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[soda-rebel-writes]

Oof I’m slow, but if anyone has requests I’m open. I’ll get to them. Eventuallllllly.

[soda-rebel-writes]

Demony Things

A lil somethin for @creatorsofhetalia prompt day! I did the prompt “You ate what?” for a little domestic demon au.  Pairing: usuk Words: 273

Alfred nearly dropped the groceries he was holding. But only nearly. He just happened to be surprised by what his housemate had decided to reveal at that very moment. “You ate what?!” he yelled at Arthur. “The soul of your neighbor. Not that there was much of a soul there anyway,” Arthur replied. His dark wings twitched amusedly as Alfred scrambled to pick up the scattered cans and other foodstuffs. “You can’t just eat souls out here. Isn’t there like, some demon code that you can’t break?” Alfred asked while stuffing a bundle of oranges into a bag. “Why the fuck would we have that?” Arthur said, rolling a can of soup around the countertop. Alfred sighed, trying to think of some upside to this situation. “He’s not dead, right?” Arthur only laughed at him, though Alfred knew it wasn’t malicious. “Of course not! He’ll be just fine. He probably didn’t need it anyway.” Whatever Arthur meant by “needing” a soul, Alfred wasn’t so sure of. He couldn’t work up enough of the nerve to ask. “What do they even taste like?” Alfred asked. Though it was more out of courtesy that he was asking. Alfred didn’t want anything to do with the consumption of souls in any form. Arthur abandoned the soup can he was fooling with and paused for a bit, hovering just a few inches with a few beats of his wings. “It tastes like nothing, actually. It just makes me feel...I don’t know, whole I suppose.” “Oh,” Alfred said. Alfred came to the conclusion that maybe, he might be okay with Arthur eating souls. Just a little bit.

[soda-rebel-writes]

The Adventurer

For @nordicsawesome because....snails. 

Summary: Toni has a quest, a noble quest. If only he was faster. 

Warnings: none

Pairing: Spamano 

A radiant wash of orange illuminated the sky as Antonio gently glided across the dirt. The stalks were always lovely at this time when the brightly burning light would be low enough for snails like him to creep along. It was just the right amount of light to see yet dark enough to avoid being burnt to a crisp. The perfect time for him to begin his chivalrous rescue mission. It began several dimmings ago, back when he and Romano had discovered mounds of red food.

Just sitting there, and no one was eating it! Naturally, they slithered over and feasted until the light was at a dangerous point. Luckily, thick stalks with branches shaded them. It was really quite lovely. That is until five monstrous flattened pillars burst through the stalks. They plucked up Romano as Antonio gaped in horror. He yelled out that he would find Romano, no matter what the cost. Antonio wasn’t sure if he was loud enough, not that it mattered. Romano disappeared, and he was all alone. Antonio had been too upset to eat at that point, keeping himself busy with the thought of saving Romano from whatever fate befell him. What would the pink pillars do to Romano? Surely they wouldn’t….smash him? That perked Antonio up from his perch. With the might of ten snails, he slithered as quickly as he could to the misshapen cave where the pillars lived. Or at least, he slithered in its direction. Snails weren’t exactly made for the speed he needed to be at. But he was making great pace! The great glowing stone in the sky was only at its half-point. Which meant he could make it past the feast stalks to the seeded trees. With a little luck, he would even miss the great furred beast! As he hoped, Antonio made it to the shade of the seeded trees before the giant glow made it back to its rightful place. For now, the sky was a lovely soft lavender. Soft enough to be laid in for a nap. He wished Romano was here. If he hurried, maybe that could happen. Motivated once again, he crept to the end of the stalk pathway. This is where the cave began. All he needed was a bit more time, and---Suddenly a monstrous roar stopped Antonio in his tracks. Without even turning, he knew what it was. But if he stood still, maybe it would leave him alone.

