#//umanawrites

[sunsetcurve]

i still want to move mountains, i still want to change the world

wow, okay, it has been a very very very long time since i wrote anything here, but — i had to break off my writing hiatus, because it is @zackmartin ‘s birthday!!! nikki, i want you to know that even though i’ve been on and off a lot for a while, you’re still one of the brightest, bravest, and kindest people i know, and you’ve always been one of my biggest supporters. you show so much love to everyone around you, and you deserve all the love in the world in return! i am so so proud i get to know you and so happy to be able to call you my friend. i wanted to write a little one-shot for the amazing @zenryverse for you today, because i love and miss them all, and i’m a little rusty in writing anything beyond scripts but i really hope you like it! once again, happy birthday, and i hope today is spectacular and brings you so many good things. the title is from “when she grows up” by craig campbell. 

summary: He remembers being fifteen, is the thing. The restlessness of it, the dauntless way of looking at everything. None of Ray’s attempts to shut him down, tell him he was too young, not good enough, had ever worked — they’d only made him want it more. He can see it in her eyes; Izzy is itching for something to prove, and he knows where she got that from.

word count: 1,720

Henry had seen this coming, of course.

He’d thought — hoped, really, and in retrospect it just seems overly optimistic — that he could stave it off by a few more years, at least. Izzy is freshly fifteen, solidly in the middle of the teen-angst phase other parents had warned him about, but beyond a bit of door-slamming and incessant texting things have been good. Manageable. He and Zack aren’t perfect parents, by any means, but he thinks they’ve been handling it well.

He’s not sure handling it well extends to him standing outside his daughter’s bedroom window and waiting for her inevitable attempt to crawl out of it, though.

Izzy’s not the type of kid to sneak out much, or at least she hadn’t been before. But there’s been a sudden rash of crime downtown, and she’s been acting shifty this week, and Henry had spent dinner triaging the symptoms of a hero complex over spaghetti. He knows them well. He invented those symptoms. And now he’s passed them down to her, which is terrifying in a way that uncharted-parenting territory has rarely been before.

He doesn’t really have a benchmark for how to handle this. His own parents had been entirely uninvolved in his side job, and Ray was hardly a good role model. All Henry has is the person he was at fifteen, and he really, really does not want Izzy going down that road.

Which is why he’s loitering in the yard, in the dark, like some creepy stalker outside of his own home. It’s been about twenty minutes. He’s distracting himself with one of the phone games that Felix had gotten him hooked on and starting to think that maybe he overreacted when somewhere above him, a lock clicks. The window scrapes open.

Henry watches appraisingly from the ground as Izzy maneuvers herself through the window. She’s dressed in all black — where did she get leather pants? — and there’s a pink-and-black mask covering her eyes. It’s not a bad costume. She’s climbing nimbly into the tree that hangs beside her bedroom, and trying to shimmy her way down. One of the branches under her foot creaks alarmingly, and he hears her swallow a yelp.

“That one won’t hold your weight — try the one to the left!” Henry calls from the ground.

Izzy shifts her foot and breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Thanks, Papa—”

Then, she nearly falls out of the tree. “Papa?”

Henry’s heart skips a beat, but Izzy doesn’t slip despite her falter. She does, however, cast a panicked glance at him over her shoulder, still clinging to the branches. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Henry replies flatly. “Can you get down so we can talk?”

Izzy bites out something that sounds like a swear under her breath, but Henry chooses not to comment. He waits until both her feet are planted firmly on the ground to say anything at all, actually. It doesn’t take long — Izzy’s always been a climber — but once she meets the ground she turns to look at him with so much self-righteousness in her expression it makes him stumble over the speech he had planned out in his head.

“How’d you know?” she demands, glaring at him through a mask that, now that it’s up close, looks familiar.

“Is that my old mask?” he asks by way of an answer. He can see her flush a little even in the low light. “Did you spray paint it?”

Izzy shrugs, crossing her arms. “It’s just one of them. You weren’t using it.” Henry raises an eyebrow, amused, and she scrunches her nose at him. “Aren’t you going to ask where I’m going?”

“Oh, I know where you were going,” Henry says, trying to sound casual about it, like the whole situation hasn’t got his stomach doing backflips. What if he hadn’t been here, if she’d done this yesterday, if he’d missed her by a minute? He’s doing everything he can not to think about it. “Iz—”

“I know what you’re gonna say, okay? I’m too young, I’m not ready yet, it’s dangerous.” She tilts her chin up at him, fifteen-years-old and already so full of that indomitable defiance. “You’ve said it all before. But you were younger than me when you first started, and you didn’t even have powers! I do. I can use them.”

He wants to say, you’re just a kid. He wants to say, you don’t get it, yet, what you’re signing up for. It’s not that simple. It’s not so easy.

But he remembers being fifteen, is the thing. The restlessness of it, the dauntless way of looking at everything. None of Ray’s attempts to shut him down, tell him he was too young, not good enough, had ever worked — they’d only made him want it more. He can see it in her eyes; Izzy is itching for something to prove, and he knows where she got that from.

“C’mere,” he says, and jerks his head for her to follow as he rounds the corner of the house towards the front door. Izzy looks at him questioningly but obliges, and then they’re sitting on the porch steps, the driveway sprawling out in front of them and the streetlights glowing in pinpricks of gold down the road.

“I started fighting crime when I was thirteen,” Henry starts, and then has to tamp down a laugh when Izzy makes a face like she’s bracing herself for another dad-lecture. “Listen, just listen for a sec. Look…being Kid Danger meant the world to me. I loved my job. I helped a lot of people. But I made a lot of sacrifices for it. I didn’t go to prom, or graduate high school, or go to college — I didn’t have a normal childhood, and, look, I wouldn’t have traded it, but it wasn’t easy. Back then it seemed like nothing was more important than being a superhero.” Izzy’s looking at him with huge brown eyes, and Henry smiles a little. “And then I met your dad, and everything changed.”

“Gross, Papa,” she says, but it’s half-hearted, and Henry laughs.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continues, “is that…I know how you feel. I get it, okay? Right now, it feels like the only thing that matters is…is putting on a mask, and using your powers, and saving the world. I just want you to know that you have time for that.” He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. “The world isn’t going to end tomorrow. Your life is gonna be a lot bigger than that suit.”

Izzy’s mouth twists, and when she ducks her head he’s afraid, for a moment, that he’s said the wrong thing. Then she sort of leans into where his hand is resting on her cheek, and the tight thing in his chest loosens. “I know it’s not gonna be easy,” she says finally. “I’m not doing it for…for the laughs, or the excitement, okay? I’m doing it ‘cause I wanna help people.” Her voice goes small, then: “I wanna be like you.”

Henry wishes she were still young enough to wrap in blankets and pull into his lap and shelter from everything else, because he wants to keep the world away from his daughter. Instead he tucks an arm around her, and puts his chin against her hair, and tries to just breathe. His kid is here, right now, and that’s what matters.

“How long can I stop you for?” he sighs after a while, and he can feel her smile.

“That depends. How many nights are you planning to spend camped outside my window?”

Henry laughs, and then he pulls back to look her in the eyes. She’s staring right back at him, determined, fifteen-years-old and so much of him and Zack and herself. She’s growing up. He takes a steady breath. Then: “I want to do this right, okay?”

“Okay,” she nods, and tilts her head at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means none of the sneaking out at night,” Henry begins, ticking things off on his fingers. “Absolutely no running headlong into danger, especially alone, ever. School comes first, and I want you to stick with your friends, and your clubs, and your normal teenage experiences. No fighting crime until I say you’re ready—”

“But—”

“Iz,” he says seriously, with both hands on her shoulders, “I’m gonna train you. I’m gonna show you the ropes, and when you’re older, and you’re ready, I’ll let you come on some missions with me.” He watches her eyes light up, and smiles at her. “But if we’re gonna do this, we need to trust each other, alright? No lying. No secrets. I mean it. If you really want to do this, we do it together.”

He gives it a moment to sink in, the gravity of it. If they go through with this, things are going to be different, almost surely for good. He watches that understanding settle behind Izzy’s eyes. Slowly, she nods back at him. “Okay, Papa.”

He sticks a pinky out towards her and smiles. “Swear?”

She rolls her eyes, but loops her finger through his. “Swear.”

“Good.” He ruffles her hair, grinning, and she squawks out a protest but laughs anyway. “Now get to bed, okay? You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“What? I thought we were gonna train—”

“Yeah, on a Tuesday night? No way. We’ll start this weekend.”

“But Papa,” she starts to protest, and he stands up and cuts her off with a grin.

“Hey, if you focus on school this week and do well in training, I’ll talk to Aunt Char about making you a brand-new suit.”

She leaps to her feet, beaming, all protests dying immediately. “Are you serious?”

“If!”

Izzy stands on her toes to kiss his cheek and then scrambles for the door. “Gotta go, I’ve got school bright and early tomorrow!” she grins, throwing the door open, and he laughs.

“Good night to you too. Oh, and Iz?”

She stops for a moment in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light from the house. Young and brave and so full of life. He loves her more every single day.

“You’re not gonna be like me,” he tells her, and smiles. “You’re gonna be a whole lot better.”

[bijackkellys]

THUNDERSTRUCK ; a jathvey superhero au. | soundtrack.

