#I also started writing a fic today

[weaponizedmoth]

Super tired super burned out but wanting to create so much and yet nothing. Nothing at all. Aaaaa it's driving me nutssssss

[myokk]

fast sketch of my one-shot with Ominis💓

legilimency

Word count: 1.700

Rating: M (language)

Ominis Gaunt is a lost case - lost to the whims of one very determined Gryffindor sitting at his side.

They sit in the back of the History of Magic classroom, the only two students not lulled to somnolence by their professor. He: trying his hardest to focus on Professor Binns’ droning (easier said than done). She: trying her hardest to distract Ominis while not being entirely sure of being successful or not (easier attempted than understood).

Professor Binns is completely insufferable, of course. Ominis wonders if the ghost is as blind as he is: Binns willfully ignores the fact that all of his students use his class as an excuse to get a nap in (maybe he simply doesn’t see them sleeping - only one of many reasons why Ominis has decided he could never be a professor), rambling on and on in the most boring way possible. As if he were trying to be as dull as possible (maybe he does it to avoid interacting with the students which…can’t be to blame). In a different life, Ominis could see himself quite liking the subject, but as things stand he despises it.

Especially now.

Ominis fervently wishes that he could fall asleep.

Then, he might avoid hearing her thoughts - they’re consuming him and he can’t ignore them as much as he would like to.

Normally, he loves this class - not the subject, obviously - but the class itself, for the sheer fact that it is the only time where he gets some peace and quiet. Everyone’s minds nice and quiet and shut off for the time being while they sleep. Although he has gotten used to ignoring the thoughts of everyone around him, their various voices mixing and mingling with each other into a dull thrum in the back of his mind, it is nice to have some quiet once in a while.

But right now, with everyone asleep except for the Gryffindor at his side, her thoughts are so loud it’s like she’s screaming at him.

So here he is, wishing he could fall asleep, leave the class, maybe turn off the infernal legilimency that has haunted him his whole life.

(His parents and Marvolo insist it’s a gift handed down from Slytherin himself, just like the Parseltongue Ominis despises. It is not. It is a curse.)

He is stuck listening to her.

It doesn’t help that she seems to have caught on to him - something he had managed to avoid until now. Nobody else, not even Sebastian or Anne, has ever suspected a thing. But, in all fairness, those two are extremely loud and say every single thought that passes through their minds out loud even when they should remain quiet, and nobody else has had the opportunity to spend enough time with Ominis to begin to suspect anything.

Until her.

He had to go and let that blasted girl worm her way into his life, not leaving him alone ever, always looking for excuses to talk and ask his opinion, and being so intelligent that he wanted to invite her to study with him and talk with him and…

Since it happened a few nights ago, he hasn’t stopped cursing himself for that stupid offhand comment he made. They had been studying in silence in the library together, by the history books where nobody else ever ventures (thank you, Professor Binns), and he could have sworn that she asked him if he was finally going to walk her back to her common room (he blames a lack of sleep and wishful thinking for this mishap). His traitorous face had flushed and he had jumped at the chance to escort her - maybe she would let him carry her bag, or… - only to feel his whole body go cold and his stomach drop when her response wasn’t what he’d expected.

A pause: then: a confused voice: ‘Ominis, I didn’t say anything.’

His Gryffindor wasn’t stupid like Gryffindors were normally wont to be. He knew her, and he knew that after his monumental mistake, the gears in her brain were turning and he was terrified that somehow she had figured it out.

(His Gryffindor?)

She had been unusually quiet around him since then, although he bitterly noticed that she was still acting normally with everyone else. Still finding every opportunity to punch Sebastian in the shoulder and laugh with Anne, still whispering with Natsai about Merlin knows what, still…

But she had been avoiding Ominis. He couldn’t stand it.

Well, avoiding him right until this stupid class, when she had to go and sit right next to him (ignoring the fact that she always sits next to him in History of Magic, that everyone already has and adheres to their unofficial seats), and he can’t ignore her.

She’s pretending to take studious notes, but he knows better. The scratching of her quill blending with the droning of Professor Binns’ voice but not drowning out her thoughts. They float above the other noises, her voice sweet and piercing. Ominis wonders vaguely what she’s actually writing, because he’s positive it isn’t notes.

Professor Binns looks so sexy right now with his medieval hat, talking about…whatever it is he’s passionate about. I wonder if he would let me talk to him after class without floating through me like he normally does…

Ominis is determined not to react. She’s obviously trying to bait him. But…what if she is attracted to Professor Binns? Is he an attractive man? At the thought, the fist that’s resting on top of his desk clenches, but he works to make sure his face remains impassive. Apart from a twitch of his lips, he thinks he’s been quite successful.

She: huffing and shifting in her chair, her robes rustling as she crosses her legs. He: keeping his head facing forward, steadfastly ignoring her.

She changes tactics.

Maybe she’s just as insufferable as the other Gryffindors, after all.

I wonder what Ominis would say if he knew I woke up moaning today after a dream about him -

He shifts slightly in his seat, hoping that she’s so busy taking notes (who’s he kidding) that she won’t notice his discomfort as his trousers tighten -

…the girls in my dorm have been bothering me nonstop about who I’ve been mooning over but I don’t want them to…

His hand is in such a tight fist it’s a wonder he’s not breaking any fingers as he tries to remain as still as possible, but his traitorous arousal is making her thoughts harder and harder to ignore. Had he ever been able to ignore her?

…his tongue was deep inside me as I screamed his name…

He feels his face heat up at the thought - where had she learned such vulgar language? - and his whole body stiffens. He’s sure that she can feel the tension and warmth radiating off of him in waves but that…she…his insane little lion keeps shouting at him in the silence of the classroom. She’s now stopped all pretense of taking notes and is sitting stock still.

…his cock deep inside of me as…wait…what else did I hear Garreth say to Leander that night?…um… She shifts uncomfortably, her knee grazing Ominis’s as she moves to squeeze her legs together. It’s all he can do to not groan and remain impassive. Oh god…I…what’s that feeling? This was just supposed to get back at him for probably - maybe - reading my thoughts and I’m officially insane because how would he even be able to do that?…his ears turning red from embarrassment are so adorable and I can’t stand this anymore and…

Ominis tries his hardest not to move his head in her direction. His jaw flexes. Maybe he can drown her out if he starts reciting potions ingredients, or if he focuses on what Professor Binns is saying, but even he knows its futile. He’s hanging on to her every word - thought? - and his head slowly turns in her direction as she keeps going.