Closer and closer it stomped, sending the ground up in flecks. Its hideous bushy tail and curved claws would forever haunt him in his nightmares. Luckily, it spotted a seed and shoved it into its cavernous mouth. With a flick of its tail and an insidious glare at Antonio, it leapt away. He sighed in relief. To think...if he was interrupted this soon into his journey! On he crept, working up a good amount of slime to cling onto the cave. Now all he needed was to find an opening! But that proved difficult. One part of the cave was slick, and he remembered it being open before. Maybe he was just hallucinating? Or the pillars must have repaired it when he wasn’t looking…Regardless, he had to find a hole soon! The light was starting to creep around the shade cast by the seed trees. A wrong turn and soon Antonio would be burning! Frantically, he slithered this way and that, sliding up and down the cave wall. But alas, he just couldn’t find a single opening. Antonio was giving up hope. He had made it so far, yet, was caught up in the simplest aspect of his rescue mission. Trapped by the light on both sides and lacking the speed to move faster, Antonio was ready to accept his fate. He felt the rolling sizzle at his tail and expected it to continue. Then, all of a sudden, he was lifted by the accursed pillars! Except this time, it was less accursed and more blessed. Thank the great stone in the sky, he was saved. It had a face too apparently. It was saying things, but it all sounded incomprehensible. If Antonio had the knowledge of humanspeak, he would have heard the little boy tell his mother that he found another snail on the wall. “This time, it was by the sunflowers!” Gilbert said. With Antonio in hand, the little boy ran inside to add it to his terrarium. He was going to have the best show and tell tomorrow, he was sure of it. Meanwhile, Antonio burst into tears and excited ramblings when he saw Romano, happily munching one of the red foods. “I came to rescue you!” Antonio said, suddenly remembering his original purpose.

“Why?” Romano asked mid-munch. “I wasn’t in trouble.” “But don’t you want to go back?” Antonio asked.

Romano rolled his eye stalks. “Come over here and look,” he said. Antonio slithered, head low, to where Romano was. From their little box of solid air, they could see everything from their old home. The tree seeds right outside, the furry monster up in its goliath tree, the black sea of death. Right behind it all was the light, slow on its way to dimming. The sky was a faded pink that darkened into a red similar to the food in their box. “It’s...it’s beautiful here,” Antonio said.“And you wanted to leave,” Romano laughed. “Look, there’s tons of food and nothing ever tries to kill us. Please stay.” Antonio smiled. “The second I knew you were here, I was all set to stay.” Romano nudged him playfully while Antonio moved his shell closer so they could better enjoy the moment together.“It’s cute that you tried to save me,” Romano said. “Even though I don’t need it.”“Anything for you, Roma,” Antonio said. So they sat, quest no longer needed, in the terrarium while the sunset. And they would happily stay in that terrarium for many days and nights until they felt another new adventure was needed. 

And yes, Gilbert did have the best show and tell project. 

[soda-rebel-writes]

Just a Little Drop Poison

Just a little drabble from the past to kick off my new writing blog! Thanks for all of your support

Summary: The Queen of Spades goes out to tea.

Warnings: blood

Pairing: USUK

Scritch, scritch, scritch went the delicate spoon against the bone china cup. A servant was stirring the tea. It was teatime for the Queen of Spades, one of the few times he could enjoy a steady silence. Today would be made particularly special with the Darjeeling tea the Spade’s Jack, Yao Wang, had brought back from a neighboring country. Needless to say, Arthur was impatient to try the exotic new blend. It would be a nice change from his constant Earl Grey.

The blue-tinted windows of the room private study lit up wonderfully from the lowering sun, settling somewhere between a melancholy blue and deep navy sea. Arthur found himself yawning, making a note to nap sometime before the meeting scheduled for the later evening. The plush seat he was on, however, only worked against his wishes. Finally, a scrappy young maid brought him the tea. It was peculiar that she only gave him a cup, but Arthur was too happy for the promise of a strong warm beverage to care.  

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Odd. The tea was a soft purple, different to the light gold it was supposed to be. Arthur blamed it on the windows. He sipped, thinking of financials and when his husband would be getting back. Alfred always missed tea time… Arthur blinked. His vision was blurring. Maybe the tea was soothing him too much, he decided. Yet the little maid kept insisting she refill his cup, saying that the vision-blurring was probably from being in the blue room too long. Arthur braved just one more cup-full. It felt odd. No, he felt odd. The room was cold, far too cold and he was too warm. Arthur wanted desperately to swallow the growing bile that rose to his throat but found he couldn’t. He wanted to call out to someone, tell them that there was something wrong, but Arthur could barely manage a few slurred words. He felt himself fall, thinking of how nice the cold floor was against his flushed skin.