In which Jack Kelly returns from the dead, Pulitzer makes an attempt at seizing power, and three kids try to save a falling city.

tag list: @mistyw273 @dimenovelcowboy @santa-fe-maniac @pulitzers-world @yo-let-me-get-a-milkyway @verified-dumbass @jewishdavidjacobs @agentsnickers @thetruthabouttheboy @the-games-changing (if you’d like to be added or removed, send me an ask/dm!)

prologue.

act i.

part one ; lazarus, or the return of jack kelly.

part two ; a tergo lupi

part three ; safe haven

[sunsetcurve]

t... tiara thief + “have you been waiting up this whole time?”

fandom: knight squad relationships: arc/ciara, pre-relationship word count: 1,482 a/n: okay, first of all, i want to thank you for this prompt because it single-handedly pulled me out of the writer’s block i’ve been suffering for months. i haven’t completed something in a hot minute, so despite the fact that i wrote this all in one go while i was supposed to be studying for my calc test tomorrow and reading it over once was the extent of my editing so it’s probably Not Very Good, writing it made me incredibly happy. it’s so fluffy and i love writing their dynamic and just,, it’s such a great prompt for them and i hope you guys like it! dedications: tagging my dearest fellow tiara thief stans:  @ciara-knightly@perhapspearl @mistyskiesrambles @willexs @taylorswiftrulestheworld @onplanetmars @neshatriumphs @zackmartin @knghtsquad @soni-dragon @hopefulbeautifulfool @cactus-con @waterisntreal @bitchmilsky summary: In the morning, she’ll chalk it up to the fact that she’s not thinking straight. She’s too tired to think about the implications of it, too out of it to actually use her better judgement. And too lonely. She’s been Princess Angelica for days—she wants to be Ciara for a night. She misses Arc, misses having his steady presence by her side, familiar and constant and unconditional. She just wants him to stay.

It’s late by the time Ciara makes it back. The castle is still and dark and dead-quiet as she approaches her bedroom, heels dangling from one hand and the skirts of her dress pulled up in the other, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. 

It’s not the muscle-aching, satisfying sort of tired that always comes after a long day of training or a successful mission, though—it’s the kind of weariness that’s accompanied by flashes of irritation and leaves her feeling more than a little drained. Not for the first time, the itch of resentment towards her Princess duties crawls under her skin. She should’ve spent the last few days on a daring quest with her squad, not faking smiles through ball after ball. But it’s the height of trade season; they have appearances to keep and responsibilities to fulfill. There’s a whole mess of politics involved that she’s slowly familiarizing herself with, getting comfortable with her position. And yet she misses the tension of her bow, the adrenaline rush of a fight, the thrill of a good adventure—and she misses her team.

They should be back by now. She was supposed to meet them in the training yard tonight, but the party ran long and she couldn’t pull herself away, so she’d had to cancel at the last minute. They’re meeting at the Tasty Trunk first thing in the morning to catch up over breakfast, but still, she’s half-tempted to take her passageway into the squad room and see them right now. 

But it’s late, and they’ve just gotten back—they’ll all be asleep. 

Ciara huffs a minute sigh and pushes open her door. She should get some rest, anyway, so she’ll be ready for training in the morning with a slew of excuses about her miraculous recovery from an illness that didn’t really exist. When she sees her bed, another wave of tiredness hits her full-force; she’s almost ready to throw herself under the covers without even changing out of her gown.

Except she can’t. Because there’s a figure slumped in the armchair by the balcony.

Her hand goes instinctively to her side, before realizing that she’s not in her gear and therefore doesn’t have a weapon. Mind whirring, she weighs the risk of transforming in front of this person—but after a moment, she realizes that they haven’t moved. She shuffles her feet to get a better angle, and moonlight spills over a head of blonde hair, rumpled clothes, and a dark green shoulder pad.

“Arc?” Ciara hisses.

“Wh—” He jerks awake, falling right out of the chair. His sword is still sheathed, but it hits the floor with a clang, and the sound rings through the room and makes her wince. His head jolts around before his wide eyes land on her. “Ciara! Hey, hi! Fancy seeing you h—here,” he finishes around a yawn, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“You’re in my room,” she says pointedly. There’s a part of her that thinks she should be annoyed, that she’s tired, and he scared her, and the noise probably woke half the castle, but in truth she’s just happy that he’s here. She would never say it out loud, but seeing him makes something in her chest swell.

“Hmmf...touche.” He smacks his lips, clearly still half-asleep even after being startled, and Ciara registers that he’s streaked with dirt and dressed in his gear.

“When did you get back?” she asks as he pulls himself into a sitting position and redoes the top few buttons of his shirt.

“A few hours ago.”

“Have you been waiting up this whole time?”

Arc rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, and the gesture is so painfully endearing that Ciara feels herself melt a little, a rush of fondness surging through her. “We were s’pposed to meet up in the training yard,” he says, and yawns again. 

“I sent you a mirror message that I couldn’t make it.”

“Well, yeah, but I had to come chew you out in person for bailing on us.” He pouts, nothing serious behind his words, and Ciara finds herself lifting a hand to hide her giggle.

“Oh, yeah? Chew away.”

He fixates her with his drowsy eyes and says, with the utmost sincerity, “You suck. And—and I hope you find dragon dung in your pillow.”

She laughs openly now, the happiness and easy comfort of seeing him pushing away every negative emotion from the night. “Just say you missed me,” she grins teasingly.

“I did not.”

“Mhm.”

“I hope—I hope Sage covers you in unicorn poop again. I hope someone steals all of your tiaras, even the sparkliest one. I hope your snack catapult breaks.”

She gasps. “Take that back!”

“No. You deserve it.” He gives a little self-satisfied smirk, his eyes fluttering shut. It’s obvious that he’s just about ready to pass out again, and as Ciara tries and fails to stifle a yawn she remembers that she’s not that far off either. She moves to nudge him with her foot.

“C’mon, get up.” 

He groans and swats blindly at her. “I can’t. I’ve lost that ability. Also, my back hurts. Your chair is not as comfortable as it looks—false advertising.”

“I didn’t ask you to sleep there,” she snorts, kicking him again. 

Arc blinks his eyes open at last and lifts a hand into the air, looking up at her expectantly. She rolls her eyes and takes it, hauling him off the floor. “Idiot,” she grumbles, though she can’t keep the affection out of it. 

“Your idiot,” he responds without missing a beat. Distantly, she thinks that she’s going to wonder over that line again and again when she’s not so sleep-deprived. In the moment, though, it just feels right.

“M’kay, I am going to bed,” Arc announces blearily, and starts making his way to her passageway. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You don’t have to go,” she says, and then bites her lip. Maybe if she had an ounce of impulse control left over, she would’ve stopped herself, but she doesn’t. 

He stops in his tracks and turns to her. “No offense, but I think the beds in the squad room are more comfortable than your floor, if only by a little—”

In the morning, she’ll chalk it up to the fact that she’s not thinking straight. She’s too tired to think about the implications of it, too out of it to actually use her better judgement. And too lonely. She’s been Princess Angelica for days—she wants to be Ciara for a night. She misses Arc, misses having his steady presence by her side, familiar and constant and unconditional. She just wants him to stay. The words stumble out: “My bed’s big enough for both of us.”

He blinks at her. Tilts his head, like he’s trying to tell if she’s serious or not. He opens his mouth and then closes it, rubs at the inside of his eye with his fist, and then says finally, “Are you sure?”

She shrugs. “As long as you’re out by morning, or my dad will flay you alive.”

“I’m not afraid of your dad.”

“He’ll call my sister.”

He winces. “Okay, her, I’m scared of.”

Ciara laughs a little and holds her hand out to him, palm-up, and he slips his fingers between hers and lets her tug him towards her bed. He strips off his vest and his shoulder pad and sheath, and she takes the tiara off her head and lets her hair loose from its updo. She doesn’t have the energy to change out of her dress right now, just aches for the warmth of her covers and the softness of her pillow.

When she turns back around, Arc is staring at her. There’s exhaustion still worked into the corners of his face, but there’s something else, too—a sort of softness behind his eyes, a little burst of affection.

She smiles to herself and crawls into bed, burrowing into the sheets. “C’mon,” she tells him quietly, patting the empty space beside her, and he hesitates for a moment before nestling into place.

His whole body goes limp almost instantly. “I’m going back to my thieving ways for one last heist,” he mumbles, muffled by her pillow. “I’m stealing your bed.”

“Not allowed.” He’s warm and soft beside her. She presses close to his shoulder, her eyes slipping closed. “You smell like sewage,” she hums.

“Fought a troll.”

“Did you win?”

“Duh.” His breathing slows, and she matches its pace without thinking about it. She feels light and safe and floating, and she’s barely half-awake when his quiet voice breaks through her haze again. “Ciara?”

“Hm?”

“I did miss you.”

She nuzzles into his chest, warmth flooding through her at the knowledge that she’ll wake up next to him. Even as she’s drifting out of consciousness, she feels herself smile. “I know.”

[sunsetcurve]

like fire in the dark (like a sword upon our hearts)

“So what’s your plan?” Alex challenged. “Go running into the woods that no one has ever come back alive from on a maybe, spend weeks of travel chasing after a fairy tale on the off chance that I’m some kind of 'chosen one' and just hope that we can find this thing that may or may not exist in the middle of all the magic and danger and terrifying monsters?”

