#East-facing first floor house plans

[zvezda-writer]

Mafia!Nikto x reader

(this is just something I've written when bored at work, don't take it seriously!)

Having someone special in his life wasn't something Nikto was expecting, especially a wife, but seemed like destiny had other plans for him. Life as a mafia lord was full of business deals and sometimes those deals included weird things, like when he made an agreement with a group from Madagascar and ended up getting a hyena as a ‘gift’. He named her Sputnik.

This time wasn't different. They've been discussing a gun deal with the British for some months and finally had reached the final contract, there was only one problem: Nikto would never accept their final request. A marriage. Your uncle was eager to get rid of you and decided that marrying you with some crazy Russian you've never met before was a great idea.

Obviously Nikto refused, he had already things enough to deal with, and he hated the idea of sharing his space with someone else. So why did he signed the papers after seeing your photo? Why did he ordered his housekeeper, Dasha, to prepare the whole second floor of the east wing of his house just for you? Why did he ordered Dasha to bring you fresh flowers every morning? Why did he ordered one of his men to find out everything you liked and simply set up everything to make his house perfect for you? For the sake of the deal, of course.

There wasn't no ceremony, he just signed the papers and the lawyer send it up for you to sign too, and even when you moved to his house you didn't saw him. He'd spend his days locked on his office, the only contact between the two of you being the texts you exchanged sometimes.

Until one day you went out with your friends, and your bodyguard of course, and ended up drinking a bit too much. The first thing you did as you set your foot inside the house, late at night, was head to his room, not even bothering knocking before entering, finding him sitting on his bed with some papers in hand and his back leaned against the wall.

Oh, this wasn't the sight you were expecting. That massive, scary and scarred russian had the most beautiful bright eyes staring at you in pure shock. He expected you to run away, scream or look at him with disgust at the sight of his burned and scarred face completely exposed. Instead, you closed the door, let your bag fall on the ground and walked to him, sitting in front of him on the bed.

None of you said anything for several seconds, his anxiety hidden behind his stoic face, his voices going overdrive as every second went by.

–You’re my husband.

Was the first thing you say, staring into his face with mixed feelings, curiosity and surprise crossing your eyes.

–Да.

His voice wasn't what you expected either, it wasn't as deep as he looked like he'd have, but it was still rich and heavily accented. Hot. You stretched your hand, smiling at him like someone meeting a new friend.

–I’m Y/N, your wife. Nice to meet you.

Oh, his heart fluttered at your smile. You didn't seem scared or disgusted by his scars at all, you were just… so incredibly bright. Like a whole set of Christmas lights. He took your hand in his, his touch as gentle as it could've been against your soft skin.

–Nice to meet you…

He was entranced, completely hypnotized by you. You two kept staring at each other in pure silence like the two weird things you were, not sure what to say or how to act.

Maybe this agreement wasn't so bad after all.

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe.) Thanks to my new author discord community for voting on this one! 🩵

In which Tyrus walks in on Astarion's 'alone time.'

~

Even though they’d cleared the tunnel under the river, secured the fishing hut and passage to sneak into the House of Healing, and had a half-reliable map of the Gauntlet of Shar, the war council had delayed an infiltration for almost a tenday merely arguing over who would go.

With the colder weather creeping in and battles stagnating into standoffs, Tyrus supposed they foolishly thought they had time.

Morfred wanted a larger group to ensure they had enough support. Jaheira said no more than three highly-skilled individuals, to give them better chances at stealth. Ganyl simply wanted to go, even though his entire enclave was against risking their leader, and it took two meetings just to talk him down. Halfred didn’t think the quiet assassination plan of Ketheric Thorm was a good idea in the first place. They all worried that Ketheric’s brother, Malus Thorm, could be too tight-lipped or ignorant of the Gauntlet’s secret entrance to be worth the risk of fighting first.

Astarion had given up on attendance for the last two meetings. But as designated ‘Leader of the Vampires,’ however underqualified Tyrus felt he was for such a role, he felt obligated to attend. Just so he’d have updates to give Astarion and the spawn army below, really. He and Astarion had come up with the idea of a quiet assassination to avoid further bloodshed, so they were already guaranteed a spot in the party if and when it was approved. Halsin was a tentative third in Ganyl’s place, though Jaheira wanted it to be herself who struck Ketheric’s killing blow.

Now Tyrus felt close to giving up himself. He left the meeting before its scheduled end when Jaheira and Halfred started a shouting match about the risks of trying Ketheric's son at the Waning Moon Tavern instead, and Messaged Ganyl to send word if a decision had finally been made. Then he crossed the road past the armory, over the short bridge and around the small, cheery fountain in front of their temporary abode of late, the Last Light Inn.

Tyrus let out a plaintive sigh of relief the moment he was through the doors and could shrug off the sapping weight of the Cloak of Dragomir, avoiding the occasional beam of sunlight until he reached the stairs and could head down to the basement floor. Most of the rooms were used for storage—but at the end, built around the low docks the inn now used to receive war supplies from the east, were a couple of suites that looked directly out over the Chionthar.

He hadn’t expected to find Astarion in their suite, really. His partner liked to socialize a lot more than Tyrus ever did. In their short time here, he’d already been chatting with some soldiers at the inn’s bar, meeting more often with Halsin, and playing enough lanceboard he now could beat Tyrus if he focused hard enough. Astarion was used to crowds, to strangers, while Tyrus still found himself seeking the safety of four walls and a single locked door.

As he reached the door, however, Tyrus thought that safety must have been an illusion as his ears picked up Astarion’s voice, loud and seemingly in distress.

“Ah!—ah, gods—Tyrus!”

Tyrus wrenched the door open in a panic, hurrying inside—

—and was confronted with the sight of Astarion in a bath, pale face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, steamy water sloshing around the fast pace of his wrist under the water as he tugged at his pink, erect cock.

Tyrus stared. Even as Astarion’s eyes wrenched open bleary and wide, his hand freezing in the water, Tyrus couldn’t stop looking. He’d seen Astarion’s cock before so many times—but in his defense, it’d been months. Only feeling the shape of it in Astarion’s trousers when their kissing progressed further, only seeing Astarion’s bare body offhandedly as they dressed. Now Tyrus could also admire how much more lively Astarion’s skin looked despite still being pale, how his half-submerged, muscled middle had softened into looking less malnourished and dehydrated thanks to a healthy diet.

After another second, Astarion relaxed a bit. He waved toward Tyrus with the hand that had a moment before held a death-grip on the wooden tub’s edge, smirking as he huffed, “Could you close that, love?”

Tyrus’s momentary shock at the man’s beauty faded, then, in time for his rational brain to kick in. “I can come back later—?” he started to offer.

“No—no, I . . .” Astarion interjected, only to hesitate. His eyes trailed away for a moment, uncertainty lining his face. 

Tyrus retreated back to the door. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he spoke in earnest, and smiled at Astarion when the other vampire tentatively met his gaze again. “Truly—I’d much rather you enjoy yourself, like you’ve been wanting to.”

“Not quite like how I’ve wanted to,” Astarion scoffed, though a moment later the lines on his face faded. “No, stay here, darling. If you’d like to. I’m only imagining you here anyhow.”

“That’s quite different,” Tyrus pointed out, though he went ahead and shut the door, locking it for good measure before turning back to Astarion.

“Is it? I was just thinking of you interrupting me like this,” Astarion smirked, gesturing at himself. The hand in the water wandered back between his legs and began to lightly stroke as he sighed, “Though in my head I skipped the part where a whole conversation would be necessary for you to join. Bring a stool?” he nodded at the floor just next to the tub.

Tyrus didn’t hesitate to obey. He grabbed a small cushioned one in front of the sheet-covered mirror and placed it so he could sit just next to the tub’s head. His stomach swooped at being this close to Astarion—at watching him stroke himself again, bare and exposed save for the flimsy distortion of the sudsy water.

He wanted to touch him. He wanted to help, or at least kiss Astarion. But he wouldn’t dare do a thing without checking, given how impossible it’d been for Astarion to be sexually intimate since Cazador’s death.

And Astarion was such a pretty sight just to watch, with his eyes shutting again and dark lashes on display, pink lips slightly parted. Meanwhile, his small breaths and huffs of pleasure as he built back into a rhythm sounded sweeter to Tyrus’s ears than any melody. Even the smell of him was delightful. That smoky, musky perfume he always had a slight hint of at the palace was now much more refined and strong thanks to their shopping in the city. It was already a feast for the senses, if not all of them.

But when Astarion’s other hand extended just a bit past the tub, palm up, Tyrus was quick to take it and enjoy a sense of touch as well. Astarion hummed and pulled their clasped hands down into the water, flattening Tyrus’s palm to rub against his inner thigh. Tyrus gratefully mimicked the movement, and next let Astarion’s hand overtop his guide him to gently handle Astarion’s ball sack, eventually taking over to stroke his erection in tight, quick motions Tyrus still remembered the rhythm of well. 

Astarion’s hand stayed cupped around his throughout it all, continually guiding and keeping control even as he sighed, “Tyrus . . . uh, I’ve missed these hands . . .”

“Would you like it if I did anything else?” Tyrus murmured, after another minute of nothing but stroking and listening to Astarion’s heavy breathing.

Astarion’s eyes shot open, head lifting to regard Tyrus with a furrowed brow. His hand slowed Tyrus’s to a stop. “Such as?”

Tyrus bit back the assertion of Anything, anything at all. Giving actual ideas would probably be more helpful, if Astarion didn’t have his own. “Kiss you. Your lips, your neck,” Tyrus started with. “Or . . . here,” smiling as his thumb idly swiped over the head of Astarion’s cock and his partner visibly shuddered in response. Letting his voice go a bit lower, as he pointed out, “I don’t need to breathe, after all.”

“Fuck,” Astarion swore, then gave a short, barking laugh. “This is what four months of celibacy has done to my sweet, virtuous partner? I didn’t think you even liked that sort of activity, darling.”

“I haven’t ever tried it, technically. At least not of my own accord, so,” Tyrus shrugged. 

The air went somber ever-so-slightly at his words. 

"Shall I?" Tyrus asked in hopes of dispelling it.

“Not this time, my love,” Astarion sighed, starting to move Tyrus’s hand again around him. “But . . . yes—kiss me, please. I think I just need a little bit more of something—”

Tyrus wasted no further time. They’d kissed goodbye only hours ago when he left for the council meeting, but it’d been more than a tenday since Astarion had kissed him like this. One of their first nights in this inn, in fact, before he’d grabbed one of Tyrus’s wandering hands by the wrist and ended things rather abruptly. But whatever else Tyrus did or did not feel in the mood for otherwise, he never got tired of kisses—Astarion’s free hand cupping his jaw close, lips so passionately pressing and sliding against Tyrus’s, tongue darting out to taste and in return welcoming him in.

His instinct was to bury his free hand in Astarion’s curls, but Tyrus gripped the tub’s edge instead. He didn’t want to risk the wrong touch ending this lovely, easy moment. Not when Astarion was so clearly enjoying his other hand’s touch at the moment, hips bucking up and splashing the water a bit more.

Sometime later, a small moan escaped Tyrus when Astarion slid his hand back to tightly cup the nape of his neck, angling Tyrus’s head for an even deeper, all-consuming kiss. Astarion’s hand tightened a bit further around Tyrus’s in the water, so he sped up his movements even more—and groaned with Astarion as the other elf wrenched free of their kiss and threw his head back, shouting “Tyrus!” shakily, his cock pulsing in Tyrus's grip, his spend streaking in the water as the press of his bent legs made the wooden tub slightly creak in protest.

Tyrus kissed down Astarion’s neck and bobbing adam’s apple, slowing his strokes with the guidance of Astarion’s hand as Astarion breathed harshly through the aftershocks. When at last Astarion released his grip on Tyrus in the water, head resting against the tub again, Tyrus went back to gently stroking his smooth inner thigh. He rested his forehead against the other man’s clavicle, listening to them both breathe for a moment before whispering, “Alright?”

Astarion huffed—and then he began laughing. A soft, lighthearted, warm sound Tyrus couldn’t help but smile at, and hoped never to forget as Astarion’s chest lightly shook underneath him. Then Astarion’s wet arm emerged from the water and wrapped around Tyrus, pulling him in just a bit closer despite the awkwardness of the tub between them.

“Oh, besides a sore wrist of late,” he chortled, laying his cheek against Tyrus’s head when his giggling finally stopped. “I did start to find some enjoyment, even managed an orgasm the last two times, though. And this? Hmm . . . this is nice.”

Tyrus smiled wider against his chest. Of course, after another minute his back twinged and he regretfully had to pull from Astarion’s embrace—but was grateful his partner quickly dried off and joined him on the bed, despite the fact only Tyrus still needed a trance.

Once they'd both changed and his lover was spooning him snugly from behind, Tyrus thought to ask, “Have there been other things you like to imagine? Any specifics that I should take into account?”

The entire line of Astarion’s body froze up behind him. “I . . . I wouldn’t say there’s much I’m sure about acting on, darling,” he said in a slow, careful voice. “It’s been hard enough just to imagine sex without the thought of a customer, or him, intruding. Once that’s less an issue, I—I should be back to normal.”

“Normal,” Tyrus huffed, shaking his head and hugging Astarion’s arm a little closer to his chest. Being around relatively ‘normal’ people of late had taught Tyrus just how far off he and anyone else from the spawn colony were likely ever to be from such an ideal. “But hand jobs with you guiding me, would you say that goes on the safe list?” he stipulated.

Astarion was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the tip of Tyrus’s ear, repeating, “The safe list, what a sad state of affairs—but yes, I’d call that a success. We’ll have to see about your mouth. And perhaps, if you’re up for it, I think I'd enjoy some unconventional stimulation, just skin-to-skin.” A beat of silence, then Astarion’s voice came out so soft and uncertain, almost afraid, as he admitted, “I . . . I’d still like a break from anything so performative as full intercourse, if that’s alright . . . and, if you can forgive it, I may still just need time, before I can offer attentive service to you, love . . .”

Tyrus twisted under Astarion’s arm so he could face him—but only to wrap his arms tightly around him, tucking his chin into the crook of Astarion’s neck. Declaring, gently but firmly, “There’s nothing to forgive, and no service to worry about. You have always been so giving, love." Even more softly, he coaxed, "Now, let’s take care of you for a while?”

Tyrus felt his partner’s body shudder in his arms. Then, increment by increment, Astarion melted into the embrace.

“Gods, I do love you,” he whispered in answer.

[luveline]

Hi I’ve never actually sent a request before so I hope I’m doing this right lol. I was so excited when I saw you wanted to more writing for the Steve zombie au before the established relationship. I die for grumpy pining. I was thinking maybe more reluctant comforting like maybe a thunderstorm or something or honestly just whatever you see fit. I love your writing and your Steve is unmatched. Either way request taken or not I’m sending all the love and good vibes.

hi! thank you for your request my love! steve zombie au —you and steve are surviving together when a freak storm begins, and he can’t stop himself from trying to make you feel better. fem!reader

"In," Steve ushers quickly, "in, in!" 

You force yourself through a gap that's too small for you into the warehouse you've found and out of the rain, an instant bruise forming on your shoulder. You understand his hurry, but it really does hurt. He has similar trouble forcing himself inside. 

Thunder cracks behind him. You jump hard at the sound. "It sounds like it's right on top of us," you say. 

"It might be. Come on," he says, taking your arm into his icy hand, "this way." 

Worried that the storm might be winds from a hurricane at the East Coast, you and Steve had immediately abandoned your plan to start walking up highway I-69 and backtracked to the last building you'd seen on the way, a packing house for toiletries. You hadn't bothered coming inside beforehand, neither of you in want of any necessities that aren't canned goods (or, imagine, fresh food).

You wish you had. Not only would the storm have started while you were already sheltered, but you might have been able to navigate the absolute shitshow of a floor plan without nearly breaking your neck. 

You slip on a greasy patch of floor and Steve yanks you up. He doesn't do it to be cruel; if he hadn't pulled hard you would've fell flat on your face. 

"Shit," he hisses.

"Sorry–" 

"No, just– come on, this way," he says. 

His hair is plastered to his face, soaked despite the hood of his coat and the beanie he'd been wearing, The rain is torrential and freezing cold, carrying a chill that permeates down to the bone. You're less wet than he was, as he'd taken the tarp you sleep under from his backpack and made you wear it like a poncho. 

You don't know if he hates you, when he does stuff like that. He certainly doesn't like you. You figure he resents you for saving his life and not having the grace to insist you part ways. How could you? Everybody was running away, fleeing from the geek cul-de-sac Indiana had become, and nobody who wanted anything to do with you had survived the initial wave. You'd been completely alone, terrified, and you'd risked your life to save him anyways. So when he asked if you were alone, you were honest. When he said, You better come with me, then, you didn't think about it for a minute. 

He probably regrets it in moments like this. And it's worse because you like him. Hero worship, maybe, Steve keeps keeping you alive and you want him to like you more and more every day. 

It's why you hate fucking up. You just want him to see you properly, and not as a girl he has to protect. You want him to know you can protect him back. 

You take the initiative and lead him toward the back of the huge room. He doesn't protest. You figure a corner of the structure would be safer than the middle where the ceiling could sag, and away from the centre of the walls where big windows lined with metal shutters sit. 

Together, you knock coffee pots and plastic cups off of a long table and drag it toward the corner to use as a make shift shield. It's the most protection you can get. 

You sit down, relieved. It can't be ten seconds until your body remembers how cold it is, soaked as you are. 

You already know what to do, and despite the shyness that comes with stripping in front of a boy, and especially a boy that you like, you undress anyways. Shoes first, then your coat. Steve starts to do the same, and you try not to look at one another. 

There are lots of things you worry about, but the stupidest one is body hair. You can't help it —when hair removal is engrained in the feminine experience from birth, it becomes a habit. It's not even that you think it's bad, but you worry that Steve thinks it's gross. Then you remember how many times you've heard one another pee and shake your head at yourself. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asks, shirtless as he pulls his second (and last) pair of jeans over tacky legs. 

You're shirtless too. "Nothing." 

"Your bra is wet." 

You look down at your bra and blink. It's cold, and everyone knows what happens when it's cold and you're braless. "It's the only one I have, I don't wanna flash you." 

"You…" He cracks a very rare smile. It's a twitch of the corner of his lips and nothing more, but it helps you to relax. "I'm not trying anything, but you should take it off. You can wear my hoodie if you're uncomfortable." 

"I guess it's dumb to care." 

"I don't think it's dumb," he says, his head craned as another crack of thunder bellows outside. "You deserve to feel comfortable. I won't look, I swear, I just don't want you to be cold." He looks away from you. "You'll get sick. Then we'd be really fucked."  

You nod. You slip out of your bra and put on your second (and last) t-shirt, which is thinner than the first. You shove your arms in his hoodie but don't zip it closed. 

Steve takes the blanket from his pack and, now wearing his shirt and fresh socks, slots himself next to you and pulls the blanket over your laps. It's an odd juxtaposition: he worries about your privacy but not your personal space. 

