just crushed by Mingan’s death and all of us were very hopeful that things would turn out differently for him. I did cry for a few hours after watching that happen. Though there are some things that I did see as sloppy or sloppy writing from the Netflix team (I'm going to be blaming Netflix the majority of the time because they just took it over and made the show and characters really strange). Something that hasn't sat right with me is the fact that Mingan never really gave a direct answer. Why did Mingan kill himself? As I'm typing this now, I suppose the writers wanted to reflect on real depression and real events that happen to children and teens on reservations. Mingan didn't give a direct answer on why, even though Henry showed him this love and care. He believed everything was hopeless, that he lost everyone and there isn't anything left for him. So that could be the answer to why he simply did it but it just confuses me because Henry was there for him. Yet again, Mingan losing both his parents through drugs, and seeing that could have just left him hollow. This is just nit-picky but why did Mingan hang himself in the open, at a random tree? Though if I'm not correct, I think that was the same tree that was shown in Cady’s premonition dream (I cannot fully confirm this since I don’t want to see that scene of Mingan again).

With that out of the way, here is what I propose. Instead of Mingan committing suicide for no reason at all, maybe Henry catches him in the act. After taking him to school in the scene where Henry is hugging him. Henry goes through with adopting Mingan. Maybe while all of the court hearings are to officially adopt him, Mingan stays with Henry for the time being. By the end of the episode, it shows Henry purchasing a small apartment in downtown Durrant where he and Mingan can live. The closing scene is Henry holding Mingan by the shoulder, maybe telling him that “this is their new home” “Everything is going to be ok” and rubs his side as they stand in their kitchen with boxes of Henry’s and Mingan’s things. Or just have the scene be silent and have some music playing in the background as the original Longmire directors executed so beautifully. As we progress more and more into Mingan and Henry, Henry could often tell Walt, Cady, or May, in any interaction with them that Mingan doesn't seem to be too happy. Henry fully knows that he needs time to adjust but he's still worried for Mingan. Perhaps in the middle of the episode, Henry comes home and sees that the door is unlocked. Thinking that it's a break-in, he sees Mingan’s backpack on the kitchen floor. He calls out for Mingan and sprints to his room thinking that he’s in danger only to see Mingan (please be wary for the rest of this, there is suicide imagery) on a chair with the noose already tied to him and he gets a little startled by Henry. Henry lets out this horrifying scream that just shouts “No!”. He rushes to Mingan, untying him or getting a pocket knife and cutting the noose off. Mingan is still in this daze until Henry picks him up and grabs him. This is where I want to see Henry cry. Cry out of relief, grief, stress. Holding the body of Mingan who almost left this world forever, crying because he is thankful that he got home just in time. Not sobbing, holding the lifeless body of Mingan who’s happiness and existence was cut short. Henry is crying holding Mingan, they both scoot to the corner of the room. Mingan is crying too for a lot of reasons as well, for being caught, for not knowing what to do, for still feeling this despair in his heart for being so young. The scene shows Henry and Mingan crying and sniffling in the corner of Mingan’s room, Henry’s head is buried deep in the crook of Mingan’s neck, maybe even rocking back and forth. Henry’s head looks up at the remains of the noose stuck in the ceiling fan and the cut noose on the floor. He lets out a crying heave and sharply looks away. It pans out on just them in the room.

This was the most important point I wanted to get across. To have Mingan live for a plot standpoint and a moralistic standpoint. Briefly touching on the morality side, people with depression and other debilitating mental illnesses are seeing this, it’s better to get across that things do get better, it does. Eventually, the pain will go away. People are out there who care for you. Whether you know it or not, they are there. Having Mingan kill himself so suddenly and so unwarranted I feel like was such a heartbreak. Yes as I said earlier, this could be a reflection of people still wondering why their son or daughter or father had committed suicide and not knowing why to this day and the reflection of generations in reservations that feel like there is nothing left in the world for them. But there will be something there one day, it will happen, Mingan didn’t deserve to die. Now getting the point across that Henry is there for Mingan can represent to the audience that people are there who indeed care and you may not even know who they are but they are a godsend. As we are tying this into a plot standpoint, we can dive deeper into Henry’s past and Mingan’s future.

Henry decides to take Mingan to his childhood house and show him all the pictures from when he was a child. Telling him that he grew up in a not-so-perfect household with an abusive father and a mother who had died during childbirth with him. Maybe this can tie into another post I made ages ago that Henry even was sent to “Indian Boarding School” (theorized). His childhood was filled with grief and sadness as well and even mentions to Mingan that he's “tried too” (meaning that he has tried to commit suicide as well) but it’s not worth it. A heartfelt moment after another. We can also see Mingan visually grow as a character in a show, getting better, becoming a young adult, not slipping through the cracks. Maybe we can even see Mingan confront Henry about being Hector. Perhaps Mingan finds Henry’s Hector stuff as they are moving and confronts him about it. Having Henry retire the Hector mantle. By the end of the series, there is a healthy Father and Son relationship (No thanks to Walt and Cady because there is no chemistry between the two and it’s somewhat sad).

I am sorry that I made this post a little too long, but I needed to get it out there somewhere. Maybe even some other fans out there will appreciate this as well. There just needed to be a bit more happier endings with Longmire. Just even a little. Mingan was a character that I feel could have added so much more passion and new elements to play with.

#henry standing bear #mingan pines #longmire #my post #this was from my last blog #but im bringing it back #this needs to be said

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firedawnd · 3 years

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Love For Them (AKA, a study of Ace!Katherine)

Katherine Howard does not know love: not at first.

Not until he came. Not until he, broad-shouldered, bearded, creased face, the spitting image of alluring maturity entered her life.

Wordcount: 7366.

Series Link: Don’t.

AO3 Link: Love For Them.

(Yes, it’s finally here!!)

Heavy trigger warnings for r*pe, corrective r*pe, gaslighting, acephobia (external & internalised), grooming, internalised self-blame. No heavily explicit r*pe is shown but it is alluded to, implied, and in imagery.

Katherine Howard does not know love: not at first.

Not until he came. Not until he, broad-shouldered, bearded, creased face, the spitting image of alluring maturity entered her life.

Some have gushed about Mannox’s allure. He was… broad and dark. Desirable was the words which she had overheard some of their maids say.

And he wants her.

(Who was she to refuse?)

And so Katherine stares. Up at her music teacher. Of a gigantic stature; so much taller, stronger, wider than her was he. And that’s part of the allure, she’s sure, but she’s also sure that he can crush her in her fingers, leave her in only little pieces, mingling between ashes and dust amid piano keys.

He looks back at her. You can stop, Katherine. I see how you stare at me.

She flushes, then. She gazes up at him. Tall and glowering and imposing. A knowing smirk presses by his lips.

How… do I stare?

His eyes turn dark then. Don’t pretend you don’t know.

And she doesn’t know, she doesn’t, not really. All she knows is what the maids relay to her through bated whispers. He is captivating. Have you seen him? Dark. Mysterious. How breathtaking. I want him to make me his.

Mannox reaches for her hair. He combs his fingers through the ends. She lets him.

I’ll show you how you’re supposed to feel.

And she loves him. How could she not? He is… striking. That is what they say about him. He is… brooding. He is handsome. Desirable.

He fondles— he’s fond of her. And of course, she was never a fan of the sensation, but that was normal. Nobody liked it; not at first. You were to get used to it.

And Katherine is patient. She can wait.

Dereham is the next person they speak about.

How charming is he! So enchanting… so handsome… and so intelligent. Always so astute, so cultured and scholarly: one would think him a nobleman. I hear he is well-endowed… and oh, his virility…

Katherine knows of Dereham’s virility well. He enters the girls’ bedchambers at night. He and the other men. Their eyes prowl, like they are pickings at a market.

(Katherine always curls up in her bed, underneath the sheets, as if she isn’t there. She is not asleep. She knows better than to pretend to be asleep. But she curls herself up, as if, with enough time, they would not see her there anymore.)

And she catches his eye because she is independent.

That is what he says she is. That first night: when his footfalls pause by the end of her bed, and Katherine had refused to meet his eyes. She did not manage to curl within the safety of her bedsheets in time, and so she had stayed, there: eyes cast to the side, averting away from the bodies that mangle the beds and the screeches that interpolate the air.

Look at me.

She looks.

You don’t want me?

And she gazes.

He is tall. He has a strong jaw. A muscular chest. A symmetrical face. A powerful gait. Sculpted, is how they would describe him.