“Well, when you put it like that—”

ALEX DOESN'T BELIEVE in fate. He doesn't believe in destiny, or prophecies, or wish-granting stars; he has more important things to worry about, like helping the people of Orpheum survive under the tyranny of their king and queen—also known as his parents. But when a bounty over their heads drives him, Luke, and Reggie out of the capital's walls and into the magic-filled woods beyond, they find themselves thrust into a quest for the Fallen Star, a legend that could be their only hope of reclaiming the throne once and for all.

Finding it may prove more difficult than following a map, though. If they have any chance of getting to the Star, they're going to need the help of Julie, a powerful moon elf who just wants to get her family back. The four of them are set on a gripping course to save their homes, and in order to succeed, they have to believe in things they never thought were possible. It's going to take trust, courage, and a lot of faith to find the Star—and before someone else gets to it first.

Now if Alex could just stop getting distracted by the beautiful boy trying to kill him.

tag list: @zackmartin​ @mistyskiesrambles​ @willexs​ @knghtsquad​ @perhapspearl​ @bitchmilsky​ @onplanetmars​ @taylorswiftrulestheworld​ @ciara-knightly​ @soni-dragon​ (if you’d like to be added/removed let me know!)

part one up now! 

[sunsetcurve]

learn to love without consuming (1/4)

fandom: knight squad relationships: arc / ciara, minor or one-sided arc / oc and ciara / oc word count: 4,603

a/n: eek. it's finally here. if you follow me here you know that i've been working on this for a few weeks (months?), but the idea has been sitting in my drafts for basically forever. almost since i watched the show to begin with. the recent resurgence of the ks fandom prompted me to dig this back up and gave me the motivation to actually try and finish, because fuck it! i love my babes and i want more of them.

so quick note is that this picks up pretty soon after the season 1 finale but disregards basically,,, everything that happens in s2. s1 and the finale proceed the same way except prudy never finds out ciara's secret, so she and warwick don't know at the moment. this chapter was initially gonna have more scenes that drove the plot/romance arc but once i got upwards of 6k with a few major scenes left i decided it would be best if i split the chapter up, so for now it’s just a lot of me trying to work around the convoluted knight squad lore to establish my own. i know that's not exactly what everyone is here for, but i promise things on the romance/action front will pick up soon. i'll place warnings as detailed as i can get without spoiling in the tags and notes as i go, but just anticipate fairly significant violence by chapter 3.

anyway! i have talked enough. the title is from thus always to tyrants by the oh hellos, the rating is t for swearing/violence, there are three more chapters that are in the process of being written, and reviews are like crack as far as i'm concerned. i really hope you like this! thanks for reading <3

dedications: this fic is first and foremost for @ciara-knightly, who is not only my amazing beta but also the whole reason this fic exists. she helped me so so much with the development of the plot and worked through it with me even way before i decided to really start writing it, and i wouldn’t have been able to do this without her. all of the notes she left after beta-reading were so so helpful and really made this whole fic make sense so basically i owe her my entire life. she inspires me to be a better writer all the time and i love her. everyone say thank you shona!!! also tagging my lovely friends and some people who have expressed interest, who are in no way obligated to read this; @juliesdahlias @mistyskiesrambles @dr-rigatoni @willexs @taylorswiftrulestheworld @onplanetmars @neshatriumphs @zackmartin @julies-molinas @soni-dragon @yagorlemmalyn @hopefulbeautifulfool @cactus-con @waterisntreal @onetwothreefarkle @bitchmilsky

summary: “Now that Ryker isn’t a threat anymore, the councils are supposed to resume as planned, and Astoria is set to hold the first one two weeks from now.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That sounds exciting.”

Ciara nods. “It is! I finally get to meet some of the other nobility, and actually get to be involved in Astorian politics for once. But my dad won’t let me go without an escort,” she says, and then hesitates. “Which is where you come in.”

read it on ao3

The morning before training that day, Arc is testing his skills against a heavy bronze padlock when Ciara enters the squad room and drops a brown paper bag on the table in front of him. 

“These,” she announces as he raises an eyebrow at her, “are for you.”

He pulls open the package and is instantly greeted with a rush of warmth and the smell of vanilla. “Dragon puffs?” he says, half in awe. It’s a clear bribe, but he can’t help but shove a sugar-coated sweet in his mouth anyway. They’re an Astorian original and possibly the best thing he’s ever tasted; he’d tried them once at a bakery near the castle and hasn’t stopped thinking about them since. 

“Okay, what do you want?” he says then, words muffled around the cream and pastry.

Ciara pulls a face at his manners, but still manages to blink innocently at him. “Can’t I just do something nice for a friend?” she tries, but it’s half-hearted.

He swallows and grins at her. “Nice try, Princess. Your dessert deliveries always come with an ulterior motive.”

Huffing a sigh, she sits down next to him. There’s this subtle air of anticipation lingering around her, one he can only sense based on how in tune they are after so long of being teammates. The two of them have this easy way of reading each other now; they’ve been spending more and more time together, something having shifted in their dynamic after the battle against Ryker. He can’t quite place what it is, but he knows it’s only brought them closer. “Do you know what the Council of the Five Kingdoms is?” she asks finally.

He shrugs. “Sure. Nobles from each kingdom used to have a big ball every year to talk trading and politics and other boring stuff…”

“Except there hasn’t been a council since Ryker’s invasion, because the kingdoms have been isolated and preoccupied with their own safety,” she finishes for him. Her fingers tug at the lacing of her leather gauntlets; she’s nervous, but he still isn’t sure why. “Now that Ryker isn’t a threat anymore, the councils are supposed to resume as planned, and Astoria is set to hold the first one two weeks from now.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That sounds exciting.”

Ciara nods. “It is! I finally get to meet some of the other nobility, and actually get to be involved in Astorian politics for once. But my dad won’t let me go without an escort,” she says, and then hesitates. “Which is where you come in.”

Arc chokes on his second dragon puff. “You want me to be your escort,” he says flatly, once he’s finished coughing, “to the Council of the Five Kingdoms?” Normally he’d jump at the chance to spend a night dressing up and eating castle food. But the council is a decidedly different scene; there’s a set of formalities, politics underlying everything, and too many chances for him to expose his lack of knowledge when it comes to Astorian customs. Not to mention that Catalias’ royals will be there. He doesn’t know if he can stomach looking them in the face, knowing what they did to Seagate.  

Ciara grimaces. “Look, I know it’s not exactly your thing, but my dad won’t let me go alone. And this really means a lot to me.” Her eyes are pleading, and Arc feels his resolve chipping away.

“Can’t one of your actual guards go with you?” he tries. “Or, Prudy or Warwick or someone?”

“I’ve already talked to my dad about it,” she explains. “You’re the only Knight School student he’d let protect me, because you already proved you could when Ryker invaded. Besides, if something were to happen…you’re the one person who knows I can handle myself as Ciara.”

There’s this brief stretch of silence where Arc works his bottom lip, and Ciara looks as though she’s debating something. “Also,” she adds finally, with the soft flicker of a hesitant smile, “I thought it might be fun to go with you.”

Arc blinks at her, caught off guard by the admission. There’s this sudden buzz in his chest that he can’t push away; in truth, he doesn’t like the idea of her spending the night with someone else either. Maybe, by some miracle, this will actually be a good thing. “Alright,” he relents. “I’ll be your escort.”

Ciara’s face breaks into a grin. “Yes! Thank you!” She throws her arms around him, and he’s shock-stilled, a rush of warmth flooding through him as he hugs her back. When she pulls away, her eyes are shining with excitement. “Okay, I’ve gotta go tell my dad you said yes, and there’s a million things to do, but I’ll see you at training later. You are the best.”

“I expect dragon puffs for life!” Arc calls after her as she disappears through her passageway. He leans back into the couch, lightheaded, and in that moment, he realizes abruptly that there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for her. 

And he is so completely screwed.

*

Two weeks later, Arc is standing outside Ciara’s bedroom, waiting for her to finish getting ready.

It feels odd to be out here in the open. Generally his visits to her chamber are accompanied by an air of secrecy, but tonight, he’s a guest in the castle. He’s dressed like it, too, decked out in the guards’ typical formal wear: pressed brown pants, a white shirt laced up the front, and a navy leather jacket trimmed in gold, with Astoria’s crest on one shoulder. He looks kind of dashing, honestly.

Despite the confidence boost his new look offers him, his hand keeps drifting to the hilt of his sword. It’s sheer force of habit; he only associates this brewing sense of apprehension with battle, and his muscles are responding in kind. He’s glad, at least, that he turned down the other guards’ offer to lend him one of their ceremonial blades and instead has the familiarity of his own. Hopefully he won’t need it, but it’s a steadying presence all the same.

“Almost ready!” Ciara calls from inside, and Arc carefully unclenches his fingers from around the leather grip of his sword. He has to keep it together tonight; she’s made it clear how much this means to her. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass her in front of nobles from all five kingdoms.

Well, four, he reminds himself. Seagate won’t be attending. There isn’t anyone left to represent them. 

The thought makes his stomach twist. 