"I think it's getting worse," you mumble, head tilted to the side as you listen to the wind roar. 

"We'll be okay." 

You put your hand on your thigh. He puts his hand on his. You slouch against the wall and know you won't be getting any sleep tonight, not while the wind rails.

Time passes like a dragging weight. You wince at every loud whoosh of air, and can't help leaning into Steve's side when somewhere in the warehouse a machine begins to creak. The cold bites your nose, and your toes are stiff despite your new socks. 

You and Steve don't talk much, but eventually he speaks up. 

"Do you need another pair of socks?" he asks. 

"No, it's okay." 

"I won't mind," he says. 

"What if you need them?" 

He gets them out of his pack and tosses them into your lap. You take them, but the wind has seized you up, afraid that any minute now you'll get a storm surge. 

"Hurricanes can't get this far in, can they?" you ask quietly. 

"No. I don't think so." 

You nod your head. "It's loud." 

"I know." 

You put his socks on and try to be level-headed. You think it might be the constant heavy stress that surviving in the wild and against the threat of flesh-eating creatures has put you under that's made you so fragile. A storm wouldn't have scared you this severely before. But your brain is under fire basically every second of the day, even in your sleep, and it weakens your resolve. You've never understood how Steve can be strong in the face of all this awful. 

"It'll be okay," he says again. 

"No, I know…" you say. You don't know, but you don't want to bother him. "I'm fine." 

Thunder cracks at exactly the wrong moment, simultaneous with a sound like a window rattling in its frame. You flinch at his side, your hand jumping on his thigh. 

You go to pull it away and he flattens it to his leg. 

"It's okay," he says, his sternness melting into a softer reassurance. His hair lays in damp curls below his ears, and his face is pale from a lack of sun. "It's just wind. We don't get hurricanes, and if we did, the walls are concrete. You think wind and rain can get through three feet of stone?" 

He lets your hand go. You take it as a queue to remove it.

"Sorry, I don't know why I…" 

Steve clears his throat. "You're not–" He couldn't know what you were going to say about yourself, and you have no idea what he might've said himself. "You don't have to be sorry. For this, anyways. You should be super sorry about other stuff, like losing your pen knife, and trying to convince me to eat that frog," —he pauses as you laugh, the hint of a smile playing on his lips— "but don't bother being sorry about this." 

"People eat frogs," you say quietly, leaning your head against the wall and looking at him through one eye. 

He follows your example and sits the same. After a moment, he pulls the slipped blanket up to your stomach again. "I don't care what people eat. I'm not eating frogs." 

"I didn't want to eat one either," you say. You hadn't. "They do eat them, though." 

"I'm sure they do. Cooked, and with spices. Not raw and covered in dirt. And dead." 

You'd only been joking about eating the frog, but you were both hungry enough to stare at it for a half-second too long. 

Rain drums the ceiling like a far away thrumming. You know you must look awful, wet and dirty. You'd managed to brush your teeth this morning at the very least, but you can't imagine you're the kind of girl Steve would ever want, then or now. 

His gaze dips to your neck. It rests there. 

"I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he says, stilted once again. "Things… things will be okay. They'll get better. We have to make it out of here." 

Steve has people he needs to find. You'll follow him anywhere at this point, not for love, but he's a good guy, even if he glares more than he talks. He knows how to protect you both. He does stuff he doesn't have to do, like this. His vaguely awkward comfort. His extra socks.

"I know," you say. "We'll be fine."

He nods. You tell yourself that you're imagining the tenderness he puts into such a simple gesture. “Exactly. You worry too much.”

[lucygxybaird]

12 Days of Christmas - Day 7

You really should have seen this coming.

Your balance has never been good, as proven multiple times over the course of your childhood. 

You still have a small scar on your left knee from an accident suffered when you were learning to walk (why your parents let you toddle around on your gravel driveway, you still don’t understand). It took you nearly four months to learn to ride a bike, because you kept falling over every time your dad let go. After your mother enrolled you in a gymnastics class, as a result of you begging for months, she had to take you out again after you first lesson because the balance beam represented such a risk to your safety — and the safety of the other children — that she feared a lawsuit. 

Even as an adult, you can’t wear those fluffy slipper socks on stairs for fear of serious injury. 

So you really don’t know why you decided to volunteer to hang up the green-and-red streamers over the gymnasium door. Point of fact, you don’t know why you agreed to help decorate at all. You mean well, but you’re not crafty. Every stamp on the Christmas cards you sent out this year were crooked, for God’s sake.

Your only excuse is that you really, really want to fit in at this school. You’ve always wanted to be a teacher, and the high school in East Linfield seems like a good one. 

It certainly didn’t help your worries that you started so late in the year, because the previous teacher had moved with his husband to Palm Springs. The kids hadn’t even finished reading A Tale of Two Cities, and here you were trying to fuse your own lesson plan with the one they’d been working on. You were excited and frazzled and anxious all at once, a potent cocktail that meant you had your guard down. 

So when another woman in the English department asked if you were free tonight, because they really needed an extra hand decorating the gym for the Winter Snowball, you found yourself smiling and saying, “Sure! I’d love to help out.”

Which is how you find yourself balancing on your tiptoes, on the very top of a stepladder, and you’re so, so close to getting the tinsel where you need it to be. If you could just get it a little bit — you push yourself a smidge higher on your toes, your fingers brush the nail where you’re meant to drape it, and — 

There’s a very concerning creak, and you feel rather than see the stepladder slip out from under your feet as it collapses like a house of cards in a wind tunnel. You clutch uselessly, desperately, at the yard of tinsel in your hand as you fall backward, your arms windmilling like that’s going to help you in any way whatsoever.

Bang!

You wish that was the sound of the stepladder hitting the ground, but that flimsy thing couldn’t make so much noise if it was bounced around in a car trunk by a very tiny, very angry gorilla. No, in actuality, it’s the sound of your head smacking against the gym floor hard enough for you to see stars. Which is something you thought was a cliche, but it’s true. Points of light explode behind your eyes, one after the other, like silent fireworks.

When you open your eyes — not that you remember closing them — you see a face hovering over yours, and you realize you aren’t actually on the floor anymore. You’re being cradled in someone’s arms, propped up in their lap. It takes you a few moments to realize that the arms and the face bent over you, concern etched all over it, belong to the same person. 

Moments after this realization comes another one. 

You know this guy. 

“Alex,” you say fuzzily, and his anxious expression melts — momentarily — into a smile. 

“That’s right,” he says. “Yeah, I’m Alex. We met last week, remember?”

You do, if only because you’d thought then — as you do now — that he’s very, very cute. “I remember,” you assure him.

He smiles at you again. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna try to get you up now, alright? You ready?”

You nod.

“Okay,” he repeats. “Alright—!”

And then he scoops you up into his arms, standing up with a little grunt of effort, and you clutch at him like you’re holding onto a life preserver in the middle of the ocean. Both your stomach and your vision stage separate revolts, like they’re eighteenth century American colonists and French citizens, respectively. You clutch at Alex’s shoulders for a moment while he looks at you with increasing alarm. 

“Are you okay?” he says. “We should get you to the emergency room.”

Your stomach flips all over again at the thought of doctors, not to mention the astronomical bills you’ll have to pay. “No, no, I’m fine,” you assure him. “You can put me down now.”

“Oh—” It seems like he’s forgotten you’re even in his arms. “Oh, yeah, right, of course, sure.”

He sets you down, his hand still on the small of your back. By now, other people are starting to rush over, all of them looking concerned, although you think at least one of them — the woman who asked you to help, for one — might be more worried about how litigious you are than the state of your skull.

“I’m okay,” you tell all of them, a statement which immediately collapses as soon as you try to take a step forward.

The moment that you do, your knees buckle as a wave of dizziness washes over you. Multiple pairs of hands reach for you, but when you’re actually able to focus again, it’s Alex’s face that you see.

“I don’t think you’re okay,” he says, his tone so deadpan that you have to bite on your lower lip to keep from laughing. Maybe he mistakes this for a grimace of pain, because his eyebrows beetle down lower over his eyes as he frowns anxiously. “Really, I think you need to go to the hospital.”

Maybe it’s because you’re too dizzy — and increasingly nauseous — to think straight, or maybe it’s because Alex looks so endearingly concerned, as if you’re more than some coworker he only met a few days ago. As if he really cares. 

You cave.

“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, okay.”

Alex lets out a breath as you agree, not so much a sigh of relief as of resignation, as if now he’s gotten one item on his checklist done and he has to move on to another. “Come on,” he says, and he anchors an arm around your waist, supporting you as he leads you toward the gym doors.

From the corner of your eye, you see everyone else just standing there, looking bemused if not helpless. A few of them start drifting back to whatever tasks they were working on before you so elegantly displayed how graceful you are. They all seem perfectly happy to let Alex take care of you, but you can’t fault them for that.

You’re perfectly happy with it, too.

As Alex nudges the doors open with his shoulder, you say, “You’ll stay with me, right?”

The doors swing open to admit the two of you into the hall, and as they bang shut behind you, Alex pauses to look you right in the eye. “Yes,” he says. “Unless somebody with a stethoscope and a degree way beyond my capabilities tells me I can’t.”

You can’t help but smile, and when you do, his face softens again. While he’s looking at you like this, you really have no choice but to revisit the he’s very, very cute idea again. And very tall. Which you suppose isn’t saying much, since you stopped growing when you were around fourteen.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He gives a little bow of his head, a movement that’s oddly formal but nonetheless absolutely adorable. “Of course.”

Alex helps you to his car, tucking you into the passenger seat. “Hold on,” he says, and lopes around to the trunk, which he unlocks — you wonder how old his car is — and then rummages around in.

He returns a few moments later with a first aid kit, which he balances on the dashboard in front of you before popping it open. After a few moments of semi-frantic rummaging, he pulls out a cold compress and gently cups the back of your head, laying the cold compress against the rising knot poking up near your left ear.

“What are you doing?” you mutter, as he takes your hand and puts it against the other end of the compress, before moving his own.

Alex jogs around the hood of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, starting the engine before he answers you. “It’s for the pain,” he says. “And to bring the swelling down.”

“Oh.”

He navigates out of the school parking lot and you tip your head back, pinning the cold compress between your throbbing skull and the headrest. 

You reach the center of town without incident, but then — 

“Oh my God,” Alex says, and you can’t help a snort-laugh (although you wish you could, because it makes your headache worse).

It’s as close to bumper-to-bumper traffic as a relatively small town is capable of exhibiting. Looking at the sea of cars stretching beyond the windshield, you let out a faint moan. Alex shoots you a worried look from the corner of his eye that you aren’t meant to see, but you do, so you bite your lip.

“Are you okay?” he says. “I mean, do you feel — I don’t know — queasy or anything? Or like you’re going to pass out?”

You consider this. “No,” you say. “My head just hurts. I’ve never had my had squeezed by the Hulk but I’m guessing it would feel pretty similar to this.”

Alex huffs out a laugh. 

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “I don’t think I’m going to throw up in your car.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says. “I’m worried about you.”

You smile, looking over at him. “You’re telling me  you wouldn’t absolutely freak out if I threw up in your car right now?”

The line of cars ahead of you moves forward a few precious feet, and Alex manages to weave his car ahead of a few others. He’s concentrating so much on this maneuver that he doesn’t respond to you at first, but then he admits, “Well…I’d try to keep my freaking out to myself as much as I could.”

“I appreciate that.”

It takes nearly half an hour for the hospital to come into view, and even then, it takes another fifteen to finagle a way into the parking lot. By the time Alex has actually found a spot and parked, you do in fact feel a little queasy.

The whole time, though, Alex keeps asking you questions, probably just trying to keep you awake (although you’re pretty sure you read somewhere the whole “concussed people shouldn’t be allowed to sleepthing” is a myth or something, but still). 

Where are you from?

You told him, and he says that he’s been there on a vacation with his best friend. You asked him what he liked best. He said the food, which made you laugh. “Did you go to this place called Justine’s? They have the best friend chicken in the world.”

No, he’d said, and you told him that the two of you would have to go back someday and you’d take him. The words had slipped out before you could stop yourself — this was the first full conversation you’d really had with him, and here you were offering to whisk him away — but Alex had only smiled at you. “That sounds nice,” he’d told you.

He asked you when you realized you wanted to teach — in the sixth grade, when you met an English teacher who encouraged you to write, and you never forgot that — and why you moved to Linfield. You said that it was far enough from home for you to have independence, but not so far that traveling back home would cost an arm and a leg.

You’re pretty sure he’d said, I’m glad you chose this place, but at that point you’d hit a speed bump and an invisible railroad spike had been driven into your skull. By the time Alex had finished apologizing, the moment had passed.

“Okay, here we are,” Alex says, pulling into a space. “Wait for me.”

He hops out and is about to slam his door before he takes a look at your face. Closing the door so carefully it could be made of porcelain, he hustles around the front of the car and opens your door for you, scooping his arm around your waist and helping you to your feet. 

“Almost there,” he says encouragingly, his tone suggesting you’re lagging in the final leg of a marathon.

He propels you through a pair of automatic doors and into the waiting room, which is — of course — packed, but fortunately not too packed that you can’t find two chairs together. Alex deposits you in one of them while he hurries to the front desk.

He returns a few moments later with a clipboard loaded with insurance forms, which he looks apologetic about. “I know this seems like a lot,” he says, waving the clipboard around, “but I’ll help you. I’ll write stuff down if you want.”

“Please,” you say.

So he sits next to you, his shoulder bracing yours, and writes down your answers in his careful printing. You smile. “You have really nice handwriting,” you say. “It looks like typography.”

Alex chuckles. “Thank you.”

When all the forms are finally done, you realize your head is on his shoulder. It feels very, very heavy, but you do your best. “Sorry,” you say.

To your surprise, Alex reaches over and puts his hand on your cheek, pushing your head back down. “It’s okay,” he says. “Leave it, if you’re comfortable.”

You are. His shoulder is broad and warm, and with your head nestled there, you catch the faint but distinctive scent of pine. “Okay,” you sigh.

Alex pats your knee gently. “Okay,” he agrees.

The two of you sit in (relative) silence, before you say, “Alex?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you being so nice to me? We barely know each other. You could have just as easily have dropped me off and gone back to your day.”

From the corner of your eye, you see him shake your head. “No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have. It’s not how I am.”

It’s not the most verbose explanation, but you don’t need one. His words strike you cleanly and easily as true, as if someone has told you the sky is blue or water is wet. You don’t have to look out a window or dunk your head in a lake to know that. Alex just isn’t the sort of person who can turn his back on someone who needs him.

“Thank you, anyway,” you say. “I’m glad we’re getting to know each other, even if I might have lost a few brain cells in the process.”

He chuckles. “I don’t think that’s how that works,” he says. “But me too.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “It was probably just some math brain cells. I was never very god at that, anyway.” 

“Two plus two is?”

“Mmm — 22?”

“So close.”

Later, you try to blame it on the fact that your brains have been scrambled around in your skull like the little white flakes in a snow globe; a little while later still, you think it just felt right. It takes you a while to realize you’ve even done it, but eventually, you look down to discover that you’re holing Alex’s hand.

And not lightly, either, but with your palm nestled into his, your fingers laced together. You frown down at this, puzzled. “When did this happen?”

Alex glances down at your linked hands. “I don’t know,” he says, and gives a little shrug, the motion small enough not to jostle your head. “It’s okay.”

And then he squeezes your hand, running his thumb lightly over your knuckles in a way that indicates maybe it’s more than okay.

A voice calls your name, and you reluctantly pick your head up from Alex’s shoulder. “We’re ready for you,” a nurse is saying, and Alex helps you to your feet.

You hop up on the little table-bed thing with its crackly wax paper spread over the top, your feet swinging idly. You catch Alex muffling a smile into his collar, and you smile back at him just as a nurse steps into the room.

By the time you walk out of the doctor’s office, clutching a prescription for pain medication, Alex looks marginally more relaxed. “At least we know you’re okay,” he says, letting out a long breath. “Do you have anyone to check on you?”

“Check on me?” 

Alex nods. “You’re supposed to check on someone with a concussion to make sure they’re breathing normally,” he says.

You blanch. “Is that unlikely? That I’d be breathing normally?”

At once, consternation washes over Alex’s face. “No, no, no,” he says quickly. “No. It’s just…I mean, they say it’s okay to check on someone with a concussion, to make sure — you know — but — I mean, I guess…I’m — I feel like it’s better safe than sorry, and I don’t want…”

You smile, mostly to reassure him but also because it’s adorable, the way he’s babbling, trying to comfort you. “Alex, if you’re trying to invite yourself over, you can always just ask.”

He smiles back at you. “Can I come over?”

“Sure.” 

You direct him to your apartment, and he insists on helping you up the stairs, like you’re a feeble little grandma whose hip will shatter if she lifts her foot at the wrong angle. When you let the two of you into your apartment, Alex asks where your linen closet is.

“I’m not a middle-aged woman with a collection of needlepoint throw pillows,” you say. “I don’t have a linen closet.”

“Okay, so where you do you keep your extra blankets?”

You tell him you keep them in a storage ottoman at the foot of your bed, and he says, “Oh, a linen closet is too old for you, but a storage ottoman is the peak of youth culture?”

“Did you ask just to make fun of me?”

“No.” He nudges you toward your own couch. “Sit.”

So you do, and you turn on the TV, flipping through your streaming services until you just pick something and try to find a show or movie that you both might like. Which is difficult because you have no idea the sort of thing Alex likes to watch, so you settle on a docuseries about the Love Has Won cult. Doesn’t everybody find that fascinating? At least in the “can’t look away from a car wreck” kind of way?

You look up to find Alex carrying a couple of blankets and a pillow, all of which he tucks around you until you’re shaped rather like the Michelin man. He settles down beside you and raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t this the Mother God woman?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” He wriggles his shoulders until he’s more comfortable beside you. “Interesting. Good pick.”

You find yourself smiling way bigger over that little sliver of approbation than you probably should.

When the show is over, the streaming service offers up similar choices, and you let Alex pick. It’s another multi-episode show, which takes you four hours further on, and then he lets you pick the next.

By the time that one is over, it’s pitch black outside, and you hesitate. “Don’t you have to get home?”

You don’t want him to leave.

“No,” he says. “My cat has an automatic feeder. She’ll be okay without me until morning. Actually, she’ll probably appreciate the solitude.”

“What’s her name?”

“Flannery O’Connor.”

You hum softly. After a moment of hesitation, you put your head back on his shoulder. “Well, she was wrong,” you say.

“Who?”

“Flannery. A good man isn’t hard to find.”

You think there’s a smile in his voice. “No?”

“No,” you say. “I found one right here.” 

The two of you sit in companionable silence for a moment, watching a former cult member detail how she had to change her name to Aurora and give up all her credit cards. After a few moments, Alex’s hand finds yours again.