(So enchanting… so handsome… so intelligent. And he wants you . Do you really not want him ? Would you really refuse Dereham? Dereham?)

A breath catches in her throat . Because—who is she to say no?

But Dereham shakes his head before she can speak. He lets out a laugh. A husky laugh. One that speaks to pride and promises once he reaches out to her face. Tilts her chin down with his thumb and makes her meet his face. She lets him.

I’ll prove myself worthy of you.

He gives her 100 pounds. It is yours if I do not return from my voyage. And he leaves her with the sum of his fortune, and Katherine’s stomach is sick with responsibility, for she is merely fourteen, and she had not known him until months prior. What makes him trust her so?

He loves you so.

He reprieves himself from sexual duty. I will be celibate for you, my love. My eyes belong to you. And he presses a kiss to her knuckles, and the roughness of his lips do not leave her skin until days after.

The other girls jostle her. Stare at her. Scowl at her. Jealousy mingling in their eyes. Desire rupturing through their words.

You didn’t have to take Dereham away from us! Not the most… well-endowed man of the home. And they share giggles, and they nudge one another, and they laugh, and Katherine listens to their glee.

Do not tell me that you do not want him. Do not.

Katherine, you might as well let him have you. Maybe then he’ll have us too.

Is it not obvious that he wants you, Katherine? And he is trying so hard for your love, too—he wants you! Don’t be a tease. Give him what he desires.

And he returns from his voyage. She is there, at her bed. He approaches her. She does not meet his eyes. But the indignance is too present in his voice already.

Do you not love me still? I have done everything for you. Do you still seek to keep your independent pretence, Katherine? Or will you allow me to love you?

Her throat is sticky and sore. And she looks up to Francis Dereham.

He is even more masculine, upon his return. Muscles jut from his arms. As if he had been at work. Exuding an odour which is reminiscent of the sea. So much more sculpted.

Katherine, don’t tell us that you don’t love him. He is so handsome… have you seen his body ? And not to mention his charm! If you reject him… I am sorry, but your taste must be atrocious.

There is a plea in Katherine’s eyes. She flicks her gaze away from him. But it does not stop her from seeing a smirk writhe its way across Dereham’s lips.

He grabs her by the chin. Roughly, now.

Of course you love me.

Dereham reaches for her lips. He kisses her. His fingers tousle her hair. He combs his fingers through the ends. She lets him.

(Katherine had never wished for anything more different, then.)

“You desire him, do you not?”

Katherine flushes once again. She carefully turns her eyes away from Joan’s eyes. “He is… enthralling, of course.”

And she’s under Joan’s scrutiny. Katherine presses her fingers into her dress and tries not to squirm. Because she could see, couldn’t she? That Katherine saw him as majestic, as intense, as impressive, yet not…

“You want him, do you not?”

She nods. Vigorously. Twice—thrice—that should be enough to emphasise.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, of course I do!”

For who was she? Some fool? Who cannot love Mannox? Who cannot love Dereham? Who cannot admire their... sculpted beauty? Who cannot love their bodies?

(She kisses Dereham more vigorously, that night. He does all he wishes to her and she lets him. She screws her eyes shut and forces herself to relax. For she loves him. For she desires him. She is not a monster. Who can love and cannot desire at the same time?)

And then she is raised up-high into the Royal Court. She is the Queen's lady-in-waiting. Anna’s lady-in-waiting. A marriage arranged by the ever-intelligent Cromwell. The German Queen, about to be wed to England’s most… fitting suitor.

They meet in the golden hours of the morning, at first. Katherine courtesies, but Anna waves her off: That is not necessary. And she is bewildered, at first, but soon her lips morph into a slight, not quite, smile.

Oh, she enjoys it so. She has a purpose, a reason, here. She is to serve the Queen. And Anna talks to Katherine, and she does her best to fulfill her wishes.

(At first, at least. Before their conversations had evolved elsewhere; beginning when Katherine had accidentally intruded upon Anna’s chambers and found her with tears glimmering by her eyes, gazing out into the muted England beneath her window. And she should have apologised profusely, and retreated, but words, unbidden, had slipped from her lips: my Queen, if I may ought to know… what is troubling you? )

(And Anna talks to her about home, about missing it all, about how much she despises Henry, how she wishes she weren’t here. Katherine’s heart wrenches, because even if she had never come from a foreign country to marry some man. She understands. Compromise. She understands. Obligation. She understands. Desire.)

They’d spend hours away in aimless chatter, since then. And every time she is not with Anna, Katherine finds an aching void in her heart, waiting, wanting to be reunited with her friend’s company.

Of course, she has the other ladies-in-waiting. They are amiable. Their company is amicable. As it should be, really. But Katherine cannot help but feel disassociated, from the conversation they make.

“... was none a man so stark and strong, of strength that ever came near! None a man so fair under God. He, the most bold, the most knightly, with the appetite, I hearsay, of a voracious beast…”

And she sees that, yes, he was a knight, he was strong, and yet….

Voracious? Beast?

“Katherine? What about you? What do you think of Thomas Culpepper?”

Her eyes snap up.

“I don’t know,” she replies, half a struggling smile parting her lips. “He is a… fair man.”

And she means it, in that sense. He is fair, of a fair proportion, a healthy man of his stature, and tall, too—that would be appealing. His facial features are even, smooth, and defined. Broad shoulders. Decently muscular. Tall. That perfect image of nobility. A peer.

He sets my loins on fire, one of the ladies-in-waiting says. And Katherine’s brow furrows. Of course, he was fair. And yet… loins…?

Katherine brushes the thought off with a chuckle. “Seems we may have to try and bring Lady Margaret and Lord Culpepper together, then.”

But by the end of the day, when it is merely her, and Anna, alone. They are quiet together. And Katherine always feels better, when they are together. When they talk, together. And perhaps their company is aimless, but Katherine is content, and so is Anna.

And one day when they are alone and together at night at the palace. Katherine tilts her head at Anna. Teach me how to dance, she whispers to her. My teachers had always found me unteachable. They said, and it was with a giggle that she kept within the confines of her throat, that I was unruly. Unfocused. Diffuse.

You would not learn much from me, then, Anna says, her lips curled in jest.

She feels something play by her mouth. She meets Anna’s eyes again, tilts her head. I would pay attention to the Queen.

Anna laughs. Take my hand, then.

They dance. And it is so quiet, then. Katherine isn’t sure what she was expecting. But Anna’s hand is soft, and her arms on Katherine’s shoulders are not invasive. What they do, is just that, as Katherine’s asked: they dance.

And sometimes, when it is only just them there in Court, Anna asks for Katherine’s hand. And Katherine fancies herself in a ballroom dance; in Hampton Court, maybe, or Richmond, during festivities: on St. Valentine’s day, perhaps.

It is there where they dance. In the centre of the room, next to nobilities and courtiers, yet they are too far away to touch. Where music ebbs by and invigorates the air in currents and flows.

They sway, to nothing at all.

(And sometimes, when Katherine gazes into Anna’s passionate eyes, her unrepentant fervour, her vigour and her smile , her heart flutters, ever so slightly.)

Yet it is so transient, like a flickering firefly to the ever-tenebrous night.

(And when she is raised Queen. It is as if that feeling were never there at all.)

And she is raised Queen, and she stands, in the hallways, next to Anna. Katherine is not Queen, not yet: it is not her coronation, yet, not yet in July. Yet Anna is no longer Queen, annulled, was what she had overheard from the courtiers.

It has been a while since they had spoken.

“You don’t need to marry him,” Katherine says to Anna, finally. A sad smile lifts her lips.

Anna’s jaw is set. There is a storm of emotion, Katherine knows, that is concentrated on her face. But it is kept under trellises and stone.

“Not at your expense.”

“I know,” Katherine says, quietly. She looks away from her eyes. “But I am truly happy for you. Anna.”

Anna shakes her head. It is like there is something she is about to say. But she leaves it. And Katherine meets, reads, her eyes.

I am not. Not for you.

And she does not understand why her heart aches so, not really. When, later, she turns her gaze away from Anna to Henry. She only understands that she aches.

(That word, Katherine would later come to understand, is saudade. Where the pit in her stomach. Tells her of what meets her in the future. Where her glimmering eyes. Brim, involuntarily, for they would not see each other again. Not truly.)

(Where she longs. For a time when Katherine were simply a lady-in-waiting, and Anna simply the Queen. For their conversations, for their dances, for their entwined hands, for their boundless laughter. For her firefly heart.)