He’s saved from having to dwell on it by the sound of Ciara’s door unlatching. “Better prepare yourself, Princess,” he teases, leaning against the wall, “I look pretty good, and the last thing we want is for you to get too smitten—”

He breaks off as she emerges from the doorway, all the air in his lungs leaving in a sudden rush. He’s trying hard not to be the cliche of a guy scraping his jaw off the floor at the sight of a pretty girl in a dress, especially not like this, with Ciara—but he can’t help but think that it’s ridiculously unfair of her to come out looking like that. Her dress is a pale blue, falling gently off her shoulders and cinching at her waist, and her tight curls are weaved with strands of gold and tied into a low knot, some of them falling loose to frame her face. There’s a crown of gold leaves and rosebuds settled in her hair. 

“You...um…” Arc searches for his voice, “you look amazing.” His mouth feels dry.

Ciara smirks and reaches up to adjust the collar of his uniform. “You don’t look so bad yourself. I’m definitely smitten,” she jokes, like it’s nothing for them to be flirting openly. It should be nothing. Except his skin burns where her fingers brush against his neck, and he suddenly wonders if she can hear his heart pounding.

He clears his throat. “We should probably get to the ballroom.” 

She nods. “Give me your arm,” she says, looking at him expectantly. When he raises an eyebrow, she continues, “You’re my escort, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” He lifts his arm obligingly, his cheeks warm.

“I really wish we’d had more time to go over Astorian customs,” she breathes as she takes it, more to herself than anything. “Between training and helping with preparations, I’ve been so busy…” His nerves must show on his face, then, because she squeezes his arm gently and amends, “Sorry. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. Just stay close to me, okay?”

“Not a problem,” he grins without missing a beat, and Ciara scoffs and shoves him, the smile tugging at her mouth taking all the bite away from it. 

They can do this, he thinks. The two of them have kept up appearances for each other for months now, have fought and trained and battled Ryker together. They’re Arc and Ciara, unstoppable duo. One little party should be nothing.

As they make their way down the hall towards the ballroom, flanked by guards, Ciara lowers her voice. “When we get there, most of the nobles should be inside already. The herald will announce my father first, then us, and then each of the other three kingdoms. We’ll be beside the thrones as they come in—you’ll stand by me, left side—and once they’ve all been announced, we can leave the thrones and mingle. Bow to each of the rulers as they come by.” 

They had, at least, practiced his bow. Arc swallows back the dread in his throat; all he has to do is stand beside her and greet the other royals, it’s easy enough. For a moment, they linger outside the entrance to the ballroom, until an official-sounding voice announces the King. “We’re next,” Ciara whispers to him, eyes glinting with excitement. “You ready?”

He nods back at her, and the voice calls, “Accompanied by Sir Arc...Princess Angelica of Astoria!” They step into the ballroom, greeted with applause. Arc doesn’t think he’s ever been in a place this lavish; the walls are white, accented in deep gold, and the floors are polished to a gleam. The ceiling looks hand-painted, ornately decorated in constellations and swirling designs, and crystal chandeliers dangle over their heads, casting a golden glow over the whole room. He tries not to look too awe-struck. 

They make their way to the platform on which the thrones rest, Ciara nodding and smiling and waving at the other nobles as they pass. She stands next to her father, and Arc takes his place on her other side, placing his hands behind his back and trying, for all the world, to look like he belongs there. He wonders suddenly if he’s stood too close to her, and if it would make things worse for him to shift over now, and if his indecision is showing on his face—

And then, almost imperceptibly and hidden from the ballroom’s view by the folds of her dress, Ciara reaches over and links her pinky with his. It’s a tiny gesture, a friendly reassurance, but Arc feels a tide of warmth swell in his chest all the same. He lets his gaze flit to her for just a moment, and her lips are graced with a small smile as she tugs his finger gently. 

His breath hitches, and he fights to keep his face a passive neutral as the herald announces the next kingdom and he turns his attention back to the doorway.

“Presenting King Hugo, Queen Luciana, and their son Prince Isaac of Catalias!” 

Arc’s stomach turns as the couple enters, trailed by their son, all three of them swathed in lavish red and gold. Their reputation precedes them; he knows little about the prince, but the king and queen are infamous for their hoarding of wealth, their favorance of the rich nobles and landowners of their kingdom over the common people. Arc knows them best for what they had done to Seagate. 

His hand twitches for his sword, but he fights against the instinct.

True to form, the two have a haughty look about them, all starched clothes and stiff smiles as they bow to Ciara and the King. The two of them return the greeting with Arc following their lead—grudgingly.

“I am so pleased you could join us tonight,” the King smiles, a little tight-lipped. “It is high time that Astoria and Catalias united again.”

King Hugo nods back. “I couldn’t agree more. The honor is ours.” 

Arc detects a veiled sort of tension between the two of them, hidden well underneath the cordial formalities. He glances at Isaac, whose eyes are trained intently on Ciara even as he and his parents move to greet the other guests. Something about it is unsettling.

He’s so focused on Isaac that he almost misses the herald’s announcement of the next kingdom. “Queen Damyanti, and her children Princess Aadhya and Prince Kavan of Khurjan!”

Queen Damyanti is the picture of elegance, draped in silver silk that almost seems to glow against her dark skin. Aadhya looks around fifteen, with the same deep eyes and regal expression, and Kavan must be ten or so. He grins toothily as the three of them approach the thrones and bow.

The King’s expression is much warmer now. “Queen Damyanti. It has been too long. I trust Khurjan is doing well?”

“Not quite as well as Astoria, perhaps,” she replies, and it’s teasing, no sharpness to it. “This ball is absolutely lovely. Princess Angelica, you look so beautiful. Just like your mother. I was so sorry to hear of her passing.”

Ciara’s eyes go soft. “Thank you, Queen Damyanti,” she nods back. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“You as well. It’s a shame your sister couldn’t make it, but hopefully we’ll all gather again soon.” She gives a small, departing nod and joins the rest of the nobles, Aadhya giving them a bright-eyed smile and Kavan waving enthusiastically as they follow her. Ciara laughs. 

“And finally...King Jesper of Vysalt!”

Arc is confused for a moment; he wonders if he had remembered the name of Vysalt’s king wrong. Then a young man with a head of dark curls and a smattering of freckles against tawny brown skin enters, his crown just slightly crooked. His eyes are wide and dark, and a jagged, white scar cuts across his cheekbone. He can’t be much older than they are.

“He’s the king?” Arc whispers to Ciara under his breath as Jesper makes his way over to them. “How old is he?”

Her expression twists a little in sympathy. “Seventeen. He wasn’t supposed to inherit the throne so soon. His parents were killed when Ryker’s army took over his kingdom.”

Arc isn’t sure what to say to that. He knows what it’s like to lose everything to Ryker—he can picture the flames every time he shuts his eyes. But he hadn’t known about Vysalt or the fate of its royals. They had been close allies with Seagate at one point, one of the only other kingdoms without much wealth, and their king and queen had been known for their generosity. 

Somehow Arc had thought the damage had been done to Seagate alone, but now he wonders how the other kingdoms fared, if they suffered just as much. If any of them came out as unscathed as Astoria did.

“Your Majesties,” Jesper says as he bows, and there’s a note of pity in the King’s expression as he returns the gesture. Arc can only imagine how he feels about someone so close to his daughter’s age having to run a kingdom on his own. 

“King Jesper. How are you doing?” 

It’s a more personal question than he had asked the other royals, Arc notes. Jesper smiles easily; it’s soft, highlights his deep dimples and makes his dark eyes glimmer. “Well, thank you. Vysalt is recovering with time. As am I,” he adds, voice quieting for a moment.

The King nods back. “That’s good to hear. Let us know if there’s anything Astoria can do to help.”

Something flickers in Jesper’s expression, hard to read and gone so quickly that Arc wonders if he imagined it. The young king bows again before moving to join the others, but not before he catches Arc’s eye and smiles warmly. It surprises him—the other royals had hardly given him a second glance—but he returns it with one of his own. Beside him, Ciara lifts an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and something else he can’t place. 

“What?” he asks quietly, and she shakes her head, glancing away. 

“Nothing.”

He wants to pry, but the King is clearing his throat, getting ready to address the room. The chatter dies down as all eyes turn to him.

“My fellow Astorians,” he says in his deep, booming voice, sounding more formal than Arc has ever heard him, “and my guests from our neighboring kingdoms...I am honored to welcome you to our castle, and so pleased that we could all be in attendance tonight.”

Not all of us, Arc thinks, but no word of Seagate comes up. 

The King continues, “For decades, our kingdoms have been isolated and divided by Ryker’s armies. We have long suffered under his forces, but his threat is gone for good. Thus, tonight is more than a council; it is a symbol of our victory, a symbol of our unity as we move forward and rebuild. So enjoy yourselves! After all, we have so much to celebrate!”

To Arc, the sentiment feels hollow. He got his revenge, and of course he’s glad that Ryker can’t hurt anyone else, but it doesn’t change the fact that Seagate is in ruins. It feels suddenly difficult to celebrate with the weight of his village’s absence lingering in the air around him. The rest of the partygoers don’t seem to share his hesitance, though; the room breaks into applause and cheers, several of the guests raising their goblets jovially. 

Ciara gives him a subtle nudge, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Now we get to mingle,” she grins, leading him off the throne platform and towards the crowd. 

He follows dutifully as she heads toward the table where the other kingdoms’ royals have gathered, Astoria’s king staying behind to greet the other royals. Queen Damyanti is in conversation with King Hugo and Queen Luciana, but she doesn’t seem entirely pleased about it, and Jesper and Kavan are laughing at something Aadhya has said. Isaac hovers next to them, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He has his father’s golden hair and clear blue eyes, but the frown on his face is entirely his mother’s.

