#all eighteen minutes of its glory.

[rhiaemrys]

Everyday I wake up and listen to the Fire Emblem Three Houses Soundtrack and just. Lose my marbles.

Apex of the World, God Shattering Star, A Funeral of Flowers, etc. I love you

[the-al-chemist]

Another Day

A/N: July’s prompt for @hp-12monthsofmagic is “Surprise…”, and this story contains a fairly big one. I’ll let Charlie tell you about it… Warnings: two minor swear word, one of which barely counts as a swear. Tagging: @fantasywriter19 and @toads-in-my-pockets, who I think may particularly enjoy this little story.

The sun was high in the sky, making the autumn leaves on the ground glow in shades of gold as Charlie arrived in the front garden of the Burrow. From inside the house, the sounds of laughter and clattering pots and pans could be heard as he crunched his way across the yard to the front porch, still dizzy from his Portkey.

He knocked on the front door and was greeted by his mother, who immediately smothered him in an almost rib-breakingly tight hug.

“Bloody hell, Mum. It’s like you’ve not seen me in six months, not six weeks!”

“Well, six weeks is a long time when I had gotten used to you being around all the time,” Mrs Weasley replied. “It’s just lovely to have you home, dear.”

Charlie’s mother let him go, looking almost expectantly behind him before sighing deeply.

“What’s the matter?” Charlie asked her.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I thought that maybe… Oh, never mind. Come on inside, dear.”

Shaking his head despairingly, Charlie followed his mother inside the house. It didn’t look quite the same as it had when he was growing up, but it still felt like home, a fact he was grateful for, given the state the house had been in at the end of the war. The Death Eaters had completely ransacked the house and destroyed parts of it; it had taken Charlie and his brother Percy the best part of a year to fully restore it to its former unglorified glory.

In the living room was Percy himself, along with Charlie’s other two eldest brothers and their father. Charlie hugged each of them in turn, finishing with his older brother, Bill.

“Where’s Fleur?” Charlie asked him, looking around himself as if his sister-in-law might suddenly appear out of nowhere - which, in fairness, she could.

“She went for some air,” replied Bill, smiling broadly. “She’s out in the back garden watching Harry and Ginny teach Teddy to ride a broom.”

“Right. And the others?”

“Ron and Hermione should be here any minute now, and knowing Artemis, she will be here ten minutes late.”

“Of course. Why break the habit of a lifetime?” Charlie said, raising his eyebrows knowingly. “I’ll go and show my face outside.”

In the back garden, Fleur Weasley was sitting on a deck chair with a glass of water, watching Charlie’s sister Ginny and her boyfriend holding a blue-haired toddler upright on a broomstick. At the sight of her brother, Ginny left Harry and Teddy to their flying lesson and ran across the grass towards him.

“Did you come here alone?” she demanded, without even saying hello first.

“It’s nice to see you too, Gin.”

“Yeah, whatever. Answer the question.”

“Uh, yes. Why?”

“Oh, mum was getting all excited. She got it into her head that you were bringing a girl home as a surprise.”

Charlie blinked. “Why would she think that?”

“Because Mum just loves marrying people off, doesn’t she?” Ginny laughed. “And because you only ever usually come home when it’s a special occasion.”

Ginny had a point, Charlie had to admit that. When he had first left home at eighteen, he struggled to afford Portkeys, and always found himself feeling more homesick returning to Romania after visiting his family. Going home infrequently had become somewhat of a habit, but after the war ended and he moved back to Romania following a year’s sabbatical, his priorities had changed. He had visited more often in the last five months, but it just so happened that his visits had coincided with big events: Ginny’s graduation, George’s shop re-opening, Ron’s engagement. This was the first time he had come home without there being some sort of occasion, the first time that it was just another day in the life of the Weasley family.

“Anyway,” Ginny continued, apparently not noticing the somewhat guilty conscience of her brother, “Mum started putting twos together, you know what she’s like.”

“She does like putting twos together.”

“So, you definitely haven’t brought a girl home, then?”

Charlie looked one way and then the other, before holding his hands aloft and shrugging his shoulders.

“Mum will be disappointed,” Ginny laughed, and Fleur smirked into her glass of water.

“I expect zat she will cope,” she said wryly.

From inside the house, Molly called that dinner was ready, and the whole family made their way towards the kitchen. Charlie ducked under a platter of roast potatoes making its own way to the table in order to greet the latecomers: his youngest brother Ron and his fiancée, and Charlie’s best friend from school, Artemis Hexley.

“Trust you to arrive just in time for food,” he muttered to her as he pulled her into a hug. “Though you could’ve at least brushed your hair.”

“Oh, piss off,” Artemis prodded Charlie in the ribs and wriggled out from his arms. “How was your journey here, anyway?”

“Not too bad.”

“The grannies of Ottery St Catchpole all survived you apparating, then?”

“You know, that joke stopped being funny about eight years ago.”

“To you, maybe.”

Artemis grinned wickedly and made her way to the table, Charlie following behind her. As the plates of food were passed around and the kitchen was filled with the sound of lively conversation, he realised how much he had missed moments like this. This was exactly what he had wanted for his visit home.

When the chatter at the dinner table reached a natural lull, Charlie cleared his throat quietly. Before he could say anything to fill the gap, however, Bill rose to his feet.

“I didn’t realise there were going to be speeches,” said George, through a mouthful of food.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” Bill laughed sheepishly. “It’s just that while everyone is here, I - well, Fleur and I - wanted to tell you all something.” He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and smiled at her so widely he looked as if he might burst from happiness, before telling the rest of the family: “We are going to have a baby.”

Suddenly, the kitchen was filled with even more noise and movement than before. Molly and Arthur Weasley rose from their seats to embrace their oldest son and daughter-in-law, Molly making high-pitched noises and crying. Percy congratulated them heartily, and Artemis dropped her fork on the floor in surprise.

Charlie bent down to pick it up and handed it back to her, their eyes meeting as the fork exchanged hands. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, and he gave her an almost imperceptible shrug in response.

Just like that, the day now belonged to Bill, Fleur, and their unborn child. The talk at the dinner table had turned to babies, to names and dates and sleeping arrangements. Even after dinner ended, the discussion continued, with Charlie’s mother rushing to find the family albums to find photos of her own seven babies for everyone to look at, an ordeal Charlie managed to escape by offering to clean up after dinner.

“Can I just grab a glass for Fleur?” Bill asked him, once everyone else had retired to the sitting room.

“Of course you can,” Charlie ducked out of the way of a cupboard to allow Bill to summon a glass from it. He chuckled to himself and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad.”

“Neither can I.”

“You must be so happy.”

“I am,” said Bill, still smiling. “Terrified, but happy.”

“It’ll be alright. You’ll be a great dad.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“I mean it,” Charlie held his hand out to Bill. “Congratulations, mate.”

The two brothers shook hands before wrapping their free arms around each other’s shoulders.

“I’m just glad you decided to come back this weekend,” Bill said. “We didn’t want some people finding out before others, and you know how hard it is to get everyone in one place when it’s not for something specific.”

“Hm, yeah.” Charlie nodded, aware that Artemis had just entered the room and pulled a face that made it hard for him not to laugh. “Tough, that.”

“I mean it, thank you. Anyway, better give this to Fleur. Sorry, Artemis, didn’t realise you were behind me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” Artemis paused before briefly hugging Bill around the waist. “Congratulations, by the way.”

She watched Bill carry Fleur’s glass out of the room, before leaning back against the kitchen table and watching the dishes wash and dry themselves at the sink.

“You didn’t fancy looking at the photos of baby Bill in the bath, then?” asked Charlie.

“Not really. I lived with him for half of last year, if I wanted to see his knob I’d have had plenty of opportunities to do so.”