…does he know how much I think about him? Oh god, what if he dreams of me the same way I…

He slams the open book in front of him shut, the loud noise causing Sebastian to jerk awake and babble incoherently for a moment before slumping back over his desk, drooling and snoring lightly. Nobody else in the class seems to notice except her of course. Blissfully, she has stopped talking - thinking - and he can finally -

It’s no use. He needs to get out of there. She has invaded his mind and…What if she starts up again with her filthy thoughts that are bleeding into his own and -

Did he hear me? I didn’t actually think…oh god, can he hear me now? What have I done?

Ominis very slowly brings his hand over to where he knows hers is. The quill falls out of her hand and he hears a sharp intake of breath at their contact. His fingers trace her knuckles and then he slowly trails them up her arm. His fingertips are so sensitive that he could swear that he feels every thread that he passes, her skin warm and alive underneath the fabric. Then to her neck, her throat bobs and he feels her erratic heartbeat. Finally, he reaches her face. She remains very, very still as his fingers brush over her features for the first time.

He has never touched someone like this before.

Her skin is like velvet, soft everywhere he touches. Now that he knows what it feels like he’s not sure he can go back to before. His fingers trace the curve of her eyebrows - he finds that her nose is straight before it flares up a tiny bit at the tip - his fingers ghost over her impossibly soft lips. He drags his thumb across her bottom lip as her tongue darts out to wet them. It’s impossibly intimate and the world has melted away and it’s just the two of them in that moment.

He leans forward.

“Ominis, I…” she whispers, stricken.

His hand moves to tuck some of her loose hair away from her face - does she always wear it like this? - and his lips brush against her ear. He inhales deeply, her sweet smell invading his senses. She shivers under his touch and he breathes, “I heard everything.”

[vinelark]

happy friday! here is a little bbts chapter 5 proof of life

When Tim comes down again his mouth is full of blood—bitten cheek—and his whole head throbs, an almost fizzy numbness flooding through his jaw in the sudden absence of pain. He struggles through another wheezing breath, wincing at the familiar sensation of torn muscles around his rib cage. “Ah,” Checkered Shirt is saying. “There does seem to be a localized paralytic effect. That last placement may have been counterintuitive; my mistake. But as we discussed, that’s the beauty of mistakes in a setting like this. The opportunity to learn from them.” Tim tips his head. Clumsily spits a mouthful of blood on the metal floor—evidence, he thinks hazily, if he moves me—and finds his tongue. “Funny how you still haven’t gotten what you want,” he half-slurs, “considering how many opportunities you keep having.”

[stobinesque]

@steddie-week day 2: fluff | 1.8k words | teen and up

The door to the apartment slammed shut, followed by the jingle-clang of keys landing in the ceramic bowl Robin had made for Steve two years ago.  

"Babe?" Steve looked up from the magazine he'd been flipping through and frowned at the stormy expression on Eddie's face. 

Eddie barely acknowledged him, just swept past with stomping feet, dropping an absentminded kiss to the top of Steve's head as he made his way into the bedroom. A few moments later Steve heard the telltale thunk and flop of Eddie's bag hitting the ground and the man himself hitting their bed.

Ah, so one of those days.

Steve set down his magazine, folded his reading glasses neatly atop it, and pushed himself up from the couch to make for the bathroom.

~*~*~*~

Eddie wanted to die. Nope, no, he wanted to commit a homicide. 

Actually, scratch that, being wanted for murder sucked.

What he wanted was for the world not to be full of a bunch of entitled little shitsacks who had never been taught how to talk to another human being who didn't have a white collar around their neck.

At least his bed was there to support him. The mattress was a little lumpy, sure, but nothing could outmatch the satisfaction of dramatically flinging oneself onto a flat surface after a shity day at work. 

The sound of running bath water filtered into Eddie's awareness. 

Okay, maybe one thing.

Steve usually allowed him a few minutes to sulk and brood when he got home feeling like shit. Sometimes interacting with any human (even someone he would literally—and nearly did—die for) was just too much. 

"Eds?"

"Mmph." Eddie spit some of the hair that had landed in his mouth out, but didn't bother to raise his head more than half an inch off the bed to do so.

Steve chuckled. "Okay, five more minutes—otherwise the water will get too cold. I'm gonna go make us some tea."

Eddie raised an arm and waved vaguely in the direction of Steve's voice in acknowledgement.

He let himself drift for his five minutes to the sound of Steve puttering around the kitchen—grabbing mugs, teabags, the sugar jar—before peeling himself up off the bed when the shrill whistle of the kettle pierced through the relative silence of the apartment. If he wasn't in the bath by the time Steve made it there he'd be in trouble. Which could be fun, but it wasn't what he was in the mood for today. 

Eddie stripped off his—itchy, sweaty, suffocating—uniform as he padded over to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he went.

~*~*~*~

Steve waltzed back into the bathroom with two steaming mugs in his hand to find Eddie already situated in the tub, knees pulled up under his chin, hair piled up in a messy bun, and one hand dragging lazily across the surface of the water. 

Steve set both mugs down on the ground next to the bath. "Hey, baby," he murmured, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple.

"Hi." Eddie's voice was low and subdued.

“Bad day?” Steve asked as he pulled his shirt up and over his head.

Eddie shrugged. “You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve shucked off his jeans.

Eddie shook his head. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay.” Steve folded his clothes, set them in a neat stack atop the closed toilet lid, and carefully lowered himself into the bath behind Eddie.

The water was just a touch too hot for his own comfort, but Eddie ran cold and preferred his baths on the scalding warmer side. (Shared showers were a trial. Eddie insisted that Steve was trying to murder him with frostbite. Steve maintained that Eddie was trying to boil the both of them alive.)

Some of the tension had already bled out just from being in the bath. Eddie’s shoulders were no longer curled up around his ears—instead, he was slouched forward into the water. 

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist and pressed a kiss to the patchy birthmark high up on his back, smiling when Eddie responded with a humming little sigh. “Wash my hair?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Eds.”

Steve reached over to grab the shampoo and tiny bucket they left in the shower just for this. “Wanna drink some of your tea before I douse you?”

Eddie didn’t say anything, but reached out blindly to grab one of the steaming mugs next to the tub. Steve didn’t bother holding back a snort that he’d managed to grab the “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Crabby” mug they’d nicked from Wayne. 

Eddie took a slow sip of the tea, and the second he’d set it back down and straightened back up, Steve dumped a bucket of warm water over his head.

Eddie spluttered. “Babe, what the fuck!”

Steve snickered from behind him. “Just wanted to make sure you were here on earth with me, bedhead.”

Eddie shook his head like a rain-soaked dog. “You could have at least taken out the ponytail first!”