When his eyes opened, he was still on the floor of the blue room, but with hands and feet bound. The servant girl who gave him the tea, poisoned no doubt, was prattling on about some grand plan. Arthur didn’t hear any of it. Shapes and sounds were swimming into his consciousness, making him dizzier than he already was. Suddenly it felt like two hands were tearing his lungs apart, squeezing out any air he had left. It hurt more than anything he’d ever felt. When the lung pains left, it was replaced with a terrible cough. It started out small, but soon it grew loud enough to even drown out the monologuing in the background. Arthur cried for the first time in years as he hunched over, hacking. It was almost like nails had dragged themselves up and down his throat. He coughed himself sore and even threw up a substantial amount of blood. When he thought it was rid from his system, more ‘tea’ was poured into his mouth by the sadistic servant and it would begin again: the pain, the coughing, the blood. After an hour, Arthur didn’t feel like he even had the strength to raise his head. The blue robes of the royals Arthur used to wear so proudly were stained with generous splatters of his own blood. More blood was quickly seeping out from his mouth. He choked for a second as it bubbled and frothed. It looked like a small wave of blood, and it left not a spot around him clean. He groaned as he felt his insides twist, almost like they were trying to get out of his body. He threw up more blood, but to Arthur, it felt like he was pushing his organs up and out.

The floor was cold, so so cold. He wanted Alfred. Where was Alfred? The room wasn’t blue anymore. Red, red, red. Everything was red and warm and slippery and, and--

Arthur woke up in his bed. He knew from the numbness that killed his nerves and the draining he felt in his veins that it wasn’t a dream. Oh, there Alfred was. Or is. He was by the bedside, holding and rubbing a hand he couldn't feel. But Arthur was having a hard time concentrating. Alfred swam in and out as he blinked his eyes, trying to will the sleep away.

“Arthur, I’m so sorry. I,” Arthur couldn’t hear him anymore. He couldn’t hear anything anymore. He liked looking at how Alfred’s lips moved, unaware that his words meant nothing.

Arthur interrupted him, even though his words were slow and fumbled. “I love you.” Alfred kissed him, softly, deeply, wondering if this was the type of fantastical poison that was weak to a true love’s kiss. When Alfred pulled away, Arthur was blue too like the room. His face was cold like the floor, and his eyes were wide like the windows. But Arthur was empty, empty, empty. The kingdom cried with the king, knowing that the queen was gone to tea.  

[soda-rebel-writes]

Prick My Heart

For my dude @midnightleone ! Enjoy your angst bro!

Summary: It’s hard to be the royals of Spades, but Alfred and Arthur make it work. 

The Kingdom of Spades were a proud people. Proud of their towns and streets that glittered with pure sapphire. Proud of their heritage that held volumes upon volumes of victories. Most of all, the people of Spades were proud of their kingdom that had asserted itself as one of the strongest empires of the world. But the Kingdom of Spades was not proud of their royals.

Keep reading

[soda-rebel-writes]

Chase You

Fic gift for @midnightleone ! Enjoy buddy! I recommend Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol as an accompaniment. 

Summary: Alfred can’t wait to take Arthur on a camping trip

Warnings: angst, blood, death

It was Alfred’s idea, really. He had insisted on going on a camping trip because it was something that he had done with his family every year before college. With their engagement being just two weeks ago, Arthur was practically family. Not that he wasn’t before, of course. Just, now more so than ever. Alfred couldn’t wait to share such a special moment with him.

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[soda-rebel-writes]

What’s the Time?

Pairing: USUK 

Summary: Arthur really, really doesn’t like the dark. But he won’t say that. He won’t say anything at all. 

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[soda-rebel-writes]

Gentlemanly Play (crack usuk)

For @jellyfist  ‘s genius and a conversation we had. 

Keep reading

[soda-rebel-writes]

Freedom Cake (Ch. 1)

Pairing: usuk (Hetalia)

Rating: T

Plot: Alfred longs for a little peace from his home life and a little adventure from the outside. Perhaps a group of orphans can help. Especially the one with the freckles and green eyes.

A/N Back at it again with those fics ;D

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12784057/1/Freedom-Cake

[soda-rebel-writes]

"God, just shut up!" and "Oh... don't cry" (could you please not make it angsty I'm fragile)

You got it anon!

“You know,” Alfred started, struggling slightly against the bonds, “This may not be the best time, but I told you so.”

Arthur snorted. “You think? We’re tied hundreds of feet in the air, upside down for Pete’s Sake, and you think it’s a bad time?” Alfred could practically feel the sarcasm stinging the air.