Charlie laughed and used his wand to direct the clean plates into the cupboard before joining Artemis on the edge of the table.

“So much for it just being another boring, regular day at the Burrow,” she muttered quietly, rolling her eyes.

“I never said it would be boring,” replied Charlie, his voice also lowered. He sighed. “That’s the thing about big families. There’s always something going on with someone. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Honest?”

Artemis turned her face towards Charlie, holding his gaze.

“Yeah,” she said, completely honestly. “If anything, it’s kind of funny. You had this brilliant plan set out for weeks, and Bill swoops in at the last minute with the exact same idea.”

“Well, they say great minds think alike,” Charlie grinned. “You think that’s funny, you should hear what Mum and Ginny said.”

“What was that?”

“They thought I might be bringing home a girlfriend this weekend.”

“Did they really?” Artemis smirked. “That’s brilliant. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No, I just went like this,” Charlie held his hands up slightly and shrugged his shoulders. Artemis blinked at him. “What? It works every time.”

Artemis burst out laughing, using one hand to stifle the sound of her giggles as Charlie shushed her through his own.

“We can’t now, can we?” she whispered, once the two of them had composed themselves.

“Not really, no.”

“That would be unfair.”

“It would,” said Charlie. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back. I missed you.”

“You too.”

Charlie cast a glance over his shoulder at the door before wrapping his arm around Artemis.

“So, now what?” she asked, reaching across him to take his free hand, her fingers walking over his like the rungs of a ladder.

“We let them have their day today, and then we will just have to make a new plan so we can have our turn another day.”

“And that’s when we’ll tell them about” - Artemis’ eyes flicked from Charlie’s right hand in her lap to his left on her shoulder - “us?”

With another look back at the door, Charlie pulled her closer to him, kissed her hairline, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Yeah. That’s when we’ll tell them about us.”

[justanotherfanwriter]

and they were ROOMmates

Cht list: (1) (2) (3) (4)

a/n: this one took me awhile, but hopefully, you can see Soul's other points of stress!

fyi I put this story on ao3 (as requested), so don’t forget to leave a comment or kudos (if you want lol). I’ll continue to update on tumblr as well!

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The bus jolted Soul awake. Its brakes squealed as it came to a halt, and his head bounced against the bus window. He hissed in pain and scrambled for the package the sudden stop had knocked off his lap. When the package was back in its proper place, he rubbed at his head, poking around the still-tender flesh. 

“Shit,” He cursed, flinching away from his hand when it grazed against the goose egg that was beginning to form. The woman caddy corner to him, cradling a sleeping toddler, glared, which he returned, though he hardly believed she could tell. He was moving around Death City incognito with oversized sunglasses, a baseball cap, and his hoodie with the hood up. 

It was a cakewalk going to the post office as an oddly dressed stranger compared to going as the Last Death Scythe. He couldn’t make it two blocks down the street without being stopped if it weren’t for the sunglasses, never mind the setting sun. 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the bus. Even for a weapon, it wasn’t a bright idea, but as Maka had guessed, the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him. Being a weapon obsessive over protecting his meister was easier said than mentally done. He sighed and gently placed his head back against the window, relying on the bus to keep him jostled awake.

There was some shifting as the group from the back of the bus got off, and a new group got on. He watched the departing group’s reflections as they walked past. Each was sporting DWMA memorabilia, but he couldn’t recognize any of their faces, so he assumed they were a few years younger than him. Of course, that didn’t mean they didn’t know him, and because of that likely possibility, he was glad they hadn’t seen through his poorly-made disguise. 

When things settled back down on the bus, he turned his attention out the window and blankly stared past his reflection. They were near the school but closer to the airport. He didn’t come to this side of the city as often as he once had and was only there now because Maka had accidentally sent her package to their old PO box. The ride from the DWMA clinic where Maka was staying to their old post office wasn’t a bad commute, but because it was in the opposite direction of their new apartment, he still had fifteen or twenty-ish minutes until he made it home.  

He let out a deep breath, temporarily fogging the window. Mentally, he counted how many stop he had left until he got off, and then couldn’t stop himself from counting down how many stops were left between here and their old apartment.  

DWMA’s independent student-living complexes weren’t glorious by any means, but it hadn’t been bad. Like sure, the air-conditioning busted on the days it was most inconvenient, and there was a minor bug problem, but when he thought of his childhood home, he didn’t think of the estate in Maine, but the two-bedroom, one bathroom mold-infested hellscape he had lived in with Maka. 

He missed that apartment. 

A lot. 

They had moved out of their old apartment the moment he turned eighteen and could legally sign a lease off of DWMA property. They had left for no other reason besides the fact he had become too famous to stay there, especially with the amount of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed underclassmen wandering around this part of Death City that wanted nothing more than to meet the great, stupendous Last Death Scythe in all his freaky albino glory. 

It wasn’t just the underclassmen, though, that wasn’t fair to the underclassmen—sorry, underclassmen—because the upperclassmen would sneak by too, but they, at least, tried being cool about it. Still, some piece of shit had ruined it for everyone and leaked their apartment address to the general public, completely destroying the low-key vibe. They tried their best to stay in the apartment, but after Maka had thrown away the third pile of used underwear from a “NO RETURN” sender, she had declared it was time they thought about moving out. 

“Unless,” She had paused drying the dishes, looking at him almost shyly, “I mean, unless you want to live by yourself. We’re graduating soon, after all. There’s no reason we have to stay roommates. I can—” an uncomfortable look had crossed her face, and she swallowed past her discomfort, “—move back in with my papa, you know until I’m old enough to sign a lease somewhere.” 

He could clearly remember the way he had stared at her, taking in the brave look on her face and considering, for the first time since they had moved in together, living alone. He had almost laughed at her. Maybe when he was thirteen, and she was twelve, yelling at him about leaving the toilet seat up, he had longingly thought about his own apartment without any roommates breathing down his neck, but now, he couldn’t imagine a life without Maka’s daily lectures. 

And besides, he had asked, “Is that, like, even possible? Do I even make that much money now?” 

Clear annoyance had pulsed through her features as she gritted out for the umpteenth time, “Soul, please, you have to start paying attention to your finances.” 

“But then, what would you bitch about?” He had asked her through a toothy smile, “You know, besides the laundry, and the cleaning, and the cooking, and the—” 

“—I’m not helping you anymore!” She had snapped, throwing the dish towel at his head, “Your money! Your checkbook! Your problem!” 

She had stomped away to the sound of his cackling, and neither of them brought up the idea of living apart again. They had simply moved to another apartment together. Maka, of course, had taken care of everything, and he, of course, bitched about the thousands of cumbersome books he had to move while she stood around, clipboard in hand, nagging him and all the other poor suckers she had roped into helping them move. 

Their new apartment complex was farther away from the school and, thus, the main part of the bustling city. They lived closer to the outskirts where the townies lived, where Death Children, like Maka, were raised. The people there wouldn’t have given two shits if he were the Death Lord himself. Death Children had seen plenty of Death Scythes come and go that Soul didn’t bother with the shitty disguises he wore everywhere else if he wanted a normal outing. In fact, the only person who seemed to care about them at all was Mrs. Ranger from across the hall, who hated Blair (human form) with a passion but loved Blair (cat form) like no other. 

He readjusted his baseball cap down his eyes and nestled further into his seat, groaning at the thought of Blair. She had probably caused more trouble than she was worth while they were gone, and now, he’d have to deal with it. Alone. Just uncool. 

“Hey, hey—” Someone belched, and Soul dragged his gaze away from the window to look back toward the bus aisle.

“Yes?” He bit back actual tears as the drunk guy, who was supposed to be sitting four seats behind him, leered down at him. Why couldn’t anyone leave him alone? 