(Katherine knows she cannot long. Not for long. And yet.)

Henry is repulsive.

And that is a shared sentiment. Anna shares it, with a scowl, contemptuous, from the day she had landed on England and beyond. Katherine’s own ladies-in-waiting share it, with a flitting laugh. She takes comfort in it. Good, she thinks, relief in her mind. I’m not… I’m not wrong. There’s nothing wrong with me.

But as her ladies-in-waiting make idle talk about Henry’s less-than-desirable state, they also make talk, other talk : Have you seen that courtier today? God above, he is gorgeous. Dudley, was that his name? He stirs in me a hot flame under my skin. What is with the nobility? What they can render me…

She is not even safe from that talk in the Royal Court. For, despite how much they are the King’s royal servants, appointed to serve, she still hears the courtiers speak.

…. who else finds your fancy, my lords?

I say she. How dainty, how delicate is she? Truly a fine, full, comely creature. So sensual in her beauty. So nubile in her fertility. How much I desire her…

They continue. And although they are not speaking of her. Katherine cannot help but feel isolated from them all.

Loneliness encroaches her. It delves down her skin, swathes across her limbs, until she is huddling and shivering and so cold. Loneliness makes her enclose herself, as their obstreperous conversations seep in her ears and she suppresses her repine. Loneliness is nighttime, when her ladies-in-waiting have dispelled and it is only she and him trapped in darkness.

And he parts her legs every night and she struggles and gasps and she quells herself.

No. She is supposed to enjoy this.

And she squashes the anxiety percolating through her skin. Even as he makes her lay on the bed and he crawls above her. A beast imposing. Panting. Wanting.

She looks away. She pretends that the windows are windows and not trellises that grip stone like she is in the Tower itself. She forces her eyes to the moonlit night and thinks of her virginity, thinks of her duty.

Henry reaches for her cheeks. He smashes her mouth against his. His breath is hot and his odour is heavy. His fingers wrangle through her hair, desperate, seeking, he wants her, he wants her, he wants everything of her.

And she is an orb, crushed between the weight of his grasp.

She lets him do it. She lets him touch her. And she lets him and she shudders with breaths that he thinks is pleasure. She lets him assume.

(And it is better, when dawn murks through the whole of England, and he gets off her, brushes himself off, makes his way towards his kingly duties. But gloom settles all the same, when it is night. And Katherine bites down a wince every single time his eyes go feverish with desire.)

It is then when she meets Thomas Culpepper.

She does not know what to think when she first sees him. For he was all-too reminiscent of those courtiers, the ones that would leer at ladies when they pass by.

But he is not.

He is kind, and he is all she needs, really. A confidant, a friend. And her heart is elated, for he does not comment upon any lady’s looks, nor does he ask her whether any man catches her eyes.

He guides the conversation. Of court affairs, of England and the world, of nature and birds. Sometimes, it enters into more personal areas: of her home life, of her time with Anna, of life with the King. But she is comfortable.

(And there is something that stays in her stomach. A certain gratitude. For she does not need to fear, when she is with Culpepper. She is no longer isolated, when she is with him. He is her companion. Her friend.)

(And some days, she allows herself to think that, perhaps, he is like her. He is disinterested in… the carnal calls of flesh, too. And Katherine knows that there is still something wrong in her, for she is supposed to love , she can’t not , but then, at least, she is not the only one.)

Until his hands snake across her waist and she feels the unbidden press of his cold fingers upon her skin. Until she had looked up at him, a question in her eyes. And panic resounds her insides.

Never have I seen a sultrier woman than you, Katherine Howard…

(And if she’s being honest to herself… it isn’t the first time. His fingers had always lingered a moment too long, on her hands, as he’d helped her off her horse. And his hands had caressed her cheeks, had slunk down her neck, despite how she shrugs away from her touch.)

His hands, like spiders creeping upon their prey, a foreboding madness latent in his grasp. Slinging his arm over her shoulders. Upon her back. Upon her stomach. On her ass.

But she wanted to pretend. She wanted a friend. Why couldn’t she— why couldn’t he—why couldn’t any of them—

And he’s boring into her, his eyes, and they are sharp-cold-curious, anger quivers in his blood-red mouth, and—

Do you not want me?

Katherine looks into his eyes. Into his glinting eyes and his fair face and his heaving chest and his chivalric pretence.

She shakes her head. The no is muted under her breath. Fractured by her heartbreak.

I thought—I thought you were just—I thought you didn’t want —

Katherine, he scowls. Exasperation on his lips. This is ridiculous. Do you not know love? Do you not know want, do you not know desire? Such a fair creature like you cannot not want.

She freezes.

(Does she not know love? She is supposed to. That is the ultimate union: of man and woman, tangled in love, tangled in flesh. That is God’s gift: love in sensuality, love in physicality, love in creation, the fostering of a child of perfect likeness.)

(She… can’t not love. That is… unholy. She should have at least reciprocated Mannox’s affections of her bodily frame. She’s supposed to relish in Dereham’s body, after he had loved her so. She’s ordained to love Henry, by God, for she’s the Queen, that is what she is supposed to be. Yet she can barely contain a scream when he is with her at night. She’s supposed to love Culpepper. The courtier admired by all the ladies-in-waiting, the courtier so handsome that it would be incomprehensible to reject him. That’s what she’s supposed to feel, especially after all that time of companionship, of courting, is that not?)

(But she doesn’t, and it is sinful, it is. Who has heard of a wife that physically cannot bring herself to love her husband? And not just that—but unable to take pleasures in the joys of flesh, unable to reconcile with the sight of unclad bodies? Disinterested in skin, in sensuality, in intimate connection?)

(There’s something gravely wrong with her. Something so fundamentally broken in her. And she is immoral for her relationships, she is false for her pretending, she is reprehensible. Was this punishment? Why can’t she feel?)

Her breaths go erratic. She hopes Culpepper does not see her freeze.

Culpepper’s eyes narrow. And his voice is low, she is uncomfortable, but she fixes her eyes ahead, still, forces herself to still.

Katherine. You are not frigid, are you? Do you not want anyone?

She swallows. His eyes go dark.

No matter. I'll make you love me.

I will redeem you.

I will save you.

(I’ll fix you.)

Culpepper reaches for her body. He rakes his fingers down her back. He grabs her hair and pulls so hard it sears her scalp. He roams over her chest thigh hips —

She sobs. She hurts.

She hates him.

She lets him.

And Henry discovers then, and she is dead, of course, and yet an irrevocable laugh sears her throat. And it is almost a choke, for, oh.

If it is not doing what she loves best.

Anna brings her to the others, after she returns to life again.

(They separate, after their hug. And Katherine keeps to herself, for her skin still feels tender, so delicate, so much like a newborn’s and she clutches to it, for she does not quite believe that she is here. Hisses from ghosts linger amid her breaths, and electric static runs through her heart.)

Perhaps that is why her first meeting with the Queens does not turn out to be the… best.

“Welcome!”

It’s like a dozen voices chorus at once, and Katherine cringes, because the noise, the chaos, the flurry is almost overwhelming. And then there is chatter, and then there are faces, then there are hands on her…

She flinches. His fingers drag through her hair. His words lurk by her ear. I love you, don’t you love me, don’t you like my touch, touch, touch…

“Don’t touch me.” Katherine snaps.

They all jolt away, immediately, at once. And the sensation disappears, just as fast as they come. She quells the tremble in her hands. Knots her knuckles into her dress and forces them to stop.

Katherine lets out a breath. Maybe someone says something: through the groggy murk that is by her ears, somebody probably does. But she steels her breaths.

“I’m sorry,” she says, a bare whisper in her throat.

“Don’t apologise,” says a voice. Katherine lifts her head to meet Anna’s eyes. They’re glinting. “I am glad we have you back, Katherine.”

She stifles the sob. She lets a soft smile rest by her lips. She looks around, and sees the rest, looking back at her. Some faces are kind; some are with concern; some are with half, not quite, smiles. All without judgement.

She says, “I’m glad to be here, too.”

The adjustment, at first, is not… easy.

Especially not when she is living with five other Queens, the only thing in common is their mutual ex-husband, and too much unresolved tension, unresolved drama to behold.

Katherine would not have minded. Not before. She was, after all, in a factious Court, one which its favour swayed between the Howards and their enemies.

But this was a different sort of drama. This was Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon at one another’s throats; and when it was not that then it would be Boleyn against Parr, over Elizabeth; this was Jane Seymour attempting to quell the nonsense which did not help matters anyhow.