“I suppose I could have,” Steve said, lips twitching up into a smile as he reached up to start pulling Eddie’s dark curls from where they’d gotten tangled in the hair tie. “I got you talking again in something other than a monotone, though.”

“Maybe I was enjoying playing the dark, broody hero.”

Steve pinched Eddie’s side, which resulted in a high-pitched squeak, and a wild flail that had water splashing up around them. "Behave," Steve chastised—though the warning was undercut by the laugh of unconcealed delight he barked out as Eddie’s arms swung around him. 

"You're the one assaulting me in my time of suffering!"

"Suck it up, buttercup,” Steve shot back, combing his fingers through wet curls and gently detangling each and every knot he ran into. He couldn't help but rub the silky-soft strands between his fingers as he went. Steve's own day had been slow and uneventful, but a quiet sort of unease had been hovering at the edges for hours. Drawing Eddie a bath and settling in behind him to wash his hair helped settle Steve back into his body just as much as it did for Eddie. 

Steve began working shampoo into Eddie's roots, massaging his fingers into his scalp, and Eddie's head tipped back as he let out a pleased hum that sounded almost like a purr. "Love your fingers in my hair, Stevie," he mumbled, sounding a bit hazy.

"Yeah? Is that the only place you like my fingers?" Steve asked, right into Eddie's ear. 

Eddie scrambled back upright and turned to face Steve with an alarmed expression on his face. "No! Why would you think that? Did I say something to make you think that? Please, I’m so sorry, baby. Please know that I love your fingers anywhere on me. Or in me. What if they went somewhere else right now?" 

Steve laughed, grabbing Eddie's shoulder to turn him back around with one hand, and dipping the bucket back into the water to rinse the suds out of Eddie's hair with the other. When Steve was sure he'd thoroughly rinsed Eddie's hair he leaned past him to grab the conditioner and whisper in his ear, "You can get them somewhere else a little later if you're good for me, baby," before leaning back and clicking the bottle open.

"I'll be so good for you, Stevie. Just tell me what I gotta do."

"Keep still and don't sass me for the next five minutes."

Eddie's mouth opened and then immediately snapped back shut as he clearly decided that whatever his response to that was gonna be probably qualified as "sass."

"Good boy," Steve said simply, dropping another kiss to Eddie's back. 

"I can be good when I wanna be," Eddie grumbled. 

"Careful," Steve shot back, gently chiding. He methodically worked the conditioner through Eddie's hair in sections, tugging gently as he did, just for the soft satisfaction that ran through him every time Eddie let out a soft gasp in response to it. 

"Always careful, Stevie," Eddie mumbled back, eyes fluttering shut. 

Steve reached down to brush one hand over the scars running down Eddie's side. "Not always," he whispered, just a little sadly, as he pressed a firm kiss to the mostly-faded ring of scars at his throat. 

"Mm, don't be sad, baby."

"Not sad. Just glad you're alive."

Eddie was quiet for a stretch, and Steve chuckled. 

"What? What were you gonna say, asshole?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, love," Eddie replied, all faux innocence.

"You were gonna say something sassy just then, that's why you went all quiet. So, out with it, come on. How were you gonna sass me in response to me saying I'm glad you're alive?"

"Promise you won't hold it against me?"

"Yeah, baby." Steve leaned over to press a kiss to Eddie’s nose. "This one's a freebie."

Eddie looked over his shoulder with a wide grin, and a twinkle in his eye. "I was gonna call you a sap."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, fuck me for being happy my boyfriend's alive I guess."

"I was actually hoping that you would fuck me," Eddie replied. 

"You're pushing your luck, Eds," Steve warned, yanking lightly at his hair. 

"Sorry, baby."

Steve ran his hands up and down the sides of Eddie's arms. "All forgiven, Eds." 

Steve let his hands drift as he waited for the conditioner to rest—digging his fingers into the dense coils of muscle in Eddie's neck, smoothing his palms down the ridges of Eddie's spine, ghosting his hands up Eddie's sides. When time was up, he grabbed the bucket, turned on the tap to fill it with clean, warm water, and spilled it over Eddie’s head. Steve combed his fingers through the chestnut locks again, making sure he’d thoroughly rinsed them once more. The two of them fell still and silent, like two little stones in the river bed. 

Steve loved this. The quiet trance they fell into, as Eddie relaxed into the water, and Steve pressed kisses into his lover’s skin, and they both forgot the mugs of tea that Steve made. 

Steve separated Eddie’s hair into even sections, savoring the feeling of freshly cleaned locks passing through his fingers as he wove the strands together—over-under, over-under, over-under—and plaited Eddie’s hair down the length of his back. When he was done, he flipped the end of the braid back over Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie leaned further into him, pressing the length of his back against Steve’s chest.

Steve let his hands start wandering, and Eddie let out a soft gasp of surprise when the pads of Steve's thumbs brushed over both nipples. "Steve."

"Shh, I got you baby," Steve murmured, and let one hand drop down to where Eddie was stiffening up beneath the water.

"I know you do, Stevie," Eddie whispered back on a sigh and a gasp. "I know you do."

[mamawasatesttube]

i wish it wasn't so normal for people to complain about unfinished wips or fics that take a long time to update. because sometimes i think i have a really fun idea for a fic but it'd take a while for me to write, and i like talking about my work as i do it and i don't like writing entire fics over like 20k without sharing, because i lose steam. so if i were to write and post that cool fic idea, it'd be as a wip. and then i think about all the people who just refuse to engage with wips, or all the other people who would just go "update pls" all the time, and of how people only really comment in the first 24 hours something is posted and then it's lost to obscurity, and then i just go "actually whats the point in going through the effort writing this out? i'll just daydream about it now and then and be done with it." and then i don't write it. alas!

[buckera]

Wip Wednesday 🎄

I was tagged by the ever so lovely @daffi-990 @thewolvesof1998 @jamespearce9-1-1 @hippolotamus @exhuastedpigeon and @rainbow-nerdss mwuah 💛

Welp a little later than usual but here I am! And uh apparently I added another Christmas fic to the pile because why not lmao but it's just a real short one and I'm aiming for it to be posted this week. 🫡

He was just about to decide what kind of disgustingly greasy takeout food to order, when the door clicked open behind his back.

He turned to see— Eddie. Because of course it was Eddie.

“Hey,” he said gently, shutting the door behind himself and Buck knew it was a little irrational right now, but it still warmed his heart that Eddie came and went like this; that he knew no matter what, he was always welcome here.

“Hi.” Buck gave him a weak smile over the brim of his beer bottle, unsure of what to expect.