All right maybe it definitely wasn’t the best time to mention it, but Alfred had a right to be upset. When they decided to do the mission, which was meant to be a simple search and rescue of a ski lodge somewhere in the Alps, Alfred did so thinking they’d be alone. Just him and Arthur. Or technically ‘Patriot’ and ‘Lancer’. Codenames were obviously a must, but Alfred liked to think that maybe they were past that and on a first name basis. At the very least, a last name one. It would have gone as usual if an old friend of Arthur’s hadn’t insisted on coming along. Gilbert–codename: Red Knight–said he knew the Alps like the back of his hand and offered an alternative route for the mission.

‘He’d be the guide,’ he said. ‘It’d be a wonderful experience,’ he said.

Well. Five wrong turns and a two-hour climb later, he and Arthur had been spotted halfway up the last ledge. Their equipment was removed and they were left dangling, tied back to back, at the edge of the cliff by some unknown enemy. Of course, Gilbert seemed to have magically disappeared from sight while it happened.

It was a shame that of all their times together, this was the closest he could remember being to Arthur.    

“I never trusted Gil. Pretty sure he’s behind this,” Alfred said. He’d given up on breaking out of the rope now. Besides, they’d have a pretty long fall if he did.

“Alfred,” Arthur’s voice was sharp and lacked his usual calm amusement. “I need you to stop talking. Just for five minutes.”

“Sorry.” Quiet. The wind blew and made the chasm below them all the more terrifying. Alfred didn’t like the silence at all. In a sense, he was listening to death. “Hey, Arthur?” Alfred tried. It had been five minutes, right?

“Not now,” Arthur lashed back. His voice sounded strained and a little broken. Alfred wondered if he was scared. He’d give anything to see Arthur’s face.

“I know, but Artie–”

“God, just shut up!”

‘Well excuse me! Well, maybe I won’t talk to you, have fun figuring how to get out of here by yourself!” Alfred yelled. He had thought that maybe if they talked, it would help them figure a way out. But if Arthur needed quiet, he’d be quiet. He didn’t need Arthur, he’d find something else to do. So Alfred found little things to distract himself with. He focused on how warm Arthur felt pressed against his back. With a little bit of reaching, their fingers would brush for a short second. If he concentrated long enough, Alfred could hear the long breaths Arthur took. In and out. In and out. So much for not needing Arthur…

For a while the only sound was their breaths in the cold, echoing against the soft breeze. Alfred’s atmosphere was ruined by small tremors from Arthur.

“Artie? I know I’m not worried or anything,” Alfred began, totally worried, “but are you ok?”

Silence. More little quakes came from Arthur’s side. “Oh…Arthur, don’t cry. I’ll figure a way out! I, I’ll get us outta here, don’t cry.”

“What the hell are you blabbering on about Alfred? For the past thirty minutes, I’ve been trying to slide out a knife that’s been in my leg holster. The fact that it’s under my clothes doesn’t make it any easier.”

“So does that mean…”

Arthur sighed. “No Alfred, I wasn’t crying. The blade’s cold.”

“Oh.”

“You were distracting me,” Arthur explained while wiggling to get the knife the final few inches to his hand. They would both need a chiropractor after this mission. “Sorry I yelled,” he added. A small shout from Arthur’s side told Alfred he finally got that knife.

Alfred shrugged the best he could. “It’s no big deal, totally knew you weren’t crying or anything.”

“Hey Alfred,” Arthur said. His voice had that overzealous happy tone to it. Alfred didn’t like that voice. That voice ended in a lot of terrible Arthur Kirkland ideas. “I’m going to do something incredibly stupid and possibly life-threatening.” Alfred knew it. “If I don’t make it–”

Alfred sighed, “Cut me the crap, Kirkland. Just say it.”

“I love you, Alfred.”

He didn’t have to see Arthur’s face to know he was smiling. He could practically feel it. What he didn’t want to feel was Arthur’s back leaving his from cutting through all of the ropes at once. This was followed by the terrifying, gut-in-the-throat feeling of falling face first to his death. An arm grabbed Alfred’s waist and stopped his descent just in time. He looked up, traumatized, to see a smirking Arthur holding onto the remaining rope.

“A little warning next time?!” Alfred screamed, mostly from fear.

“If I did, this wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun,” Arthur laughed. “Serves you right for doubting me.” Testing the rope first with a few tugs, Arthur started a slow swaying motion.   

“Wait a second, did you say you loved–”

Arthur let go of the rope, knowing that they’d land on a nearby ledge and that he wouldn’t have to answer that question.