Perhaps she should have stayed at Anna’s home. At least she would be able to have some sort of peace and quiet, then.

But what the other Queens do have is boundaries. What they have is respect. For they have endured the same man together in their old lives.

(She doesn’t let any of them touch her. Not so soon; not yet. Her skin is tender, and her wounds sink deep. Listless dreams made of men pervade her head. No: she does not need touch, now.)

They respect her. They don’t ask.

And that is all she can ask for. She is glad.

(And Katherine later learns that what they have is mutability, too. Arguments resolve; apologies are made; pasts are put in the past. And while resentments remain, they dissipate, with compromise, with understanding. And that, perhaps, is as good as they can achieve.)

Slowly. Katherine gets better.

It is not long, then, after. After she’d broken down about her past. That their guards crash into sand. That pity suffuses their eyes. She knows she cannot get away from it. And Katherine resents it, really. But there is another emotion, too, that twines in her stomach, for being…. cared about.

They teach her. And Katherine learns. Of her past. Of her life.

(And one day, when she feels ready enough, her fingers stray to the handle of the opaque bookshelf. Katherine grips the book of survivors that Jane had brought her. She inhales a quiet breath, and begins to read.)

She does not tell them everything. She cannot. But they see the shame that flushes her face. They see the pain that wrenches her eyes. They see her huddle in on herself, they see her tuck her head between her legs, they see her quench her quiet sobs.

Those men were wrong. They took advantage of her. They molded her, shaped her, groomed her. They gaslit her. And, of course, she would not desire them. She was a mere child back then. That is what the other Queens comfort her with.

No , she says, shakes her head. You don’t understand. I… I know it’s wrong, but they… weren’t entirely wrong. Culpepper was… trying to help. And Katherine averts their aghast eyes, extricates the next words from her throat.

It is not just… that. I’m wrong.

Disbelief echoes in Parr’s eyes. Confusion’s in Aragon’s. Pain’s in Jane’s. Anger’s in Anne’s.

Why?

Yet every time she tries to speak, she cannot convey what she means. And so Katherine shrugs, lets out a small sigh, and smiles. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve mentioned it. Just pretend I didn’t say anything. Never mind.

And she leaves, despite the calls in protest behind.

(She goes to her room, those times, then. Shuts the door. Curls in on herself. And prevents all thought from conspiring in her mind.)

But after those times. There is always Anna, who checks upon her. Who knocks on her door. Who asks if there is anything Katherine wants. Who takes her leave, if Katherine does not speak.

(And there is no question, no judgement, no anything in her eyes. Those days when Katherine opens her door for Anna. Anna simply lets Katherine talk, and their chatter is idle, as aimless as before. But it is like before, and that is a safety blanket that environs her, a feeling that she had not known she needed, not until they were reborn and present and here. )

And sometimes, if Katherine was brave enough, she would tilt her head, look up to Anna’s eyes, exhale a breath. Anna. Would you like to dance?

(And there is a certain feeling that stirs in her gut, when she takes Anna’s hand, when they take their positions in Katherine’s bedroom, when she closes her eyes and finds herself in an empty ballroom.)

(Fireflies. She thinks. It has been a while.)

They’re in a circle, playing a game. Katherine isn’t sure what’s brought this on, exactly, but her overenthusiastic cousin had dragged them all into a so-called Game Night and so. Here they are.

“… yes, that’s my choice on who to bed, shut up, Anne. That leaves me to marry Beckham. And I think beheading Henry is a no brainer.”

Anne’s eyes, tinged with mischievousness, light up at the last one. “I like your taste!” she exclaims. “Is that some revenge for me?”

Parr rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Anne. Of course it is.”

Aragon scoffs at the sight, though her amusement’s evident in her eyes. Jane doesn’t even try to hide her amusement. Katherine watches Anne nuzzle into Parr’s shoulder. And, unbidden, a slight smile twinges her lips, too.

Anne must catch her stare because she extricates herself from Parr, and Katherine raises an eyebrow at the cunning smile wreathed upon her cousin’s face.

“It’s your turn, Katherine! Wed, bed, behead.”

From beside Katherine, Anna rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you just say fuck, marry, kill, like everyone else?”

“Shut up, Anna! It’s funnier this way.”

Anne rats off a few names. Their faces float somewhere in the back of Katherine’s mind. And she feels unease creep up her neck. She hasn’t really thought about what this game entails, until, well…

“... so, what do you think? What’s your verdict? And c’mon, Kat, don’t tell me that you don’t know. You’ve got to have a preference!”

Their faces are distinct, but distilled. And Katherine tries to make them clearer, for clarity in her mind. But even as she does, and even as the other Queens clamour, they’re the one with the abs to die for, he’s the one that’s a straight-up hunk, she’s the one that’s so freaking hot…

Katherine stares.

“I…”

Their words do not help her decide. And she knows there is a correct answer, knows there is a consensus that everybody agrees upon. Yet finding that out is another guessing-game in itself, like attempting to pry a sight from a stone vice.

“Oh, come on, he’s so sexy. Total smash?”

“She’s so hot? Like… so fit? Don’t tell me you don’t see that, Katherine!”

“Oh, come on! You can’t kill him! ”

“I—I don’t know,” she says, flushes. Panic spikes in her stomach, and she wants to leave, yet she feels so trapped, here. Because it’s like she’s back in Court again—amid the ladies-in-waiting, amid the courtiers and the noblemen, listening but not there, feeling a little colder the more the words exited their lips, a basilisk curling in her stomach…

Not because she truly doesn’t know. She knows, she does. There are men who are the definition of a knight, and women a definition of a fair maiden. There are people that are sculpted like Greek gods. There are people that she could watch, entranced, in minutes: for they were like nature embodied.

But she doesn’t know by their measure.

(Her measure is this, which she had used back in Court, whenever she had to participate in such discourse. Facial evenness. Body shape. Whether they wore short cloth or studded tunics. Yet, and this is when Katherine realises, yet they mean as much to her as a grain of salt does.)

They’re staring at her expectantly. She knows she’s supposed to say something. And it’s easy, really; her words slipped from her like water in the Royal Court. He is ravishing; so fanciable; irresistible, bedabble. She was so good at it, they branded her a vixen, a whore, a sex-addict for it.

But her throat’s dry and she realises she cannot speak. She does not want to say the same. Not to them.

(Not for them to see how wrong, how abnormal, how broken she is. Not for them to know that they aren’t guilty, not as much as they paint Mannox or Dereham or Henry or Culpepper out to be, because fuck, she detests what they’ve done to her, what they’ve done torments her at night, but they were doing it for her. )

“I don’t know,” Katherine finally says, letting out a small, quiet breath. “I—I’m gonna go.”

She gets up and leaves, despite their protests. She crosses her arms. Her stomach knots, as she advances up the stairs. She huddles in on herself, once she arrives at her bed. She closes her eyes, and lets out a long, shuddery breath.

Her room is colder than before. And she should stay there, really, until she drifts off into bed, until the nightmares tap her windows and trespasses into her mind’s eye.

But Anna doesn’t let her.

There’s a knock, two, three, at her door. Katherine? And Anna enters, before Katherine can respond because she’s so exhausted.

And before she can stop herself, a sardonic retort pulls from her lips, powdered with a smile. “Barging in on rooms today, are we, Anna?”

“Only checking up on my favourite Queen of England,” replies Anna, and a light laugh shakes Katherine’s chest; at least she doesn’t take it as a jab.

“But if you really want me to go. I’m sorry. I can leave—”

“No, don’t.” And there’s an unspoken please that stays between her words.

Anna stays. Katherine looks to her side; to the walls, to anything but Anna’s eyes.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Anna asks. “I’m… sorry, if that game triggered anything.”

“It didn’t.” Katherine says.

There’s a moment of silence that diffuses between them. And the awkwardness is nigh-high in the air, oh so uncomfortable, almost as if she was back to where they began: Katherine, a lady-in-waiting at Court, fretfully counting down the minutes until the Queen’s arrival.

“What’s this about, then?”

Katherine lets out a low laugh. “Nothing. I just… needed a moment, is all. Think I had too much to drink.”

Anna’s belief, or lack thereof, is even starker after Katherine utters her words. And something curls in her chest, because she at least could’ve found a better excuse, or she could’ve said it earlier. Because now Anna’s waiting for her to say something, especially after Katherine’s told her to stay, and…

“... I don’t know,” Katherine says, sighs, tries to put a smile on her lips. “Look, Anna… I really appreciate you being here. Truly. But…” and her words falter.