“I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Why, did uh did I not seem okay?” Buck scoffed, just falling short of casual.

Eddie averted his gaze almost guiltily before pinning Buck with a knowing look. “No.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair.” Buck took a long swig of his beer with a grimace.

“You know it doesn’t change anything, right?”

“Uh no, Eddie, I really don’t know that.” Buck drawled and put the bottle down on the counter top with a loud clink.

“Bu—”

“Eddie, you’re leaving the 118. That- that literally changes everything!” He spread his arms widely, as if he could indicate just how much of that everything covered.

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @disasterbuckdiaz @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @heartshapedvows @nmcggg @watchyourbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley @fortheloveofbuddie

[camels-pen]

@sanusoweek Day 6 - Gods and Demons

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 5

[wikiangela]

last line tag

tagged by @jesuisici33 @thewolvesof1998 @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @lover-of-mine @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz 💖💖

___

It’s a good few weeks, and it feels like everyone’s back on track, settling into their lives again, figuring everything out one day at a time. Buck’s happy. He has his awesome girlfriend, his best friend seems finally more at ease, even if the divorce is adding some stress, and his other best friend is happier than ever with his mom around. Everything’s finally starting to go great.

And then it all gets disrupted again.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @spagheddiediaz @housewifebuck @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @exhuastedpigeon @weewootruck @loserdiaz @evanbegins @steadfastsaturnsrings @ladydorian05 @malewifediaz @pirrusstuff @theotherbuckley @911-on-abc @spotsandsocks @hoodie-buck @giddyupbuck @wildlife4life @fortheloveofbuddie @nmcggg @diazpatcher @jeeyuns

[bongo-clash]

To Seem Like the Green Light (Burned Out)

Ectober week prompt: Soul Shredder

'The Crown Prince of the Infinite Realms sure is familiar with fear for someone who does not hold it within their domain. Fright Knight decides it’s time for a talk.'

(No content warnings || fic under cut!!)

-

Fright Knight, if he’s being honest, does not understand his new ward in the slightest. 

As the Crown Prince of the Infinite Realms, the boy is absurdly powerful. He had to be, to have defeated Pariah Dark- a ghost so fearsome it took an entire gathering of the Ancient Ghosts to seal him the first time- and to have beaten him with only his determination and a suit far too large for him, built by his human father. He’d heard of the boy’s abilities in extent amongst his allies in the Zone: his ice, his ectoblasts, his wail. Unbreakable, unstoppable, dimension-shaking. Yes, Prince Phantom was powerful indeed.

But it’s so hard to connect the image of him to this reputation that precedes him so. Because Phantom wears a too-big crown and a too-big cape and a ring that slips off his fingers, and if he looks anything it’s this: small, and skittish. 

And scared. 

Fright Knight knows a lot about that. 

Fear is his domain, after all; it calls to him like a siren song calls to sailors on the open ocean. The taste of it is all allure- dread like a sweet wine, terror strong and honeying- he lives beyond living for it, just as he lives beyond living to serve the Realms’ Keeper, sacred and gratifying as such a duty is. Fear is his greatest delight- but this fear is his liege’s, and it is… sour. Sour to be exposed to, sour against the reach of his senses, the boy’s extending aura. Sour, perhaps, because the boy is royalty won in combat and powerful beyond belief, but he is still a boy. Younger still as a ghost than he is as a human. 

Impossibly large shoes to fill, and an overflowing well of mistakes to rectify that he hasn’t even existed long enough to have witnessed in the first place. 

Fourteen. His core isn’t even a year old, he’s a child. 

Fright Knight may relish in the terror of his opposition, but this boy is not his enemy, and this fear should not have to exist. And if there’s something he can do to abate it- well, that’s only his duty, as the Crown Prince’s most loyal knight. 

-

It’s not often that he finds himself in the human world, but the King’s Keep is thrumming with anxiety, and lairs are bound to their keepers in a way few things are, an indicator of the state of their hosts. The moment he takes stock of the shift, Fright Knight is making his way towards the artificial portal the Prince’s human parents created, looking for the disturbance in the Zone’s atmosphere and finding it soon enough. 

From there, all it takes is a few seconds of intangibility upwards, and he finds himself in the room of the Prince. The Crown Prince of the Infinite Realms, in his human form, hunched over in bed with a blanket curled around him, expression exhausted but equally sleepless. 

“I sensed trouble within your Keep, Prince Phantom.” He says simply. 

The boy startles slightly, as if he hadn’t even noticed Fright Knight was there. “Ah- I, uh, hey- hi? Wait, did you say trouble?”

“The Keep reflects its Keeper,” Fright Knight explains, not unkindly. “Your Keep is not in trouble; it seemed as if you were, my liege.”

“Oh,” Phantom breathes, shoulders unwinding from where they’d begun to climb towards his ears, less from a total relief and more from a weariness. As if to prove it, his shoulders do not stop once they’ve receded, drawing further and further into himself as if intending to disappear. “Oh, sorry. I’m not- I’m not in any trouble, or anything. Sorry if you thought something was going on.”

Fright Knight has not had a ward beyond Pariah for a long, long time, but even then, they were never so young- either when alive or dead. They tended to be well beyond childhood before their death (if they were ever alive at all), and their cores fully formed for decades, centuries prior to taking the mantle. Not for the first time, he wonders how it can possibly be seen reasonable, fair to push a responsibility meant for immortals who have tasted that immortality on a child who hasn’t even had his first death day. 

But Fright Knight doesn’t control what’s fair, and he doesn’t control how the Keep chooses its holder. He can only control what he does in this moment. “But there is something going on. You’re afraid.” 

Whatever thoughts had been turning over behind Phantom’s expression pause at the statement, face all at once becoming bewildered, overwhelmed with the unexpected. He looks like someone with a weapon pointed between their eyes; a realisation, and a cautiousness trying not to reveal a dread. 

“Right, yeah, you sense that stuff- you’re the Fright Knight- how did I forget? I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about that; I’ll be better about it! I swear you won’t have to deal with this or anything, it was just…”

Oh. He looks like someone with a weapon pointed between their eyes because he thinks Fright Knight is going to draw his. He acted wildly and without a thought when he was freed by the boy some months ago, seeking his Soul Shredder, and likely cemented no assuring reputation when fighting under Pariah. He is not a spirit that tends to dwell on his regrets, but privately, he winces at the reminder. There are very few ways to apologise for such a dismal first encounter in any meaningful fashion; there may be very little point in apologising at all, at least not in this moment.