Some say, that Alfred’s scream can still be heard to this day.

[soda-rebel-writes]

USUK Christmas Countdown 2017: December 15 #1

Title: Just a Dash of Magic Day 3: Magic Summary: Arthur would rather mope during Christmas, but Alfred has other plans. Rating: T Warning: Minimal cussing, offscreen minor character death   

(Written by: @soda-rebel and Art by: @jellyfist) 

There’s always a sort of mysterious feeling that settles with the snow. Not in the sense of chills that tingle deep in the bones, no. It’s more how the familiar somehow becomes unfamiliar, how memory-laden paths can easily lose their softness to overwhelming white. On such cold-caked paths of newness, there something stirs. It’s something ethereal, something otherworldly, something…magical. But in due time.

Keep reading

[soda-rebel-writes]

thank you,, for feeding my children... and watering my crops w that pottertalia... would you be so kind as to... maybe write another....................

Aaa sorry for taking forever anon! And well, I wasn’t sure if you wanted another Pottertalia or not. I hope you don’t mind that I basically wrote a usuk play XD

England:

‘Tis poison arrows you throw,                                                 

Thick bladed with the sweet nothings of promise.

“Heavy” quoth the flimsy words you beseech

But the saccharine oozing from your pores

Tempt me otherwise.

Would you be but the sweetest flower,

If your pricks hadn’t wounded me so!

Oh sweet, dear rose,

What lovely petals you’ve strewn at my feet,

Ones that gaud and provoke

That tempt my beating chest to exchange its drums for hymns.

But what is rain to a flower?

I will only ravage the softness of your pollen,

Break the stem of an otherwise innocent existence.

And you will softly sing of my disgrace

While my rain lays puddled at my feet.

Hark, what light shines here?

Enter America

America:

Alas, pity may be the only light strewn to you.

I see nothing more than an unwholesome pear,

Prickled and bitter from the sun.

Your skin holds only rank stiffness,

Shriveled from a sour seed.

Yet with a dove’s call you coo,

With loneliness at your beck.

I will not be a slave to your fancies,

For shame, small dove.

England:

You flatter me flower,

‘Tis a commodity, your compliments.

Yet I cannot be the softness,

The sweet tenderness your pear commands.

For I am an apple of Adam’s,

Deceitful with the poison of promise.

A bitter seed indeed lies at my core,

It is that which makes me cruel.

If I were to let you take of my flesh,

To devour the skin of my being,

Surely my bitter seed would choke,

Unwittingly taking of your innocence,

And polluting your soul.

Relish in my being a pear,

But never eat of me.

And a bird?

How sweet you think of me,

To be fleeting of mind,

Soft of touch.

Indeed I may be a bird,

For under the prickles of gooseflesh,

Therein lies that which kills the true maiden.

My wings are pestilence and miasma,

My call is that of a banshee.

I must be the king of crows!

America:

You attempt to frighten with words of madness,

Yet through the eyes of a snake,

I see a love-sickened pigeon,

Feathers heavy with the water of your acid irises.

Foolish pigeon,

The spring in your eyes has seen too many rains.

As an aside

Would thou let me be the sun to whet thy temper,

To sharpen the rays of your soul,

I would strike down the clouds that hang in your chest,

In riddance of the diluted curtain of your person.

‘Tis never a long-living pigeon that cries.

England:

Tush,

I would think you a Forget-Me-Not had you but remembered,

How pigeons’ folly is of head not heart.

Silly flower,

How can you look upon a bird when your head is too far below?

America:

Fie, fine!

You are the crowned Prince of Crows,

You are the accursed and hated sickness,

You are the bringer of deceit,

You are the harbinger of death,

You are the spoilt milk of the earth,

That and many more curses you are.

England:

Now you must see me as I am!

America:

I see a broken crowned crow,

With feathers steeped in oily regret.

I see a blunted beak,

Breaking from one too many pecks,

All to an ungiving wall,

Holding precious life from you.

As an aside

I would scatter petals, leaves, seeds,

If I could only feed you,

A starved crow,

That desires to peck but not fly o’er walls.

Back to England

You have the name of a king,

Yet no kingly words will you speak,

Not even of your shadow.

You talk as though you mean little,

Littler than the worms you devour.

Why, Arthur?

Are you not deserving?

Are you not good (enough)?

England:

You mistake me,

Pretty flower I am a king!

A king of miscreants,

A king of misdeeds,

I am the deserving king of a blackened crown!