It disappears, though, the moment he sees Ciara approaching them. “Princess Angelica,” he greets her, with a little too much enthusiasm for Arc’s liking, “I’m so honored to finally meet you. You’re even more radiant in person.” Before she can say anything, he takes her hand and kisses it swiftly. Arc narrows his eyes.

Ciara gives a forced-sounding chuckle and curtseys, pulling her hand back. “Thank you, Prince Isaac. I’m glad you could make it. Allow me to introduce Sir Arc, my guard and escort for the night.”

Arc bows—and if he never has to bow to another pompous royal again, he thinks, it’ll be too soon—and Isaac offers him a dismissive sort of half-smile. Any further interaction they would’ve had then is thankfully avoided by the other royals noticing Ciara’s arrival.

“Hi, Princess Angelica!” Aadhya says brightly, with a neat little dip of a curtsey, “I’m Aadhya.” When Ciara and Arc begin to return the gesture, she waves her hand with a tiny scoff. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. Formalities. Just come sit.” She returns to her chair and pats the seat next to her, and Arc decides right there that he likes her.

Ciara takes the offered chair, and Arc takes the only other open spot, in between her and King Jesper. As Ciara launches into conversation with Aadhya, Jesper turns to him. 

“Hi,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m Jesper.”

Arc bites back a laugh at the unnecessary introduction. “I know who you are, Your Highness,” he replies lightly.

“I know. I was just trying to give you an opening to tell me who you are.”

Oh. That’s unexpected. There’s no prerogative behind his words, no assertion; Jesper’s grin is almost bashful, his voice easy and bright. He doesn’t sound like a king, just a seventeen-year-old boy trying to flirt. Arc can’t help but return his smile.

“I’m Arc,” he says. “Normally I’m a student at Knight School, but I’m the princess’s guard and escort for the night.” 

“Wait,” Aadhya pauses her conversation with Ciara to lean over and look at him, “You’re the Arc who defeated Ryker?” 

“I helped,” Arc says with a shrug, and the princess’s eyes go wide. She turns to Ciara.

“Were you there too?”

“I was—” Ciara pauses for a moment, “hiding. I was hiding. Arc got me to safety.” 

He grins a little at her, tongue between his teeth, knowing it must be killing her to hide what she was actually doing. She narrows her eyes and kicks his leg under the table in response, a silent shut up. He lifts his eyebrows, like, I didn’t say anything, and she rolls her eyes in an entirely non-subtle manner. 

Across the table, Queen Damyanti is watching their exchange with a raised eyebrow, Arc notices belatedly. She has a mildly amused look on her face, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she states, “Battling Ryker face-to-face must have been quite the experience.” 

“What was it like?” Prince Kavan asks eagerly from beside his sister.

Aadhya elbows him. “Kavan,” she hisses, but Arc just grins.

“No worries. It was…” he trails, trying to think of what to say and suddenly aware that all the royals’ eyes are on him. He shifts in his seat. “It was scary, obviously. He had the Armor of Astoria, and a whole army with him, and most of the Astorian knights under his spell. But, y’know. We Knight School students are pretty formidable. We all took him on together. Wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise. I wasn’t half as scared as I would’ve been without my squadmates watching my back.”

He glances at Ciara, who smiles softly and nudges his foot, gentler this time. Jesper has that same unreadable look on his face and Aadhya has her chin propped in her hand, her expression amazed, but Queen Luciana gives a snide sort of scoff. 

“It’s a wonder it took so long to defeat him, then, if a group of students cut him down so easily,” she says. “Perhaps Ryker was never as great a threat as we all made him out to be.”

There’s a cut of silence across the table in which Jesper visibly stiffens. “With all due respect, Queen Luciana, Ryker’s attacks were devastating. Or have you forgotten what happened to my parents?” he demands, without any respect at all. His eyes are blazing. 

“I’m merely pointing out that the only real damage done was to the less...fortified kingdoms,” she sniffs. “Ryker only breached Catalias’s walls once, and he was driven out rather quickly.”

“Well, not every kingdom has Catalias’s resources.” Ciara sounds like she’s choosing her words carefully, frustration masked well behind them.

King Hugo gives a huff of a laugh; his blue eyes are cold. “My dear princess, you have no cause for indignation. Astoria lost the least to Ryker, what with your,” he waves a hand, “magic bubble.”

Ciara opens her mouth but falters, brow furrowed, and across the table, Queen Damyanti speaks up. “Nevertheless, Ryker was still a formidable enemy to all of us. We were only prepared for his attacks because he targeted Seagate and Vysalt first. And Seagate’s destruction is a clear example of his power.”

“Oh, even you can’t argue that Seagate was rotting long before Ryker got to it, Damyanti,” Hugo replies swiftly, and Arc’s breath catches in his throat. Queen Damyanti shrugs in agreement, her expression passive; Arc almost stands up, but Ciara’s hand on his leg underneath the table stops him. 

“Don’t,” she hisses, just barely loud enough for him to hear, “Let me handle this.”

Though as it turns out, she doesn’t have to. Before she has a chance to speak, Jesper is already bristling, his voice sharp: “As if Seagate’s corruption justifies the destruction of its people?”

“It’s thieves and criminals, you mean?” Isaac scoffs. “Seagate was a wasteland. The kingdoms are better off.”

The words ring in Arc’s ears, alongside the pounding of his blood. They sound painfully similar to what Ryker had said to him on the mountain—rats and thieves, I did the five kingdoms a favor—and he thinks fleetingly that he’s going to be sick. He’s always known that Seagate was looked down on by the other kingdoms, but hearing them say so casually that what happened, the flames and the destruction and all of the death, was deserved—

“The people were only thieves and criminals because Catalias took advantage of them,” Jesper argues. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that it was your government that poured money into the gangs of Seagate for their own profit and allowed them to stage a coup in the first place.”

The words are deadly and cold, but Arc feels a flash of admiration for Jesper; the king has no obligations towards Seagate, and yet defends it like his own. King Hugo’s gaze hardens. “You’re blaming Catalias for Seagate’s problems?” he says with a derisive laugh. “If anything, Ryker’s attacks only revealed that Seagate was a kingdom full of people that weren’t worth saving.”

“That’s enough,” Ciara says abruptly. Her hand tightens on Arc’s leg, and he can no longer tell if he’s the one trembling or if she is. There’s this burning fire behind her eyes; she looks, Arc thinks briefly, the same way she does in battle. “What happened to Seagate was a devastating tragedy, and I won’t let you treat it as otherwise. Those who disagree aren’t welcome here.”

It’s a weighted statement, one she doesn’t entirely have the formal authority to make, but no one dares to contest it. A heavy silence settles over all of them. Arc doesn’t know how long he can sit there with all the heat under his skin; he doesn’t remember when his hand found the hilt of his sword, only that he’s gripping it tight enough that the leather bites into his palm. He wants to stand up and tell them that none of them would be here if it weren’t for him, a thief from Seagate. In truth, the only thing holding him back is Ciara. In a battle between her steady hand and the storm in his chest, she wins without even trying.

He doesn’t say anything or look at her, but her gaze flits to him for a moment and she just knows, standing up. Before she even opens her mouth, Isaac is on his feet too. “Going so soon?” he asks. “Would you care to dance, Princess?”

She looks at him coolly for a moment. “I would, actually.” And then, she turns to Arc, offering him her hand, “Sir Arc, dance with me?”

Arc blinks up at her and takes it as he stands. “Absolutely, Princess,” he says, letting her lead him away from the table and glancing back only long enough to catch the dumbfounded expression on Isaac’s face.

[sunsetcurve]

a love is coming home to me (1/?)

When Willie meets Alex’s gaze, it’s the same expression he wore that day outside the Orpheum when he promised him anything. “It’s okay,” he says, nothing but soft edges. “It’s okay, Alex.” He is still trying to save him.

/ or, Alex makes a deal.

fandom: julie and the phantoms relationships: alex mercer/willie, alex mercer & julie molina, alex mercer & luke patterson & reggie peters & julie molina, word count: 915 a/n: eek. sorry. i wasn’t gonna post this because i’m not super proud of it and it’s unbeta-d and it’s not finished and i’m not sure if i ever will finish it so maybe it’ll just be this awful cliffhanger instead of the whole fic i have mapped out in my head and if so, from the bottom of my heart.....my bad. no real trigger warnings at the moment except that it’s just like...sad? title is from halcyon by the paper kites. dedications: @juliesdahlias @mistyskiesrambles @imastandtall @gamity and @onplanetmars for enabling me, @owenjoyners for listening to me ramble about this fic and keeping me going, and all my other lovely friends who are in no way under any pressure to read this (especially since some of you are only like, tangentially in this fandom): @willexs @zackmartln @ciara-knightly @mychenrymadness @bitchmilsky @cactus-con @dr-rigatoni @taylorswiftrulestheworld @molinasmercer (if you’d like to be tagged/untagged in future works, just lmk!)

HERE IS HOW it ends: with the two of them watching the sun set over the city, with Willie’s laugh, with everything going wrong so quickly that Alex wonders if it’s real.