“Do you have plans for New Year’s?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you say.

“Would you like some?”

You smile. “Yes.”

A pause, and then he says: “With me?”

You laugh. “Yes, Alex.”

His fingers tighten briefly around yours. “Good,” he says. 

You wonder if he’s thinking about the possibility of a New Year’s kiss. You certainly are. When you flit a glance up to Alex’s face, he’s already looking at you.

Judging by the look in his eyes, you don’t have to wonder if he’s thinking about kissing you at midnight on the last day of the year.

He definitely is. 

[silverwhittlingknife]

snippet: post-Batman 654

(I was reading this and wanted to write the inevitable phone call with Dick afterward sfdsfds)

Tim's calling. Dick snatches up the phone. He's been waiting impatiently for this call. Please let Bruce not have screwed it up, please -

"Hey," Tim says, voice wry.

"Hey," Dick says. And he can't be absolutely sure, because Bruce has been so weirdly nervous about this and dragging his feet, but the warmth in Tim's voice is encouraging. "Any news?"

"Well," Tim says. "Bruce says you would like me to have your room. Even though there are, like, six thousand rooms in this place."

He has to laugh. "I told him - oh, God, never mind. Please tell me he managed to spit out the rest of it."

What Dick had actually said was, Well, offer him my room, then! Bruce, you can't let him live in the stable, come on. I thought you were gonna talk to him as soon as you got back to Gotham. And Bruce said stiffly, 'Stable' is a misnomer, I've had it converted into an apartment and professionally cleaned, and Dick said, I don't care, you have a house, and Bruce said, It's what he wanted, stiffer than ever, and Dick said, Did you actually ask him, or did you psych yourself out, and Bruce was silent.

At first, Bruce's complete inability to talk to Tim about something that Tim would obviously want had been a balm over the old wound of how long it had taken Bruce to offer adoption to Dick. But it had dragged on so long that Dick was torn between amusement and exasperation. It had been several months since the cruise, when Dick had awkwardly broached the subject in private and Bruce had said he was going to offer once they got back to Gotham. Dick had assumed he meant as soon as they got back to Gotham, so it had been baffling to hear from Tim that he'd moved into the stable (the stable!!!) and was apparently planning on staying there indefinitely. So Dick called Bruce, a few times actually, and every time Bruce said that he was planning on it.

"He offered to adopt me," Tim confirms, a smile in his voice. "I mean, he said a lot of other stuff trying to work his way around to it, but, uh, yeah. That was the general point. Spill. What did you say to him?"

"We weren't talking behind your back," Dick clarifies. "I mean, okay, only temporarily. I provided moral support. But somebody had to, Tim. I've never seen him dither so much, it's like he thought you were gonna shout at him."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

It's been eye-opening in terms of all the things that Bruce never asked Dick and should have, honestly. Tim used to insist that Bruce wanted to ask Dick to be Batman after the Bane thing, and that he only didn't because he thought Dick wouldn't say yes, and Dick was never entirely sure whether to take it at face-value. But he's been reassessing the possibility that the World's Greatest Detective is genuinely just thickheaded, at least in some situations.

"Explain the room thing," Tim says. "And, um. I mean. Are you sure? Because I'm seriously fine in the stable."

"Are you dissing my generous offer of my room?" Dick says. "I offer you my own personal housing, carefully decorated by a person of the best possible taste - that's me, by the way - and you prefer to live in a stable?"

It isn't, honestly, Dick's room in any meaningful sense. The house got rebuilt from the ground up after the earthquake. Same floor plan, none of the memories. But it's still the-room-where-Dick's-room-used-to-be, second floor at the end of a corridor on the east side, the best spot for sneaking out. Alfred repopulated it with some of Dick's stuff that survived the 'quake, and it's cozy, in its own way. Dick's stayed there overnight a few times, when he visits Gotham.

It's a nice thought, if he's honest with himself. Tim there. It doesn't really matter, Tim could pick a different room if he wanted to, there are tons of them. But. Tim likes hand-me-downs.

"I mean, I'm not dissing it," Tim says.

"Better not be. Don't make me come down there."

"Yeah, yeah." Tim hesitates. "But, like. You really don't mind?"

Oh man. "Tim Drake. I formally bequeath to you my room. By the power vested in me, etcetera. Please move out of the freaking stable."

Tim's laughing. "Okay, okay."

"Now, I do require that you maintain a certain standard of care -"

"Oh my god."

Dick relents. "I'm sure you can pick whatever room you want. I'm just saying. That room is objectively the best one. Also, you didn't hear it from me, but it used to be right next to a wiring hub, so if you open a small hole in the wall you can disable some of the perimeter sensors without having to go out in the hall."

"You make a good case," Tim concedes.

"So you're gonna move in, right?"

He holds his breath. The truth is, Bruce isn't the only one who's been tentative about this. Tim's been skittish, too. And... there's probably all kinds of reasons for that, and it's not exactly Dick's fault, but... he didn't handle it well, when Tim first mentioned the idea of adoption. They've talked about it since, and he's pretty sure Tim gets that he's supportive, but... It'd be good, to be able to offer something. Tim's such a little liar himself that it can be hard to reassure him with words. Dick doesn't really have anything concrete to offer on his own behalf, not like adoption. But ... Tim likes symbols, and this is a silly one but at least it's something.

"I... you're sure?"

"I need a caretaker, Timmy. Think of my poor room, languishing, abandoned -"

Tim's giggling. Victory. "Have you ever even actually stayed there?"

"I feel a profound emotional connection," Dick says. "My room's connection to me transcends space, time, the Richter scale, and Bruce's frankly awful decision to paint all the new walls in a different shade. We're spiritually bonded. I'm counting on you. Also, I ran into Clancy again, and if I have to tell her that my honorary little brother is living in a stable, I may physically expire from shame."

Actually, wait.

"My official little brother," Dick corrects.

Shit. He should've asked that first.

"It is gonna be official, right? Please tell me you said yes." Is that too pushy? "Unless you really don't want to, which I respect, I just-"

"Dick, relax!" But there's a note in Tim's voice that's something like relief. "I said yes."

Oh, thank God. "Good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They're quiet for a while. It is good, so good that it doesn't quite feel real yet. Dick's been waiting for this for a few months, but in a weird way, it feels like he's been waiting for it for years. And... it's been a hard year, it really has. But there have been good moments. This is definitely one of them.

"We gotta do something," Dick says, past the lump in his throat. "To celebrate. We can go camping or something. You like camping, right?"

This is an educated guess. Tim once talked his team into a camping trip and then way, way, way overprepared for it, which was probably at least partially anxiety but also seemed to involve a lot of enthusiasm. And Dick used to go camping with his Titans, too.

"I like camping," Tim confirms.

"So I'll take you to the Adirondacks. Tell Bruce. He's gotta get his celebrations scheduled in, because next weekend, you're gonna be gone on a camping trip." Hmm. "I mean, unless you'd like to invite him?"

"No," Tim says. "That sounds perfect. I..." A long silence. "I'm really grateful. I really am. I just... I'd like to do that, Dick, really."

They haven't talked about Jack Drake. But.

It's not like Dick can read Tim's mind or anything. And the situation is different. He knows that. He has to watch himself, and actually pay attention to Tim, and not just project on him. But... he does like to think he can read Tim pretty well. And it doesn't take an expert to guess that an official new brother might be a little easier to handle, to make peace with, than an official new father.

Adoption is the right thing for Tim, the obvious thing, Dick feels sure of it. He doesn't want Tim to be left guessing for ages, the way Dick used to feel, unsure if he was really part of the family or just an incidental ally. But just because it's the right thing doesn't mean it'll be easy all the way through. So maybe Dick can ease that transition, a bit.

Plus. Selfishly. It'll just be nice. To see Tim. To have a bit of time that's just for them.

Officially brothers. At last. For real.

"See you soon," he says.

"Thanks," Tim says. "Really. I'll tell Bruce." And then, a bit impish, "And on the trip, you can tell me about you and Clancy."

Ooh, so he caught that. The best defense is a good offense. "Sure. And you can tell me about your new study buddy. What did you say her name was? Zoanne?"

"Or I can catch you up on cases," Tim pivots.

Heh. "See you soon, Boy Wonder."

[theodoesitagain]

Hello to like the three people that follow me on here. I have been writing a fanfic since 2018 that is very near and dear to my heart and even though I don't think many people will see this, I wanted to post about it.

The Marauders and the first Order of the Phoenix occupy a lot of my headspace and I started daydreaming about them a lot, which is how the first installment of this story was conceived. I wanted a plausible prequel to the events of the HP series following the first wizarding war. (My ships, maybe not so much but 🤷‍♀️)

I'm currently in the midst of the sequel, which is retelling of the Harry Potter series from the perspective of (mostly) Remus Lupin. I try to post a new chapter every week.

Anyway, if anybody was interested, here's a snippet from the WIP:

Before he even opened his eyes, the smell that hit him as he stepped out of the green flames was enough to make his insides flutter. That musky, saccharine, and at times, sort of sweaty smell was not only instantly recognizable; it flooded him with nostalgia to the point of giddiness. Dumbledore had very kindly requested that he Floo to this fireplace, as opposed to the one in the Defense Professor’s office on the second floor. When he thought about it, it would’ve made more sense to meet there - but Remus suspected Dumbledore was granting him a bit of time to relive the good old days first. 

So he capitalized on it, and arrived a few minutes early to do just that. As soon as the crimson carpets and furnishings came into view, Remus felt an overwhelming sense of calm; he couldn’t describe what it was. Helping himself to a seat in a cushy armchair across from the hearth, he ran his hands down the upholstery and let out a chuckle. 

There were few places that held fonder memories than the Gryffindor common room. And if Remus concentrated very intently…

Merlin, I can still hear them.

“Saint Moony!”

“What’ve I missed?”

“Wormtail’s making grand plans to ask out Mary.”

“Godric- Prongs- Could you keep your voice down? I am not!”

“Well, you ought to be.”

“And are you offering your expertise?”

“What expertise? Evans must’ve turned him down a hundred times!”

“She’ll come ‘round one of these days, you’ll see. Now that this is all of us, we need to discuss the aging potion prank. As much as I’d love to target Snivellus, I think he might be too obvious. Thoughts, Padfoot?”

“Who cares if it’s obvious? It’ll be well worth it to see how huge his proboscis gets when he’s a geezer!” 

At the sound of the last voice, Remus shoved the memory back down to its depths. 

He stood and strolled by the empty notice board, brushing his fingertips against the cork and remembering positively nefarious messages they used to leave for him to remove as part of his prefect duties:

Dear Remus, 

I cannot deny my feelings for you any longer. I need you like a flower needs a bumblebee. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks this weekend so we can finally run away together. 

Sincerely, 

Madam Rosmerta 

To the particularly flatulent resident of the boys dormitory,

Please, for the love of Merlin, stop by the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey test you for a food allergy. You’re disturbing the peace.

Sincerely,  

We can smell you from the top floor

Ladies and Gentlemen of Gryffindor House,

We are pleased to inform you that Mr. Peter Pettigrew is single and accepting applications. Bribes welcome and encouraged, particularly if they are paid in homage to his roommates. Must be sixteen or older to apply. 

He couldn't help but laugh again. Gits. Only when James became head boy had they let up a little - and only a little. 

Passing the staircase, he had half a mind to go take a peek at the dormitories, but even with them empty, it felt improper. Instead, his path took him all the way up to the large window facing east. It was a lovely, sunny afternoon in the highlands, and the visible stretch of the lake sparkled. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. 

Recollections seemed to hang in the air like that sweaty smell: Post-quidditch celebrations; Gobstones; card games; the collective huddle around the fire after a wintery weekend trip to Hogsmeade; Remus could’ve plucked them out of the air like lacewing flies and kept them in a jar. Even with the headlines circling about civil unrest and talks of war back in those days, it seemed things like that could never touch them in here. Not in the common room. This was their sanctuary. 

Hearing the portrait hole open, Remus turned. He expected Dumbledore, but was thrilled to see the conical black hat instead. 

“Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall,” he called out with a wide grin, suppressing the great urge to embrace her. 

McGonagall inspected him over her square glasses. “Back to cause more trouble, Mr. Lupin? Or should I be calling you Professor?”

He came away from the window. “Let’s not jump to conclusions until I’ve spoken with the Headmaster.” 

When he reached her, she surprised him with an uncharacteristic squeeze on the arm. “Welcome home.”

Ah. That’s what the feeling was. 

...

In no time at all, they rounded the corner and saw the gargoyle. Remus could recall, on several occasions, passing this corridor with his friends and blurting out guesses as to what the password was; none of which ever ended up being correct.

“Cauldron Cakes,” Dumbledore stated loud and clear.

The gargoyle stepped aside, allowing them to ascend the spiral staircase. Remus was fairly certain James had thrown that one out once or twice. God, if James could see him now. Professor Moony.

“And now for a nice celebratory tea, as promised,” Dumbledore fizzed, starting up the stairs.

Remus stared begrudgingly at the steps, but followed nonetheless. “I meant to bring some biscuits, but the ones I had were stale.”

“That’s alright. I keep some in my desk for emergencies.”

Remus had just made it up the spiral staircase when he saw that there were four or five people already in Dumbledore’s office, one of them being Cornelius Fudge. He also recognized Amelia Bones - the late Edgar’s sister - now the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Remus tensed up a bit, as he always had around personnel from the Ministry. 

“I thought we agreed on two thirty, Dumbledore,” Fudge quibbled disapprovingly. “I hope you won’t mind, we’ve helped ourselves to the tea that was set out.”

“My sincerest apologies Minister, I must have lost track of time. I was orienting our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” Albus stepped aside so that the wizards and witches present had a clear view of Remus. 

Across the office, a teacup shattered on the floor.

[mediumgayitalian]

“You need to leave.”

The glare the physician levels at him is slower than usual. He takes a moment to process the stiff words Nico directs at him, blinking several times — his normally clear blue eyes look almost cloudy — before huffing and rolling his eyes.

“This is not your House, Your Highness. And further it is not your infirmary. The only one with authority to order someone out would be me.”

Now Nico is the one glaring. That is a lie, and a bold one. He could name at least a dozen people who could order Will out of the infirmary, and he says as much, thankful he wore his heeled boots today so he has an extra inch of height on Will today with which he can stare down his nose disdainfully.

“Feel free to call them, then, Your Highness,” says Will irritably, “but in the meantime, get out.”

The doctor is swaying on his feet. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes, and his hands shake. His normally full, glossy hair is limp and lifeless. He’s as grey as the stone floors. It takes him four full seconds — Nico counts — to react to the retching of one of the dozens of bedridden, green-faced patients, and another four seconds to will himself to move towards them. He doesn’t even bother looking back at Nico before he turns, let alone bowing or even ordering him out one last time. On his fourth step, he stumbles, barely managing to catch himself before sprawling on the ground. His feet drag with every step.

Nico turns around and walks out.

———

“My Lord — a word?”

Immediately after asking, Nico begins to spiral. He is not sure, still, what his place is in House Apollo. He has asked for asylum — Lord Apollo has granted it. Graciously, even, perhaps also fielding tensions from his father. He has provided for Nico suites for high ranks, preserving his title despite his asylum, and seems, on the whole, to be a rather laidback man.

But Nico has read his history books, and has studied politics his whole life. He knows the danger that can rest behind the King’s eyes, know to what extent he is capable. Knows how his pride drives him and offense makes him deadly.

To Nico’s great relief and in credit to the gods, the King only smiles brightly.

“My Prince!” he greets, clapping Nico’s shoulder enthusiastically (so much so that Nico would be sent sprawling, if he had not begun to accustom himself to the…enthusiasm, of House Apollo as a whole). “Please, come sit with me, no need for excessive formality.”

Nico inclines his head, taking the chair to Apollo’s left — he would never dare the right, aware enough to be wary of the implications. As soon as he sits, though, the carefully-practiced script he planned vanishes from his mind, and the minutes stretch, silent and uncomfortable.

“Your physician overworks himself.”

He blurts it just as Apollo opens his mouth, and then immediately wants to crawl under the table. He is thankful, not for the first time, for the length of his hair, knowing it hides his flaming ears.

What a foolish thing to say! Apollo must think he has no decorum.

Luckily, Apollo only laughs; a great, loud sound, one Nico can only describe as merry.

“Who, William? You needn’t worry yourself, dear boy. He’s been married to his work since he was a child, long before he was old enough to stitch a suture. I’ve not seen him outside of the East wing in months, and still it will be a few more before I catch even a glimpse. He is more reclusive than he realizes.” Apollo frowns. “Why have you brought him up, son of Hades? Has he offended you?”

Yes. He is always offending me. I believe ‘offensive’ may very well be the most natural setting for him — how, again, is he a doctor?

Nico swallows the thoughts down, and instead assures, “No, no, of course not.” His hands twitch. It takes another long silence for him to admit, “I only mean that I saw him this morning, and he appeared — well, frankly, he looks ill, My Lord. Sickly.”

Apollo hums, glancing down at a stack of letters in front of him. He must have been working before Nico interrupted him.

“I confess that I haven’t spoken with the doctor in some time, but I trust his judgement, my boy. He knows his craft. If he is unwell, he will handle himself. It is sickness’ season, after all. He’s likely only tired.”

Nico bites back a response. Clearly, the King does not understand the gravity of the situation. Does he not realize how dire things may be for him if his head physician falls deeply, truly ill? Nico is loathe to admit it, but Will is among the most talented men Nico has ever met. Whatever skill Nico knows in his swordfighting, Will knows tenfold in his sciences. The kind of healing he provided for Nico should not be possible. He’s beginning to understand that Will does not care what is and isn’t possible.

Including, he thinks, what is within his own limits.

“Very well, My Lord,” he says, bowing his head. “Thank you for your time.”

Apollo waves him off good-naturedly, returning to his letters. Nico leaves with a deeper frown on his face than when he came in.

———

The next time he braves the infirmary, it’s significantly less crowded.

It’s been a couple days. (Not that he’d intended. He’d walked by the infirmary doors no less than twenty-two times after speaking with King Apollo, at a complete loss for what to say, genuinely considering writing to his friend at House Athena to get her strategic input. In the end he’d refrained.)

By now, most of the beds are once again empty. A few ill people rest, either sleeping or entertaining themselves quietly. The general air of panic and chaos seems to have finally ceased as the sick season approaches its end.

Will, tending to an older patient — one of the senior maids, if Nico is not mistaken, who frowns at him in worry — sways on his feet.

“William,” he calls, all trepidation immediately fleeing his mind. Alarm bells ring in his head. When Will spares him a glance, he looks ghastly.

“Doctor William,” he corrects belatedly. There’s none of the usual annoyance in his voice, absolutely no bite. He doesn’t even roll his eyes.

Nico’s throat goes dry.

“Will,” murmurs the patient, placing a wrinkled hand on his arm. “Darling, you look unwell. Perhaps you should rest.”