Instead, he simply lowers himself to the ground, feet meeting carpet from where they’d previously been floating. “I am a spirit who thrives upon fear, and upon summoning it within my enemies, but I am also a spirit who thrives upon the prosperity of my ward. You are in a place of rest, in your own domain, and you have the power to fell any who may cross you, and yet, it is not prosperous. This requires intervention, but it is not punishable.”

Phantom’s eyes turn downwards to avoid his gaze. “You’ll think it��s stupid.”

“Fear is fear; it cannot be stupid.”

A moment passes before the boy’s reservations draw back, and he attempts to explain. 

“I keep getting these nightmares. I think it’s just ‘cause I’ve been stressed recently; I always used to get nightmares when I was stressed as a kid. But I keep getting these nightmares of just- I dunno, everything. Some ghost beating me into the ground and hurting the people in Amity; some ghost beating me into the ground and hurting the people in the Zone; being a monster, being a bad ruler, being a bad son. I wanna tell my parents about being half ghosts but they still hate ghosts- and they love me so much, but I can’t really be sure if it’s safe, can I? It feels like everything’s just wrong lately and- and I’m scared!” 

It had started subdued enough, but as he carried on speaking, the boy’s voice progresses from a mumble to a cry, ending with tears reflecting off the glow from Fright Knight’s figure. 

And Fright Knight is intimately familiar with fear, but he’s far too used to being the cause; he doesn’t know how to soothe it, is unused to wanting to. Slowly, making sure to leave enough time between steps that the Prince has the opportunity to tell him to recede, he makes his way towards the boy’s bed, and sits down at the edge. Slower, slower still, a cold hand makes its way to the boy’s back, motionless but steady once it’s taken its place. 

He waits until Phantom has calmed enough that the trembling abates even if the tears haven’t quite finished, and then speaks. “I am a spirit of fear,” He starts quietly. “And I have seen every manner of being afraid, regardless of how strong. Most much older than you, many more imposing- none of them, none of these beings, have I seen able to face the nightmares of your reality unshaken. You are afraid; I believe every time I have met you, you have been afraid- but you have never faltered for it. You are young, and you may be terrified, but there is something about that that perhaps makes you braver.”

“And you have friends. You have your human loved ones here, and your allies within the Realms- and if being a good knight to you means being a friend, then I am your friend as well. You are not alone, Prince Phantom, and I don’t believe you ever will be.”

There is a moment of silence thicker than the blizzards of the Far Frozen, and eventually, Phantom leans to his side, looks him in the face. The fear is not gone (Fright Knight wonders idly if it ever will be, and figures not), but it’s calmer, now. More willing to settle in lieu of raging against any other emotion. 

“Thanks, Fright Knight.”

“It is my duty, Prince Phantom.”

His eyes flicker with some kind of amusement. “Can you call me Danny, though? Prince Phantom’s still kind of weird.”

“…Very well, Prince Danny.”

Fright Knight is unsure whether he’s ever made another being smile before, but looking at the child grinning snidely at him between eyes rimmed red-green from past tears, he thinks he could tolerate doing it again. 

[crybaby-bkg]

potential angst fic where the world just….collapses in on itself right before your very eyes. the sky is deep red in color, clouds gone, night doesn’t fall behind the horizon of your trees anymore. land is splitting into millions of pieces, people are falling into the ocean by the thousands. there’s chaos everywhere, and you’re sure that this is the official end of the world.

only thing is—you can’t die yet. not because you haven’t fulfilled your life’s destiny or whatever bullshit, no. you refuse to die a virgin. but luckily, so does your childhood best friend Bakugou.

the earth is still shifting and rocking when you both agree to it, sure that by tomorrow the house shattering storms will have moved to your region, that you’ll be dead by sunrise. so you spend the entire night encased in his arms, tangled in his bed sheets. you wish you had more time to try more positions, but you tick off most on your bucket list.

he’s surprisingly shy the whole time, a little huffy when he tries to stick it in and misses your hole because he’s so nervous, and also, there’s another earthquake happening at this very moment. he kisses you gentle, and breaths hotly against your neck whenever you squeeze down on him. it’s not enough time in the remainder of the world to make fun of him for being a one pump chump, and you can only hook your leg around his waist to make him keep going so you can experience your first orgasm with another person.

and the night is heavenly, blissful, full of sweet moans and tender touches. it all goes well, and you expect to wake up in some afterlife by the time ‘night’ is over.

….only thing is; you wake up the next day. in bed. beside Bakugou who looks at you just as confusedly.

“I thought we were supposed to be dead by now?” He asks you, turning on your tv that hasn’t worked since the birds fell out of the sky. but miraculously—the tv works. and it’s broadcasting extremely important news, a headline that makes you swallow.

apocalypse seemingly over: or are we being fooled by an angry god?

“What the fuck are we gonna do now?” You can hear Bakugou mutter, but you’re still stuck on the paler sky that’s starting to look more blue and the one bird on the branch outside your window and the people who’ve stopped wielding axes and started picking up shattered pieces of their homes. but you’re still even more so stuck on the fact that you just fucked your childhood best friend in his too big and expensive bed and lost your virginity for nothing. what the fuck are you gonna do now?

[revvethasmythh]

it feels like it took a decade to finish this, but I did it, it's done

My nearly 8k contribution to the Relvin/Vandran faction of the fandom, coming in much later than I hoped it would (but finished, finally, nonetheless)

[overly-verbose]

A little update; I've gone absolutely bonkers with writing between panicked revisions for Exams™ and thus can announce that Part 8 is gonna be around 16~k words (most likey somewhat above 16k tbh)

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 🎶

( (;; o o) ??? )

[madeofstardust17]

Started a new WIP and in my own true fashion, started on the middle. I already have 2k and I havent even began to scratch the surface. I'm soooo excited to be back at torturing my main boy Tim.

[imaginethathaikyuu]

literally anything with atsumu i love him and ur writing is always up to par so. i will be happy with anything. but a cute birthday themed piece could be fun perhaps

thank u so much i wrote this specifically for u and i managed to write a weirdly formatted atsumu centered fic that barely went over 1k words. we are so back

contains: fluff, mild childhood angst, a black eye, birthday cake word count: 1163 gender neutral reader x miya atsumu :p

-

October 5th, 1995 

Atsumu Miya is born. He’s gifted a bright flash of light, the sound of his own cries, and - seven minutes later - a brother. 

October 5th, 2003

There was a HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner taped to the cabinets in the kitchen. The R was ripped nearly in half, and the colors were dull. 

It was the same one as last year, and the year before that. 

Atsumu walked through the threshold with his brother right next to him. Osamu knew how to say thank you in the right way to get the best hug from their mom. 