“’ Ey, do I, uh, I know you, right?” The man asked around another burp. 

And, Lord Death, how many times would he be asked that today while he was just trying to exist in fucking peace? 

“No. You don’t,” Soul lied, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. 

“Are you—are you sure?” 

“Pretty sure, man.” He turned to look back out the window, but the guy persisted.

“Nah,” He said, sitting down, “I know youse. Uh, shit—” Another burp, paired with a hiccup, “—got a package, huh?” 

“I do.” He glowered at his reflection, flipping the package label down so it wouldn’t give him away. 

The drunk hiccupped, blinking rapidly as he stared at him. He pursed his lips in thought before his face lit up in recognition. Obnoxiously, he snapped his fingers and then jabbed one in Soul’s face, “Youse look exactly like that guy!” 

“I don’t know you,” Soul repeated, knocking the drunk’s hand away just like he had knocked away Marc’s not even two hours before. Seriously, did manners mean nothing anymore?

Unbothered, the guy continued smiling. He looked five seconds away from passing out or throwing up, and Soul didn’t want to be involved either way. “Yeah, but youse—” the drunk man yawned and shook his head to keep himself awake, “—youse look like that guy, ya know, he, uh, he’s that, um, guy!” 

“Nope.” Soul shook his head, tempted to jump out of the moving bus just to get away, but with rush hour traffic in Death City, his odds of survival didn’t look good.

Seconds ticked by without a peep from the drunk, and for a beautiful, wonderous second Soul thought maybe the interrogation was over. He chanced a quick look at the drunk just in time to watch the man slump forward as he passed out. In that instant, the bus hit a bump, and the guy’s head lulled to the side, landing on Soul’s shoulder. A snore erupted from the man and a wave of bad breath and booze crashed over him. He pulled a face and followed his gut reaction, shoving the man away.

Unfortunately, this woke him up. 

The drunk shot up with a clap, evidently proud of himself, and bellowed, “The Last Death Scythe! That’s who!”  

Soul froze for half a second, then shook his head, “Never heard of ‘im.” 

“You don’t know who that is!” Some rando behind them cried, sticking his head between the seats. His eyes were rimmed red, and he smelt like weed. It pissed Soul off, but mostly out of jealousy. “You a tourist or sumthin’?” 

“No.” He seethed, slouching further down his seat.

“You’re not a tourist, and you ain’t ever heard of the Last fucking Scythe?” The high man was flabbergasted, hitting the drunk man on the shoulder, “I don’t believe it! Do you believe it?” 

“I do’not fuckin’ believe it!” The drunk man agreed enthusiastically, jolting up and confused but happy to be included. Out of the corner of Soul’s eye, he watched the lady with the toddler shoot the three of them a dirty look, and again, he glared back. Obviously, she also had an issue with him.  

“Well, do.” He sneered, returning his attention to the men, but they both ignored him; the high guy was sputtering his continued disbelief, and the drunk man was wiping drool from his mouth.

“Don’t he look like him? The Last Death Scythe?” The drunk man slurred, asking the high man, who, in turn, said to Soul, “You don’t gotta be embarrassed about being a tourist. I know all the good spots, ya know. I run a little tour business; a bit of a side hustle, you understand. I can give you a discount, and show you around. For just a small fee, I can have you running around this City like an authentic Death Child. We’ll check out the school!”

“I’m not—” Soul paused and gave the guy a dry look, “—the school? You’re leading with the school? Everyone knows the school. That can’t be your first suggestion.” 

“What’s wrong with the school?” The high man gave him a dirty look.

“You can’t just say you know all the good spots and name the one spot everyone knows!” 

“What would you know? You ain’t fuckin’ from here!” The man bristled, and the drunk man followed suit, acting as a useless echo, “Yeah, you ain’t fuckin’ from here!” 

“I live here. I work here.”

“And what do you do?” The high man leaned forward.

Soul gritted his teeth, “What does it matter? 

They went back and forth like this, their argument getting progressively more aggressive the nearer they got to Soul’s stop. He let out an annoyed groan, rubbing a hand down his face as he, again, shoved the drunk guy’s sleeping head off his shoulder. 

“Listen, buddy,” He addressed the high guy for the umpteenth time, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. I’m not a tourist. I’m not interested in your tour program. I’m just trying to get home, so get off my dick about it.” 

“If you ain’t a tourist, you shouldn’t have a problem confirming where you work.” The high guy countered. 

“Fine!” Soul rolled his eyes, pushing the drunk guy away again, “I’m an agent working for DWMA.” 

The high man fell quiet, and for one foolish moment, Soul believed he’d stay silent, but as soon as he had thought it, the man began laughing loud enough to wake up both the sleeping toddler and the drunk man. While the drunk man snorted awake and started laughing as if he had been cognitive throughout the whole conversation and not drooling down Soul’s shirt, the toddler began to scream, just like Soul wanted to. 

“But you don’t know the Last Scythe,” the high man (impressively) cackled over the screaming, “fuck off, kid. Just admit it, you’re a tourist.”  

“Excuse me,” The lady with the now-not-sleeping toddler snapped, “could you three stop with the cursing? There are children on board.” 

“Lady,” Soul snapped back, already pissed off and matching her energy, “you’re the one who brought a kid on a public bus, okay. We’re not the problem here.”

“Can you believe this kid?” The high man asked the lady, “A tourist thinks he knows more than us!” 

“I’m not a tourist!” 

“You’re certainly acting like one! So loud and rude! This whole ride!” The lady turned her nose up into the air, and Soul gasped, affronted and offended.  

“Does it really sound like I want any of this conversation to be happening?” His voice was a touch bit hysterical, “How is this my fault? I was just sitting here. This is so stup—I-I am not a tourist! I work for DWMA. I went to the school! I don’t need advice!” 

“Then you’re a liar.” The lady sneered, “And that’s worse than a tourist.” 

“And now I’m a liar.” He threw his hands up in disbelief, “How am I suddenly a liar?”  

“You work for DWMA and don’t know who the Last Death Scythe is? He saved the world! You should do better to know your superiors.” The woman tsked, and he covered his face with his hands, muffling something akin to a high-pitched scream. More people on the bus were chiming in now, accusing him of lying, causing a scene, and thievery, for some fuck up reason, and slowly the world around him began to spiral out of control.

Like the concerts he performed when he was a child, all the attention quickly became suffocating, and the noise amplified in his head, a constant drumming beat behind his eyes. His lungs began to constrict, his vision started to tunnel, and just as he began to panic about spiraling into madness—with Marc and Kid’s bullets still on his mind—to his relief, he felt the bus decelerating as it came to its next stop. 

“Fine! Fine! You wanna know why I don’t know him?” In one fluid motion, he shot up and threw off his cap and sunglasses, “Because I am him! See,” He motioned to his face, “not a fucking tourist!” 

He gathered his duffel bag and package before jumping over the drunk guy. Heat continued to prickle the back of his neck, and he hardly paid attention to the group’s faces as he yelled, “I’m not a liar! So, fuck you, fuck you,” He flicked off the high guy and the drunk guy, then the lady, “fuck you,” and after tucking Maka’s package underneath his arm, he double flicked off the crying toddler, “and double fuck you!” 

He turned down the aisle before anyone could say anything else. 

“Fucking bus,” He grumbled, bounding off the steps and pushing through the crowd. 

“Holy shit, is that the Last Scythe?” He overheard one person say, and there were a few other shouts of recognition as he elbowed his way to a more secluded side street. Once there, his actions caught up with him, and he immediately regretted tossing his glasses and hat to the side. Hunkering into the hood of his hoodie, he walked the remaining few blocks to safer territory with his head down. 