Will hesitates, and for a moment Nico’s heart swells with hope. He won’t listen to Nico, but this woman acts familiar with him. Maybe she can convince him to sit, to breathe, to sleep.

(In the back of his mind, a voice screams at Nico to turn around and walk away. What is he doing? Will is the closest thing Nico has ever had to an enemy. He is stubborn, he thinks he knows everything, he kind of does know everything, he has horrible manners, he smiles at everyone, all the time, except Nico, whom he huffs at and rolls his eyes and yet touches very gently, even when Nico wrenches himself away. He is confusing and odd and yes, reclusive, even moreso than Nico. He constantly addresses Nico with the kind of sarcasm and disregard for status that would get him killed in stricter Houses — stricter houses like the one from which Nico hails. He is the pinnacle of impertinence.)

(And, yet.)

“Will.” It is genuinely worrying how slowly the physician responds. Nico’s heart begins to pound, and when Will lurches suddenly forward Nico darts out to steady him. The maid watches them with wide eyes. “Will, when was the last time you rested?”

Will doesn’t respond. His grip on Nico’s arm is worryingly loose, and for someone his height, he rests lightly against Nico’s frame. His eyes are glassy and far away.

“Will? William, answer me.”

“‘M — fine,” Will slurs, and then his eyes roll back into his head, and he slumps into Nico’s arms.

———

Thankfully, some of the colour comes back to Will’s face as he sleeps.

Nico had ended up putting him down on one of the infirmary cots. He hadn’t know what else to do — he has no idea where Will resides, whether it’s inside the palace or out, or whether King Apollo was being serious and he really does live somewhere in the infirmary. He had no idea whom even he could ask. As it was, he was barely able to lay Will down in a cot with the maid’s help, weakened with illness as she was — Will was limp as a ragdoll. For a moment, even, Nico was terrified he was dead. He certainly looked it.

In the thirty some hours (not that Nico has been counting), some colour has returned to his cheeks. His breathing is less laborious, quick, tiny puffing snores making his curly hair flick up and down with every breath. Sometimes he mutters in his sleep, to mumbled and quiet for Nico to make out.

He has stayed, for the most part, in a rickety wooden chair by Will’s side. He’s not sure why. His backside aches. There are nurses on duty, far more qualified and competent than he, who can monitor him easily. One nurse, even, with strangely coloured hair, walks into the infirmary five hours after Will passes out and immediately notices him on the cot, sighing loudly.

(“You need to take better care of yourself,” she’d whispered, running her fingers through his hair. Nico squashed down the sudden onslaught of bitterness that drowned his heart for no reason, nodding as she looked up and flashed him a small smile. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

There was no sarcasm in her use of the title. It startled him, which was disturbing. When had he come to expect it? And worse still, when did he come to accept it, Will’s mouthiness?)

When Will finally wakes, it is slowly. It matches the rise of the sun, Nico notices, in the languid way he stretches his limbs, the lethargic blinking of his long eyelashes. His brow furrowed when those blue eyes finally make contact, tilting his head as if he’s not sure he’s truly awake.

“…Your Highness?”

The sudden surge of rage is as frightening as it is comforting. He doesn’t know where it comes from. It’s familiar.

“You,” he seethes, “have endless nerve.”

He’d meant it as an insult, evidenced by his scathing tone. But Will preens.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“That was not a compliment! You collapsed in my arms, William! You were — greyer than stone! You slept for thirty hours!”

“Oh, good.”

Nico falters. (Which is unfortunate, because he had a good lecture rolling, something his tutors would have been proud of.)

“Good?”

“It was forty-two, last time.” He has the gall to look offended, huffing in Nico’s direction. “I wish you would leave well enough alone, Your Highness. I’m certain I would have persevered through the end of the season’s peak.”

“Through the end of the — you were dying!”

To his great distress, Nico finds himself choked up at the idea. He allows himself, fleetingly and privately, to acknowledge the fact that he does not want Will to die. In fact, he never wants to see Will close to that unwell ever again. He much prefers it when the doctor is rolling his eyes at him, turning away before Nico can see his smile, or pacing the infirmary floors as he rants about sanitary practices and organisms too small to see. He prefers Will when he is intense, in anger or in passion or in that bright, beaming smile of his, not…whatever he was. Dull. Worn down.

And then he takes those thoughts and stuffs them far into the recesses of his mind.

“I was not dying,” Will insists, but he has the grace to appear at least a little chagrined. “Good gods, Your Highness, I’ve been studying medicine since I could read. I know my limits.”

“Do you.” Nico’s voice is bitter, and he glares at Will until he looks away. “Because I could have sworn that you lost consciousness mid-sentence. I barely caught you.”

Will coughs. The tips of his ears turn red. Nico ignores it.

“William,” he says instead.

“Doctor William.”

Despite his anger, Nico’s lips twitch up into a smile. There he is.

He refuses to correct himself, if only to deepen the lovely (oh, no) scowl on Will’s face. “William, I don’t believe you’re to be trusted alone in your infirmary. I shall be staying to supervise you.”

Several emotions flit across Will’s face at once.

First is annoyance. Clear, plain, and simple, it’s almost an old friend to Nico at this point. Will was annoyed with him the first day they met. He was annoyed the second time, seething, really, dragging Nico back to the sterile surgical suite to fix his torn stitches. He was annoyed when Nico first shouted at him, bewilderment at this random physician treating him like he was another resident of the palace, not the only son of Hades. He was annoyed, notably, the one time Nico came to the infirmary after spraining his wrist in sword fighting and, in Will’s words, “breathed too loudly.” The annoyance he expected.

The next is fear. This, he takes much less pleasure in. There’s something disturbing about the look, not just because Will seems, to him, fearless, but because it seems so out of place. What about this situation does Will have to fear?

The third emotion is puzzling, and Nico can’t quite determine what exactly it is. His first thought is trepidation, but that’s not exactly true. It’s gone quick enough that he doesn’t care to linger.

The final emotion — and this one he has no trouble identifying — is pure, incandescent rage.

“You will do no such thing,” Will says, voice clipped. “I believe I have already informed you about the mechanics of this infirmary, Your Highness. I will not be intimidated.”

Nico rests his foot on his knee, leaning back into the chair. He adopts his favourite expression he often uses to enrage his father — eyebrow raised, smirk quirking the corner of his mouth, smugness practically dripping from him.

“I’m surprised you even remember that, as dead as you were.”

“I remember just fine,” says Will coolly, “and I especially remember removing you from the premises, so frankly I am unsure why you’re here again, Your Highness. Not unlike a wart one has already had removed.”

Nico refuses to laugh.

“I’m here because you collapsed into my arms. Like a damsel.”

Finally — third time is the charm — Will’s face erupts in a fiery blush. His freckles practically glow, and satisfaction ripples through Nico from head to toe. He looks murderous. Nico wishes to freeze him in time long enough to commission a portrait, perhaps to hang right over the physician’s desk. To remind him of his idiocy.

“I am no damsel —”

“Regardless,” Nico interrupts, standing. He reaches out when Will attempts to stand after him, pressing his palm flat to his chest and pushing him back against the cot. A strange sound escapes Will’s throat, and he doesn’t attempt to move again. “I will be taking my leave. I’ll be back before dinner to make sure you’ve not left your bed until you’re cleared by your nurse.” He glances over at the nurse who’d walked in earlier, finding her already watching with a wide smirk. “And then I’ll be back again tomorrow, to supervise.”

“I hope you choke on your dinner,” Will spits. He looks positively venomous, moreso when Nico laughs at him. “I mean that, Your Highness.”

Nico leaves without a response. When he returns as promised, hours later, Will attempts to lob roasted zucchini into his hair. In House Hades, he would be arrested for his behaviour. In fact, should King Apollo witness the total disdain in which Will regards Nico’s authority, he might still be arrested. It is appalling. No one has ever gotten away with so much insubordination in Nico’s life.

And yet, strangely, he’s not sure that he minds.

———

more in this au

[neon-kazoo]

Spy?

(Inspired by the song “Spy?” by WHOKILLEDXIX)

Hero stood in a rough circle surrounded by the group of villains. Their voices were overlapping, all arguing over the fresh mission failure.

“It was Lookout’s job to make sure we weren’t followed,” one voice—Blueprint—argued.

“We weren’t! I’m positive,” Lookout defended.

“It was probably the panic alert from the front desk,” Hero accused, looking pointedly at Guardsman.

“I got that guard before he even got close to that button, there’s no way that’s how the cops knew we were there.”

Pulling out a phone, one accomplice walked to the edge of the room, pressing the device to his ear.

Hero engaged passionately with the quarreling criminals, trying desperately to salvage their mission and keep their cover intact. Hero was deep undercover as a security expert in a large heist led by Villain, and the takedown they had orchestrated had not quite gone according to plan. The hero did their best to stoke the flames of anger and disappointment between the crew. The more they were at each other’s throats, the less they were thinking rationally about what really went wrong.

“If everyone had just stuck to the plan-“

“It was YOU who-“

“Ok, let’s be logical about this-“

“And then you didn’t-“

“It’s a miracle we all got away-“

The man on the phone returned to the group, face made of stone. He raised a hand, and the bickering quieted.

“My inside guy says they were there within a minute of us going in.”

“So the cops were tipped,” Locksmith concluded.

“Alright, so who knew?” Lookout asked from the left.

“The driver,” Blueprint chimed in on Hero’s right.

“He didn’t know the location, and I only hired him today. We picked up the vehicles 30 minutes before and it never left my sight,” explained Mover, the one who had been delegated to arrange transportation.

“No one else was told, it was all in-house.”

Silence dawned in the room as realization hit the criminals one by one.

“The location was need-to-know. Villain didn’t even tell half of us,” Locksmith pointed out.

“Actually, I only told one of you,” he corrected nonchalantly.

Shit.

“So that means-“

“My, my,” He turned slowly with the words, locking eyes with Hero, “I think we have a spy.”

They were made.

Two seconds and they were out the door, heart and feet pounding as fast as they could. Hero burst into the stairwell and was faced with a split second decision: up? Or down?

The backup spot at which they had met up after the disaster was located in the heart of the city, and Hero hoped the mid-day masses would be enough to help them get away. First though, they had to make it out of this building.

Temporarily closed for some upper level renovations, the office was five stories high and packed closely with the surrounding businesses.

Passing the large painted number three in a flash, Hero headed for the top.

They didn’t risk a glance back, but they heard several people slam open the door behind them. A chorus of footsteps echoed through the stairwell. Hero climbed, breathing heavily and mind racing to trace an escape route. A painted number five marked the top of the stairwell and Hero turned away from the roof access. If they remembered correctly from their recon, the East side of the building should back right up to an apartment complex with an outdoor fire escape.

They threw the door open and were met with a bare-bones floor. The entire level was sectioned by plastic sheeting, making it difficult to locate the windows and any potential dangers. Hero’s feet danced over stray boards and around forgotten construction equipment. Shouts alerted them that their pursuers were not far behind, but their figure was already blurred behind several layers of sheeting.

Most of the yelling was unintelligible, but one voice rose about the rest.

“I hope you’re ready to learn what happens to little rats!”

Hero made the mistake of turning towards the voices, taking their eyes off the floor and the bucket that they were about to crash into. They tumbled to the floor with a yelp, taking a clear sheet of plastic with them. They flailed, scrambling to their feet and shaking their limbs frantically to unravel themselves. They caught a glimpse of a set of boots several feet away before they pushed off the floor and continued heading for the wall.

Pushing past a final divider, they saw unfiltered light spilling in through a missing piece of wall. They threw themselves through the gap, standing on the narrow window frame still intact on the exterior side of the building.

Just as they had remembered, a metal staircase laid just a few feet ahead.

They didn’t mean to hesitate, but stopping their momentum had apparently allowed a singular assailant enough time to catch up. A hand gripped the back of Hero’s shirt, preventing them from making the leap.

Damn they were fast.

Hero threw back an elbow, connecting with a set of ribs. The grip on their shirt loosened and they turned, their fist connecting to a jaw and then a cheekbone.

Speedy’s head snapped to the side and Hero was released. They pushed off the side of the building before they could fall, catching the railing with both hands and hauling themselves up and over it.

They landed on the fire escape with a clang. Hoping to throw off the group closing in, Hero scaled a level before ducking in a conveniently-open window into an apartment. Hero used the time it took them to cross the kitchen area towards the door to make an unwitting accomplice of the person that startled on the couch.

“Do the inside stairs have roof access?” They asked breathlessly.

The stunned resident simply nodded their head.

Hero barely waited for the response, already halfway across the hall by the time the person shouted after them.

They turned a corner and caught the shine of an elevator door sliding closed a few feet away.

“Hold it!” They called, and a man pushing a large trash can put a hand in the doorway, leaving Hero enough time to slip in just before it closed.

“In a hurry, today, aren’t we?”

Hero chuckled breathlessly.

“You have no idea.”

The man gestured towards the buttons on his side of the small elevator.

“Floor?”

“The lobby, please.”

Hero clasped their arms awkwardly in front of them, trying not to breathe too loudly as they watched the numbers tick down slowly on the electronic screen. When they finally reached the bottom, the elevator chimed and the doors slid open to a fairly-active lobby. The door to the staircase was still closed, and Hero breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“After you,” the service worker waved, and Hero voiced their thanks before crossing the carpeted floor and passing through the revolving door.

Out of immediate danger, they slowed to an even pace, sliding off their beanie and slipping off their jacket to tie around their waist. They tossed the hat as soon as they could without getting ticketed for littering and entered the second shop they saw after turning down a different road.

They needed to get off the street, and fast. By now, word would be out about their betrayal.

Unfortunately, things had gone so off script that Hero found themselves on the opposite side of the city than their usual safe houses. They couldn’t risk getting near any police stations, and since this wasn’t the typical residential side of town, staying on the street after another hour or so would be incredibly suspicious. Those who worked went home soon, and those who lived here locked their doors.

Weighing those thoughts, Hero’s best option seemed to be to cross the city while they still could.

One change of clothes later, and Hero was back on a crosswalk, moving with a crowd dressed in mostly business-causal attire. Two more rights and they spotted a station, and graciously they had enough cash left to cover the fare for a ride all the way to South side.

The covered bench at which they waited was warm, but they couldn’t get comfortable. Their head was whipping in every direction, trying to identify if they were being followed. Paranoia creeped in and their neck muscles began to protest the strain of repeated movements. By the time they could board the Greyhound, the other citizens were eyeing Hero wearily.

Unconcerned with how erratic they appeared, Hero hopped on the bus, settling into a window seat in the middle. They relaxed as it started to move, shifting their gaze to the window.

Buildings upon buildings passed by, all slowly emptying as the minutes crept closer to the end of the business day. Idle chatter filled the bus.

The more blocks that passed, the more optimistic Hero became.

More commuters entered on the next stop. Exhausted, Hero paid no mind to the blue collar workers filling up the seats around them.

Some people must have pushed past the ones trying to exit the bus, because an older man in front of Hero made a comment about everybody being in a rush nowadays. Several people mumbled their agreement as someone settled into the seat beside Hero, holding a newspaper that crinkled as they sat.

“Trying to outrun the stressors of life, I suppose,” a woman replied from across the aisle.

Something tapped Hero’s shoe, and they leaned down to grab a water bottle that had rolled from the seat in front of them.

“You know what my dad always said about that?” The man beside Hero asked, setting down his newspaper.

Hero raised their arm to tap on the shoulder of the bottle’s probable owner.

Behind them, another person shifted, then answered lightly, “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

If Hero was anyone else, they would not have recognized the danger in Villain’s tone.

Before they could react, cold metal pressed to the side of their neck. In the reflection of the window, Hero could make out a hand holding a knife behind them. They flicked their eyes to the side, finally catching the bruising coming up on their seatmate’s cheekbone and jaw. In front, Blueprint turned and grabbed the bottle from their outstretched hand.

They were surrounded.

Part Two: You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid

[moonlightdancer26]

HELLO!!! okay so i’ve recently gotten my severus obsession back and i’ve been writing fics nonstop lol, i was wondering if you could give me some constructive criticism on this fic im planning to publish about eileen and severus accidentally on purpose killing tobias and fleeing to greece.

this is the first part of it

P.S trigger warning for some religious imagery and abuse

ONCE UPON A TIME, when the marks on his back were still fresh, Severus had told himself that he was growing wings.

After all, his mother thought he was an angel, even if his father said he had the devil in him. Severus had never done anything to make his father think that, but the man claimed he could see the shadow in the boy’s eyes. And whenever he caught a glimpse of it, he’d take Severus by the arm and lead him out to the private chapel that sat beside their clapboard house.

Severus used to love the little chapel—it had the prettiest picture window, all red and blue and green stained glass, facing east so it caught the morning light. The floor was made of stone—cold beneath Severus's bare feet, even in summer—and there in the center of the room lay a metal cross, driven straight down into the foundation.

Severus remembered thinking it seemed violent, the way the cross broke and split the floor, as if thrown from a horrible height. The first time his father saw the shadow, he had kept one hand on Severus's shoulder as they walked, the other clutching a coiled leather strap.

Severus's mother watched them go, laid in her own pool of blood. “Tobias,” she had whispered shakily, just once, her own body tattered in violet, blues, greens and reds, but Severus's father didn’t look back, didn’t stop until they’d crossed the narrow lawn and the chapel door had fallen shut behind them. Tobias had told Severus to go to the cross and hold on to the horizontal bar, and at first Severus had refused, sobbing, pleading, trying to apologize for whatever he’d done.

But it didn’t help.

His father tied Severus's hands in place, and beat him worse for his defiance.

Severus had been nine years old.

Later that night, his mother had treated the angry lash-marks on his back, and told him that he had to be strong. That Magic tested them, and so did his father. Her sleeves had inched up as she draped cool strips of cloth over her son’s wounded shoulders, and Severus could just see the edges of old scars on the backs of her arms painted over by the newest ones as she told him it would be okay, told him it would get better.

And for a little while, it always did.

Severus would do everything he could to be good, to be worthy. To not let the magic, the darkness, inside him out. He did everything to avoid his angry father’s gaze.

But the calm never lasted.

Sooner or later, his father would glimpse the magic in his son again, see the darkness pooling in those unnatural black eyes of his, and lead Severus back to the chapel. Sometimes the beatings were months apart. Sometimes days.

Sometimes Severus thought he deserved it. Needed it, even. He would step up to the cross, and curl his fingers around the cold metal cross, and pray—not to God, not to Magic, not at first, but to his father.

He prayed that his father would stop seeing whatever he saw, while he carved new feathers into the torn wings of Severus's back. Severus learned not to scream, not to let his magic lash out, but his eyes would still blur with tears, the colors in the stained glass running together until all he saw was light.

He held on to that, as much as to the steel cross beneath his fingers.

Severus would chant the words his mother taught him, to silence his mind and block out the pain.

Nothing is good or bad without first being determined so by the mind.

Pain cannot touch the mind.

Fear is subservient to the mind.

No wall can imprison the mind.