See how my skin cracks,

Look how my nails break,

I am the dead, and the dead is my kingdom!

America:

Then give of me your crown!

It is too heavy for your sky-bound head.

You deserve the clouds,

Not this dirt and nettle death.

England:

No, petite flower.

These tarry feathers heavy of sin,

Cracked voice from repent,

This is my fate.

A flower is meant to float on a breeze,

A crow is meant to feast on the leftovers of what once was.

America:

Then let me give you more!

Are you in want of emotion?

I will give it.

Are you in want of freedom?

Here, take it.

Are you in want of isolation?

I can manage it.

You cannot survive off the scraps of lovers,

No king of crows is that!

England:

I want no emotion,

I have no heart to hold it in.

I want no freedom,

I have no place to take it.

I want no isolation,

I have no comfort to give it.

And you forget, sweet daisy.

Kings hold most, ‘tis true.

But as a king of that which has nothing,

I should have least of all.

That is what it means to be king of crows.

America:

Stop of this nonsense!

You call me flower,

But it is your language that is the most perfumed.

How many lady’s roses, how many tulips,

How many lilies, how many bluebells,

Do your lungs hold?

England:

Laughs

Far too many, flower.

I suppose it’s right to accuse me

Of swallowing your kind.

I am too enraptured in

The softness you promise.

I hold a slight affliction

Each time a breeze meets my breath.

Yet, as you must know,

I’ve found an addiction in the pecking of flowers.

But only just a peck,

After which I go.

A dying crow never does well to the health of buds.

England kisses America on the cheek.

Farewell, love.

America:

Halt, I say, stop!

America kisses England on the lips.

England:

I am at a loss.

America:

I would consider this a gain.

Will you fly away,

Christened dove?

England:

I would like…

America:

How now,

Why so quiet?

You spoke like a babbling jay.

England:

I’ve infected a pure daisy,

How can words ever undo a crow’s peck to the mouth?

I cannot watch,

You will crumble to ash from me,

I must go,

I love you too much!

America:

And I say I am fine!

Silly dove,

I’ve never been a daisy.

I am a thorned bush, I see now.

I’ve entangled you in vines,

Confused you flap and wrap yourself more.

Please, calm and unwind.

My thorns will disappear if you ask.

England:

I…would like that.

They kiss

I suppose, I might enjoy being a dove.

America:

Coo in the morning or when I tumble you,

But wait ‘till seclusion before either come.

They walk away together

[soda-rebel-writes]

hey... about those usuk oneshots... wanna hmu w some pottertalia or superhero au?????? both are good and both will be amazing....

One Pottertalia coming right up! 

                                    Magicking Up Some Memories

There was always something to fear as a magical being. At first, it had been the question of which House you would be placed in. Each young witch and wizard was anxious to prove themselves, whether it be to boastful older siblings or slightly antagonizing parents. The moment the Sorting Hat touched your head was when your fate was decided. It told you who your friends would be, what sort of crowd you hung around, what sort of trouble you got into. Essentially, it defined you. When it shouted out Gryffindor, nothing made you happier. But then, while you walked to the table of cheering peers, you saw a curious figure from the corner of your eye. It was a Slytherin boy, perhaps two or three years older than you. He seemed to be deeply indulged in his book. Your heart did a small thump, and soon you would start to develop an interest in the intriguing classmate. Yes, the one who always sat alone. A Slytherin of Slytherins in a way. And that would become the second thing in life to frighten you.

You found that when he smiled, though it was often brief, the left corner of his mouth would always creep higher than the right. You found that he liked tea and knew that, if the Slytherin didn’t have his daily cup, the best way to avoid a thorough yelling was to stay out of his way. He was on the Quidditch team. You liked Quidditch. The possibilities were mounting! You would finally hear his name called in the corridor one day: Arthur. How lovely. 

You talked to him one day, and your glasses almost fogged up from embarrassment when you almost shouted “You’re even more fantastic up close!”

The third thing to scare you was the night you asked Arthur to the Yule Ball that year.

The fourth, was when he said yes.

That first dance led to several more, and before long you two had held a long-lasting relationship. Not that it was perfect, there were the occasional fights here and there. Hence fears five and six. But it was never something you couldn’t reconcile.

As full-grown wizards, the start of a new beginning became the seventh fear. Arthur landed a spot as part of the ‘Department of Magical Law Enforcement’ while you specialized in the ‘Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee’.