He cringed at his supreme idiocy as he thought about the baby he double-flipped off and kicked a can against an ally wall

“That’s gonna bite me in the ass,” he predicted out loud, sucking his teeth. Karma never not bit him in the ass. 

Given the substantial detour he had been forced to take, he got back to their apartment way later than expected. The heat of the day had lingered well into the evening, and by the time he bounded up the eight flights of stairs to his apartment—because, of course, the elevator was out—with all their shit still cradled in his arms, he had sweat pouring down his temples. Fucking Nevada, right?

He was hot, sweaty, tired, and felt guilty about everything under the sun, and all he wanted was to make it without another bad thing happening, but just as he had predicted, karma, of course, came walking around the corner. 

“Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me,” Soul chanted under his breath, breaking into an awkward half-run-half-walk toward his and Maka’s apartment door. 

“Soul!” 

He froze, glaring at his doorknob like it had murdered his family before plastering on a fake, toothy grin. 

“Hi, Mrs. Ranger,” He gritted out through his teeth, “how are you?” 

Mrs. Ranger wasn’t a tiny, frail old woman. The seventy-something had a spunk in her that wouldn’t die. She wore bright red-rimmed glasses that enlarged her eyes to a comical degree, always wore a shawl or scarf in the same uppity fashion, and, worst of all, was the biggest busy-body he had ever met, and one of his best friends was Liz Thompson. 

“Not well!” She snapped at him. 

Go figure, he thought as he said, “That’s too bad.” 

“Your wretched cat-sitter was back again!”  

That checked out too. Fucking Blair. 

“That does happen when we leave,” He remarked, fumbling with his door keys as he balanced Maka’s package and their duffle bag in his other arm. 

“I don’t know why you two insist on hiring her. I’d be more than happy to watch Blair for you while you’re gone instead of having that—that—” Mrs. Ranger’s cheeks tinted red with anger, “floozy coming around, making noise, talking to my Jeffery. I had half a mind to call the police on her, Soul, half a mind. Now, I respect Maka and you more than that, but still something has to be done,” She continued to screech. “Someone has to do something! So, I’ve talked to the Board. I’ve done it. I’ve had enough! Something must be done. Must be!” 

He swallowed a broken sigh. Jeffery Ranger was quite the opposite of his wife. Mr. Ranger hated Blair (cat form) but loved Blair (human form). He and Maka had told Blair hundreds of times to avoid their older neighbors, but each Ranger was a horrible enabler to the side of Blair they preferred. Mrs. Ranger left out treats and toys, and warm milk. Mr. Ranger—well, quite frankly, Soul did not want to know what Mr. Ranger got up to with Blair in her human form, but at least he didn’t kick her while she was in her cat form, which Soul was sure Mrs. Ranger would do one day while Blair was in her human form. 

Gah.  

“Mrs. Ranger, Blair’s a—” 

“I don’t want to hear it!” The woman cried, cutting him off like she always did when they tried to explain what Blair was. “I think it’s admirable that you want to help that poor girl. She needs all the help she can get, but there are certain standards we abide by in this building.”

She thrust an envelope into his crowded hands, “You’re being summoned by the Board. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but her type is truly not welcomed here any longer.” 

He gawked at the red slip, “B-but, wait, we—we pay the pet fee!” 

“And we all love Blair,” Mrs. Ranger announced as she crossed the hall, “but the cat sitter has to go.” 

With a dramatic flourish, she yanked open and slammed her door shut, making him flinch. 

“Jeffery!” He heard her scream, “Jeffery! I’ve done it! It’s over, Jeffery, it. Is. Over.” 

“For fuck sake,” He spoke under his breath, staring at the incriminating red-letter envelope. He didn’t know whether he was annoyed or offended on his and Maka’s or Blair’s behalf. Death City was progressive, but sex workers still got the shit end of the stick. Of course, they had repeatedly warned Blair not to mess with the Rangers, but still. 

“For fuck sake,” He growled again, crumpling the envelope before turning to their door. Just another damn problem to solve! 

He ignored the happy little ‘Welcome!’ sign and started fumbling with his keys again. After dropping them twice, he threw open the door. When he was finally inside, he let out a puff of air, closing the door with his back and leaning against it. The pleasant thrum of their air conditioning met him like a caress, and he sighed again, relaxing further, pushing “out there” farther and farther away from the forefront of his mind.

He dropped their duffel bag unceremoniously off his shoulder and onto the floor, stepping into the living room before pausing. A flash of guilt filled him as he looked back at the limp bag, which had probably endured more hardship this past weekend than all of them combined, and yet, here he was, tossing it to the side like it had done nothing for them at all. 

He groaned and shuffled back to the bag, berating himself for personifying a thing, but hey, he was a part inanimate object on his mother’s side; for all he knew, he could have just tossed his cousin.  

“Oy-vey,” He muttered to himself, scooping up the bag and laying it down more carefully than necessary onto the couch along with the package and the letter. “Soul, for fuck sake, you’re losing it.” He stepped away from the sofa and continued to talk to himself, “Sides, I’d be more related to a butter knife than a bag anyway.” 

Fathers hide your daughters, he snorted; a Death Scythe and a comedian.

He stood straight, cracking his back before calling, “Blair! You little shit! Are you home?” When he got no answer, he scowled, “Blair, get out here now. You can’t hide! You’re in deep shit!” 

He pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the package, and sent it to Maka.

Got the package, he texted her and debated mentioning Mrs. Ranger and the Board summons. Before he could decide, she texted back, You’re the best <3 I owe you

Something warm flooded his guts, and he bit the inside of his cheek before responding, duh. Wha’s in this thing anyway its heavy as hell?

She didn’t text back immediately, so he picked up the duffle bag and walked through the apartment, checking each room and all of Blair’s hiding spots.  

“Blair!” He called, looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t in his closet, curled up on one of Maka’s pillows, or in the bathtub. After circling the living room and the bedrooms, he dropped the duffle bag on top of the laundry machine and went to the kitchen. There on the counter was a handwritten note.

His phone buzzed. 

Don’t worry about it, Maka answered him.

He groaned and rolled his eyes, Maka fr. It better not be more books. We don’t have any more room. The PANTRY has books in it.

I said don’t worry about it, didn’t I?

Your ridiculous. 

And *you’re worrying about something I literally said not to worry about. 

He shook his head and shoved his phone back in his pocket, turning to the mysterious letter on the counter. Purple glittery ink, screaming of Blair, stared back at him. 

Kitten, the letter began,

Mama’s with her other kitten! Blair switched shifts with Lay-Lay, so she could make sure Maka-baby has all the extra purrs she needs to feel better! But don’t worry~ Mama left you something yummy in the fridge! <3 <3 <3 Blair will see you soon! Sleep tight! 

Love,

Bu-tan, nya~ 

P.S.xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooooooxxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxxxxxxxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooooooxxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxxxxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Soul quickly flipped through the next three pages of Blair’s note, which were all filled with the same sequence of X’s and O’s, so he tossed the rest of the packet to the side and stared at the fridge with deep suspicion. Anything could have been in that box; if it was like last time, he wasn’t looking forward to it. 

He pulled out his phone and shot a warning text to Maka, FYI Blair Incoming. 

Her response back was almost immediate, She’s already here. 

As evidence, a photo quickly followed suit, depicting Blair cuddling Kid. He snorted, Better him than me.

Next, he cropped the picture so it was just Kid’s face. His eyes were wide and embarrassed, shit, is that the Gay Panic Liz is always talking about???

Maka sent three laughing emojis, shut up it still hurts to laugh. You should have seen how fast he booked it out of here. 

What’d Black*Star do?

Oblivious, as always. 

shame. 

Truly.

He placed his phone down, squared his shoulders, and turned to the fridge. He took a deep breath and counted to three before yanking the door open. He jumped backward, ready for anything to pop out, but what awaited him were four dead mice lined up in a row right in front of the milk, all in various states of decay. 