They were presented with one singular cupcake. 

“Why can’t we ever get our own?” 

The two boys sat too close at the kitchen table, the strawberry cake sat right in front of them. 

“You have to learn how to share, Atsumu.” 

He knew how to share. There was nothing left to learn.

One candle was mashed in the frosting. Mom lit the flame and Atsumu watched wax dripping onto his half as she sang their happy birthday song, and told them to make a wish. 

Atsumu and Osamu looked at each other, then blew at the candle at the exact same time. 

The cupcake was cut in half, and Atsumu’s stomach hurt before he could finish his. Osamu took it without being asked. 

But if they had each gotten their own, Atsumu would've had more to share with his brother. 

October 5th, 2010

Atsumu was fifteen and he knew everything. He was always right - never, ever wrong, and if anyone disagreed, they’d have to take it up directly with him. 

He knew how to run his mouth. Maybe it was what he was best at. He’d never lost an argument - until his fifteenth birthday. 

He’d gotten good at taking his aggression out in healthy ways - mostly in sports. But, sometimes, the words he spit couldn’t be left on the court. 

He would say what he wanted, and he didn’t care who heard or hurt. 

He didn’t know what he had coming to him. 

The entire team had already abandoned the gym, all but Atsumu and the shitty middle blocker who played like he didn’t know his position. 

Atsumu was outside stretching when his words hit his ears. “You’re a piece of shit, Miya.” 

“Oh my god - get in line, dude, you’re about the fifth person today to let me know.” 

“That many people wanna rip your head off? I wish one of them would teach you how to shut the fuck up.” 

“And I wish someone would teach you how to block the fuckin’ ball.” 

The guy didn’t reply. He took one step in Atsumu’s direction - he remembered hearing the crunch of gravel under the guy's foot. His shoulder moved with the step, and with it, the first real punch Atsumu had ever been thrown. 

And it hit. Hard. Ten times harder than any hits from Osamu. 

The guy’s fist collided with Atsumu’s cheek and then he walked away. Atsumu didn’t even have a chance to hit back - he was frozen in place, anyway. There was no fight in him. He was too surprised. 

A black eye wasn’t on his wishlist for his birthday, but it’s what he got. A lesson learned? Not so much. 

October 5th, 2019

He was another year older - so what. 

The only part of Atsumu’s birthday that he liked was giving his brother a stupidly expensive gift, because it gave him an excuse to gloat. 

Other than that? It was a day like any other. 

Birthdays were nowhere near special to him - especially his own. But it just so happened that on that specific birthday, he had his first date with you. 

And it didn’t even come up in conversation. Neither did his twin brother, or any of his volleyball stories he’d usually tell to impress a date. 

Atsumu found out that he didn’t need to impress you, and he hardly needed to talk about himself. 

He left that date feeling like he was friends with you, and maybe that wasn’t how he should feel after a date, but he was beaming. The hours with you at that hole in the wall bar didn’t feel like enough. 

He took that feeling and ran with it, and he hoped - he prayed - you’d follow him. 

October 5th, 2022

It’d been late nights for as long as Atsumu could remember. He’d come home and you’d already be in bed - if he was lucky, you’d wake up just long enough to tell him you love him. 

That night was different from the rest. 

That night, he would be coming home to - literally - an empty home. 

Finally, you and Atsumu had moved into the house of your dreams that was yours. But, for the time being, you were living out of boxes and waiting for furniture deliveries. 

He opened the door to a dark living room and an even darker hallway, and he didn’t bother turning any on lights to get to the kitchen. 

There was a shred of light there, coming from an old bulb above the stove. He looked around the empty room and what he found was out of place. 

There you were, sat on the floor. A chair was next to you, funnily enough, but it was taken by a round white cake. A handful of candles were stuck into the top. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, the same time you spoke. 

“There’s my birthday boy,” and your voice was all sleepy smiles. “Happy birthday. Happy anniversary.” 

He sat in front of you, right on the floor, not caring when his knees popped on the way down. 

“Did you stay up just to tell me that?” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

You picked up the cake and presented it to him like you were proud of it, and the size of his grin matched yours. 

“How mad would you be if I just tipped this up,” and he tapped the bottom of the plate, “right into your face?” 

“Atsumu.” Every time you said his name like that, he laughed. “I would kill you.”

“On my birthday?” 

He watched you pout as you sat the cake down again. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?” 

“Thank you,” he said, like he was insisting. He wrapped his hands around your legs and scooted you closer to him. “Thank you, baby, this is so nice.” 

You hummed. “You’re welcome.” And you dipped your finger in the frosting on the cake, and Atsumu immediately caught your wrist when you moved it toward his face. 

“Don’t you dare.” 

You kept pushing, and he didn’t push back fast enough - your finger and the glob of frosting smushed right into his cheek. 

And you laughed loud enough to fill the empty rooms of your house, and Atsumu didn’t know how to tell you how in love he was. 

He had birthday cake for dinner that night, and it settled into a sugary stomach ache. It was the best October 5th he'd lived through so far.

-

got a request for a drabble? send it in, i might write it :)  

[buddie-buddie]

as long as you're right here (stay next to me)

2.2k - g - read on ao3

The fireworks show is Buck’s idea. 

Not that Eddie puts up much of a fight once he sees the hopeful glint in Buck’s eye. But still. Buck’s idea. 

“Fireworks?” Eddie asks, passing Buck the stack of plates he’d just pulled out of the dishwasher. He used to like fireworks. It feels like a lifetime ago, but he did. Before he was choppered out of a combat zone with a couple of bullets and some shrapnel beneath his skin. Before he almost bled out on the pavement in the middle of the day and added another couple of scars to his collection. Before sparks rained down in the middle of a parking lot and left Buck’s lifeless body hanging limply from the ladder truck. 

“It’s the Fourth of July,” Buck says by way of reply, putting the plates away before turning back to Eddie. “We have to see fireworks on the Fourth of July.”

It is the Fourth of July after all, and Christopher is sleeping at the Wilsons’ which means Eddie and Buck have the night to themselves. Fireworks might not be the worst idea. Sure, they’d have to go to the ones in the park to avoid running into Christopher and his friends at the pier, lest they commit the ultimate parents-of-a-preteen crime.

But it could be nice. Romantic, even. Eddie can picture it now. Just the two of them, laying side by side in the grass and staring up at the stars, hands intertwined as they wait for the show to begin. Although he doesn’t think there’s anything romantic about his chest tightening and his heart rate ratcheting up as soon as the explosions begin. Nothing screams “romance” quite like his palms sweating and his skin buzzing beneath an onslaught of anxiety.