Another pause.

“Katherine… you know you can talk to me about anything.”

No. No, I can’t. And yet even as those words echo in her mind, she knows it isn’t really true. She has spoken to Anna about everything; back in the Court, and now. So instead, she settles with:

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Give me your worst.”

Katherine feels something struggle by the ends of her lips. “Do you really want to know?”

Anna gives one nod.

Katherine exhales. She turns her head away, and a burn creeps onto her face, and she closes her eyes because she can’t meet Anna’s face.

“Fine. They raped me. And it was my fault.”

Nothing, for a moment. And then another. Katherine swallows and opens her eyes.

Anna’s eyes are wide. She stands, in stunned silence, for a moment, until her eyes narrow, until she shakes her head vigorously. “Katherine! It’s not your fault. I cannot conceive how it can be your fault, Katherine. They forced themselves on you!”

Guilt sloshes in her stomach. Katherine lets out a breath. Forces her words out of her throat. “No… no, it’s not just that. I didn’t tell you everything. He… he wanted to fix me.”

“What?”

She huddles in on herself. “I said what I said. I let them.”

Another moment. And another. And another. And Katherine doesn’t know what Anna’s thinking, and she doesn’t know, doesn’t know if she wants to know that it’s revulsion or confusion that colours her face, doesn’t want to know if judgement or aghastness that lines her eyes . But Katherine can’t bear the silence.

Please say something.

She takes another look at Anna. And something inexplicable reigns on Anna’s face. And then, the last thing Katherine expects tumbles out of Anna’s mouth.

“Katherine... what do you think of men?”

“What do you mean?” She scoffs, quietly, as if to hide the recoil in her chest. “I think you know what level of esteem I hold men in.”

Anna shakes her head. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean… how would you describe them? Physically?”

… what?

“Bodies. Flesh. Faces,” she says, without really thinking, and heat tinges her cheeks, because what is she supposed to say?

“... of course, their faces can be pleasing to see, but that is… merely that.”

Anna stares at her. “Is that really how you see men?”

“Am I wrong?”

That coaxes a chuckle out of Anna. “No, not wrong. What about women, then?”

Katherine stays there, bewildered, for a moment. Till finally, she finds the words on her lips.

“They are… bodies, of course. Flesh and faces. And their faces are certainly beautiful, of course. Like marble stone. It is not… I’m not… men and women are both beautiful. Like sunsets, or paintings, or well-crafted statues.”

“... Aesthetically so?”

Katherine nods. And even as she does she feels a sinking feeling in her chest. Because now Anna’s going to understand, now Anna’s going to know, and yet she cannot stop the words from forming on her lips.

“Yes, I suppose that’s it. They are aesthetically beautiful.”

There is a moment of quiet between them.

“Katherine…” and Anna gnaws her lips, “… do you feel sexual attraction?”

And there.

“W-what?” she says, and it escapes her throat, almost a laugh—yet the sound is more strangled than that.

“Like… how do I put this.” Anna exhales. “Do you see someone, and do you desire them?”

“I—I think they’re beautiful, of course.”

“But do you want them?”

She’s about to say of course when she stills. No, no.

She cannot lie.

For this is Anna.

(And, involuntarily, she thinks of when she was a child. She thinks of men and courtiers, of women and their laughter. Of bodies pulsating against bodies.Of skin grinding against skin. Gasps. Sweat. Breaths. Of slimy bodies and of repugnant odour and screams. Of crevasses that remind her of bodybags.)

Something bitter reigns on Katherine’s lips.

“... no, I don’t. See? There’s something broken in me, something unnatural, Anna, I—”

And she falters. Anna looks at her: with concern, with care.

And gentleness not before heard in her voice presses through Anna’s tone, so soft, so quiet. “Katherine, have you heard of asexuality before?”

And there is something that chokes at the back of her throat. As she looks at articles and comments and statements. Asexuality.

Because she thought she was wrong and thought she was broken and it didn’t make sense, not before.

But she trawls through articles. She trawls through what other people say and it hits. Their words make sense. They resonate.

This… this is her.

(And she remembers how she’d cried, then, into Anna’s shoulder. And she remembers when Anna held her. And had murmured.)

(They were wrong. They are wrong for wronging you. You are not wrong, Katherine. Don’t you dare say that you are wrong, that you are abhorrent, that you are broken . You are not. You are yourself. And there is nothing wrong with you.)

She isn’t alone.

(She never was, not really. But she just never… knew.)

They didn’t believe it when she’d said it; not at first, the moment she’d gathered everyone in the living room, told them she had something to say.

“I’m asexual. That means... I don’t feel… sexual attraction. Not towards others. Not to anyone.”

But the Queens’ eyes are wide and there is a glimmer of a smile that hangs off their lips. And Katherine feels something twitch by her mouth, too.

“Thank you for trusting us enough to tell us, Katherine,” says Jane, softly. “We love you no matter what.”

Her cousin has mischief made in her eyes. Parr’s own are sparkling. And Anna is smiling with the knowledge already.

She tells them. Because, unlike the Court, where her pretence was given, she doesn’t want to convince them of the same. She wants to tell them. Who she is. Herself, whole and herself.

And there are questions, of course; there always are questions. But they are made in good faith, they are genuine queries, and Anna is there to help her answer, too.

By the end of it all, Anne cocks her head. “Can I ask you a question, Katherine?”

(And it’s serious, she knows: for Anne, so taken to calling her a variety of nicknames, had never really called her by her full name, at all.)

Katherine nods.

“Is that because of them?”

Because of what they’ve done to you?

Katherine muses this, for a moment.

“No,” she finally says. “No, I don’t think so.”

Because. It is undeniable that they’ve... changed her. Despite how much she hates that they have. That she wishes it were not so. They’ve changed her. But not that way.

“I think I’ve always been…” and she tries the words on her lips. Half a smile perks by her mouth. “Ace.”

And they embrace her, there, and then.

(She lets them.)

And, perhaps, it comes to this.

Katherine Howard does not know love.

Not sexual love, at least. But sexual love is not all there is to love. And it does not mean that she is broken, that she is lesser, if she doesn’t want it.

(And… she’s still thinking about romantic love. She isn’t sure, not yet, at least. Perhaps she is aromantic; perhaps she is not. She’s not ruling anything out yet. She’s patient. She’ll wait and see.)

(Yet: the flutter in her chest when she sees Anna, implies, perhaps, something else.)

What Katherine does know, however, is this:

She knows love.

She knows love made with care, with zest, with euphoria.

She knows familial love.

(She knows romantic love.)

And that kind of love is all she wants. That love is what she needs.

(Katherine Howard does not know love; not at first, not all of its forms and its intricacies. But, she thinks. She does, now.)

“How about… I’m the ten amongst these threes?”

“Anne!”

“What? Let Katherine decide if she likes it or not!”

Katherine stifles a laugh in the back of her throat. She looks between an exasperated Anna to a far-too-happily expectant cousin. “I like the irony in me judging you all for your looks.”

“See! She likes it!”

“Only the irony, Anne.” Katherine says, a hint of a smile upon her lips. “I will never not enjoy the fact that the most sexual song is sung by the most asexual person of this group.”

Anne laughs. “Me too, Kat. And we love you for it.”

“Yeah,” Katherine says, and a certain warmth pools in her heart, despite how much her words are sunken in humour. “I know you all do.”

A/N. Hi all!

Thank you so much for reading. I feel like this fic is almost an amalgamation of Breathe For Them and Dance For Them; and I hope you’ve enjoyed it! I really have writing it.

Pertaining historical accuracy, the sequence of events are the same that of Breathe For Them and Dance For Them; obviously, I’ve taken a fair few liberties. A few comments about appearances are anachronistic, and probably what might be improbable was the Royal Court talk about men, since female sexuality was frowned upon. However, court gossip did exist, which is what I’d mostly basing those scenes on.

About Katherine’s sexuality—I headcanon Six!Katherine as ace homoromantic, who feels aesthetic attraction; which interweaves with the Don’t series overall.

I know that it’s been a hot second since I’ve stepped my toes into this fandom, and it’s been so much fun revisiting Katherine after… almost a year. But I hope you guys liked this anyhow!

#six the musical #katherine howard #anna of cleves #ace katherine howard #implied katanna #my fics

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the-great-bbe · 3 years

Note

How about something with Rhaenys/Garlan?

Setting: Regency Era!AU, “I have nothing to give but my heart so full and these empty hands.” “They're not empty now.”