“Better than last time,” He mumbled, reaching for the plastic gloves Maka kept on the counter as he recalled the (very much still alive) python Blair had once dragged home. Still, the fridge would need to be wiped down. He glanced at the clock and tried to figure out how much time he had until Spirit bludgeoned down the door. 

“Better safe than sorry,” He shrugged, letting the fridge close and making a mental note to come back later. 

He circled back to the laundry room, dumped their dirty clothes in the wash, and pulled out her toiletries. He took those and the package to her room and looked around for another overnight bag, or at least something cleaner than the duffle. He found what he was looking for stored in her closet, and while there, pulled out two days’ worth of comfortable clothing, stuff he knew she could sleep and walk around in without feeling “silly in public.” 

He folded the oversized shirts and shorts, and then, popped into her attached bathroom. He had let Maka have the primary suite, and he used the bathroom in the hall. The separate bathrooms were meant to minimize their morning arguments, but it didn’t appear to matter because there was the pile of his headbands that she was hoarding next to her sink. He rolled his eyes and tossed two in, along with her hair bonnets. He skipped over her books, found an extra charger, and packed her a box of her favorite tea and a few protein bars to tide her over until he could locate some real food. 

Next, he stopped in his room to grab a sweater from his dresser. He almost tossed it in the bag, but thought twice and held onto it, debating if it was a good idea. It was only a regular black sweater with the school emblem on the chest pocket. While Maka always insisted she didn’t steal his clothes, he had caught her one too many times to believe it and knew she liked this one. Most everyone at DWMA had some variation of the same article of clothing, so if someone saw her wearing it, they likely wouldn’t think anything of it. But what if they did think it was his? What would they think of him giving it to her? Was it odd or desperate? Did it prove some disloyalty to Kid?

He huffed, shaking his head, and stuffed the sweater into the bag—other people be damned.  Maka liked wearing his sweaters because she liked wearing sweaters, nothing more to it. It meant nothing at all. Not to her. Not to him. Not to anyone.

And if wearing his sweater brought her some comfort, or made her feel safe, or—

“Stop.” He commanded himself, zipping up the bag.

He couldn’t think of much else to pack but tucked in her headphones just in case and tossed the bag onto the couch. The very moment his ass touched the sofa, there was a knock at the door. 

He groaned as he stood up.

Spirit Incoming, came Maka’s warning text. 

Already here. 

The knocking increased in volume the longer he took to get to the door, and his mood soured even more. 

Ugh. Stall him, please, Maka responded. 

“Hello, Spirit.” He deadpanned, opening the door. Spirit didn’t stop knocking until it was completely open, and when he did stop, he glared at him. They were now the same height, so if Spirit’s glare was ever intimidating, it was now completely lost on Soul.  

Spirit stuck out a hand, “What took so long? You know Maka’s waiting! Give me her things!” 

Soul turned away from Spirit’s outstretched hands, letting the door fall wide open, “Her shit’s in here, old man. Calm down.” 

“Old man!” Spirit sneered, stepping into their apartment after him. 

“I was just getting all her stuff together,” He sighed, ignoring the way Spirit was practically breathing down his neck, “it’s right here on the—” 

He reached for her bag, but Spirit snatched it up before his fingertips could even graze its handles. Soul felt a vein pop in his forehead, but he gritted his teeth and bared it. Spirit was Spirt, and their relationship had always been strained. 

But, hey, it took two to tango.

“I’ll take that!” Spirit announced, clutching the bag to his chest, “I need to see if you actually packed useful things—” He unzipped the bag and began to root around it while he lectured, “—my daughter’s very particular, and she only gets the best, especially when she’s hurt. You know, she shouldn’t have even gotten hurt in the first place! What a useless weapon you are, by the way. You’re supposed to protect her! If she just let her papa take care of her, this wouldn’t have—” 

Spirit stopped short. Slowly, he raised a garment from the bag, revealing one of Maka’s compression shorts. Soul’s eyes rolled to the back of his head before Spirit could even say anything.

Here it comes, he thought; here comes the drama. 

“What, Spirit?” He sighed, crossing his arms and leveling the older man with a look, “It wasn’t like I was going to let her go without underwear.”

“You went through my daughter’s delicates?” Spirit asked through gritted teeth, letting his voice fall into a whisper at the mere mention of her “delicates.” 

“No.” He disagreed, “I went into her dresser and pulled out underwear.” 

“Who gave you permission to do that?” 

“Maka.” 

“No.” 

“Oh brother,” He muttered, then said, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. We live together. We do laundry together.” He rubbed at his face, exhausted, “Anyway, sorry, but Maka’s boy underwear doesn’t do anything for me, Spirit, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

Admittedly, he added that last part to piss off Spirit, but it was true. It wasn’t like he was rooting around in Maka’s underwear draw for fun. If Maka even had sexier underwear, he wasn’t privy to it. 

“This isn’t boy underwear!” Spirit shook the compression shorts in his face, “You’re saying this doesn’t do it for you? What kind of guy are you, huh! My Maka isn’t good enough for you? I don’t believe your lies. Where’s Blair! She should have packed her underwear. I know she’s not working tonight!”

“Are you keeping tabs on our cat?” He drawled, but the accusation didn’t faze the pervert. 

“Blair!” Spirit called out, turning in circles, still flapping Maka’s underwear around, “Blair! Where are you!” 

Soul massaged the bridge of his nose, “She switched her shifts, Spirit. She wanted to make sure she had time to see Maka. I think she’s planning on staying the—” He paused and cursed, “—shit, hang on, I forgot Mak’s sleeping mask.” 

“You forgot!” Spirit chided, “See! This is exactly what I’m talking about. She needs someone more dependable.” 

“You’re the expert,” He mumbled under his breath, slipping down the hall to her room. 

Spirit followed after him, “What was that?” 

“Nothing,” He sighed, nudging her door open. Spirit didn’t follow him inside. He stopped at the threshold of her room, going still and quiet, as Soul rooted around her bed in search of her sleeping mask.

The sudden change in Spirit’s behavior wasn’t as odd as one would believe. Of course, it had nothing to do with any sudden appreciation for personal space, but instead, everything to do with the constant fragile state of his and Maka’s relationship.

Soul stole a look at Spirit’s reflection in Maka’s mirror, and he seemed to be taking in the entirety of her bedroom in an awe-like state. It was likely the first time in years Spirit had seen the inside of his daughter’s room, filled to the brim with potted plants, books, and hundreds of to-do lists, calendars, and agendas. It was cluttered, but it was Maka’s, so at the same time, it was all very organized. 

This was the deepest Spirit had ever gotten in either of their apartments. Usually, Maka didn’t let him get any further than the living room or the kitchen. Soul was fine with this rule, but Spirit didn’t listen to him.

Out of some strange pity for Spirit—even if he didn’t deserve it—Soul took his time finding the sleeping mask, purposefully letting him soak it all up. It wasn’t like he was a bad dad; he was just, well, Spirit—too desperate for her attention and prone to fucking up. Embarrassingly, they had this common whether Spirit knew it or not.

So, Soul gave him those extra few seconds before tossing over the mask, “Here it is.” 

Spirit caught it without looking, his eyes tracing the collage of pictures she had stuck in the frame of her mirror. On top, partially hidden by a picture of him, Maka, and Crona, but still visible if you knew what you were looking at, was a baby picture of her and Spirit. 

“About time,” Spirit ripped his gaze away from the picture, “you’ve held me up for so long, I bet she’s wondering where I’m at.” 

“Sure,” he rolled his eyes, ushering him down the hall, “tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow. If she needs anything, she knows to text me.”  

“No need,” Spirit squared his jaw, “I can get her anything she needs.” 