“Oh, William,” Caleb says, nightmarish, with his hands heavy on Willie’s shoulders and his voice black and deadly and coiling around them like woodsmoke and that sharp, saccharine smile, “did you really think you could run from me?”

There’s a wire through Alex’s chest and Caleb has it knotted in his fist, pulling, pulling. There’s a wire through Alex’s chest and he can’t breathe around it, his fingers twitching for an inhaler he doesn’t need anymore. There’s a wire through Alex’s chest and Caleb has it garrotted around Willie’s throat; he could destroy them both in one tug. 

“Let him go,” Alex says, with his desperation spilling all over him. He doesn’t know why he thought this would last. He wanted to believe, at least for a time, that nothing could touch them, that everything bad would stay distant as long as they were together. Caleb looks at him as though noticing him standing there for the first time, and in the setting sun the magician’s eyes are glinting as he grins with a mouthful of shark’s teeth.

“I can’t do that.” His grip tightens; Alex watches Willie flinch and jolts in tandem with it. “William is a traitor. Someone has to make an example of him.”

The words sit cold and venomous between them. The implication is clear, and Alex is shock-stilled by it, helpless and drowning.

When Willie meets Alex’s gaze, it’s the same expression he wore that day outside the Orpheum when he promised him anything. “It’s okay,” he says, nothing but soft edges. “It’s okay, Alex.” He is still trying to save him.

Alex thinks of Willie tugging him through the streets with their fingers intertwined and their faded pulses pressed against each other. Alex thinks of Willie with his laughter in his chest and his dark, dark eyes and his honey voice saying anything but what he wants to. And Alex thinks of being fifteen and aching and playing his drums until blood ran down his fingers to his wrists, of how it feels to love something so hard that he’d let it tear him apart.

“Wait,” Alex says then, and when Caleb’s eyes flit to him expectantly Alex wonders if he already knows what will happen next.

Willie’s voice is warning; “Alex—”

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“Alex,”

“You wanted me in your band,” he says, his voice trembling in his throat, “Let him go, and I’ll come with you. My soul for his.”

“No! No, Alex, don’t—“

Caleb closes his fist in the air; Willie’s mouth snaps closed so quickly that Alex hears his teeth clack together. The magician’s dead, dead eyes study Alex with something like hunger prowling behind them, and Alex suddenly wishes he were braver, more like Luke, wishes he wasn’t withering under that snakelike stare. 

“It would’ve been nice to have a full set,” Caleb hums quietly. “But I suppose one out of three will do.”

In his periphery Alex can see Willie struggling, rooted in place and silenced by the magic that binds his soul. Caleb could strip him of his agency and destroy him from the inside out, and Alex will not watch this thunderstorm of a boy unravel in pieces, not at Caleb’s hands, not for him. 

“So we have a deal?” he presses.

Caleb steps around Willie, holds his hand out for Alex to shake, and something in his smile makes Alex think fleetingly of his father playing poker at the dining table, his laugh taunting as he beat him at a game he barely knew how to play. “Love does make you bold, doesn’t it?”

Alex flinches away from his gaze; he can hardly look at Willie but tries anyway, the rhythm of his heartbeat stuttering in his throat. “Tell, um—tell Luke and Reggie and Julie that I’m sorry, okay? And that I love them.”

There is panic and tears and a plea in Willie’s eyes. Alex’s breathless lungs constrict at the sight of it; when he finally smiles, his mouth is stuffed with plucked flowers or something else half-dead and achingly sweet. “I couldn’t let you disappear,” he says gently, like he needs Willie to understand. Alex steps forward with their gazes still locked on each other. “I’d do anything for you, too.” 

He takes Caleb’s hand.

Pain shoots through his chest, then, white-hot, making his knees buckle with the impact of it. It’s something like the jolts they’d been dealt before, amplified, and Alex grits his teeth—it trickles away slower. The dull ache between his ribs lingers, lingers, spreads deep into his bones. Around him the air is tinged with electricity, lightning-struck. Caleb lets go of his hand and Alex is left cold and dark and empty.

But Willie, oh—Willie is glowing. 

There’s this lovely golden light that washes over him; Alex is awestruck by it, and even as it ebbs away Willie seems brighter, saturated with color. A cable snaps, Caleb’s hold over him breaks—Willie stumbles like he’s had the wind knocked out of him and then lunges forward desperately.

“Alex, wait—!” he cries out, breathless and too late, and Alex smiles just a little as Caleb’s fingers dig like needles into his arm. 

“Bye, Willie,” he says with crippling finality, and then they’re gone.

[sunsetcurve]

a jatp fantasy au | part one | rating: t | word count: 6329 

“It’s just a myth,” he said again, unable to keep the sharp bitterness out of his voice. “Even if you believe the stories about the gods, all that ‘rightful ruler’ stuff is bullshit, and anyway, humans can’t command magic. No human has ever been able to. Trust me, if the Star ever existed to begin with, I doubt anyone is going to find it now, and whatever power it might have had is probably long gone.”

tagging: @zackmartin​ @mistyskiesrambles​ @willexs​ @knghtsquad​ @perhapspearl​ @bitchmilsky​ @onplanetmars​ @taylorswiftrulestheworld @ciara-knightly​ @soni-dragon​ (if you’d like to be added/removed let me know!)

[sunsetcurve]

guess who’s back!!!!! i have mixed feelings about this chapter to be totally honestly with you. there’s a lot of plot stuff i’ve been planning before so it’s kind of dramatic and like a little less of the humor that this fic has been so far which is fine i think!!! but it took a lot to write because i was just trying not to make anyone too ooc. but! it’s an update so...i hope you guys like this!! let me know what you think 💕

no pressure tagging my lovely friends: @sevenseashigh @bitchmilsky @mychenrymadness @ciara-knightly @chenoahchantel @cactus-con @bijerbear @henryhearts @henryharts @taylorswiftrulestheworld @just-a-j-reallly @swellviews-finest @angrypunchguy @an-anxious-gay-mess @verified-dumbass @rawrrr

if you’d like to be tagged/untagged, feel free to send me an ask or dm!

[sunsetcurve]

Idk if I understood the directions, but since I have a drabble coming up about this, curious about your hcs: Charlotte witnesses Spike come out for the AU thing.

this was so much fun. thank you for the ask! 💕send me an au idea and i’ll reply with five headcanons!

here we go.

1) they’re just starting to become closer. they’ve ventured from being lab partners to friends to almost-flirting, sharing more than just ideas, when it happens for the first time. i’m not sure who or what triggers it, but i’d imagine the two of them are probably working on something together, and their easy banter and brainstorming is shoved aside when spike rears his head. charlotte is terrified and confused, of course, but bree explains the situation of chase’s commando app to her, that it’s not his fault, that he can’t control it.

2) spike is openly flirtatious with charlotte. it grosses her out, obviously, because he’s so aggressive, toxically masculine, so unlike chase (but later, when she thinks about it, she’ll remember that he’s tied to chase’s subconscious—and that means that somewhere, chase likes her that way too)

3) once charlotte knows what’s going on, she’s commanding—tells everyone else to leave the room, eliminate the “threat”. they’re hesitant to leave her alone with spike, but even though she doesn’t trust spike, she trusts chase, and knows that he’s in there somewhere. she talks him down, starts rambling about elements and constellations and parallel universes until suddenly he’s blinking and he’s back.

4) he knows what happened instantly. he’s been here before, surrounded by wreckage, pulling a blank for the time that passed—he knows instantly that spike showed up, and then he’s ashamed and scared and frustrated. except charlotte’s not looking at him like people normally do, terrified or disgusted or angry—she’s curious and thoughtful. she’s not running. he asks her why, confused: i’ve got this thing living inside of me, what are you still doing here? she takes his hand, gentle, because she’s not afraid of him. you’re here, aren’t you?

5) and then she works. gathers everything chase, douglas, donald, and anyone else who’s been around him long enough about everything they know when it comes to spike. she saw the look in chase’s eyes after he came down from it, knows that being taken over by someone made to destroy just wrecks him inside. and she finds a way to fix it. i don’t know how, but she’s charlotte, and she finds a way. puts a block on chase’s commando app—it never shows up during real danger anyway. he doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it. he’s over the freaking moon when spike is finally gone—and to her, that makes all the work worth it.

[sunsetcurve]

Word: absolutely.

oooh, i liked this one. i didn’t know if i had a fic with it but then i found a doc of just...snippets of dialogue that i didn’t really know where to put. this one is char going off at ray because she deserves it.

“No, he wouldn’t! You know why? Because you’ve been drilling it into his head from day one that he’s a sidekick, so he can’t take days off, so he has to push himself past his limits, so he has to do absolutely everything you say and not question you. I told him to get some rest and he said ‘crime doesn’t rest’—you know where he got that shit? From you. From you and your whole obsessive, arrogant act—”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.” 

“What are you going to do? Fire me?” she scoffs. “Go ahead. See how long this place lasts without me.”

[sunsetcurve]

👀

so i started writing this hensper fic way back in like, february, and i think i came back to it a couple of times over the summer but i never finished. the overall idea of the story was supposed to be a small series of snippets through henry and jasper’s friendship and eventually more, but i only finished one section of it. this was based off the part in “i know your secret” when jasper and henry talk about their experience at summer camp. i hope you like it!

* * *

Henry is eight years old and it’s hot, one of those mosquito-ridden summer days when their Camp Tamaha t-shirts are sticky with sweat and the sun burns on the back of his neck.