Note: Marei of Oldstones is the Westerosi version of Marie de France, a 12th century poet whose work influenced the Arthurian Cycle. And yes, it was a common pastime for learned ladies to discuss the phallic imagery ever present in medieval romances lolol the tumblr instinct has been around for centuries

It begins as simple admiration. He is Margaery’s favorite chaperone, as Willas can’t keep up with her merry chases and Loras enables her chases to become proper misadventures. So he is the one that Mama sends to court when Margaery becomes lady companion to Crown Princess Rhaenys. And what a court it is—Queen Regent Elia rules with grace and glitter, and all the courtiers gossip enough to make dear Grandmama herself lean in. Here Garlan can train with the finest of knights, read from the royal libraries, discuss with like-minded lords and ladies about the progressive new laws that the Queen Regent is putting forward...

And then there is the Princess herself.

Tall, with rich olive skin and black ringlets cascading down her back. Her face is soft and round, balanced by full lips and large eyes—oh, her eyes! Garlan has never seen such eyes outside of paintings, an impossible shade of black-violet. And when he first sees those eyes, she is smiling at him. He cannot help but smile back.

It’s not just that she is beautiful, of course. Her mind is a treasure beyond words. One day she and Grand Maester Tyrion have a three hour long debate about the origins of dragons in the courtyard. Garlan nearly swoons like a green maid to hear the strength of her arguments, the logic she wove like silk in a loom. And even Tyrion concedes defeat to her, as most people end up doing to the Crown Princess. When Rhaenys takes her leave to give her mother company, Garlan bows. “An excellent battle, Your Highness. I’ve never seen a Field of Fire through words alone before and yet we all are blown away.”

“Thank you, Ser Garlan.” She smiles and there’s faint dimples in her cheeks; the sight nearly makes Garlan swoon again! “Care to escort me to the Queen’s apartments?”

Of course. Her hand is a warm weight in the crook of his arm and truly, Garlan is surprised she is not betrothed yet. She is eighteen, of age to take the throne in her own right were it not for her father in the sanitarium on Dragonstone, and easily the loveliest creature on the gods’ green earth. Perhaps she will marry Lord Robb Stark for his bloodline, or Ser Joffrey Baratheon for his riches. Had Willas not eloped with Leonette Fossoway to Braavos he too would’ve been a contender. Grandmama will probably throw the Tarly girls at Garlan, or perhaps a girl from the Riverlands...

“Your eyes seem far away, Ser. Does anything trouble you?”

Garlan shakes himself. “It’s nothing, Your Highness. I’m simply wondering when I shall become an uncle.”

“Yes, I hope my wedding present to your brother Lord Willas and his wife Lady Leonette survived the ship to Essos.” Her gaze flickers away for a moment, then she squeezes his arm. “Join my lady mother and I for tea? Perhaps you can give your perspective on elopement, as my dear brother Aegon intended to run off with Shireen Baratheon in their “doomed romance” when we’d much rather just give them Summerhall.”

“Ser Garlan! Do join us!” Rhaenys sits on a large picnic blanket with Marg, a gaggle of other ladies and Rhaenys’s fearsome cat Balerion. Prince Oberyn, Rhaenys’s uncle and practical second father, keeps watch over them and nods at Garlan. They are in the shade of a gigantic plum blossom tree given as a gift from the Emperor of Yi-Ti, and there’s a few petals fallen into her hair. Unthinkingly, Garlan sits by her side and brushes them loose, and he shivers from the feel of her hair between his fingers. Rhaenys asks, “Tell us, have you read the words of Marei of Oldstones?”

“Yes, her poetry influenced the Arthurian Epic did she not?” Epic tales set in the Dawn Age of heroes and fair maidens and wretched monsters. Garlan remembers being still in leading strings, listening to Papa read him and his siblings a passage before bed each night.

“We were discussing some of the themes in in the Epic and other tales of its kind.” Marg gives him a grin that sends a shiver down his spine. Gods, what is she up to now? “About the imagery of a knight rescuing a princess from a tower. What do you make of it?”

“I...”

Sansa Stark hides a giggle behind her folding fan. “It’s always a giant tower, so very large and impressive.” Then she and little Allyria Dayne dissolve into giggles.

Garlan tugs on his collar. Rhaenys is looking at him expectantly and he can’t ignore his future queen. But really! Marg is still grinning and Garlan narrows his eyes at her. Oh, he’ll get her for this. “It is quite a juxtaposition of imagery. As Lady Sansa said, the tower the knight must handle is always a tall and imposing one. Yet...”

“Yet?”

Garlan prays to the gods for guidance. “Yet the knight must enter the tower. So truly, what function is the imagery in this context?”

Walda Frey—Loras once called her Fat Walda at a feast and she gave him a split lip and a black eye, so now Garlan defers to her as the very best of Waldas—whispers to Marg, “Better than just scaling up and down its walls in its lonesome.”

The ladies giggle and Garlan wants to sink into the floor. Then Rhaenys laughs. “Well put! Thank you for indulging us.” She pauses, then cocks her head and Garlan wonders when the mild spring day got so warmer so quickly. “Indulge us again: do you prefer the sword, or the joust?”

“I prefer handling two swords at once, although I am no green boy when it comes to the joust.” Marg might just choke to death on her stifled giggles and Garlan hopes that she does! But there’s a hint of red to Rhaenys’s ears, and what mild flirtation ever hurt anyone? “At the next tourney, I’ll do my best to impress you.”

“Perhaps I’ll give you my favor as a good luck charm. We can’t have me being unimpressed, can we?”

Indeed, they can not. Garlan would love nothing more for her to admire him, as he admires her.

“Your Highness,” Garlan licks his lips, as they are as dry as a Dornish desert. His words catch in his throat. Then Marg in the stands motions at him to continue, Prince Oberyn himself sends him a wink...and he says, “I crown you, Princess Rhaenys, as my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The crowd erupts into cheers. It was a very hard joust won, as Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard nearly dislocated Garlan’s shoulder and Lord Robb was no one to be trifled with. But at the end he threw even his brother Loras down to the dirt—as if his trick of using a mare would work on Garlan! Not after the tourney at Longtable where Garlan broke his nose!—and won the crown of jonquils and morning glories. They look so beautiful in Rhaenys’s hair, almost as beautiful as Rhaenys herself.

Rhaenys’s reply is nearly lost beneath the deafening roar, but Garlan hears it all too well. “I am honored and delighted to be crowned by such a noble and true knight as you.” And her favor, tied neatly around his arm beneath his armor, seems to catch alight.

He has nothing to offer her, other than this crown of flowers and his hand in the dances to come. He is a second son of a family with many mouths to feed, with no kingly descent or heirloom sword. She shall marry someone worthy to take his place at her side as Prince Consort, and he...he shall content himself with the feeling of her hand in his.

He bows over that lovely hand and kisses her knuckles.

Later that night, after hours of dancing and feasting and laughing and chasing, he kisses her knuckles again. And again, and again, and again. Until Rhaenys pulls him up from his knees and kisses him with lips as soft as spring and rich as wine. Beneath that plum blossom tree with no one to witness them other than the moon and stars reflecting in her impossibly beautiful eyes, no other sound than their shared breath against each other’s lips and Garlan whispering “I think I’m in love with you.”

He kisses her before she can tell him they cannot be. He cannot bear it.

“Do you love my daughter, Ser Garlan?”

Garlan can hardly breathe before the presence of the Queen Regent Elia Martell. So much of Rhaenys’s bold beauty is from her mother, and the Queen Regent has decades of power behind her piercing gaze. But he is no liar. He jerks a nod. “With all my life, Your Majesty.”

She nods, as if it were a foregone conclusion. She is not wrong in that, as the entirety of Kings Landing must know that Garlan would gladly die for Rhaenys, and live for her as well. Even Papa knows, and Papa hardly knows anything! After an eternity of being sized up and raked over the coals of the Queen Regent’s eyes, she sighs. “You are not my first choice, but you are not my last. If my daughter consents to it, I give my blessing to officially court her.”

Truly? Truly?! Garlan gapes like an idiot, or perhaps some ill-bred fish. And the Queen Regent laughs; she sounds so much like Rhaenys. “I encourage you not to make that same face when you ask for her permission.”

Garlan, after bowing and scraping as much as he can without fainting, eventually leaves the royal solar. Marg immediately tackles him and cackles that her hopes have gone swimmingly, and her best friend shall be her sister. Then she pulls him along to gods know where while Garlan’s head reels.