“Right-o, pops,” He mock saluted him, opening the door, “best of luck to ya.” 

Spirit glared, “Keep it.” 

He slammed the door shut on the heels of Spirit’s feet and flopped face-first onto the couch with a loud groan. When his body registered he was practically suffocating himself, he turned his head to the side and stared blankly at their tv. 

With another sigh, he pulled his phone out and quickly texted Maka, Spirit Incoming. 

Dammit Soul. You couldn’t keep him with you any longer? She replied five minutes later. 

Mak, I love you, but not that much.

BOOOOOO!

He snorted and rolled off the couch, the silence of the empty apartment suddenly too much to bear, and crawled his way to his turntable. 

After the week he had, he needed at least a month of musical therapy to unwind. He plugged in his headphones and started flipping through his vinyl. All of his regulars were there and accounted for and guaranteed to make him feel better, but why feel better when you could wallow and feel worse?

There was certainly nothing like being self-destructive to end an already shitty week.

He hopped up and made his way into his bedroom. Carefully hidden in the back of his closet, behind the mountain of clothes Blair seemingly nested in, was a box he didn’t break out often. Tonight, though, he yanked it out of its hiding spot and peeled back the flaps to reveal the variety of keepsakes he had taken with him when he first set out for DWMA. 

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for since it was still right on top, just as he had left it before their work trip. The record cover was a sleek black, and on the front, in embellished font, was his mother’s first name. His father had composed this record as a twenty-fifth-anniversary present. There were twenty-five tracks—a two-record album to hold it all—and each song marked a year of their marriage. His father’s recording studio had only released a limited number of copies the same year Soul had left for DWMA, and despite it having been his father’s passion project for as long as he could remember, Soul hadn’t heard a single note of it. 

Of course, he had known about the release. It hadn’t been any secret. The music world had been buzzing for it, and despite what other people thought, he still kept tabs on his family. 

What could he say? He was a masochist. 

He had counted down the days before the album’s release, and then, on the day of release, he locked himself in his bedroom, cried his eyes out, and stress-ate two large pizzas by himself. He hadn’t gotten his hands on a copy of the record; he hadn’t wanted to, but the night before he and Maka were set to leave for their mission, Liz and Kilik had dragged him to the record store for a blow-out sale. 

He had found the album in the used section and couldn’t help feeling insulted. Objectively, Soul knew it was a good album; his father didn’t compose bad albums. His father’s limited-edition vinyl didn’t go for cheap, to say the least, so why anyone would want to resell it was beyond him. 

He had tried to ignore the record, purposefully picking up more albums than he could reasonably afford. Still, after he eyed some old guy examining his father’s music, he returned to the resell section, snatching up the vinyl before someone else could. Liz or Kilik hadn’t known any better, which wasn’t unexpected; he didn’t talk about his parents. 

“Hey, what’s that, Soul?” Liz had asked, “Jazz?” 

“Yeah,” He had shrugged, placing it carefully in his bag, “just replacing an old one that got ruined in the move.” 

Kilik had tsked, “I told Black*Star not to fuck with those boxes. He just doesn’t get it, man.” 

He felt bad letting Black*Star take the blame for a split second but figured the guy owed him one or two. 

“Eh, it’s whatever,” He had shrugged again, “you two hungry?” 

He had gotten home that night without looking at the album. He had shoved it directly into his keepsake box, hoping Maka or Blair wouldn’t notice anything wrong with him. He suspected Maka knew something was up by the way she kept staring at him, but he refused to acknowledge her stray looks. 

Despite buying the record, he had never actually planned on listening to it. He had only wanted to save it from that store and the old man, but Spirit had triggered something within him like he often did. How much Spirit cared about Maka despite her thinking otherwise made Soul think about his father, and he wondered if he hadn’t left for DWMA what their relationship would have been like now. 

“The piano ain’t got no wrong notes,” His father had always told him, quoting Thelonious Monk, who would have been his name’s sake—and in some ways still was—if not for his father putting his foot down. 

He could remember the conversation he and his father had about his name perfectly because it was during one of those rare instances his father had the time to help him with his piano scales. Soul had never expected his father to seek him out, but there he had been in all his musical glory, choosing to help him get out of some piano-related punishment his mother had ordered, instead of using his precious little free time to do something more productive.  

“I suggested Monk to go with Wes, but she’d only agree to Monk if your real name was Thelonious, and I wasn’t going to do that to ya, kid.” His father had explained one night, “Which was a shame; it was hard enough getting her to agree to Wes. You know what your mom thinks of jazz.” 

He had rolled his eyes because, of course, he knew. His mother’s heart had and always would belong to the classics for reasons beyond him. If everything had gone his mother’s way, his name would have been some horrendous mash-up of Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven. 

“Aw,” His father had winked and laughed, stretching his fingers across their grand piano, “she means well, you know that. You were a stubborn kid. You hardly kicked or moved when she was first pregnant with you, so she thought you were a goner. Completely gave up on names, no matter what I said. But the first time you heard jazz—” his father had run his fingers across the keys in a fast flourish, “—boom! It was like you had finally found your soul! She cried for weeks. You should have seen her.” His had father laughed again. It had sounded warm and fond. “I said, I told her, babydoll, it’s like they always say—” 

“—ya gotta have soul, Soul,” Soul snorted, finishing his father’s lamest joke as he gently placed the record on the turntable.

He turned it off before it reached his birthday. He wanted to hurt, but not that much.

[jupitersrising]

How do we think Annabeth coped with going to college in New Rome? Genuinely. She grew up at a camp where she was sure every moment could be her last. If she didn't train hard enough, if she couldn't outthink a monster or beat a trap or plan accordingly, she'd die. Her friends would die, her siblings would die (she already lost Thalia, even though she came back. She lost Luke, even though he betrayed her. Not to mention the countless siblings that must have died in the war.)

But...it's not just that. I feel like we've talked about how Percy and Annabeth would feel when they saw a city of grown up demigods with great grandkids something that's literally unheard of.

How do we think Annabeth coped with actually life? I mean cleaning the house and doing the dishes. I mean making sure she made time for herself besides work. I mean filing taxes and learning to drive and going grocery shopping. (She'd probably never work a retail job, but if she had to for some reason, what about that?)

You'd think it'd be obvious at first: she'd do great. But really? She grew up at a camp where she knew she was going to die young—hopefully in a blaze of glory. Where she was raised by other teenagers, where she was raising the kids younger than her. There's a solidarity in that, that New Rome won't have with their military system.

Not only would she lose her community, she'd lose the family and friends she'd spent her whole life around. The campers that are still alive were there for almost all her firsts. She went to camp at seven, seven years old, those people are her entire world.

So, now she's eighteen and living with her boyfriend in an actual city for the first time. Think about all the struggles she would have? New Rome would obviously have dyslexia and ADHD accommodations, almost everyone there has both. But...that can't fix everything. Those dyslexia accommodations are in Roman, not Greek, so it doesn't help any of the Greek demigods. The ADHD accommodations might not even exist because of New Rome's army. I feel like they would've been taught to suppress their ADHD and not let it get in the way of conformity and discipline (the roman way of fighting). It'd be seen as a form of weakness if they let those impulses take over them. (See how Jason and Hazel and Reyna act in the books. Though this could be chalked up to inconsistent writing.)

How does she deal with rigid scheduling of New Rome vs the lax, teenage-run camp of her youth? The discipline aspect can't mend well with her ADHD, especially when she's spent the last eleven years around people who get it. When she's spent the last eleven years not having to comply to "normal society" standards. Do you think she had problems with deadlines for classes she didn't like? Because she hyper fixated on architecture design, she wouldn't have had a problem with designing Olympus. But for her English class that she's has to take to graduate? No way, she'd procrastinate the hell out of it. What about waking up for her eight am when she has a really good idea for a new design and just needs a couple more minutes...and suddenly its hours later and Percy is home and she's losing participation points because she can't remember to go to class.