The body is the vessel and the anchor of the mind.

The mind is both one and multiple.

The mind has many rooms.

Memories half-forgotten and secrets long locked away.

In these natural protective barriers lies the power of the Occlumens.

The Occlumens must divide himself from his weaknesses.

The Occlumens must divide himself from unfulfilled desires.

The Occlumens must not permit a thought that could become a weapon to his enemy.

The Occlumens must place his trust in the strength of his mind.

A scarred mind is a protected mind.

Severus could never truly understand how he was broken, but he wanted to be healed.

If it meant that he would never have to endure such pain again.

He wanted to be saved.

And at last, his liberation came in the form of his father's lifeless eyes.

I’m so insanely and horrifyingly sleep-deprived and I’m on the brink of dying from exhaustion (this is a draft so now I’m in a much better state 😭) but AHAHHSHDJEHRJXKWKNRKFKSD I’M SO HAPPY YOU’RE BACK !!!!!!! I MISSED YOU SMMMM I REMEMBER BEING HEARTBROKEN WHEN I REALISED I COULDN’T FIND YOUR ACCOUNT. Welcome back to the Snapedom 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

also WOW I literally read this with half-opened eyes and I still got chills all over my body 😭 I knew you were a great writer but DAMN. plus I LOVE fanfics where Tobias is a religious fanatic and considers witchcraft to be a sin, and he takes it out on Severus. It’s scarily realistic and it very much gives me Claude Frollo and Quasimodo/Esmeralda vibes. I love when people include these kind of themes in their stories/fanfics, so props for that! I genuinely don’t think I have any criticism to give you, I legit got chills all over my body as I was reading this. I think it’s a great idea and I enjoy the details you’ve added. I am not bluffing when I say you have EXTREME potential. If you publish any of your fics, I want you to RUSH to my inbox or DMs as soon as humanly possible 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Again, so glad you’re back!! Your writing is spectacular as per usual 🩷🩷🩷

[thiswasinevitableid]

Together (Sternclay)

Another whumpcember prompt winner was Panic Attack. This is a continuation of this 1950s fill, but can be read as a stand alone

Authors note: This fill was supposed to be NSFW but took a very different turn than planned and it didn't fit with the tone. So, if you'd like to see part three with some fluff and smut, let me know.

The morning after the best night of his life, Joseph wakes up on the floor. 

That hasn’t happened to him since he bought the new bed, big enough so that he has to thrash a lot before he hits the floor. Lord only knows what buried memory sent him tumbling this time. He always wakes in too much of a panic to remember his dreams. 

“Joseph?”

He closes his eyes, breathes in steadily and slowly. It’s Barclay. Just Barclay. He came home with him last night after a Christmas party, he’s the first man Joseph’s ever slept with, he’s handsome and gentle and he cannot see Joseph on the hardwood, the ghosts of a nightmare making him kick and shout like a kidnapped child. 

“I’m okay, big guy” he stands, reaching for his robe, “I just caught my foot in the sheet and lost my balance.”

Soft footfalls, then Barclay is in the doorway, mug of coffee in either hand, “Here I thought you remembered last night and got all jelly-kneed. Know I did when I woke up.”

Joseph takes the offered mug, “I don’t come out of my dreams that easily. But now that you mention it…” he leans in and kisses Barclay once, sweetly, on the lips. The taller man sighs happily, gaze languid as he watches Joseph sip his coffee. 

“Would this be why you asked me last night how I take my coffee?”

“You caught me.” Barclay loops an arm around his waist, and Joseph is suddenly glad the curtains to the front are closed, “usually use that line before getting someone into the sack. But I do always wanna know. I…it’s important to me. To make it good for the other person. Makes them less likely to toss me out.”

He doesn’t bother to hide his distaste, “Some people don’t have the manners god gave a rock.”

“I mean I get it. Lots of guys aren’t on the level and need me to go before their wife gets home, and a lot of the ones who are lose interest as soon as they find out I did time.”

Joseph wants to turn and cup his face, promise him that he won’t lose interest, that the fruit trees in the yard will up and walk to Fresno before he sends Barclay away. Wants to pretend that there’s a world where it won’t be his own fault that his beautiful, fiery feeling between them fizzles out.

“Well” he sets his mug on the dresser, “you know I’m not married. And you’re the most fascinating man I’ve met in a long time. So, Mr. Cobb, unless you have somewhere urgent to be, I think you should come back to bed.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph may want Barclay for a roommate, but Barclay is still in the “rehabilitation” program. That comes with a lot of rules and a tight leash. 

God, would he like Barclay on a leash? He thinks he would. 

Focus, Stern. There’s a job to do. 

He trusts his teaching assistant to guide the Intermediate Japanese class through their review session while he makes the drive from campus down into east Oakland. The administrative offices are next to the jail, and he’s mistaken twice for someone’s lawyer before Owens is able to see him. 

“Stern!” Owens shakes his hand, “Finally taking me up on the offer of joining the force?”

Not even if hell froze over.

“Not quite. I have a question about the Re-Entry Program; are members ever allowed to live outside of the halfway house?”

“In rare circumstances, like if they have family in the area who won’t lead them right back into crime. You asking because of Cobb? The missus said you two got on like a house on fire last weekend.”

“We did. Between you and me, I’ve been thinking about getting a housemate; the place is too big for me, and my job keeps me busy enough that meeting a nice girl to share it with won’t happen any time soon. The problem is, it’s in such a good location I don’t want to lose it by moving.” He lets his smile brighten, “Barclay and I get along, and it’s the same distance from the cafe you have him working at as the halfway house. You know I can handle myself, and I trust you to vet the program members to not be dangerous.”

Owens fiddles with his pencil, “How about this: I’m trying to convince the county to let us use a sponsor system for the program. You and Cobb could be a test case; he’s a nice guy, and between you and me I thought it was good he got a soft judge. All you’d have to do is give reports once and awhile, help become a productive part of society, all that.”

“I think we can manage.” He sits down so Owens can show him some paperwork, makes a note in his pocket calendar to swing by the cafe and talk to Barclay about it. Tries not to think about how Barclay has less to atone for than he does.

He gets to Bettys right before closing, nurses a paper cup of coffee outside while he waits for Barclay to finish up. 

As he goes to throw his cup away, he hears someone urgently call a name, and then something heavy hits him in the side. A narrow muzzle pushes into his face, covered in brown and  black fur. 

His limbs are going numb, he needs to run, he can’t, he’s not there, he’s in Oakland, he’s safe. 

“Joey! Joey get down!” A harried young woman hauls the German shepherd off him, “Sit. Oh thank goodness you remember that one. I am so, so sorry sir. She used to belong to my brother who she adored and when she saw you she just snapped the leash and ran.”

“It’s okay, just a scuff on my coat.” He looks down at the dog, fights a flinch as it barks once, happily, and wags its tail at his attention, “I’m sorry I’m not who you’re looking for.”

“If you ever figure out how to explain that to her, let me know.”

Joseph notices the ribbon pinned to her jacket. Someone she loved is M.I.A.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. 

She gives him a sad smile, “I envy her optimism.” Another final apology, then she wishes him Merry Christmas and leaves with Joey in tow. 

Joseph brushes the dirt from his coat, so used to burying his fear he barely feels it. She’s heavier than the last one that hit him, his face slamming the mud, the shouts behind him, knowing that if they get their hands on him he’s done for, no one will come for him, and lord help him he knows what they do to spies, he’s seen it-

“Joseph?” Barclay is behind him, angelic under the street lights, “you okay?

“Just a little lost in thought.” He remembers why he’s here, pushes the past away, and steps as close to Barclay he can without drawing attention, “let me take you to dinner? I have some amazing news.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe it’s a good thing two men can’t tie the knot. Right now that’s the only reason Barclay hasn’t gotten down on one knee only  three weeks after meeting Joseph. 

It’s not the house, mercifully quiet and tidy due to their joint cleaning, or Joseph making sure they split dinner duty. It’s not the new room that’s technically his own even though he spends every night under soft sheets with Joseph.

It’s that when they talked about the “sponsorship,” Joseph offered a bulleted list of how they could phrase the agreement so that Barclay could leave if he needed to, could not be just tossed out on his ass if things went south between them. That the night before he moved in, Joseph sat down with him to make a grocery list to cover them both. That when Barclay holds him, he feels safer and more at home than he thought he ever could, and can feel Joseph’s shoulders shaking with some nightmare, and hopes with everything in him that this relationship simmering between them will soothe whatever part of his past keeps chasing him. 

Life isn’t a fairytale. God knows they both understand that. But doesn’t it deserve a chance to be? 

In place of a proposal, he’s keeping Joseph company on the drive down to Salinas to see his family. Christmas is a relatively new practice in the family; it overlaps with Hanukkah this year, but according to Joseph, there’s been pressure to make at least a passing effort at Christmas.

“A neighbor told my mother it seemed un-American to not observe such an important day.”

“What the fuck?”

Joseph jabs his baked potato, “It’s the same one who couldn’t understand why my family wasn’t carted off to internment because they don’t understand Korea isn’t Japan.”

Barclay suspects that if Mrs. Stern is anything like her son, the neighbor was instantly withered by disapproval. The last time he visited him on campus he saw him turn that stare on some older students harassing the janitor and felt vicarious shame the rest of the night. 

They turn from the highway, away from the coast and into the farmland. Fields whiz by, brown without the strawberries, spinach, and artichokes that will cover them in the spring and summer. The radio has been playing the same ten Christmas songs, and so Joseph lowers the volume and asks about the Christmas party that Barclay attended at the halfway house. 

He sighs, “It was okay. Hank liked the records I got him.”

(They’d gone to the store on Shattuck to find them, pressed up against each other in the small space as they looked through the shelves and crates, and Joseph had walked out with five for the house, half his picks and half Barclays, plus one they’d grabbed for at the same time).

Joseph casts a glance his way, “What happened?”

“A bunch of the guys got me a ‘special gift.’ Said it’d make me into a real housewife. Relatedly, if you know any women who need stockings, point them my way.”

Two fingers raise off the wheel, “First of all, the joke is on them for wasting money on something that isn’t funny. Second of all, if they think taking care of a home is embarrassing, I have three generations of women who will happily threaten them in no fewer than three languages for you.”

“Keep that in mind, babe.” He leans over, kissing Joseph on the cheek.

The conversation turns to the movies, and by the time they turn onto the main drag they’re deep in debate about what to see the next time they catch a matinee. 

A plane buzzes overhead. Barclay wonders who the fuck is flying right now; maybe a celebrity zipping up for a Christmas on the coast, or an overworked mailcarrier. 

Joseph tenses in the driver's seat as he pulls toward the parking spaces in front of the darkened Parks Grocery. 

“Joseph? Baby, what’sAH!” He yelps as the bumper bangs into the sidewalk. 

“Shit.” Joseph hisses, then his voice flattens, “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, I just had trouble seeing the curb. Is the car alright?” 

Barclay pokes his head out, peering between the headlights, “Might be a little dent, but that’s it.”

When he looks back, Joseph's face is the same as it was a few minutes ago, friendly and collected, “That’s a relief. Okay, I can take the presents if you take the food; they’ll hold up better to the onslaught.”

Joseph’s right; the instant the door opens, he’s being hugged by a woman with brown hair piled on top of her head, an older man slapping him on the back, and a girl who looks like she could be his daughter clinging to his legs. He hears something ripping and hopes it’s wrapping paper and not Joseph’s shirt. 

The memory of coming back to the Lodge after being gone, of arms around him welcoming him home, sticks under his ribs like a knife. 

“Alright, alright, let the poor man in.” A figure that can only be Mr. Stern appears, looking up at his son before hugging him, “what, you thought I wasn’t going to get in on the action?” 

“Good to see you too, Dad.” He passes off the presents to a tall, blonde man, “Dad, everyone, this is my friend Barclay.”

He waves, pie tray in his free hand, “Thank you for letting me come on such short notice.”

The older man in the glasses waves his hand, “Eh, what’s one more, she’s cooking like the entire Giants are coming for dinner.”

“And who is that because, huh?” The woman who must be Mrs.Stern jabs a wooden spoon his way, “you ate half the table at the Seder last year.”

“Doctor says I gotta keep my strength up. That makes sense, right Joseph?”

“He’s a nice boy, he’s not gonna argue with his mother.” The grey haired woman says dryly from her spot beside him. 

“Bubbe is right on the money.” Joseph takes the pie and carries it to the counter.

“I can help out if you need.” Barclay offers, but Mrs. Stern waves for him to sit down. 

Joseph introduces him to everyone, and Barclay begins to understand why both floors above the grocery are occupied. Of the two sets of grandparents, his great aunt and uncle, parents, and older sister Lily, only Lily lives elsewhere. She and her husband, Craig, brought themselves and his niece Sophie down from San Francisco for the day. 

At one point he looks around, unable to find Joseph, and sees him speaking quietly to his parents in Korean. His stomach twists, wondering if it’s about him, if Joseph feels forced to justify while a man with a rap sheet is sitting in their living room. 

Then Sophie is nearly in his lap, demanding to know what kind of pie he made, and he lets himself be drawn back into the conversation. 

A tap on his shoulder, and he looks up to find Mrs. Stern.

“Barclay, can you help me bring some things up from the store? I forgot to cart them up earlier and a few of the boxes are a little heavy for me on those stairs.”

“Sure thing.” He follows her out the door and down the side stairwell, the grocers cool and dark when they get inside. She shifts boxes around in one of the storage closets while Barclay scans the newspapers on the wall. 

(Joseph’s whole family took her name, he realizes. “Park” belonged to his father, hence the name in friendly red letters out front). 

“Joseph said you two are moving in together?”

“Yeah. I’m really excited.”

“You mentioned you were up on the coast for a while. Is your family up there?”

He nods and she continues, “well, I’m flattered you chose our ‘christmas’ dinner to come to instead.”

“It’s, it’s not like that, my, I-” He looks over at her leaning on the counter and realizes he’s stepped right where she wanted him to. 

“I…I got into some trouble. And when I got out, they only let me up to see my family and friends once. They told me they were afraid that if I was paroled there, I’d just take up old habits.”

“And would you?”

He thinks about the names on immigration documents, the pleas for safety,  Indrid forging signatures perfectly while Barclay and Dani worked out which routes were the safest to send them.

“In a heartbeat.”

The steel in her posture softens, “You’re honest. That’s a good thing in a man.” She places a box onto the counter, “Joseph told Lawrence and I the truth. Don’t be angry with him for that, he comes by his inquisitive streak honestly from both of us and knew to head off our questions so we wouldn’t embarrass you by mistake asking them at the table.”

“I kinda had a hunch he had.”

She steps closer, “Can you promise me something? Keep an eye on him these next few weeks. This time of year is hard for him. He’s never said why, I assume it has to do with what happened over there. He hides it well, I’m not sure even Lawrence notices. But a mother always knows.”

Barclay feels strange relief, knowing someone else has spotted the brittle edge to Joseph's smile that's been worrying him the last few days,

“I’ll do my best.”

She reaches up and pats his cheek, “Thank you. Now, let's get these boxes upstairs. Careful not to drop that one, it’s mostly applesauce.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d been doing so well. He made it through the drive down when the plane buzzed overhead and he was back in Dresden. Through the moment at the table when Sophie had if Barclay had been in the war and his mother simply said, “he was a hero, like your uncle.” Joseph had wanted to shout that unlike him, Barclay really was one. 

Then someone had to go and set off a firework right after they got home. 

Now he’s standing in the bedroom, fighting himself with rapidly dwindling success. He held it together then, why can’t he hold it together now? What if these attacks never stop, what if they get worse. If they get worse, someone will notice, oh god help him what if they happen in class, he’ll be fired for sure, what good is a professor who can’t do anything but shake? And if Barclay finds out, he’ll be gone in an instant, because Joseph will confess on top of everything else and then Barclay will know him not only as a coward who can’t keep the past at bay but as a failure. The one person he wants more than anything in the world will leave him and there will be no one to find him when one of these episodes finally stops his heart-

Warm, large hands cup his face, “Joseph, hey, stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

Barclay shakes his head, brown eyes overflowing with tender concern, “No, you’re not. You’re somewhere else. Come back to me. Please?”

“I don’t know how, I’ve tried and tried and I can never make it stop, I just have to ride it out, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“What are you apologizing for?” Barclay, voice genuinely confused, is trying to guide him to sit on the bed, but his limbs are lead even as his heart tries to break his bones from the inside out, “you aren’t hurting me, things went well with your family, I thought everything was okay…”

Oh god that’s what the tone he couldn’t place at first is; Barclay is scared. He thinks he’s done something wrong. 

He’s already failing him. 

He has to push through, he can salvage this.

“Can you please close the curtain. And maybe roll up a towel at the bottom of the window? It’s those fucking fireworks, the noise and the light is getting to me.”

Barclay nods, squeezes his hand, and stands. Joseph inhales as deeply as he dares. 

It gets stuck, turning to a sob halfway through.

“Woah, woah baby hey” Barclay drops to his knees, “whatever you’re thinking of is in the past, it can’t get you here, you’re safe-”

He shakes his head without meaning to, “I don’t deserve to be. Someone else should have come back in my place.”

“Bullshit.” The murmur is surprisingly forceful. 

“No” he snaps, “it’s not. I was a spy, Barclay, and that means doing terrible things for the sake of keeping your cover. It means turning a blind eye to some of what you’re seeing because if you look too long you’ll decide to hell with the mission and try to stop it.”

Barclay stays quiet, keeps hold of his hands. There’s a burn scar on his wrist from an oven and Joseph raises it to his face, keeps it against his cheek. It’s easier to talk with it there, like whatever he says is a secret Barclay will hold in his palm for safekeeping. 

“I had a few near-misses but the worst one is the one I can’t shake. It was understood that if another agent was caught, unless we could be certain we could escape with them without blowing cover, we were not to intervene, even if it meant their death. I was in Dresden, technically as an axis member, but really on a mission where if I failed, there’d be more men dead than just me. It was already stressful because I knew there could be a bombing any moment.” 

He presses a kiss to Barclays skin to steady himself, “the other agent on the mission was found out. He ran, but where we were….there was no chance of escape, there were too many of them. I heard the shouts, knew what was happening, then he rounded the corner and I realized he was about to call out for me to help him. So I” he closes his eyes, lets him see it again as penance, “I shot him. Before he could reveal me, too.”

He’s still crying, but the sobs have stopped, and his heart is no longer ten seconds away from an attack. Now if only he could bring himself to look Barclay in the eye. 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“It’s okay. If, I understand if this changes things-”

“No! I mean yeah, it does, but not how you’re thinking.” Barclay takes Joseph’s chin and gently guides his head up, “I literally don’t know what to say. Because what I want more than anything in the fucking world is to know the magic words that would make it better. But I don’t, and I’m not sure there are any, but I’ll be absolutely fucking damned if I make you feel worse. Yeah, I could sit here and judge, but I wasn’t fucking there, and what matters to me, in this moment, is that you’re still stuck.” He rests their foreheads together, “I know you’re trying to reconcile every awful thing you went through with the story everyone wants to tell about you. But I’m not someone you have to impress, or someone you have to confess to. I’m just the nobody cook who lucked out enough for you to like him.”