Any protests Eddie might’ve had die on his tongue when he goes to pass Buck the silverware basket and instead finds himself lost in the sparkle in those beautiful blue eyes. There’s something hopeful there, something that has Eddie setting the basket down on the counter and stepping around the dishwasher door, something that has him snaking his hands around Buck’s waist, something that has him saying, “Okay, baby,” before meeting Buck’s lips in a kiss. 

Eddie understands why Buck wanted to come. It’s… well, it’s kind of perfect. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of purple that slowly bleed into blue. The balmy air smells like popcorn and Buck’s lips taste like cotton candy, which makes the twenty minutes spent waiting in line for it completely worth it, as far as Eddie's concerned.

There are plenty of other people here, but there’s more than enough room for everyone to spread out and have their space. 

“This is nice,” Eddie says, once they’re settled on the blanket Buck insisted they bring. Buck hums in agreement, leaning his head against Eddie’s shoulder as their fingers tangle together. 

. . .

The first explosion startles them both. There’s plenty of warning, and yet Buck feels Eddie tense beneath him, the muscles in his shoulders coiling tight as the first round of fireworks burst in the sky above them. His own breath hitches in his throat, and he catches himself gripping Eddie’s hand just a little bit tighter. 

Eddie squeezes back almost instantly, without hesitation. It’s the reminder Buck needs that Eddie’s here, that he’s safe. That this won’t be like the last couple of times a similar sound echoed around them. That no one’s going to be left bleeding out in the middle of the street. No one’s going to be dangling lifeless in the air as a driving rain pours down over them. 

“We’re okay,” Eddie murmurs. Somehow, amidst the explosions and cheers and voices around them, Eddie’s quiet assurance rings the loudest. 

“We’re okay,” Buck echoes. He squeezes Eddie’s hand again. 

When the next round is fired off, neither one of them flinches. 

There’s something a little bit surreal about it, living in this moment. It’s the same feeling he has every morning when he wakes up next to Eddie, the same feeling he has every time he packs Christopher’s lunch, every time Eddie announces it’s Buck’s turn to take the trash out. It’s the same rush of warmth beneath his skin, the same flutter of his heart that happens every time they pull up to a red light and Eddie steals a kiss across the center console, every time Eddie texts him from the grocery store and asks if they’re out of eggs.

There’s beauty in the mundane, and even more so in the moments— these moments— that make up a love, a life that Buck simultaneously dreamed of and never thought he’d have. 

He’s never known happiness like this. 

He turns to tell Eddie as much when the first spark hits them. 

It takes a moment for Buck’s brain to realize what’s happening. At first, all that registers is Eddie grabbing him, his arms coming around Buck’s sides as he pulls him into his chest. One of Eddie’s hands is in the middle of his back, the other on the back of his head. He tucks Buck against his chest, holding him as close as he possibly can. And then they’re moving. Rolling, more specifically. There’s a flash of heat, a loud series of pops and sizzles and high pitched whines. 

Someone screams. Someone else does too. And then there’s another round of quick, loud pops. 

And then Buck doesn’t hear anything at all except for the hammering of his own heart. 

Maybe it’s Eddie’s heartbeat he hears. He’s still holding Buck against his chest, still has his own body draped over Buck’s. He’s still blanketing him— still protecting him. 

Buck doesn’t know yet what’s happening. He doesn’t know what it is that Eddie is shielding him from. But he does know that it feels safe here, wrapped up in Eddie’s arms and tucked close into his chest. 

“Buck?” There’s panic creeping into Eddie’s voice. “Hey, look at me.” 

His hands come to bracket Buck’s face, leaning back just enough so they can see each other clearly. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks. 

Buck nods. Part of him wants to look around and figure out what the hell just happened. But a bigger, more insistent part of him can’t tear his eyes away from Eddie’s. They’re wide and searching, filled with fear and concern as they rake over Buck’s face. Buck doesn’t miss the slight tremble in Eddie’s bottom lip, nor the way his breath seems to catch in his throat with each shaky inhale. 

“You’re sure?” Eddie asks, his voice equal parts hopeful and unsteady. 

Buck nods again, and lets Eddie hold his face in his hands and run his thumbs over his cheeks as the panic in his eyes melts into relief. 

“W-What’s going on?” Buck asks, his voice unsteady.  

“Some idiots brought homemade fireworks.” The disgust is thick in Eddie’s voice, each word dripping with disdain. 

A second round explodes nearby and they scramble to get to their feet. Buck stumbles, his foot catching in a stranger’s blanket amidst the chaos. He hits the ground, though Eddie’s quick to haul him up and link their fingers together. People are still screaming, still running, the entire area having descended into madness as the professional fireworks continue firing into the sky.  

Eddie leads the way as they weave through the crowd. His grip on Buck’s hand is steady and unwavering; he doesn’t let go until they’re back at the truck, and even then it’s only long enough for the two of them to climb inside and shut the doors before Eddie’s hands are back on him. This time, they’re running over Buck’s hands, his wrists, the warm skin of his arms left exposed by his arguably too-tight t-shirt. They make their way to his face, pausing in time with the breath that catches in Eddie’s throat. 

“Eddie,” Buck begins. His voice sounds gravelly, like he’s just swallowed sand. He clears his throat and tries again. “Eddie, I’m fine. I— I’m okay.”

. . .

“You’re bleeding,” Eddie says. Voicing the realization doesn’t do much to stop the hammering of his heart, nor the way his breath is coming in bursts so quickly his lungs have started to burn. If anything, it magnifies it. “You’re… you’re bleeding. On your cheek.”

Buck brings his fingers up to his cheek, and Eddie guides them with his own trembling fingers to where the skin across his cheekbone is scraped. It isn’t bleeding heavily, but enough so that Buck’s fingers come back tinged in red. 

“Guess I am,” Buck says, his voice calm in a way that’s almost disarming. 

He’s bleeding because some imbeciles thought it would be fun to set off their own amateur fireworks a few feet away from them, and Buck is calm about it. Not that it matters — Eddie’s got enough rage for the both of them. 

Buck pulls down the sun visor, turning his face away from Eddie’s gentle hold just long enough to check out his scraped up cheek in the small mirror before turning back to face Eddie. “Nothing a little betadine and Neosporin can’t fix.”

“Buck—” Eddie hates the strangled edge to his voice, the way it threatens to break over the single syllable. He hates how scared he sounds, how weak and defeated. He needs to be strong for Buck. He needs to—

“I know,” Buck says, his voice soft and gentle as he brings his hand up to Eddie’s cheek. He runs his thumb over the freckle beneath Eddie’s eye, the same one he makes sure to press a kiss against every night and again every morning. “I was scared too.” 