He? To court Rhaenys? To hold her hand in his and not let it go? Garlan’s knees nearly give out, especially when Willas and Loras both clap their hands on his shoulders. “Grandmama will finally be proud of us, I think,” Loras boasts.

“Her Highness has not even consented yet!”

Marg rolls her eyes “Garlan, I love you, but you are as thick as molasses. Now go confess your love to her!” She practically shoves him towards Rhaenys’s plum blossom tree. “And kiss her! With tongue!”

He stumbles into the tree and nearly into Balerion. The cat blinks up at him to say he is a fool, then slinks away to a laughing Aegon’s arms. “Ser Garlan! Are you alright?”

“Y-Your Highness, I...” Garlan peeks around the tree to see Rhaenys on the other side, standing with something hiding behind her back. She catches his questioning gaze, and flushes a pretty red before revealing a knitted scarf. “For your brother, my princess?”

“For you, actually.” She bites her bottom lip before puffing herself up. “I intend to ask my lady mother the Queen Regent if we would be allowed to court. With your consent of course! I would never presume that you would wish to—”

“I was just given permission by Her Majesty to ask for your permission.”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Rhaenys giggles into her palm. Garlan melts, and finally asks, “Would you like me to court you, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” She presses the scarf into his hands, and leans up to murmur in his ear, “And please, call me Rhaenys.”

He shivers. “Rhaenys.” All is right with the world it seems, just from the sound of her name on his lips.

Garlan smiles despite the tears in his eyes. “Rhaenys, are you sure? I have nothing to give but my heart so full and these empty hands.”

“They're not empty now.” Rhaenys squeezes their hands together.

Then she cloaks him in her house colors, and Garlan is hers, hers forever and always, just as he was always meant to be.

#rhaenys targaryen/garlan tyrell #asoiaf fanfiction #becky blue eyes #victorian au #yes i stole that quote from little women sue me #sunontherhoyne

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laurasimonsdaughter · 4 years

Text

Life May Linger

Urban Fantasy with a couple of witchy, poly boys, 3k.

Cw: swearing, non-pov injury and unconciousness, anxiety, animal skulls, blood, nail biting, imagery of death, necromancy-like magic

The incantations didn’t have to be said out loud for them to work, but it felt more natural to Noah than sitting and staring in silence. So he had been chanting his throat raw, only stopping to soothe the ache with one of his herbal teas whenever he felt he couldn’t go on. His client – for lack of a better word – had dutifully brought him whatever ingredients he’d asked for, but had refused to drink any of the tea himself. Privately Noah thought that a calming drink might have done the guy some good; with every hour that passed, the dread that Noah felt seeping out of Damiri had gotten more oppressive. In all fairness, Noah suspected that his own emotions probably weren’t having a particularly calming effect on Damiri either right now. Being an empath had to be hell at times. Maybe that was why he barely spoke. Noah was sure he wouldn’t even have told him his name if Noah had not insisted on it.

Noah felt his voice give way, cracking hoarsely in the middle of a sentence. It made Damiri start upright in his chair in the corner. He had been biting on the skin around his nails, slowly ruining them.

“Did something happen?” His voice sounded almost as raw as Noah’s.

“No,” Noah shook his head, taking a sip from the strangely dainty cup Damiri had brought him. “Nothing bad, just me.”

Damiri let out a shaky breath and glanced down at the still body on the makeshift bed. It looked very out of place in the strange basement room that Noah had been forced to make into his crafting space. He only knew the name of his patient because he overheard Damiri mutter it to him. Aiden. Noah had a vague notion it meant ‘fire’. But he was trying not to think about that, because the way Aiden was lying there, with Noah’s treasured skulls placed carefully around him like clusters of pale flowers, he looked like he had been laid out on a funeral pyre. He was like a fairy tale stuck in a tragedy, all pale skin and black hair draping down…

In his corner, Damiri had begun to bounce his leg. “It’s been ten hours.”

Noah made an effort to meet his eyes and tried not to see the despair glittering in the brown. “It often takes time.”

“Ten hours?” There was a sharp edge to Damiri’s voice and Noah looked away.

He still hadn’t been able to find out exactly how Damiri and Aiden were connected. He was pretty sure there was at least one other person present in the house, but he hadn’t seen them. Damiri was the one that came to fetch him, and to tell the truth, for anyone else he might not have come along willingly.

Because he didn’t appreciate people lying in wait for him at his home, and he hated to be called a necromancer, but the unrestrained fear in Damiri’s eyes had been enough to make him hesitate.

And then the love had changed his mind. He had met several empaths since the time he learned to pick up on other people’s magic, some of them extremely bad at shielding themselves, but he had never felt that much love pouring out of a single person. Nor that much terror.

So he had allowed Damiri to escort him to this unnerving basement and the two of them had been here since. It had to be nearing sunrise now.

“That means we still have the eleventh hour,” Noah said finally. He didn’t believe in giving false hope, but he didn’t believe in giving up either.

Damiri muttered something under his breath and brought his hand to his mouth again to bite at his nails. Then he winced, fingers cramping up, and let out a hissing swear.

“You alright?” Noah asked, hastily getting up and walking towards him.

“Fine,” he grunted, wiping his middle finger on his trousers. It was bleeding, the nail-bed bitten raw.

Noah sighed. “Will you let me help with that?”

Damiri stared blankly at him for a moment, but then he silently held out his hand.

Noah held it for a moment to assess the damage, his skin looked oddly pale against Damiri’s warmer shade of brown. Silently he reached into his pocket and took out a small, delicately built skull. A field mouse. He pressed his thumb into the sigil he carved on the top of it before placing it carefully on Damiri’s palm. He had barely finished murmuring the incantation before the sigil cracked, splitting the skull in two. Noah winced slightly – he always did, he couldn’t help it – but he smiled seeing the raw edges of skin on Damiri’s fingers mend and heal.

Damiri seemed afraid to move his hand, staring at it like he had just seen it burning. “What did you do?” he breathed, his eyes darting up to Noah’s face. “Is- Is that what you’re…?”

Noah nodded, taking the cracked skull out of his palm and slipping it into a different pocket of his coat. It was truly dead now, not a shred of life left clinging to it. He would give it a proper burial as soon as he could.

“But how-” Damiri studied his fingers incredulously. “How does it work?”

A faint smile overtook Noah’s face. Ten hours of healing rituals to pull his significant someone back from the brink of death and only now did Damiri ask.

“Death is a straightforward thing,” Noah replied, sitting down on a nearby crate, close enough so he could look at Damiri properly. “But life is not. When a living being dies, not all of it dies at once. Sometimes something of the lower life force lingers and the right magic can bind it to its vessel. That is what I do.”

Damiri looked at the clusters of skulls placed on the low bed. Those belonged to larger creatures, nothing smaller than a cat, and they all bore the same sigil. “Your skulls crack when the life in them is spent,” he concluded slowly.

“Yeah,” Noah hummed. He would never learn to like that part, but it was inevitable.

“Then…what is keeping it from working?” A low note of dread was slipping back into Damiri’s voice and Noah wished he knew a way to quiet it.

“I can only offer help,” he explained soberly. “I cannot force it. He was hurt by magic…” He glanced at Aiden’s motionless form. Apart from the hollowness of his eyes, he did not look hurt. He was barely breathing and his heartbeat was so faint that Noah couldn’t catch its rhythm to chant in time with it, no matter how hard he tried—but his body seemed unharmed. “Perhaps he does not know how to mend what is broken in him.”

“But you-”

“I do not mend anything,” Noah interrupted Damiri firmly. “What you just saw, was your own body healing itself because I gave it the opportunity to do so.”

Damiri looked from Aiden’s still face to Noah’s, and back again. “And you can’t— Can’t you help?”

Noah shook his head. He didn’t even know what happened to Aiden. He knew nothing about him apart from a muttered name and his importance to Damiri. He didn’t even know his magic. “I have found that healing blindly usually does more harm than good.”

Damiri let out a hollow laugh. “What more harm could you possibly do to him now?”

The chill Noah felt sliding down his back must have been evident to Damiri, because he met his eyes again. “You do not want me to answer that,” Noah replied solemnly.

A heavy silence fell between them. Noah didn’t feel up to breaking it, so he tried to continue with the incantation in his mind. Perhaps if he weaved Aiden’s name into the words, he would hear him. It was hard to speak to someone he’d never even looked in the eye.

“Damiri, what is Aiden’s magic like?”