Jasper is sitting next to him as they wait for their turn on the archery range. He’s alternating between sipping a juice box and wiggling his front tooth, which he’s determined to make fall out before the end of the summer. Apparently, the tooth fairies at camp pay more than the ones at home.

(Henry’s not entirely sure that’s true, but hey, it’s Jasper.)

“Do you think I’m getting close, Hen?” he says, opening his mouth wide and turning to Henry. His words get muffled as he prods his loose tooth with his tongue. “I think I’m almost there!”

Before Henry can tell him that he doesn’t really want to inspect his mouth, Jasper’s eyes get comically wide. “Hey, that target’s open!” he grins, pointing across the range. “Race ya!” And with that, Jasper streaks off, juice box abandoned on the bench as he runs towards the target, his sneakers kicking up clouds dirt and grass.

“Hey, no fair, you got a head–” Henry breaks off abruptly. His heart skips a beat as he watches his best friend go sprawling into the ground, then another as his gaze slowly rises to see the person standing over him. Billy Brody stares down at Jasper, arms crossed over his huge chest, and it’s clear by the intense scowl on his face that he’s pissed.

“Jasper!” Henry tries to yell, but it comes out as more of a squeak. And you can’t really blame him for being scared, because Billy is twelve years old and big for his age, and Henry is neither of those things.

As Jasper starts to scramble to his feet, Billy’s hand closes around the collar of his shirt, lifting him a few inches off the ground so they’re face-to-face. “Watch where you’re going, you little freak.”

None of the counselors are looking, because of course. They’re too preoccupied with helping kids shoot their arrows or chasing after the ones that ran into the woods or in one particular case, falling asleep on the benches. Henry’s head darts from side to side, looking for somebody, anybody who can help.

Then, a sharp cry of pain draws his attention back to Jasper. His best friend’s mouth is bleeding, and Billy is smirking with his fingers curled in a fist, and in that moment, Henry sees red.

“Leave him alone!” he yells, and then he’s running, feet pounding against the grass as he launches himself onto Billy’s back. The older boy drops Jasper, but Henry doesn’t let go, tugging Billy’s hair and pounding his fists against his back.

From there, it’s all a blur. At some point, Jasper jumps in to help, and when the counselors finally pull them apart, Henry is sporting a black eye and a split lip and Jasper’s mouth still trickles blood. But, Henry notices with a smug sort of pride, there’s a fist-shaped bruise on Billy’s cheekbone.

Jasper throws his arms around Henry when the counselors are gone. “That was so awesome!” he grins. “I thought Billy was gonna kill me, but then you jumped on his back and started punching him! He was so freaked out! You saved me!”

Henry gives a small laugh. “You can always count on me, Jasper.”

“You’re the best friend ever,” Jasper beams, and lays his head on Henry’s shoulder. There’s a brief moment of silence before he says, “Hey…I think Billy knocked my tooth loose! You wanna see?”

[sunsetcurve]

Lol okay, whenever you guys play these word games I literally forget every word in existence so heres a real basic word from a real basic bitch: smile?

NIKKI WHEN I SAW THIS I SCREAMED BECAUSE I SAW YOU REBLOGGED THE POST AND I WAS LITERALLY JUST ABOUT TO SEND YOU THE SAME FREAKING WORD!!!! OUR MINDS >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

literally that’s so insane i can’t. also i pretty much used up all recent my wips for this fandom with the other asks, so i went digging around in my older drafts and found this from this grittier thundermans/henry danger crossover series i was planning but never finished (recurring theme here lol).

“You died,” she says, because she can’t force her voice to say anything else, and her heart thuds against her ribcage. “You--I watched them bury you.”

Something that’s not quite a smile crosses his face as he gives a breathy sort of laugh. “Yeah, well,” Max gestures to himself, “Surprise.”

Phoebe’s feet move before her brain does, and suddenly she’s throwing her arms around him and she feels something she hasn’t felt in seven months. He tenses under her grip at first, but then relaxes, burying his head into her shoulder like he used to.

[sunsetcurve]

Amazing?

okay, this is from a tiara thief fic i’m still hoping to finish one day. i need more of them in my life. this is completely unedited, so sorry if it’s messy!

All his breath leaves him in a rush. He’s trying so damn hard not to be the cliche of a guy scraping his jaw off the floor when he sees a pretty girl in a dress—especially not like this, with Ciara, someone he can never really have. But he can’t help but think that it’s ridiculously unfair of her to come out looking like that: her dress an icy blue, strands of gold weaved into her tight curls, her eyes catching in the light. “You look...amazing,” Arc says. His mouth feels dry.

Ciara smirks and reaches up to adjust the collar of his uniform. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she replies, like it’s nothing for them to be flirting openly. It should be nothing. Except his skin burns where her fingers brush against his neck, and he suddenly wonders if she can hear his heart pounding.

[sunsetcurve]

Word: prize? :)

more tiara thief!! i ended up scrapping this fic because it’s VERY cliche, but i had fun with it while it lasted!

“My hand isn’t some—some prize to win, Dad,” Ciara says sharply, her eyes burning. “I can’t just marry whoever is the best candidate—“

“I’m not asking you to.” He places his hands on her shoulders, his voice gentle, placating as she tries to quell the fury taking root in her chest. “My darling, I want you to be happy. But you have a duty to Astoria. You can’t choose some common thief—“

Ciara pulls away. “He’s a knight.”

“He’s not even a Dragonblood,” her father says, and the frustration in his tone raises by a notch. “Knighting him was one thing, but allowing him to marry my daughter is another.”

[sunsetcurve]

oh, we’re not promised tomorrow

Summary: They’d been twelve and sitting on the castle's rooftop at twilight, and he'd told her the story like he'd recited it by heart. His father had unknowingly killed a witch's familiar on a hunting trip. In retaliation, she'd placed a curse on him—his firstborn child would die before his twenty-first birthday. Henry’s parents had searched tirelessly for a cure, but the closest they could find was this: a crystal from Guardian Lake, which would protect him from harm until its magic ran out. 

This, it turns out, happens sooner than they thought it would.

Fandom: Henry Danger

Relationships: Henry Hart/Charlotte Page-Bolton

Word Count: 2,477

A/N: oh man, i’ve been sitting on this idea for way too long. this was incredibly fun to write, but also very very difficult because it does get pretty angsty. rated T for death, swearing, blood (it’s not graphic i promise). the title is from the song “like i’m gonna lose you”. hope you enjoy!

Dedications: as always, please please please don’t feel any pressure to read this! i know life gets crazy. also, if you want to be tagged/untagged in the future, just let me know! @rorythevambire @up-the-tube @mychenrymadness @ciara-knightly @cactus-con @henryhearts @henry-p-fart @taylorswiftrulestheworld @bijerbear @just-a-j-reallly @shadows-and-starlight

* * *

She should've seen this coming.

To be honest, Charlotte's never really been good at making predictions; that was always her mother's forte. She's tried to make sense of the wisping smoke in crystal balls and the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup more times than she can count, but it's only ever left her confused and frustrated.

Other types of magic actually make sense. There's a comforting sort of precision in having to memorize the pronunciation of a spell perfectly in order to get it to work, or having to carefully measure every ingredient in a potion to keep it from ending in total disaster (that's happened to Charlotte more than a few times, but she's always said that failure is the best learning tool anyway). But fortune-telling? Cards, astrology, dream-speak? She's never really understood it.

Still, though. There were other signs that pointed in this direction, ones that were far less mystical, far more real. She just didn't see them.

It's a collection of small things, really, clustered together in the past couple of weeks. They're moments that are easy to brush off at the time, especially with Henry's insistence that it's nothing, he's okay, he's always fine.

He comes back from knight training once with blood trailing from his nose, even though no one's laid a hand on him. He stumbles in the hallway and sways like he's going to pass out, and then brushes her off by saying he's just tired. He has dizzy spells, and she tells herself to believe him when he says that there's just "something going around", even though she hasn't seen it herself, even though none of the health potions she slips into his morning goblets seem to be working. He's fine, she convinces herself. They're isolated incidents. It's nothing.

And it's easy to pretend that's the truth, up until the moment his legs give out from underneath him.

"Henry!" Charlotte cries out, and her knees hit the stone floor just moments after his do. She puts her hand on his shoulder, steadying him, while the other comes up to cup his cheek and he's cold, cold like the crisp autumn air outside and the hard grey stone beneath them.

"I'm fine," he sort of says, sort of wheezes—his breath comes stumbling out in a tight, choked gasp, and then he's coughing and there's a splatter of scarlet in front of them.

Something in her chest clenches. "Bullshit," she hisses, and he coughs more in response and the pieces start to come into place and align like the planets and she hates it, wishes she could chalk this all up to something, anything else, but there's something thrumming in the back of her mind that knows she can't ignore it anymore.

"Show me your necklace." Her voice is soft but tight, more so than she intends it to be, and maybe that's why he doesn't argue, just fumbles with the leather cord around his neck and brings the pendant out from where it's tucked under his shirt.

She remembers the first day he'd shown it to her. They’d been twelve and sitting on the castle's rooftop at twilight, and he'd told her the story like he'd recited it by heart. His father had unknowingly killed a witch's familiar on a hunting trip. In retaliation, she'd placed a curse on him—his firstborn child would die before his twenty-first birthday. Henry’s parents had searched tirelessly for a cure, but the closest they could find was this: a crystal from Guardian Lake, which would protect him from harm until its magic ran out.