What about anxiety? Annabeth hasn't been around these people before. Not like at camp, where she knew everyone. That must ease the anxiety quite a bit. The social aspect gets easier because most everyone grew up with that little girl who stumbled into camp. She already knew Grover, and had Luke to hold her hand through social interactions when she was younger. By the time she got older she has that confidence in herself to be able to mess around and have fun with these people. But to New Rome, she's a war leader, she's a Greek demigod. She's an unknown variable that they don't know how to deal with.

How could she talk to them? None of them knew her as the kid who would take any dare. Or heard her ramble on and on about her hyper fixations to anyone who would listen. They don't see her prank the Stolls back (you can't tell me she wouldn't) or run through the strawberry fields after a rainstorm and get covered in mud for the fun of it.

No, all they saw was a war leader and someone who had clawed their way back from Tartarus. They saw how she spoke about the Gods when they still respected them. They heard that she traversed to Olympus all the time while she remodeled it. She spoke to Gods that none of her peers could dream of being in the presence of.

How could she make friends with those people? With people who didn't understand the blood, sweat, and tears it took to get here. With people who respected an institution Annabeth had long since given up on. With people who saw her for her titles and her quests rather than who she was as a person.

Looping back around, let's go to real life stuff. Annabeth had to pay for things on quests, but do we really think she knows how money works? At camp, everyone basically uses drachmas. And even then, their basic needs are being met. They don't have to pay for food, housing, water, etc. You can't tell me Chiron takes the camp van to the mall whenever year-round campers want clothes. They're either bought for them, or the Aphrodite kids make it, or one of the older kids goes out with the camp credit card and just...buys the whole store to bring back. Drachmas are usually only used for bets and dealing with entities on quests.

For the first time in her life, (since she was seven and really seven year olds don't understand how money works, not matter how smart they are. Plus Luke or Thalia would probably be the ones buying stuff, since they were older and it'd be less questionable if they walked into a store by themselves than a little kid.) her basic needs aren't guaranteed. If she fucks up, it's her fault. Do you think she drained their bank account buying something at the store (because, again, she hasn't really gone to those other than when she's on a quest) and had a panic attack over the fact that she, Annabeth Chase, who commanded armies over two wars, who was known as one of the greatest demigods to date, just fucked up big time? Because she wasn't used to having to spend the money on rent and textbooks and supplies for her architecture business. Because food was always there for her to eat when she was hungry and the water always ran and the lights never went out? Do you think that after all this time she forgot that stuff like that wasn't always going to be there?

She grew up thinking she was going to die young. She was going to die at Camp Half-Blood where those things would always be in full stock.

What about the apartment? She's not used to having her own kitchen, or bathroom that wasn't communal. Do you think she sought out the snacks her siblings liked before remembering that she siblings weren't there, they were hundred of miles away in New York. Do you think she knew how to clean an entire house? How to keep a house clean? Obviously as Head Counselor of the Athena Cabin, she'd make sure it was clean in time for inspections. But did that include kids using chemicals to deep clean? Did that include remembering to vacuum under the furniture every so often, or did they leave it since Chiron didn't look under there. (Again, everyone here is teenagers at the oldest, they're not gonna want to deep clean). Do you think that she didn't pick up clutter because she was so used to rushing last minute to make sure her and her sibling's clutter was clean in time for inspections that the thought of doing it regularly just...never crossed her mind?

Also, driving. We know Percy learned for Paul when he turned fifteen (aka the iconic horse hooves on the hood of the car scene), but who taught Annabeth? Did any of the older campers know? Did Luke? They either got drove around by Argus or didn't leave. They had pegasi to fly around camp and boats of war. Who was going to sit down with fifteen year old Annabeth and teach her how to drive? Especially with the war getting close. Nobody would have time, even if they wanted to. Who was going to take fifteen year old Annabeth Chase to get her drivers permit when they were making plans of attack instead. After the war, Percy went missing and all her time was taken up looking for him. You can't tell me she took driving classes when she was tearing the world apart to find him.

We also know Annabeth doesn't like to have to depend on other people. Since they either died or betrayed her. So how would she feel walking into a world where it's hard to get around without a car. Buses can be inconsistent and close early. Idk about a subway system in California, but still there's that dependance on other peoples' schedules. She'd have to have friends drive her to and from places, but again, she left most of her community behind in New York. She can't just use Blackjack to get around if she goes into the mortal world.

I'm not sure, I'd just like to see more explorations of Annabeth dealing with mundane tasks she never learned how to do. I want to see the impact of living when she thought she was going to die young and not knowing how to deal with adult things. I want to see how she reaches to the institution of New Rome and how people treat her. I want to see how she feels when she never thought she'd have to pay taxes or worry about apartments and yet...there is she.

[mephi-stopheles]

i’ve had this in my wips for awhile and i’m not sure if i’ll do anything with it. it helped me get out of my writing slump though. i’ve taken some original japanese myths and twisted them a bit, world building has always been my favorite thing. anyway, here :)

——————————————————

Bakugou Katsuki gave his blood, breath, and life to the throne. Gave everything to the royal who sat beside it. By the time he was fifteen he’d mastered the sword and began training with the castle’s resident training mage- a thin man with golden hair and a cloak he kept over the bottom half of his face. By eighteen he learned how to control the flame despite its chaotic nature. By nineteen he’d sworn his entirety to Prince Kirishima, sworn to protect him above all else, anyone else.

He’d failed.

Despite what the others might tell him, he had failed the prince. The blood clinging to his fingertips stands as a reminder. Warm crimson drips, hits the stone path with a laugh. Bakugou winces as he shifts his hold on his prince.

It had been cloudy, the sun taking home in the prince’s smile instead of the sky for the morning. Both the prince and his knight had taken shelter from the sudden rain in the royal greenhouse. Raija must be upset today, the prince laughed as they ran. It was nothing they hadn’t indulged in before: chapped lips pressed to soft ones, calloused fingers intertwining. Gentle, as most things involving Prince Kirishima were, they moved until the back of his knees found the fountain's edge.

Bakugou let his surroundings blend with snapdragons and gladiolus’. He only saw striking red, smelled nothing but the earth, and felt only his prince’s face cradled between his palms. Nothing could compare to the moments they stole together. Everlasting, unwavering, captivating- he would never speak these truths aloud, never reveal this weakness.

Everlasting light bled from the Kirishima souls, those on the throne and those in line. The people adored them as much as Bakugou adored the prince, to hell if he’d ever admit that to anyone. It only makes sense for his wound to bleed a millenium.

Unwavering loyalty to his people and his throne, Prince Kirishima would give everything to keep it- and its secrets- safe. Countless times he’d put himself between a looming threat and an innocent life. So, of course, he had pushed Bakugou away the moment glass shattered around them, the knight landing in cool water as he fell away from his prince.

Captivating even in the face of death. His eyes mimic the blooming mess on his blouse, thinned with the rain, soaked with Bakugou's failure.

Royal blood coats his hands as he keeps pressure around the length of the arrow in the prince's abdomen. Warmth wells up in his eyes but he refuses to cry, refuses to show that he has no solution, no hope.

“You’re fine your majesty,” he hushes as Kirishima tries to move, stilling with a wince when he jostles. He had yelled for more guards minutes ago, where the hell were they? “We’ll get you to a healer, hold on a bit longer, yeah?”

The prince forced out a weak laugh, his eyes flutter close, “don’t look so worried, my knight, you’re okay.”