He had been wanting to ask that question ever since he’d first laid eyes on his patient. Even now, weakened as he was, Noah could nearly feel Aiden’s power humming underneath his skin. It didn’t feel familiar though. It was unlike anything that Noah had ever felt.

Damiri hid his face, rubbing his forehead and temples with tense, nervous movements. The more his shoulders sagged, the younger he looked. “That is a question you don’t want answered,” he said darkly.

“You mean you don’t want to tell me,” Noah sighed. “Just like you didn’t want to tell me about your magic.”

Even without seeing Damiri’s facial expression, Noah knew it was resentful. He had been able to feel the familiar pattern of emotion manipulation as soon as Damiri had gotten close to him. Damiri hadn’t been pleased when he guessed his gift correctly. Not pleased at all.

Damiri gave no response and suddenly a thought slipped into Noah’s mind.

“Do you think I’ll no longer want to help him if I know?”

A moment before Damiri had been fidgeting in his chair, now he was sitting near-frozen.

Noah looked at him attentively. “Because it’s far too late for that, you know.”

At last the dark eyes lifted up again. “What?”

“I decided to help when you asked me,” Noah explained calmly. “I don’t change my mind.”

He wanted his magic to work. He wanted to see Aiden’s eyes open, wanted to see the handsome face come back to life. Even if he had not fully decided to help on the strength of Damiri’s plea, he would have lost any hesitation upon seeing Aiden. Because he agreed with Damiri, and with the words he had whispered to him on his doorstep, more than ten hours ago. “He can’t die.” Noah didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help but agree. Aiden could not die. And perhaps that was a solely selfish wish, because when he looked at him, and felt that strange magic just out of reach, Noah couldn’t bear the thought of never actually meeting him.

“Would it help you heal him?” Damiri broke into his thoughts. “If you knew what his magic was, would that help?”

Noah shook his head regretfully. “It would help me if I could understand his magic, but I do not recognise it and there is no time to teach me.”

Damiri made a strange noise and Noah gave him a questioning look.

“If you really wanted to know, you could have lied,” he said.

Noah’s lips curled slightly in distaste. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

Another nondescript sound at the back of his throat.

Noah was ready to turn away and give him his space again, but Damiri suddenly slumped forward, dropping his head into his hands and burying his fingers in his dark hair. “You have no idea,” he grunted. “How badly I want to force all this on you.”

Noah could feel the truth of it. At times he could sense Damiri’s anxiety almost snaking towards him. Damiri was desperate not to feel these things. Anyone would be. But unlike most people, Damiri actually had a way to get rid of it all.

“I appreciate the self-control.”

This time Damiri nearly laughed. But his head stayed in his hands, and Noah decided to leave him be. He got to his feet and quietly walked to the bed. With loving attention he rearranged the skulls into their repeating patterns of threes. He made sure not to touch Aiden, and he really tried not to stare at him.

Aiden… Aiden… There was nothing in the name that matched the humming he felt in the distance. And still his heartbeat was too weak, his breathing too shallow. What if he couldn’t hear him calling? What if he simply couldn’t find the gifts he brought…

“His name is Aidan.”

Noah nearly jumped. He had not heard Damiri move, but suddenly he was standing beside him. He was tall—even when he leaned forward Noah had to look up slightly to see into his face. The sadness that trickled out of him was getting so thick it was almost tangible.

“Aidan Yeoh.” Damiri tore his eyes away from the motionless face. “And his magic is thievery.”

“Thievery?” Noah repeated in confusion.

“The gentlest thievery you’ve ever encountered,” he muttered. “He doesn’t even need physical contact. And he can take almost anything. Memories, feelings, thoughts…”

Noah felt a tightness closing around his chest. There was a reason he didn’t like being called a necromancer. Necromancy was frowned upon. But magical theft… He made no reply and Damiri said nothing more. He stood over Aidan a moment longer, staring at him like he wanted to touch his face but wouldn’t for fear of crying, and then retreated back to his corner.

When Noah started chanting again, Damiri closed his eyes.

Noah waited until the rhythmic breathing of exhausted sleep filled the room before he started changing the words of the incantation. He circled the bed on silent feet and took back his cherished skulls. One by one he took them away from Aidan, weighing them in his hands for a moment before placing them gently on the ground. Not in threes this time, but in a circle. Circles in circles, all of them side by side, each one guarding the other. Until they were all gathered together and Noah sat down, placing himself between Aidan and his treasures. He had forgotten about his tea, but he was still chanting. Still calling out to Aidan. But this time it was a different chant. What was offered freely could be taken back.

An entire night he had been here. More than a night. This was the eleventh hour and the sun was rising. It was early in the year, the sun would be shy about it. But it would rise, and sunrise is powerful.

Noah didn’t notice Damiri waking. He was still chanting, tired words tumbling stubbornly from his lips and his body rocking in time with the rhythm.

“What have- What are you doing?”

Damiri was beside him in an instant, his hands reaching out for the skulls, stopping just short of touching them. He looked back towards Aidan, who still lay sleeping like the dead.

“What have you done to him?”

Noah shook his head, bowing down low enough to nearly double over, chanting possessive words that wanted to stick to the inside of his mouth.

Damiri backed away from him, footsteps unsteady on the tile floor. “If you—” His voice was only a breath away from breaking. “I swear—”

A nauseating crack rang out like a shot and the last syllable slid mercifully off Noah’s tongue.

Another crack. Another. Noah turned away from the breaking skulls so he did not have to see. They all split right through the middle, straight though the sigil, and in the sudden quiet that followed, Aidan drew a stuttering breath.

Damiri seemed to be by the bed with only a single step. “Aidan—”

Noah got to his feet just in time to see the fine lashes flutter up and the thin lips move. “…Dami?”

The sound that escaped from Damiri’s chest echoed inside Noah’s mind as loudly as the breaking of bone. Shuddering, Damiri sank to his knees and slumped forward, his fingers grasping at the fabric of Aidan’s shirt and his forehead pressing against his side.

Aidan reached for him with a movement that was so controlled it made relief come alive in Noah’s entire body. He had done well. Aidan’s body was undamaged.

“You bastard,” Aidan muttered weakly, his fingers digging into Damiri’s shoulder for a moment before combing through his hair. “That’s the last time I let you design the balancing charm.”

“Fuck off,” Damiri breathed and he raised his head, his voice choked and thick with emotion.

Noah felt himself sway on his feet. Damiri's relief, a mix of joy and wild affection, filled the room like thick smoke. It was almost hard to breathe. And it was impossible not to smile. He blinked, slowly looking from Damiri to Aidan, just in time for Aiden’s eyes to meet his. Noah had been prepared for them to be dark and attentive. He had not been expecting them to be this alive.

There wasn’t a single mark of hardship left in them.

For a moment Aidan just looked at him, but then his lips formed into something very like a smile. When he next spoke, his voice was noticeably smoother than it had been before. “Are you the one that chanted?”

“Yes,” Noah said, his hands trembling slightly and an involuntary smile playing around his own lips as well. “And you are the one that can’t see what is given freely, but will take what is guarded against him.”

The fascination on Aidan’s face was as genuine as Damiri’s exasperated exclamation of understanding. He got to his feet, rubbing violently at his face.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” he grunted, doing a bad job of hiding his tears.

“You might not have trusted me,” Noah replied, apologetic but not remorseful. “I told you I wouldn’t lie, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell you the truth.” He wasn’t sorry. He felt almost giddy. He felt light. He had saved a life.

“Yeah, you know what, I don’t care.” Damiri let out a broken laugh, shaking with relief and gratitude. “I really don’t.” He swallowed. "Thank you."

“I—" Aidan interrupted, sitting up with the grace of a cat woken from nothing but a comfortable slumber, before Noah could even open his mouth for another reply. "—have two things to say.”

His eyes were fixed on Noah so intently that he felt his face heat up in spite of himself.

“The first—” he said smoothly, entwining his fingers with Damiri’s.”—is that you’re being incredibly rude not introducing me to the person you got to save me, Dami. And the second—” A grin graced his face as his eyes darted to Damiri before settling firmly on Noah again. “—is that you’re more than welcome to try and kill me again if you want. Clearly it was worth it.”

#thank you Cat for the in-depth beta <3 #mlm romance #poly representation #polyam representation #not sure what the right abbreviation is..#this is much longer than I usually post but #I'm very fond of all these boys #glad I finally get to share them #urban fantasy #laura drabbles #magical realism #life may linger #poly romance

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