He leans forward, his forehead resting against Eddie’s. They share a long, deep breath. Eddie’s hands have migrated to Buck’s neck, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath Eddie’s fingers grounding him in ways he’d never be able to describe. Eddie closes his eyes, breathes in the familiar scent of Buck’s shampoo, and thanks God and Jesus and every saint he can name that they made it. That they’re here. That they’re together. 

That they’re okay. 

By the time they get home, Eddie’s calmed down. Around halfway through the drive, his heart no longer felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. His hands were still shaking, mostly due to the adrenaline comedown. Buck had been quick to notice, though, reaching over and taking Eddie’s hand in one of his own.

“How were you so calm?” Eddie had asked, looking over at Buck and admiring the way his eyes sparkled beneath the glow of the streetlights. 

Buck had shrugged. “You had me. I knew it would be okay.” 

Eddie’s eyes shone with tears for the next two blocks.

Their hands are still laced together now, as Eddie leads Buck into the house and towards the bathroom. He pulls out the first aid kit as Buck sits atop the counter, spreading his knees to make room for Eddie to work. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck says after a moment, earning himself a frown from Eddie.

“Sorry?” Eddie echoes, his voice low and quiet as he focuses on getting the lid off of the betadine, but the concern in it perfectly clear all the same. “What for?” 

Buck sighs. Shrugs. Drops his gaze to where his hands grip the countertop on either side of his thighs. “This isn’t supposed to be how we remember tonight.” 

“Nah,” Eddie says simply, pouring the solution onto a gauze pad. “I’m not going to remember this part. Standing in the cotton candy line for twenty minutes because someone has a raging sweet tooth, though…”

Buck scoffs. “Well I’m going to remember you eating half of the cotton candy you insisted you didn’t want.” 

Eddie will remember that too. 

He’ll also remember the way it tasted even better clinging to Buck’s lips. He’ll remember that slow, sweet kiss right as the sun went down. He’ll remember Buck’s head against his shoulder, the way the tension bled out of him and how everything inside of him suddenly settled as their fingers laced together in the overgrown grass. He’ll remember his stolen glance at Buck as the fireworks display started, the way the shadows danced across his face beneath the shades of red and blue that lit the sky.

He’ll remember being together. 

He’ll forget the rest.

. . .

Later, once Eddie’s put the first aid kit back under the sink and eased Buck off the counter— despite his protests that he’s completely fine, baby, I promise — they make their way to bed. It’s there, with Buck tucked into Eddie’s side and his curls brushing the underside of Eddie’s jaw, where Eddie presses a kiss to the top of Buck’s head and murmurs, “That’s not what I’ll remember.” 

“Hmm?” Buck hums, looking up to meet Eddie’s eyes. 

“When I think about tonight,” Eddie says. “I won’t remember giving you first aid on the bathroom counter. Or those godforsaken idiots lighting off a glorified IED.”

Buck grins. “Yeah?” 

“I’ll remember being with you.”

“You will?” 

“And the cotton candy line,” Eddie deadpans. “But mostly being with you. That’s the only thing that matters.”

Buck tips his chin up to meet Eddie for a kiss. And even though this one doesn’t taste like cotton candy, Eddie thinks it still might be the best one he’s ever had.

[candyriku]

Working on my ice skating AU, here's a lil preview (this is like the start of chapter 2). I know it's sacrilege to have Sora and Riku be estranged in any way, but in this AU they ARE, okay. I felt like writing about them being messy and emotionally damaged people so here is Riku being messy (and plenty of Sora being messy will follow) :-)

“Are you serious?” Riku demands, his voice coming across more aggressively than he means it. “Skate with him?”

Aqua looks from Riku to Sora and frowns. “Do you know him? Is there some kind of issue?”

Does he know Sora? Of course he does. They were childhood friends, then something more, then nothing at all. But he can’t tell Aqua that, nor does he want to relive the last time he saw Sora, his trembling hands in his hair, their lips brushing together before Sora made a hasty retreat and disappeared from his life entirely. 

Sora’s eyes haven’t left his shoes. “It’s okay if you don’t want to…” he ventures, and somehow this makes Riku feel even worse. Sora is giving him an out, and he can't stand it. He wants to hate Sora for it, but it feels more and more like he hates himself. He should have never kissed Sora in the first place. He deserves the two years of silence he’s endured ever since.

“Look, Riku, I’ll say it one last time in case it’s not getting through that thick skull of yours. Either skate pairs, ice dance - which also requires a partner, or drop the sport entirely. If you want to do anything outside of those three options, I won’t coach you. And although it’s your decision, if you keep skating solo, I hope you know you're digging your own grave.”

“Fine,” Riku snaps, looking away from Sora. “I’ll try skating with him. But we both know he’ll only slow me down. This will end my career and yours.” He’s being unfair and he knows it, but the idea of Aqua deciding his future for him feels unbearable. Shouldn’t it be up to him? Yes, he’s injured, but injuries heal. He shouldn’t have to adjust his entire life because of one tiny stress fracture. 

“Sora won’t slow you down. He’s just as skilled as you are.” Aqua says firmly, crossing her arms.

Riku wants to argue, but he’s spent most of his life in the same rink as Sora and knows it’s true. Still, skating solo is something Riku doesn’t want taken from him. It’s his escape, his time for himself, his form of self-expression. Having another person - even if it’s Sora - encroach on that feels wrong. Figure skating is a sport about the performer and the performer alone. It’s his own personal artform. To share it is to lose his identity as a skater altogether. 

“I don’t skate with social media showboats” he spits. This, too, is unfair, and he only knows of Sora’s popularity online because he’s pathetically kept up with him after Sora moved away, forever watching videos of him skate with a mixture of longing and nausea. Sora skates expressively, beautifully, in a way Riku himself can’t quite replicate, because Sora has always been the better of the two of them when it comes to self-expression. Riku is just a miserable person pretending to be something he’s not. At least Sora is authentically himself all the time, even online. 

Everything in Riku’s brain tells him to stop making such a scene and just accept this new paradigm. But his heart aches with loss - loss of his solo career, loss of his dignity, loss of his autonomy, loss of this world he’s built for himself where he can pretend he never fell disastrously in love with his childhood best friend. He freezes when he sees the expression on Sora’s face. 

“I just post for fun,” Sora says softly, biting his lip. “I’ll stop posting while we're training, if that'll make you feel-”

“It’s fine,” Riku says. “Do what you want. It doesn’t concern me.”