The white stone comes to rest next to his heart. A sharp inhale passes through Charlotte's lips, and she reaches out to brush her fingers against it while her heart plummets. The gem's soft glow has faded into nothing, and now it sits dull on the end of the necklace.

"The protection charm was supposed to last until you were eighteen," she says, quiet. "We were supposed to have more time."

Henry's laugh is mirthless, somewhere in between bitter and exhausted. "Yeah, I guess we're fresh out. Unless you've got a time spell hidden somewhere?"

There are three things that sorcerers are never supposed to tamper with: love, death, and time. She knows he's not asking, but right now, Charlotte thinks she'd break every rule if it meant saving him.

"Can you walk?" she says, urgent, and he lets her pull him to his feet and sort of staggers, but doesn't fall. She takes his hand and tugs him behind her, trying not to move too fast for him while her entire body tells her to go.

It's slow, too slow, but they make it down the hallway and reach her study and she helps Henry sit down in her chair as she starts tugging books off the shelves and rifling through the pages. With a wave of her hand, they float in the air around her, circling her as she scrambles through them one by one. She's been trying to decipher the solution to this stupid curse ever since the day he told her about it, so there's sections in her books that are marked off, places with notes scrawled in the margins. There's the haphazard beginnings of something that could've panned out, if only she'd had more time. She was supposed to have more time.

The tension is hot and stinging beneath her skin. She tosses novels behind her to fall to the floor, pages splayed open and bent against the ground and maybe in any other moment she'd care about the state of them but right now it doesn't matter. All she cares about is the fact that Henry's breathing is becoming more labored by the second, and she should've seen this coming and now there's no time to fix this—

"Char," he says softly behind her, and her hands quiver hard enough that all the floating books drop in a ring at her feet. "It's okay.”

She bites the inside of her cheek and whirls around before she can stop herself. "Don't say that!" she snaps. "There's nothing about this that's okay! You're not—I'm not going to let you die like this, Henry Hart, I'm not—"

"Look, it's over. There's nothing left." He sounds defeated. His gaze darts from the shelves to the ceiling, anywhere but to hers, and she wishes that he'd yell, or cry or scream or something, but instead he's just sitting there with his brown eyes huge and soft and resigned.

Her shoulders are tight, her jaw clenched so hard it hurts. "How can you be so calm about this?" she demands.

"Because I have to be!" he says sharply, and stands up unsteadily with his hands tugging through his hair, fingers mussing it up even further and tightening around the dusty gold locks. "Because I'm fucking terrified but I can't—I have to—I've had this curse on me since I was born, Char, and I've always known this was coming and I told myself that I wasn't gonna fall apart when it did, I can't do that—"

"There's still time," she presses, the desperation plain in her voice. "I can find something, we can still find a way—"

He looks at her with the tear tracks on his face glittering in the low light of the candles, and he reaches out a hand to take hers. "There's no way out of this," he says, and her chest tightens. "You know that."

"No." She tugs her hand away from his with her lungs and her eyes and her whole body burning, and she thinks maybe this is what it feels like when the world ends and all the stars fall from the sky.

She's crying, then, sobs that cascade out of her and shake her chest and Henry's arms are around her and they're both sinking slowly to the floor. His fingers are gentle as they tangle in her hair, and even like this, the irony of it isn't lost on her—he's the one dying, and yet he's holding her in his arms as she breaks. It's part of who Henry is, though; a guardian, a protector, with or without a suit of armor.

Fuck, she needs him here, she can't do this—

Henry takes a stuttering breath, and when Charlotte looks up his eyes are screwed shut, a crimson trickle coming from the corner of his mouth. "Char," he starts, all the steadiness from his tone slowly fading now, "I need you to...Piper, Jasper...my parents, Ray, and-and Schwoz..." he hesitates, and his eyelids flutter open and she wonders fleetingly when the colors became so dim. "Can you just tell them? Please?”

The words stick in her throat. His eyes are urgent, searching, but she can't, she can't accept that he's going to—no. "There's still time," she breathes again, and tries and tries and fails to hide the break in her voice as she helps him lay down and cards her fingers through his hair. "You can tell them yourself."

Charlotte reaches for the spellbook closest to her, rifles through it like somehow, it'll hold the key. There's a piece of her that knows it's useless, but she's doing her very fucking best to shove that piece down as far as possible. She doesn't need that right now. She doesn't need Henry looking at her like it's hopeless, like he's dead already, she doesn't need to cry anymore, what she needs is a cure. "There has to be a way," she says, mutters like she's trying to convince herself more than anyone else. "There has to."

Henry's fingers brush against hers gently, lace themselves through the gaps. "It's okay," he breathes. "Char, it's gonna be okay."

"No, I can't lose you. Henry, you're my best friend, you're—you're everything, please, you can't—" He can't. She needs him. She can't do this without him; she needs his smile and his stupid jokes and his laugh that sounds like a clear summer day, she needs the way his eyes blaze when he's passionate about something and the kindness of his heart and she needs him here, with her, she can't—

The realization hits her at the same moment that his last breath leaves his body, and she thinks that this is the cruelest joke that fate could've played.

"I love you, Henry."

The words tumble from her lips to spill over the stone floor, and then she's breaking and breaking and the world around her is falling to pieces because he's gone and she loves him, she's always loved him she—

She loves him.

Holy shit, Charlotte loves Henry. And there's one thing that can break any curse, reverse any spell. There's one thing that breaks the laws of magic entirely and can even bring people back from the dead, one thing that can save him.

True love's kiss.

Her mind whirs. True love is rare, but more powerful than anything else. If this is it, then it could work. But only if Henry loves her back. Only if whatever they have between them is real.

Please, she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut, wiping the tears away from her face. This is her last chance, her only chance, at bringing him back. If it doesn't work—

No. No time to dwell on that now; she shuts that possibility away in a mental box and tosses away the key. Charlotte has to believe this will work, or else the world will end all over again. She's going to get him back.

She takes a deep breath and leans over Henry, her fingers brushing against his cold, cold cheek, running through his soft, familiar hair. In that moment, she knows her feelings are true. She loves him. It’s just a question of whether he feels the same way.

"Come back to me, Hen," she breathes softly, and then slowly, gently, desperately, presses her lips to his.

There's a pause that makes her feel as though the universe is holding its breath. But there’s no gust of wind, no chorus of angels, no flash of light—for a moment, there’s just nothing.

Her lungs twist together, her throat closing up as it gets harder and harder to breathe. Please—

And then, "Char?"

Her breath catches as his eyelids flutter open. His brown eyes meet hers, full of color once again, and she feels a laugh bubble up in her throat and throws her arms around him as he pushes himself up.

"You're alive," she says into his shoulder, her hand tucking itself in between them so she can find his heartbeat and feel it thrumming softly in his chest. She follows its steady rhythm, reminding herself that he’s alive, that that’s his heart beating underneath her fingertips, that he’s okay.

"You did it," he laughs a little, that same sound like a clear summer day, and she grips him tighter and wonders if she'll ever get tired of hearing it. "How did you do it?"

There's a beat of hesitation, and then Charlotte pulls back a little, one arm still hooked over his shoulder and the other hand coming up to cup his cheek. It's warm, now, no trace of the chill left behind except the memory. She pauses, and then looks him in the eyes with an earnest gaze. "True love's kiss," she says.

He falters for a moment. His eyes search her expression, like he’s waiting for her to say she’s joking. “True love’s—you—you love me?"

"Idiot," she replies, with a fondness in her chest that she knows she'll never get rid of. "Yes, I love you, Henry Hart."

She'll remember the look on his face for years to come: he smiles like the fucking sun, bright and warm and beautiful, his eyes huge and flickering with light. "I love you too, Charlotte Page-Bolton," he breathes, and there's a moment that seems to Charlotte like the world is on hold, like the third rule of sorcery has been broken and time has stopped, and they just take it in.

"And," Henry says then, and his smile turns sly at the edges. "If you'll let me, I'd like to kiss you while I'm conscious this time."

Charlotte lifts an eyebrow. "On one condition," she replies swiftly, and his expression turns curious.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

She hooks a finger in his collar. "Don't ever. Die on me again."

"Deal," he says, and then shoves his lips against hers, and Charlotte runs her fingers through his hair and thinks fleetingly that they should stay like this forever. This time, it feels like she's the one coming to life all over again; it's bold and bright and wonderful, and honestly?

She can see why true love's kiss is so fucking magical.

[sunsetcurve]

Word: mind

okay, here’s an excerpt from a longfic i talked about starting way back before the finale aired, titled road to ruin. it’s still something i might pick up, but the plot ties in very closely to the way the series ended (not intentionally) so i might do something different instead. this is the first couple of lines, from the prologue:

Later, Henry will remember everything about this place in vivid detail. The thick scent of sawdust and metal that hangs in the air, the peeling plaster of the floor, the spider-webbed cracks in the dusty windows—they’ll linger in his memory, hover precariously in the back of his mind. Later, he’ll see this place behind his eyelids, a picture etched there that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries. Later, it’ll be the subject of his nightmares and crushing flashbacks.

For now, though, it’s just another abandoned warehouse.