Joseph doesn’t throw himself into Barclay’s arms; that implies an energy he does not have. Instead he sinks into them, only for the cook to maneuver them both onto the bed and cradle him close. 

“How many times do I have to tell you you’re not a nobody, big guy?” The teasing comes out in a shaky whisper. 

“Dunno, it might not ever stick and you’ll just have to remind me every day how great I am.” 

He snickers, “I already plan on that.” A yawn overtakes him, “christ, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just drop this into a nice evening. I’m so fucking tired.”

“Then we should get some shut eye.” Barclay carefully undoes the buttons of Joseph’s dress shirt.

“But-” 

Barclay looks at him, eyes hopeful and serious, “You want this thing between us to go on for a while, right?”

“More than anything.”

“Then we don’t have to talk through every tough thing in one night. We’ve got time. We can make a life that’s worth all the pain it took to get here. Together.”

Joseph nods, presses a kiss to those full lips as a thumb brushes the last of the tears from his cheek, “together.”

[shezamaverick]

25 Years of Black Sails

Into and Out of the Sunset

By: Davey Havok

Not long before the final tour of the A Fire Inside EP, a mutual friend asked Mark what type of AFI record he planned on writing to follow our third full-length. His earnest reply: “Unlistenable. Something everyone will hate.” Though this was the type of chaos I would have certainly supported, he never said this to me. He’d stopped speaking to me sometime in the fall of ‘98. Jade took his place shortly thereafter.

The first time I wrote with Jade was in my room beneath the stairs at the defunct frat house that AFI lived in at the time.* That evening in 1998, promptly at our scheduled hour, a knock came upon my thick wooden door. I opened it with an anticipatory smile and nod. “What’s up man?” Jade walked into the shadows of my ill-lit room carrying his acoustic guitar. My mattress and boxspring, set under the flight of stairs leading to the third floor, was the only place to sit. Our new guitarist sat on its edge. I sat on the floor with my microcassette recorder, facing him. The room was scented of cheap vanilla candles. Peter Murphy stared at me from a poster behind our new guitarist. I was excited. Jade was then and is now one of the greatest songwriters I’ve known. My band of seven years was about to begin its metamorphosis. “So, I was thinking,” he offered. “I miss the melodic stuff in AFI. How about we add some of that back in? Nothing crazy, just a bit.” As genuinely ready as I’d have been for Mark’s repellant HXC vision to take AFI down a path that forked toward cacophonous supernova (or 2024 Taco Bell commercials?) I felt Jade’s as well. Limiting myself to screaming limited my abilities of emoting and evocation as well. It was becoming unfulfilling and suffocating.

Jade picked up his acoustic, strummed some chords, and in falsetto sang, “We all begin to burn…” He’d come prepared with these parts and I was immediately hooked. Working from the scratch lyric intended to act as a gang callout, I expounded with conceptual responses and so came the rest of Malleus Maleficarum. I believe some weathered copy of the tome itself had been lying about my room—if not, some witchy text that referenced it. Malleus was the first song we’d ever written together. I can recall our writing of Clove Smoke Catharsis and God Called in Sick Today in that tiny dark room as well. With those tracks, I felt certain our next record was going to be well beyond anything I’d ever thought I would have been capable of being a part of. I was utterly inspired. In our latest writing sessions together, 25 years later, I’ve felt beyond this. What a luxury.

During that late '90s East Bay winter Jade, Hunter, Adam and I put BSITS together in our tiny Oakland practice pad, off 20th, then tracked it with Andy at the Art Of Ears in Hayward. I shredded my voice during my allotted two days of time, screaming out 15 tracks that defiantly sat steadfast at the top of my range. Oh, but to have my 23-year-old healing powers back.

Weeks later, I pulled the advanced master from the mail and squirreled to my parking space by the dumpsters behind the frat house. Sat in the faded burgundy upholstery of my driver seat, I slid the cassette into my ’83 Accord’s silver player and depressed the play button. Click. Adam’s ominous preface to Strength Through Wounding began. The gang of Skinhead Rob, Fritch, and our buddy Dan followed the warlike beat. Then came the impure chant, ominously brooding through my crackling speakers with all the blasphemous piety I’d hoped. I was so happy with what we’d made.

When Dexter Holland, singer of The Offspring and owner of the label we were on at the time, first heard Black Sails in the Sunset he told our A&R guy, “I don’t get it.” Commercially, this wasn’t a great sign. Artistically, it was affirming.

Be they pretty fly, or even barely fly, BSITS did alienate a lot of fans (as had Shut Your Mouth and every record thereafter), but with it we gained more fans who were ready to join us on the ever jagging sonic journey we’d begun. My look at the time was arguably even more confronting than the relatively unorthodox sounds of Black Sails. The rigid regulations of the extremely masculine ’90s hardcore scene didn’t make much room for a singer in whiteface, black lipstick, fishnet, and PVC. Philosophically this remains unacceptable to me. Our fierce and fabulous ancestors gave us our glitter. I’ll leave you with one of the more delightful heckle memories from the unparalleled Life on the Ropes Tour with Sick of It All, Hot Water Music and Indecision:

INTERIOR: a compact second story theatre, packed with hundreds of hardcore kids. AFI is onstage somewhere in the midwest. Clouds of fog spill over the carmine valance as Jade begins the opening riff to their final song. God Called in Sick Today whispers to life as your author crouches in the crawling billows, his vinyl pants reflecting red light into the baffled eyes of dreadlocked white boys in capacious corduroy JNCOs and commodious VOD tees. They impatiently await the NYC legends, SOIA.

A heckle bursts through the gentle riff. “Let’s go, Trent Reznor!”

Your author rolls his heavily shadowed, lined, and mascaraed eyes. How elementary, he thinks. The opening riff continues.

“Come on, Peter Murphy!”

Begrudgingly impressed by the boor’s finer reference, your author’s plucked brows slightly raise with imperceptible surprise. He gives the heckler no acknowledgment, remaining in the song. The opening line of the verse is seconds away when the boy barks,

“Ok, Count Chocula!”

Grinning, your author chuckles for the first and last time ever before singing, “Let’s admire the pattern forming…”

25 years later, the pattern continues to shift.

[chromisomi]

lifebuoy, a reylo fic | ch 16 is up!

Nine months ago

Summer was by far Ben’s least favorite season. The sun was always bare and bright and stinging, and the tourists crowded the streets, adding on to the already insane amount of Los Angeles traffic. A sheen of sweat kept his dress shirt stuck to his back as he made his way around his office, searching for anything that might be of use in his time away.

His laptop and charger were already tucked away safely in his bag. But he eyed the shelf of memoirs and personal development books, a handful of them still left unfinished. His luggage was already nearing the 50-pound weight limit for the flight, so there was no hope in adding a few reads.

His backpack, though. That could take one book, he supposed.

“You’re leaving, then?”

Ben paused, pushing away the wave of unease that always came with his director’s presence. He glanced over at the wrinkled man, who was leaning against the doorframe and eyeing Ben with that old, beady gaze.

They’d already had this conversation months ago, when Ben mentioned an offer from the east coast university. But Alfred Snoke was nothing if not relentless, always prodding and observing, waiting for a lie to surface in Ben’s responses.

“It will only be two years,” Ben reminded him, turning back to grab a random book from the shelf, too focused on steeling his composure to notice which one he picked. “My absence will not be a permanent one.”

“It is an absence, nonetheless.” Snoke smiled but his eyes were flat. “Mitaka can only do so much without your guidance. The company was doing so well when you were… staying put.”

His voice hadn’t risen, but there was a threat in his words. A message in the words he didn’t say.

“I assume I’ll be under surveillance. You’ll see that this is only me pursuing further education.” Ben’s lips thinned as he packed the book in his bag, his back facing Snoke. “We also haven’t created any political connections in DC. It could help us in the long-term, when we’re planning our next relocation.” He was grasping for anything at this point. “My only priority is the First Order.”

“Hm.” Snoke’s voice croaked closer from the doorframe. “Do your best to remember what happened to Enric Pryde, my young apprentice. Perhaps it will help you focus on what’s best for our company.”

Flashes of the older man’s scent came to Ben then.

Decayed and rotten and punished beyond saving.

Pryde was the only one who managed to get away from Snoke’s hold, though he didn’t make it very far. That was a particularly difficult cover-up for Ben, as the news and media caught word of the father’s disappearance.

“All my priorities lie with the First Order,” was all Ben said.

“As they should be.”

Snoke stood in the office, silently observing Ben as he packed what more he could into his backpack. His stare was heavy on Ben’s nape, a threat in and of itself. It wasn’t until a low ringtone broke the silence when Ben finally took a breath. He gave his director a curt nod and briskly left the office.

Snoke’s voice followed him down the hall from his office, though. His words were low and rushed. He was taking a call.

“Prepare my room, boy. I’ve been gone long enough…”

One of his house servants, Ben assumed as he waited for the elevator to reach his floor. His phone buzzed in his hand and he looked down to find an Instagram notification. His breath caught at her username – she posted again.

Only two more months now, until they might cross paths again.

He won’t pursue her, he’s promised himself that. But he’s in need of that distraction again, in need of some rush to his monotonous days. Maybe he’ll find her in the campus yards snapping another photo, or maybe they’ll bump into each other at a coffee shop.

Two more months, it was a vow that repeated in his head as he entered the elevator, two more months until I can see you again.

read the rest of the chapter on ao3!

start from chapter one here!

[ginandoldlace]

HENBURY HALL, CHESHIRE Henbury Hall is a country house about 1 mile southwest of the village of Henbury in Cheshire. The present house was built during the 1980s in the New Classical style, its design being based on Andrea Palladio’s Villa Rotonda.

In 1957 the estate was bought by Sir Vincent de Ferranti. After the death of Sir Vincent in 1980, his son Sebastian and the designer Felix Kelly, who had already been involved with some work on the Henbury estate, came up with the idea of creating a house in the style of a Palladian temple. Kelly executed an oil painting based on Villa Rotonda, a house near Vicenza built in 1552 and designed by Andrea Palladio. Sebastian then commissioned the architect Julian Bicknell to create a design similar to Kelly’s painting. The new building was completed in 1986.

Henbury Hall is constructed in brick and concrete which is faced with limestone from northeastern France, with the roof in local stone. The dome is lead, with a lantern in gunmetal and gilded copper. It has a plan of 56 feet square, with four-way symmetry. There is a rusticated basement, and an Ionic portico on each side. A stairway leads up to the south front. Within each portico is a Venetian window. Topping the house is a dome surmounted by a lantern.

The dining and drawing rooms are on the first floor, the piano nobile, on the east and west sides of a central great hall which is open to the dome, with smaller rooms in the corners. In the basement is a central hall surrounded by kitchens and accommodation for staff. The upper floor has a gallery overlooking the great hall, with six bedrooms with bathrooms and dressing rooms. The great hall has a floor of English limestone and Purbeck marble. The internal decoration is by David Mlinaric, with carving of the doorcases by Dick Reid of York.

[brainfuzzz]

Becoming A Pirate Ch. 1 "I Promise."

AU where the East, South, West, and Noth Blue is land masses all connected by the Grand Line. Luffy goes to a Naval Academy to follow in Shank's footsteps with the goal to become the pirate king. Crocodile and Dragon are married, Whitebeard is Crocodile's dad/Luffy's grandpop. Shakky is a warlord so that Boa can be a student. Robin and Franky are going to be the same age as the others. Happier timeline in AU.

This was 100% inspired by the noodle commercial.

Having the ability to sleep through virtually anything is both a blessing and a curse. It’s a trait shared by his father and grandfather that was unfortunately inherited down to Luffy. In his 17 years of life, he’s discovered many sounds that fail to wake him from his deep slumber: the wind, heavy thunderstorms, distant gun shots, loud vehicles speeding past his house, his parents yelling after losing him at the park, his grandpa yelling after losing him on a hike, his brothers yelling after losing him on a different hike, and pretty much all public transportation. His alarm, unfortunately, is also among these sounds. So, on the one day that Luffy had actually planned on getting up early… he sleeps in. 

            Luffy doesn’t jump out of bed, but rather flings himself from the mattress. Unfortunately, he does this headfirst, so instead of potentially landing on his feet, he instead falls face first onto the hardwood floor. He hits hard causing the small house to shake.

            “What was that?” His dad calls from downstairs.

            Luffy fumbles towards his nightstand for his phone. It’s nearly 7:30. He runs an aggravated hand through his messy hair and shouts, “Nothing!”

            In a mad dash to get ready, he scrambles to his dresser and grabs his brand new uniform that his pa had neatly laid out the night before. He tugs the stiff itchy fabric over his head while simultaneously shoving legs into perfectly ironed pants. Once clothed he pauses to glance at his reflection in the cracked full body mirror hanging on the closet door. His uniform is already covered in wrinkles thanks to his hurry to get dressed, but other than that it’s fine. Afterall, Luffy has never been one to care about wrinkles. His pa on the other hand might strangle him. The uniform itself is a near copy of the marine uniform except on the back it has NA in large blue letters. Luffy can’t help but wrinkle his nose at the thought of wearing a marine uniform, but eventually he lets it go and crosses over to his nightstand to pick up his straw hat. He stares at it for a long moment, letting distant memories echo in his mind. He gives a small grin and places it on his head.

            The floorboards on the stairs creak under his feet until he skips the last two steps, hopping to the first floor. He takes an immediate right into the kitchen where Dragon is setting a large plate of bacon on the table that is already piled with food.

            Dragon glances up at Luffy and frowns with an arched brow, “How did you already wrinkle it? Your pa isn’t going to be happy.”

            “I tried keeping it pressed but,” Before he’s even fully seated at the table, Luffy is stuffing his face. When he swallows his large bite he says, “I woke up late.”

            Dragon chuckles with the shake of his head while leaning against the small island separating the dining room and the kitchen. “You have less than 30 minutes to make it there you know? If you’re lucky your pa will get up soon and take you.”

            Luffy swallows another large mouthful of eggs, bacon, and bread, “No thanks. I don’t wanna be the only one being dropped off by his parents.”

            Dragon rolls his eyes with a shrug and turns to walk around the island. The floorboards in the hall creak as his other father, Crocodile, steps into the kitchen. He’s holding up two ascots with a serious expression.

            “Which one of these looks best?” he holds them up more as Dragon glances over his shoulder.

            “The right one.” Dragon turns back to the dishes. Crocodile fastens his ascot around his collar before sitting next to Luffy. He eyes him suspiciously before frowning deeper.

“How did you manage to already wrinkle your uniform?” his pa turns in his chair making escape impossible. Luffy darts his eyes away and stuffs a pancake into his mouth using it as an excuse to not answer. Crocodile pinches Luffy’s ear, “Like having a full mouth has ever stopped you from talking before!”

Luffy continues to stuff his mouth in a nervous habit and says, “’mm ‘ory!”

Crocodile rests back in his chair with an exhausted sigh, “I should just be glad it made it through the night.”

Dragon slides a cup of coffee towards Crocodile and a glass of milk to Luffy. They both sip it graciously as Dragon sits on Luffy’s other side with a cup of coffee of his own. He passes Crocodile a copy of today’s newspaper and before long they both drift into their usual morning silence. Soon the only sounds are of the birds chirping outside the kitchen window, the windchime over the back deck, and Luffy’s obsessive chewing. After one last large bite, Luffy gets up from his chair.

“See ya!” He starts for the door making his parents put their papers down.

“If you let me finish my coffee, I’ll take you.” Crocodile says by the time Luffy has reached the front door.

“Nah!” Luffy calls back as he slips on his sandals.

“Have a nice day and be safe!” Dragon is calling by the time Luffy has swung open the front door and stepping out into the morning sun.

Luffy and his parents live in a small 2 story home that sits on a hill overlooking the wide open ocean. Down the grassy hill following a winding dirt road is his grandpa’s house only a few feet from the oceanside cliff. The only other people who live this far from Foosha village is Dadan and her mountain bandits, making this their own private quiet peace of paradise. Luffy stares out at the watery horizon, picturing himself setting sail just like his older brothers did. But just as he’s about to let himself get swept away in his daydream, his phone buzzes, reminding him of how late he already is. He shakes his head and starts running down the road to the tunnel of trees and towards Foosha Village.  

Foosha Village is a small town based in the Goa district of the East Blue. There are four major territories known as the East Blue, the South Blue, the West Blue, and the North Blue. And in these territories are districts ruled by kings or some other higher ranking official, depending on its size. And within those districts are small towns like Foosha Village. By the time Luffy makes his way out of the tunnel of trees, he can spot the bus already waiting at the edge of town. Luffy takes a deep breath and charges full speed. Luckily there’s a line waiting to board, giving him some time to catch his breath.

“Luffy? What are you doing here so early?”

Luffy lifts his head to find Makino smiling at him. He returns her smile and says, “It’s my first day at the academy.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Makino starts reaching into her bag to retrieve a box and hands it to him. “I meant to give you this the last time I saw you. It’s a congratulations gift from me and the mayor. We’re rooting for you!”

Luffy rubs the back of his neck with a slight blush. “You didn’t have to Makino.”

“Nonsense, I know how much it means to you. Good luck on becoming a pi—” She stops herself before leaning in closer and whispering, “Good luck on becoming a pirate!”

By now its Luffy’s turn to board the bus. He steps up onto the first step and gives her a big grin, “I’m not just gonna become a great pirate, I’m gonna become the king of the pirates!”

Makino gives a nervous laugh as a few bystanders flinch at Luffy’s words. But before anything else can be said, the bus doors close and soon Foosha Village is in the distance.

The ride to the Goa district capital is a long and peaceful drive over slightly bumpy dirt roads and small bridges. They pass by countless windmills, rice fields, large pastures filled with cattle, and different thick forests that provide shade from the morning sun. But even with the calm of the quiet bus, Luffy can feel his excitement growing. He glances down at his phone. Illuminating on his cracked phone screen over a picture of him, Ace, and Sabo from the last summer they worked on his grandpop’s ship is two messages—one from each of his brothers.

Luffy, try not to cry on your first day! – Ace

Don’t listen to anything Ace told you. You’ll do great. – Sabo

And then,

But also, don’t cry on your first day. – Sabo   

Luffy snorts a laugh and sends them both the middle finger emoji before sliding his phone back in his pocket. Luffy has been waiting for this day for a long time. While it might not be setting sail on a ship of his own, it is the first major stepping stone to becoming a pirate. The Marine Naval Academy is one of the most elite schools you can get into. They promote themselves by highlighting all the successful marines that have come out of it. But what they don’t promote is all the successful pirates that have gone there too. Among them are both his parents—a famous warlord and revolutionary—and both his brothers. But more importantly, Gol D. Roger graduated from the academy and went on to become king of the pirates. Luffy rests his head back against the old leather bus seat and stares at the edge of his straw hat.