Yet, despite your secure jobs, it lead to fear eight. There were days you never saw one another. Even worse were the nights you fought over whose fault it was for letting work take priority over the relationship. And on the nights Arthur stormed out…That, that was usually fear nine. But of course you’d chase after him and wind up on some abandoned bench in the middle of nowhere. Together you’d sit in the cold with nothing but each other and the occasional spell to keep yourselves warm.

“Alfred,” he’d say, with those eyes that were always more fairy-like than snake, “What will we do?”

You’d bite your lip while you thought hard, harder than anything, even for your O.W.L.’s. You thought of a solution, and despite Arthur’s protest you held true to your decision.

And so you quit your job.

Nowadays, you see more of Arthur’s smile. The same one you would desperately try to glimpse at in the library. When you tell him that, he only laughs and replies with “I should have known you weren’t there to study.” You’d wake in the mornings with his arms wrapped tightly around you in the apartment you share, whining when you had to get up and sighing in comfort when you return. Sometimes, you’d watch him snuggle against your arm and bristle when the blanket fell from his shoulders. You know you love him. You’d do anything for this man.  

So it seems you’ve reached fear ten. But that one can be solved more easily than the other nine. All it took was a small question. Maybe even the ‘magic’ question.

“Hey Artie, will you marry me?” Now, the answer to that would never scare him.

Fear eleven would, though. Who knew Arthur would ask about children?

[soda-rebel-writes]

12 for usuk plz

Omg, this actually works really well for a wip I have! Anyways, I hope you like Halloween Themed stuff! For the “I think we need to talk” prompt.

“I think we need to talk,” Arthur began. They were meeting again at the graveyard in the middle of the night, despite the corpse’s wishes. Alfred didn’t care, his sleeping habits were already questionable to begin with. “We can’t keep doing this, not anymore love,” he sighed into the night air. Not that he would have seen a wisp. Arthur hadn’t been that warm in centuries.

Alfred, however, seemed content to look intently at the remains of a long overdue rose. He turned it over in fascination, pouting only when it bristled and turned into ash.

“Alfred, are you even listening,” Arthur asked. He wasn’t irritated, he’d been in this…‘relationship’ far too long to waste energy on being upset with Alfred. He knew he’d always forgive him in the end.

The accused huffed, sending fluffy puffs of breath floating to the moon. “Yeah, I heard ya.”

If he wasn’t already dead, Arthur swore this man would be the death of him. Unless he could die again. That was an option he’d rather not think of at the moment. “Alright if you heard me,” Arthur began, irritation mounting, “Why didn’t you say anything? And give me a better response than ‘I dunno’. I deserve that much don’t I?”  

“Because I’ve heard this all before, Art,” Alfred replied. “I know you want me to stop seeing you and get ready to be married off to this rando chick my parents set me up with. And I think it’s crap. Not gonna do it.” He crossed his arms in emphasis.

Though he shouldn’t necessarily experience anything, Arthur felt the ghostings of a headache. “Alfred,” his voice sounding exasperated, “I am dead. Nothing will ever bring me back.”

“But–” Arthur cut him off before he could continue.

“But nothing, Alfred. Love, you don’t understand. I will never be warm, I will never truly feel you under my fingertips.” It was true. The first time they kissed, it felt like it was nothing more than a summer breeze on his lips. But that wasn’t the most important problem. “I can never,” he gulped. “I can never satisfy you.” He hoped that would be enough to imply his meaning. Sex was absolutely out of the question for obvious reasons. Marriage? Just add the signature on his death certificate. If he even had one.

Alfred, though Arthur had poured his heart (if it hadn’t eroded yet) out to him, he seemed unphased by the obvious trials and tribulations of loving a dead body. “I love you,” he finally said. In an attempt to get closer, he pressed his forehead against Arthur’s. Not unusual, but a tad more comforting than their usual snuggling. “Nothing, not even a blonde chick in a wedding dress can change that.”  

He supposed that was that. When Alfred made up his mind, usually it went his way. That stubbornness was why they had been together for this long. He could faintly recall their first night together. Arthur smiled. “What about my rotting flesh and the fact that your favorite insect literally feasts on my skin?”

Alfred laughed at that, his boyfriend was always so blunt. But a nice blunt, not a know-it-all-asshole blunt. “Babe, I’ll crush a hundred butterflies if it means seeing your phantasmagorical face every day.”

“Love the new word,” Arthur whispered as they kissed in the dying moonlight.