Shanks went there too.

His thoughts are interrupted when the bus comes to a stop. The Goa capital surrounds the bus with its tall building and paved streets. Luffy can’t get off fast enough. He can’t remember a time he’s been so happy to be in the capital. Usually, he only comes to cause trouble with Ace and Sabo. But today he’s just passing through. Because at the end of the capital is a long tunnel that leads to the Grand Line.

Luffy runs down the street, making a few people jump away afraid that he might run them over in his hurry. The semi empty streets slowly begin to fill as he soon finds himself joining the morning commute through the tunnel. A large fence separates the people walking and those lucky enough to have a vehicle. Luffy wonders absently while shoulder to shoulder with the dense crowd if one of the cars going by is his pa. While Luffy stares at the cars driving past, light beams in his eye, pulling his attention away as the tunnel opens up to the Grand Line.

The Grand Line is a massive city that stretches along the large land mass that connects the 4 territories. Unlike the East Blue with wide open spaces, easy country sides, and green as far as the eye can see, the Grand Line is almost entirely city. Tall skyscrapers that seemingly stretch all the way to the sky sprout nearly everywhere. The roads are filled with heavy traffic while the streets are always bursting with thick crowds. There are countless of water ways for the mermaids and fishmen along with those who travel by yagara. Overhead in the airways people drive bon chari’s or ride flying fish. Luffy crosses a bridge over a water lane as a large screen displays one of Uta’s new songs from her new album. A little further down he sees a store promoting Doflamingo’s new line of sunglasses while on the other side of the street he notices a large cutout of Moria Gecko promoting his line of stuffed toys.

Luffy rolls his eyes. The warlords are supposed to be serious pirates pardoned by the marines to help balance the powers of the 4 emperors. But more often than not, he sees them promoting a new business or brand they’ve signed on with. While waiting at a crosswalk he notices a screen in a shop window showcasing his pa’s casino. A small group of girls stop to admire his pa’s looks. Luffy makes a face and turns away.

When he finally reaches the train that should take him to the academy, Luffy’s unable to sit still. He shifts his weight from side to side while constantly checking the time on his phone. His brothers messaged him back but he’s too antsy to even read them. He drags his fingers down his face in impatient frustration when he notices a girl bump into a man a few feet away from him. The girl looks about his age with short orange hair. She smiles and apologizes to the man but when she turns to do so, he sees her reach into the man’s pocket and pull out his wallet. When the girl turns to walk away, their eyes meet. She pauses for a moment before lifting a finger to her lips and giving him a wink with a smile. When someone steps between them and moves out of the way again, she’s gone.

Luffy stares at the spot where the girl had been until the train pulls up and opens its doors. He steps into the train and manages to steal a seat. He plops down and pats his hands on his knees, starting to realize for the first time just how uncomfortable this uniform really is. He tugs at the handkerchief around his collar while tapping his foot. When the train finally starts moving, a new surge of excitement bursts through his chest making it impossible to stop smiling.

“Ugh, how can he sleep like that in a public space?” a woman hisses near him. Luffy lifts his head to see her whispering angrily to her friend. He follows their gaze to a green haired boy sitting a few seats down with his head tilted all the way back, mouth open, manspreading, and snoring louder than his dad Dragon. Luffy leans forward when he realizes the boy is wearing a Naval Academy uniform. He opens his mouth to call out to him when he realizes that if he’s asleep he probably won’t hear him. So instead, he rests back against the hard bus seat letting out a disappointed puff of air.

The train comes to a slow stop before it reaches Luffy’s destination. Luffy lets out another puff of air while watching people exit and enter the train. Further down, the boy sleeping snorts awake and leans forward on his knees. He rubs the back of his neck with a yawn and gets to his feet. Luffy watches the boy slowly exit the train in a groggy shuffle. Luffy finds himself standing and stepping off the train just before the doors close. The boy grumbles some sleepy words while blinking away the last of his sleep.

“Hey,” Luffy says startling the boy.

“Where the hell did you come from?” the boy yells with one hand darting down to the three swords hanging from his waist.

“You’re going to the Naval Academy, right?” Luffy points to his uniform.

The boy frowns with a raised brow, “So what if I am?”

“So, why’d you get off here? The Academy is one stop away.” This makes the boy tense up as he realizes his mistake.

“Well why the hell did you get off?” he shouts with his face growing red. It suddenly dawns on Luffy that he also got off at the wrong stop.

“I’m going to be late!” Luffy screams. They both start running but when they get to the bottom of the stairs, Luffy turns left while the boy turns right. Luffy skids to a stop and calls out, “Hey, you’re going the wrong way!”

The boy flinches and changes direction. They run side by side through the city streets in a complete panic. While doing so, they accidently crash through a cart causing vegetables to scatter into the road. At some point they leap over a parked car, angering the driver and both nearly fall into a water lane when they nearly miscalculate the distance after deciding walking across the bridge would take to long. The boy keeps wanting to turn down different alleys causing Luffy to grab his collar and yank him back on the right path. But finally, finally, after dashing up a set of stairs—skipping three steps at a time—they reach the Academy.

“I made it!” Luffy cheers with his arms outstretched towards the sky. The white stone building towers above them with big bold blue letters spelling out Marine Naval Academy. The boy with green hair stands at his side smiling up at the building with a hand loosely resting on his swords. They bask in the sun, taking in the moment… until the bell rings and they realize that they are the only ones standing in front of the building.

“Damn it!” the green haired boy shouts as they return to their panicked running. They bust through the front doors and dash down the pristine blue and white halls. They come to a stop in front of the auditorium doors. “I bet the assembly has already started!”

“Yeah, so we should be really quiet and try and sneak inside.” Luffy says right before kicking the double doors open causing a loud bang.

An auditorium full of students and teachers all slowly turn their heads to stare at them. At the front on a stage, Fleet Admiral Sengoku stands in front of a microphone in the middle of giving his speech. He narrows his eyes at them. Just behind Sengoku are two rows of seats. One row has the high ranking marines including his grandpa Garp who slaps a hand over his face at the sight of Luffy. On the other side is the 7 warlords including his pa Crocodile who is giving him a death glare. Luffy presses his lips tightly together with his foot still in the air from kicking the doors open.

“What was that about being quiet?” the green haired boy hisses at his side.

“Yeah… my bad.”

They quickly rush over to the closest set of empty chairs and take a seat. Admiral Sengoku clears his throat and continues with his opening speech. Luffy tunes out before he can even tune in to whatever the admiral is saying. Instead, he gets distracted by all the people in the crowd and the people up on the stage. The green haired boy lasts two minutes before yawning and immediately falling asleep. Luffy glances up where his pa sits. He’s thankfully stopped glaring at Luffy and has settled into a neutral bored expression. Doflamingo sits next to him with a wide grin. When he leans over to whisper something into Crocodile’s ear, Crocodile closes his eyes in clear annoyance before lifting up out of his seat. Shakky seems to have a silent understanding of the situation and gets up to switch seats with Crocodile. Doflamingo frowns and faces forward for the rest of the assembly.

Nothing else interesting happens for the rest of the assembly. By the time it ends, Luffy’s almost succumbed to sleep as well. When they’re signaled to stand, he smacks the boy next to him awake before they both stumble to their feet.

“Here at the Marine Naval Academy we hold ourselves to a higher standard. We expect great things from all of you.” And with that, Admiral Sengoku gives a proud salute, prompting the students to do the same, bringing the welcoming of the new school year ceremony to an end.  

“So how are we supposed to know where to go next?” the boy asks while they glance around the crowd of students who have begun to slowly sift out of the auditorium.

“Oh!” Luffy says when he sees a table that reads registration. He grabs the boy’s collar and drags him to the table. The two marines behind the table flinch when they appear. “We’re here to register!”

“Geez, late on the first day and interrupting the fleet admiral’s speech. You two must be trying to get expelled.” The pink haired one says while grabbing a stack of paper.

The marine next to him with a long goatee and heart shaped sunglasses leans back in his chair, “At the very least, detention on the first day.”

Luffy and the boy say nothing.

“Alright, what’re names so I can find out who’s the lucky son of a bitch who gets to teach you two.” The pink haired marine leans against his brass knuckle fist.

“Monkey D. Luffy.”

“Roronoa Zoro.” The green haired boy says.

“So, your names Zoro? I’m Luffy.” Luffy holds his hand out. Zoro stares at it for a second before giving a smirk and shaking it.

“Luffy huh? Well thanks for pointing me in the right direction.”

“Oh yeah, I did that a lot. You’re really bad with directions.” Luffy turns back to the table while Zoro tenses and grits his teeth. The marine with pink hair flips through a stack of paper until he stops and pulls one out. He reads over it for a second before bursting out in laughter. The marine beside him lets his seat fall forward so all legs are on the ground.

“What is it?” the other asks while taking the paper out of the pink haired marine’s hand. He reads over it before bursting out in laughter himself.

“Oh, he’s gonna love you two,” the pink haired marine wipes a tear away. “You’re both in room 12A. Goodluck.”

“You’re going to need it!” the other calls as Luffy and Zoro start to exit the auditorium.

“Those guys are weird.” Luffy says as they walk.

“They’re marines, what’d you expect?” Zoro stuffs his hands in his pockets as they turn down a different hall. Luffy stares at Zoro for a moment.

“Does that mean you don’t want to be a marine?” Luffy asks. Zoro arches a brow and gives a slight grin.

“I have no intention of becoming some lousy marine.” Zoro comes to a stop so that he can face Luffy. “I’m going to be the world’s greatest swordsman.”

Luffy stares at him for a long moment. Then he smiles. “Okay, I’ve decided.”

“Decided what?”

Luffy starts walking again before saying, “You’re going to join my pirate crew.”

“What? You can’t just decide that!” Zoro shouts while speed walking to catch up.

“Yeah, I can, I just did.” Luffy grins.

“And did you say pirate crew? Why the hell would I want to join up with a bunch of criminals?”      

“So what? The current greatest swordsman is a pirate. What’s the big deal?” Luffy shrugs making Zoro pause for a moment.

“Well when you put it that way…” he trails off in thought before asking, “Why do you want to become a pirate anyway?”

Luffy stops right in front of room 12A. He looks at Zoro from over his shoulder and says with a smile, “Because I’m going to be king of the pirates.”

He opens the door and steps through with Zoro close behind. The commotion of the room draws both of their attention. It seems Luffy and Zoro are also the last two to reach the classroom as nearly every seat is already filled. A small table is next to the teacher’s desk near the front with place cards on them. Luffy and Zoro both pick up the cards with their names on it.

“Hey, I’m number 16 and your 17.” Luffy and Zoro hold their cards next to each other. They walk toward the back of the room, noticeably aware of the eyes following them. When they find a table with the numbers 15, 16, and 17, Luffy plops down in the middle seat. The person sitting in the number 15 place shifts away from him, making him take notice. When he recognizes the girl, he smiles and says a little too loudly, “Hey, you’re the thief from before!”

The orange haired girl from the train tenses as heads begin to turn in their direction. The girl springs forward and slaps a hand over Luffy’s mouth.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hisses. Luffy says something but it’s muffled by her hand. Zoro props his chin up on the desk with his hand.

“You two know each other or something?” he asks with a yawn.

“Hell no, I don’t know him.” The girl sits back in her chair with her arms folded over her uniform. Luffy rubs his jaw confused.

“I thought it was really cool how you stole that guy’s wall—” before he can finish, she has slapped a hand over his mouth again.

“Would you stop that! Not everyone in this class needs to know!” she doesn’t remove her hand until Luffy gives an understanding nod.

“I’m Luffy by the way.” He says while pointing his thumb behind him. “And this is Zoro.”

“Names Nami. Just don’t go blabbing around school that I’m a thief and we’ll get along just fine.” She turns her head to face the front.

Luffy gives a grin and a chuckle, “Sure thing, Nami!”

When the door to the classroom opens again, a marine with slicked back white hair steps into the room. Everyone falls into a deep silence. He closes the door to the classroom with a bang making some of the students in the front jump in their seat. Luffy rests both his arms on the table already getting bored.

“I am Captain Smoker and I’ll be the one teaching you sad excuses for marines for the next year. You may address me as Captain or Captain Smoker and nothing else, got it?” Smoker drops a stack of papers on his desk causing another loud noise but this time the ones who jumped only flinch. Luffy absently wonders when lunch time will be. “I’m going to give roll call. Sound off when you hear your name.”

He begins listing off everyone in the class, but Luffy doesn’t listen because he’s realized his chair has a wobbly leg that when he tilts back, it makes a funny noise. Luffy continues to tilt back on his chair, grinning to the sound as Zoro’s head drops as he drifts back to sleep. A loud bang comes from their desk causing Luffy to let his chair fall forward so all legs are on the floor and Zoro’s eyes to pop open. Smoker stands above them, but Luffy can’t tell if he’s frowning more than usual or if its just his face.

“What the hell are you two doing?” he snarls out through gritted teeth. Luffy glances around trying to see what he’s talking about.

“Just sitting here.” He shrugs but that must not have been the right answer because it just makes Smoker look even madder.

“When I call your names I expect you to answer!” he slams a hand down on the table making the people in the front flinch again but Luffy and Zoro remain unbothered. Smoker looks them over before narrowing his eyes, “Are you wearing a hat in my class? And are those earrings in your ear?”

Luffy pats the top of his head, “Yeah, this hat is real important to me!”

            “What’s the big deal if I am?” Zoro crosses his arms giving another yawn. A vein in Smoker’s right temple throbs.

            “Hats and earrings are prohibited! Take it off and take them out or they become mine!” Smoker yells making Luffy’s ears ring. This time he and Zoro get the message. Luffy swipes his hat back so that it stays tied around his neck but is off his head, while Zoro begrudgingly takes his earrings out and slips them into his pocket. Suddenly satisfied, Smoker picks up his clipboard and loudly says, “Monkey D. Luffy, here. Roronoa Zoro, here.”

            He walks back to the front as Luffy returns to leaning back in his squeaky chair. “What’s his problem?”

            “His problem? What’s your problem?” Nami hisses at his side. She rubs her temple looking exhausted. “Are you trying to get kicked out on the first day?”

            “Why do people keep saying that?” Zoro asks making Luffy shrug. Nami sighs with the shake of her head. When Smoker reaches the front of the room, he begins class. Everyone starts shuffling through their things to pull out books, paper, and pencils. Luffy pats his pockets realizing he didn’t bring any of that stuff.

            “Hey Nami,” Luffy whispers, “I forgot to bring paper and a pen. Can I borrow some?”

            “Me too.” Zoro leans over so that they are both looking at her. Nami stares at them dumbfounded.

            “How do you forget to bring supplies on the first day?” She stares at them but Luffy and Zoro only shrug making her roll her eyes. “Fine, but its going to cost you 500 berries each.”

            “500!” Luffy whisper shouts.

            “I don’t have that kind of cash.” Zoro grumbles while Luffy scratches his head.

            “I could give you one of my sandals, would that cover it?” Luffy starts to reach for his shoes, but Nami wrinkles her nose.

            “No, that won’t cover it.” She turns back to her work.

            “Here,” a voice in front of them says as sheets of paper are slid towards Luffy and Zoro. A boy with a long nose rummages through his bag and pulls out two pens and holds them out to them. “You can borrow some from me.”

            “Thanks! I’m Luffy, this is Zoro. We really owe you!” Luffy grins as he takes the pen.

            “I’m Usopp and don’t mention it. Anything to keep Captain Smoker from getting angry again.” Usopp shrugs while turning to face the front. With pen and paper in hand, Luffy buckles down ready to get serious about school.

            Except, as it turns out, school is really, really boring. School has always been boring to Luffy but he had hoped since this was the place where all the really cool and famous pirates came from that it would somehow be different and more exciting. But unfortunately, it’s not. It doesn’t take long for Luffy’s enthusiastic note taking to dwindle off into mindless doodles as he starts to lose interest. Eventually he’s resting his chin on the edge of the table struggling to sit still.

            “Zoro… I’m bored.” He glances at him only to realize that Zoro fell asleep almost immediately after Smoker started talking. “Oh, you’re asleep… you suck.”

            He glances at Nami but before he can open his mouth she says, “Not my problem.”

            He lets out a tired puff of air. He glances around the room trying to find anything entertaining when his eyes land on the guy sitting in front of Zoro. He keeps peeking over his shoulder at Luffy and then facing forward again. Luffy lifts his head intrigued. This time when the guy turns to glance towards him, Luffy is staring straight at him. This makes the guy flinch a little.

            “What’re you looking at?” Luffy asks now leaning towards him. The guy frowns.

            “I’m not looking at you I’m looking at…” his eyes drift past Luffy and towards Nami as a deep blush spreads across his face. “… I’m looking at the goddess next to you.”

            Luffy looks between Nami and the guy. “Oh, you mean Nami? Whatever you say.”

            The guy now turns in his chair so he’s half facing Luffy. “Hey, how about we switch seats? You can sit next to this guy who obviously doesn’t have an issue letting you bum off him and I get to sit next to Nami!”

            Luffy considers it for a second before going, “Nah.”

            “What, why?” Now the guy is fully turned towards Luffy.

            Luffy shrugs and lets his chin rest on the table again, “Just don’t wanna.”   

            The guy frowns and turns to Zoro. He kicks his leg causing him to startle awake.

            “What the hell is your problem?” Zoro rubs his leg where the guy had kicked him.

            “Switch places with me so I can sit closer to Nami.” The guy demands.

            “Screw you I’m not switching seats with anyone.” Zoro recrosses his arms.

            Usopp lets out a heavy sigh and says over his shoulder, “Would you three quiet down? You’re going to get us in trouble.”

            “Seriously, and I can hear you.” Nami says as she continues to take notes.

            “Oh, then Nami how about you switch places with Usopp?” the guy suggests.

            “No way, why do I have to move?” Usopp frowns at him.

            “No one wants to switch with you so just shut up.” Zoro says and to make sure his point gets across, he kicks the back of the guy’s chair causing a small box to fall out of his bag and slide across the floor. The four of them follow where the box stops in front of someone that they hadn’t realized had approached them. Luffy has returned to making his chair squeak. The four of them tense as Smoker reaches down and picks it up.

            “Is this a pack of cigarettes… in my room?” Smoker says through gritted teeth. Its at this moment that Luffy finally sees his teacher glaring over them.

            “Oh, what’s up Smoky?” He gives a little wave and in doing so, seals their fates.

            The vein in Smoker’s head throbs harder than ever before as he shouts, “DETENTION, ALL OF YOU!”

            And that’s how Luffy got himself and four others detention on the first day of school. When the school day is over, they all find themselves walking outside towards the old gymnasium where they’re supposed to report for detention. No one has said a word all day after the incident and Luffy can’t figure out why they’re all in such a bad mood. When they slide open the door to the gym and step inside, Nami and Usopp jump back when a man leaps out from behind a stack of old matts.

            “Welcome students to the worst day of your life!” the man shouts excitedly. “I am the great and humble warden of Impel Down and the one to bestow upon you your punishment!”

            They stare at him in a long and awkward silence before Luffy says, “Uh, no you’re not. The warden of Impel Down is this big creepy dude with horns.”

            The warden impostor flinches as if Luffy had punched him in the gut, “Okay fine! I’m not the warden. I am the vice warden Hannyabal and still deserve some respect!”

            “If you’re the vice warden of Impel Down, then why are you here supervising detention?” the blond haired guy asks.

            “If you must know the staff at Impel Down is required to volunteer our time at the Academy just like the 7 warlords. We’re usually given the task of supervising detention and in school suspension.” He crosses his arms and frowns at them. “Though we weren’t exactly expecting anyone to get in trouble on the first day. Real overachievers aren’t ya?”

            They have nothing to say to this. So Hannyabal turns and gestures to the gym. “For your punishment you’ll be tasked with cleaning this place top to bottom. You’ll clean it until your guardians come and pick you up in an hour. In the meantime, don’t bother me.”

            They all gawk in disgust and horror of the state of the old gymnasium. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs and they’re pretty sure they see something scurry into a crack in the wall. Hannyabal walks over to a chair and sits with his feet propped up on an old desk. Within seconds he’s out like a light and snoring almost as loud as Zoro.

            “Geez, I can’t believe we got detention on our first day!” Usopp grumbles while passing out brooms.

            “Don’t look at me, it’s curly brow’s fault.” Zoro says as he takes a broom.

            “What was that moss head? You’re the one who kicked my bag!” the blond guy yells.

            “Would you both shut it? As far as I’m concerned, it’s all your faults. Including you Luffy.” Nami folds her arms while trying to find a semi clean place to sit.

            “I still don’t get why we got detention.” Luffy shrugs before pulling his hat on his head.

            “What are you doing? If someone sees, you’ll get in trouble.” Usopp says.

            “So what? I’m already in detention.” Luffy grabs a broom with a grin. He looks over at the blond guy with the curly eyebrow. “So, you got a name?”

            “It’s Sanji.” He says with his hands in his pockets. He pulls out a different pack of cigarettes and slips one in his mouth.

            “What is wrong with you?” Usopp shouts.

            “What? He’s right. We’re already in trouble, might as well relax.” Sanji lights his cigarette and blows out a steady stream of smoke. Zoro shrugs and puts his earrings back in his ears.

            “Honestly, I’m more surprised Captain Smoker was more concerned about your earrings than the 3 swords on your hip.” Nami says as she wipes off some dust on a chair and sits down. “What are you doing with 3 swords anyway?”

            “I fight with them, what else?” Zoro shrugs while grabbing two more brooms. Nami rolls her eyes before catching Sanji staring. She gives a sly smile and leans back in her chair.

            “Sanji, was it? Do you think you can clean my side of the gym for me? I’m just so tired from the day.” She says while fanning her face with her hand. Sanji immediately perks up.

            “Of course, Nami dearest! Anything for you!” Sanji shouts while starting to sweep the floors. Zoro rolls his eyes with a snort making Sanji frown at him. “What? Scared I’ll clean twice as much space faster than you?”

            This makes the hair on the back of Zoro’s neck stand on edge. He turns to glare at Sanji, “What was that curly brow?”

            Before anyone can stop them, Sanji and Zoro are racing each other to see who can clean the most the fastest. Zoro sweeps with a broom in each hand and one between his teeth.

            “What a bunch of morons. But if it gets this place cleaned up faster than who am I to judge.” Usopp shrugs with a smile.

            “Yeah,” Luffy agrees as he sweeps his broom back and forth. Usopp smacks the back of his head.

            “You’re sweeping with the wrong side of the broom you idiot!” He shouts as Luffy rubs the back of his head.

            He gives a “Whoops” and decides to give up on sweeping and join Usopp and Nami who are sitting on the sidelines. He hops up onto a stack of old matts that reek of mildew. Nami and Usopp pull their phones out and get lost in it prompting Luffy to do the same. He sees that he has several new messages.

            Did you really get detention on your first day? Sir Monkey D. Luffy we are going to have a talk when you get home. – Pa

            To Luffy,

 We talked about this. You can’t be getting in trouble like you did in your old school.

Sincerely,

Your Father. – Dad

            So, did you cry? – Ace, followed by a later text of a series of laughing emojis.

            At least it’s not expulsion – Sabo, he adds a shrugging emoji at the end.

            Luffy lets out a groan and runs a hand through his hair. Usopp looks up at him. “What’s wrong.”

            “My entire family knows I got detention.” He shows Usopp his phone who takes it and gives a laugh.

            “Does your dad really text like he’s writing a letter?” He hands Luffy his phone back. Luffy nods.

            “My older brothers have been trying to tell him how to text but he just doesn’t get it.” Luffy slips his phone in his pocket, not feeling like dealing with them right now.

            “My mom’s pretty bad at texting too… and really all new technology.” Usopp puts his phone in his pocket as well.

            “Same.” Nami adds with a stretch. “So, what’s a troublemaker like you doing at the Naval Academy?”

            “Both my dads went here and so did both my older brothers.” Luffy explains while letting his feet dangle over the tall stack of matts.

            “My dad went here too but… can I tell you guys a secret?” Usopp leans in so Luffy and Nami do the same. “I’m not here to become a marine. I’m going to become a pirate and great warrior of the sea!”

            “Me too!” Luffy hops from his stack of matts.

            “Oh really? Well maybe I’ll let you join my crew. They’re already 8,000 strong after all.” He gives a nonchalant shrug. Luffy gasps in awe while Nami shakes her head.

            “I hate pirates. Can’t stand them.” She leans on her knees propping her chin up with her hand. Usopp and Luffy stare at her. Before they have a chance to ask why she says, “But you’re not pirates yet… so I guess I can tolerate you.”

            “I guess that means you want to become a marine then?” Usopp asks while Luffy leans against the stack of matts. Sanji and Zoro continue to clean the gym, passing by every now and then usually in the middle of insulting the other. The question makes Nami give a small laugh.

            “No way, its just…” she tilts her head while staring at a ray of sunlight. “… my mom always wanted either my sister or me to come here.”

            They wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t. Not wanting to dredge up any bad memories, their conversation becomes much more lighthearted and easy going. Luffy finds out that Usopp and Nami are from the East Blue and when Zoro and Sanji overhear they reveal that they’re from there too. Usopp comes from a town almost as small as Foosha Village while Nami’s town is a much larger fishing village. Sanji and Zoro return to their competition before they can explain where they come from. Then the conversation turns to movies and music that they each like and before they know it the hour flies by.

            Sanji and Zoro both collapse in front of Luffy, Nami, and Usopp. Through their panted breaths they continue to argue over who cleaned the most and the fastest. The gym isn’t spotless but its much better off then it was before. Usopp, Luffy, and Nami have positioned chairs into a half open circle with Nami’s feet lazily propped in Luffy’s lap. Luffy remembered the box Makino had given him earlier that morning and is sharing the chocolate inside.

“There’s no way that’s true.” Nami says with a laugh.

“It is! I heard it from a very reliable source! They say that when the sun goes down if you walk the school halls, you’ll hear the ghost that haunts the Naval Academy! They say he’s the first pirate ever to be executed after the school was built so he stalks the halls singing Binks’s Brew!” Usopp wiggles his fingers with a ghostly groan.

Luffy laughs, “Ooo now I wanna see!”

“Binks’s Brew? That doesn’t sound very scary.” Nami rolls her eyes.

“Brew…? Did someone say brew? I could go for a cold one.” Zoro pants while still being sprawled out on the floor.

“Shut up moss head.” Sanji pants back. They both try to smack each other but neither have the energy. It’s at this moment that the door to the gym opens and a woman with a long nose steps inside.

            “Mom,” Usopp says as he stands. “I’ll see you guys later.”

He waves a goodbye and goes to his mother. She gives a polite nod to them and looks unsure if she should wake Hannyabal before ultimately deciding to just leave. The next person to arrive is a woman with the sides of her head shaven. She puts her hands on her hips and stares in Luffy and Nami’s direction.

            “Well, that’s me.” Nami says as she stands. She glances back at Luffy. “See you tomorrow.”

            Luffy watches her leave before sitting on the floor with Sanji and Zoro. It doesn’t take long before the door opens again and a man with a long blond mustache and peg leg steps inside. Sanji stands with a grunt, saying his goodbyes before leaving. Another 10 minutes goes by before the doors open and a familiar face steps inside.

            “Roronoa, lets go.” Warlord Hawkeyes Mihawk says. Zoro rubs the back of his neck as he stands.

            “Zoro, is that your dad?” Luffy gasps. Zoro shakes his head.

            “No, he’s my sponsor. It’s how I got into this school.” Zoro gives a lazy wave goodbye and stands next to Mihawk who eyes Luffy suspiciously.

            “Monkey D. Luffy I presume.” He says.

            “Yup, that’s me.” Luffy stares back at him.

            “I should have known.” Mihawk finally pulls his eyes away to stare at Hannyabal but only for a second before leading Zoro out of the room. With it just being Luffy, he gets bored quickly. He finds himself wandering around the gym looking for something to entertain himself with. He finds a basketball but its deflated and covered in cobwebs. He then tries poking his head under the stage at the far end of the gym but when he sees big bat wings spread out he shuts the small door and decides that he better not.

            30 minutes later when the sun goes down, the door to the gym finally opens. Luffy stops when his grandpa steps inside. He has one hand stuffed into one pocket and frowning at Luffy.

            “Let’s go, boy.” He says. Luffy nods and follows his grandpa out leaving a snoring Hannyabal alone in the old gymnasium.

            They’re silent the whole car ride through the Grand Line and through the tunnel to the East Blue. It’s not until they leave the Goa capital does his grandpa finally speak.

            “So, besides getting detention, how was your first day?” He keeps his eyes on the road as Luffy finally lifts his head and cracks a smile.

            “It was really boring, but I made a lot of friends.” He leans back in the passenger seat. His grandpa gives a soft smile and doesn’t say anything else. They’re silent the rest of the way home but the air is much lighter. When they finally pull into his parent’s driveway, Luffy starts to sink back down in his seat dreading what is to come.

            “Lets go, kid.” Garp says as he slides out the car. Luffy reluctantly does the same. A warm breeze rustles his hair and hat as he stares at his house. Why is it so dark? Usually, his pa is working in the downstairs office while his dad watches TV in the living room. The only thing normal is the delicious smell of food in the air. His parents have never made him go to bed hungry but he’s always worried one day he’ll tip them over the edge.

            He follows his grandpa down the stone path to the front door. His grandpa steps to the side making Luffy enter first. When he steps into the dark entryway, Luffy knows something is off. The entire house is dark and silent. A small surge of panic runs up his chest making him pad the walls until he finds the light switch. When it flicks on, he winces at the sudden brightness as a swarm of people jump out shouting “Surprise!” while someone throws confetti in his face.

            “What?” Luffy blinks trying to make sense of what’s going on.

            “Congratulations on not getting expelled your first day!” Sabo shouts while pointing to a paper banner across the entryway to the living room reading Congratulations On Not Getting Expelled Your First Day. Ace blows a noisemaker and throws another fistful of confetti in his face while Sabo slips a party hat over Luffy’s straw hat.

            “Did you all really think I was going to get expelled my first day?” Luffy shouts.

            Ace slings an arm around his shoulders, “More than I believe the sun will rise tomorrow morning.”

            “You guys suck.” Luffy pouts but can’t stop himself from grinning. He wanders around the house saying hi to everyone who came. Most are familiar faces from Baroque Works, Dadan’s mountain bandits, and the revolution.

            “Straw Boy!” Iva shouts from the back deck. Luffy maneuvers through his small living room filled with people through the open glass doors to find Iva, Bon Clay, Kuma, and his dad standing around a grill. “Glad you made it through your first day.”

            “You did make quite the entrance.” Kuma smiles.

            “I was fine!” He insists as his dad pats his head with a laugh.

            “We’re just messing with you… kind of. Go get something to eat.” His dad points to a long table of food. Luffy’s mouth immediately starts salivating. He piles his plate high with food and takes a seat on the floor in the living room.

            “… and he—he got detention the first day?” his pa’s loud laugh nearly makes him choke. He looks across the room to see his pa and Dadan leaning on each other laughing, both clearly drunk.

            “Oh, that kid was always trouble.” Dadan says with the wave of a sake bottle. His pa takes a swig of the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

            “But he was such a cute kid.” His pa says after a long gulp. That sends them both into a state of gushing over memories of Luffy as a kid. Luffy gives a slight groan but continues eating. Sabo and Ace find Luffy and sit on either side of him.

            “So, where’s grandpop?” Luffy asks when he realizes Whitebeard isn’t anywhere to be seen. Ace and Sabo exchange a look.

            “Pop’s had something come up. But he wanted to come.” Ace explains.

            After that, Sabo steers the conversation to old memories that Ace and Sabo shared while they went to the Academy. Luffy told him about his day and the new friends he had made. His pa eventually made his way over and forced all 3 boys into a clingy bear hug. Crocodile only ever gets mushy when he’s really hammered. Dragon comes to their rescue and coaxes him onto the back deck with the promise of something whispered into his ear. Luffy, Ace, and Sabo didn’t care to find out what that thing was. Through the whole night people celebrated Luffy’s first day at the academy with drinks and good food.

            When it finally gets late enough and the last of the guests are gone, Luffy lets himself fall onto the couch in a satisfied exhaustion. He rolls onto his side to poke at his pa’s cheek since he had passed out on the floor. Ace and Sabo shuffle through the house, collecting stray cups and plates.

            “Just leave it boys, we can do dishes tomorrow.” Dragon yawns.

            “You mind if we stay here tonight?” Sabo asks after a deep stretch. Dragon makes a face to say do you really have to ask?

            Ace and Sabo say goodnight while Dragon reaches down to hoist Crocodile over his shoulder. He ruffles Luffy’s hair and says, “Goodnight kid.”

            Luffy watches them disappear into their bedroom before settling into the silent stillness of the house. It doesn’t take long before he can hear Dragon’s snoring. Slowly, Luffy pushes himself up and places his feet on the floor. The moon shines in through the glass doors giving him plenty of light as the wind makes the windchimes sing. He walks through the creaky hallway and climbs the steps, wincing every time the stairs announced which step he’s on. He walks into his room and falls into bed before glancing over at the bunkbed. Ace has reclaimed his spot on the top bunk with and arm and a leg dangling over the side while Sabo sleeps like a normal person on the bottom. Luffy smiles and pulls off the part hat and sets it on the nightstand. He then carefully takes his straw hat off and holds it up in the moonlight.

            This hat means a lot to me. Promise that you’ll give it back someday when you become a great pirate.

            Luffy rests the hat gently on his chest and closes his eyes.

            “I promise.”

Read full story HERE on AO3!!!

[libertariantaoist]

News Roundup 11/30/2023 | The Libertarian Institute

Here is your daily roundup of today's news:

News Roundup 11/30/2023

by Kyle Anzalone

US News

Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer (D-NY) vowed in a letter to his colleagues to bring a bill to the Senate floor as soon as December 4 to fund military aid for Ukraine, Israel, and Taiwan. President Biden has requested the funding as part of a massive $105 billion spending package. AWC

US Threatens to Reimpose Sanctions on Venezuela if American Demands Not Met this Week. Miami Herald

Ukraine

Photo Emerges Showing First Abrams Tank in Ukraine. X

A US official has denied that the Biden administration is nudging Ukraine toward negotiations with Russia, saying it’s up to Kyiv when to seek peace talks. AWC

Secretary of State Blinken Says We Must and We Will Continue to Support Ukraine. France 24

Ukrainian Foreign Minister Says We Are Becoming De Facto NATO Army. Politico

NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg on Tuesday urged alliance members to continue funding the proxy war in Ukraine amid growing signs that Western support for the conflict is waning. AWC

Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov plans to attend a meeting of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) from November 30 to December 1. AWC

Internal polling in Ukraine shows that Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky could lose a presidential election if he faces off with Gen. Valery Zaluzhny, the Ukrainian commander-in-chief, The Economist reported on Tuesday. AWC

Korea

North Korea Begins Remilitarizing Border with South Korea. Miami HeraldThe Institute

Israel

Qatar announced Monday that Israel and Hamas agreed to extend the truce under the Hostage deal for another 48 hours. AWC

Since October 17, US troops based in Iraq and Syria have come under steady rocket and drone fire. At least 73 attacks have been carried out on US bases in the two countries, but they have stopped since the truce between Israel and Hamas to facilitate the hostage deal came into effect on Friday. AWC

The Israeli central bank believes the war in Gaza will cost over $50 billion and cut BDP by 3%.Business Insider

As Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s political career is in peril due to his failure to prevent the October 7 Hamas attack on southern Israel, the Israeli leader has been meeting with members of his Likud party to ensure continued support. AWC

Biden Says Israeli War in Gaza Is Giving Hamas What They Want. X

Israel and Hamas exchanged prisoners for the fifth straight day on Tuesday as the extension of the initial four-day truce appears to be successful despite the two sides blaming the other for briefly violating the ceasefire earlier in the day. AWC

Senior White House Official Says US Support for Israel’s War in Gaza Remains Unwavering and Calls for Current Conflict to Be ‘The Last War’ Jewish Insider

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) on Tuesday dismissed growing calls to condition military aid to Israel, calling them “ridiculous,” as Israel has been killing civilians at a historic pace in Gaza. AWC

Secretary of State Blinken Will Travel to Israel on Thursday in Attempt to Extend Truce. Haaretz

Rep. Thomas Massie (R-KY) was the lone member of the House to vote against a resolution equating criticism of the modern state of Israel with antisemitism. AWC

Since October 7, Israeli security forces have taken a number of steps that condemned sick Palestinians to a slow death. In Gaza, the lone cancer treatment center has been made inoperable by Israeli military operations. In East Jerusalem, Gazan hospital patients were rounded up and deported to the West Bank. The Institute

Biden Told Netanyahu Israel Operations in South Gaza Should Be More Restrained. Axios

Intense negotiations are underway in Qatar aimed at extending the truce between Israel and Hamas that’s due to expire on Thursday. AWC

US Has Provided Israel with 70,000 Weapons Since 1950. Truthout

US Officials Say White House Has No Plans to Place Conditions on Weapons Sent to Israel. PoliticoAWC

Bezalel Smotrich, the extremist Israeli finance minister who’s been given sweeping powers over the West Bank, has said the occupied territory is home to “2 million Nazis,” referring to part of the Palestinian population. AWC

Syria

Rand Paul to force a vote on Syria troop withdrawal. Responsible StatecraftAWC

Yemen

US Navy Arrests Five Attempting to Pirate Ship in Red Sea. War Is BoringAWC

US Says Warship Downed Yemeni Drone in Red Sea. Politico

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