He clenches his jaw, staring down at the boy with enough anger to bring the heat of the flame to his palms. Bakugou could never come up with why Prince Kirishima held his knight's life over his own, held every life as if it was more precious than the glory hidden behind a stuttering rib cage.

“Prince Kiri-”

The prince looks slightly to the side, as if something past his knight has gotten his attention Bakugou could have missed it if he wasn’t watching the boy so intently. “Not that,” he manages, weak, quietly, “if this breath is to be my last I want to share it with you, to be called something real, to- to have something real.”

Bakugou shakes his head, cursing the teng’s who broke their promise of protection. “I cannot- this cannot be what takes you from me!”

“Katsuki,” his name shudders with the prince’s breath, he welcomes the smell of the morning toast and juice that lingers on the royal tongue. Would collect it in a jar if only to have something to remind him of his carelessness. “You must know-“

The knight curses the heavens once more as the thunder of footfalls begin to surround them. He’s surprised the windows don’t give under the scream the queen gives for her broken child. Hands grip firmly at his underarms, yanking backwards. The vile words that spill upon the other knights fall from his lips freely, elbow shoved backwards in an attempt to free himself from his captor's hold.

“Baku-“ His punch lands, rewarding him with a pained huff, “Bakugou stop it!” He stills as his mentors hold on him tightens significantly. The scene blurs in front of him yet continues to unfold in red. Something drips down his cheeks, slips onto his lips silently, he wonders when the roof started to leak.

fin.

——————————————————

[silverslipstream]

Five Red Lights

The sun seems to crack the Adelaide Street Circuit right open, until the ground is nothing but a blur of heat-hazed tarmac, lurid sponsor decals and the endless blue-white dome of an Australian summer sky. It's thirty-four degrees in the shade. Yet, somehow, this searing heat can't hold a candle to the frisson of excitement that seems to set the very breeze alight. Confetti drifts from the grandstands; the sound of horns circles almost lazily over the baying crowds.

On the grid, the final preparations are underway. The cars glisten and shimmer, each one surrounded by crews of engineers and technicians. Scantily-glad 'grid girls' stand in front of the cars, cheering and waving to the crowds. Each one carries a placard with their respective driver's name, nationality and starting position emblazoned on it.

As the countdown to lights out continues, the team personnel scramble off the tarmac, leaving only the drivers and their machines. Twenty-six of the finest racing drivers on the planet, bodies and minds honed to the perfection of a singular purpose. It takes a special kind of person to be able to strap themselves into an F1 car without fear. You have to be almost insane in your self-belief, yet fighter pilot-like in your calculations, your mentality.

Most of all, you can't think about it for a second. Nobody in their right mind would strap themselves to a 200-mile-per-hour carbon-fibre tub and battle twenty-five other cars, inches from death every second of every minute.

It's a Roman gladiatorial battle in technicolour, and Adelaide is its Colosseum.

The excitement reaches a fever pitch. A brilliant scarlet light blinks on, the first of five. By now, every car's engine is screaming at 14,000 rpm, a crescendo of noise and heat and flame eighteen thousand horsepower in the making.

A second light blinks on. Gloves tighten around steering wheels and pistons pump fiercely, unburnt fuel hissing and popping in a rush of flame.

Third light. The commentators' excited chatter has given way to bated breath. Even the team radio sets are silent. Every synapse of the drivers' brains is focused on those lights, waiting for all five to glow - then extinguish.

Fourth light. The hairs on the ends of 120,000 spectators, and millions watching around the globe stand on end in anticipation. Sixteen races, fifteen countries, love, hatred, speed, glory: it all comes down to this.

Fifth light. On the grid, off the grid: every heart under the Adelaide sun beats as one.

Then the lights are are out, and with a shrill roar, the cars launch off the line, hurtling towards Turn 1. It's a race that will break hearts, pop champagne corks and decide destinies.

[kimwedlock]

The Calling

Estimated reading time: 20 minutes

    The long, flat drone of a horn ricocheted across the frozen, rock-studded landscape. Even in the throes of sleep, there wasn't a doubt in Katriga's heart that it was for her.    She was out of bed in an instant, startling the little red dragon that had been curled up at the foot, and ran out through the door before he could even peep in surprise. Nothing but the gods themselves could have stopped her as she darted through the house. She didn't pause to snatch a breakfast, nor even call 'good morning' to her family - and the idea of actually waiting for them was as far from her mind as the fresh coat of paint on the front door.    But they would come. They had to. The Calling was the most important day of her life.    Somehow, despite being no bigger than a week-old kitten, Mogar managed to catch up before she was half way across the village, and the tiny little dragon took his place on her shoulder as she ran for its boundaries and out to the frosted valleys beyond.    The Calling. Yesterday, Kat had turned eighteen and experienced the Kúkhulænn in all its painful glory, besting every challenge her clan presented - even if the challengers had all been the better part of drunk. But she had to admit - to herself, never out loud - that she was still a little sore from those duels that morning. She'd been in no fit state to stretch when it was finished, and even now she felt nauseous. She didn't believe for a moment that it could all have been nerves. Whatever trial awaited her out here, she knew she wasn't going to pass it with flying colours...    But the night had been worth it, and today would be even better. Once she'd answered her ancestors' call, the world would open up before her, and she would finally be able to travel!    Kat couldn't suppress the grin on her face as she tugged at the straps of her new plated fists, and her boots pounded harder over the ground.    A chill wind chased her across the jagged valleys, just as it harried the rushing rivers and bent the creaking pines. And ahead at last, where the rough-hewn ground finally levelled out, guarded by ancient standing stones and shaded by bowing trees, stood a single, perfect, grassy mound.    Only with the barrow firmly in sight did Kat finally slow down. Winded and dizzy, her excitement carried her ahead of it all. She barely noticed the crowd gathering a short way behind her; there was only the dense, heavy weight of a dozen presences ahead.    Her breath caught in her throat when she understood what she was feeling, and her blood-red eyes flicked across the barrow in a fever, searching for...well, she wasn't really sure what for. A clue, she supposed. Because she'd arrived at the source of the horn blast, which itself had long since faded; she'd answered the call. But nothing at all was happening.    She blinked and looked down at her feet. Perhaps she was too far. She took a few steps and stopped again.    Nothing.    A knot tightened in her brow. Was she supposed to wait? Or maybe say something? But what? And what if she said it too loud and angered the spirits? Maybe she was still too far - maybe she was supposed to knock? But knock on what?    Maybe that was the clue. Perhaps she should go in.    She gasped at a sudden hand on her shoulder before she could take a step, and Mogar snapped and puffed his own fiery little warning. But her head snapped not towards spirit or draugr, but the clan shaman - though he was a startling sight, himself, painted as he was by tradition. But the look he gave her stifled any other sound her anxiety could shape, and he suggested, in his usual muted gestures, that she calm down, and breathe.    So she did just that, albeit with tremendous effort; closing her eyes, she smothered the fire in her heart at least until her hands stopped shaking, and came at last to notice something else laced into the air.    Chanting. Voices. Not those of anyone she knew, and yet she knew them better and more deeply than her own mothers'.    Then drums joined them, a slow, reiterating pattern that grew stronger with every cycle, shaking their way deeper into her bones until her heart beat in time with them.

    The crowd gasped, and Mogar peeped in startlement as he plummeted to the ground where Katriga had been standing just a moment ago.

    A sudden harsh, salty tinge wrinkled her nose, and her eyes opened to a raging twilight sea.    Kat swore and staggered backwards from the precipice, stumbling until she crashed to her rear, her heart hammering in her ears over the roar of the wind. It took a long, stunned moment before she dared to crawl forwards and peer over the edge to the swirling white crests below. Her heart lurched even higher into her throat.    She stole a look behind her despite the certainty that the edge would creep closer if she took her eyes off it. The peninsula was probably no bigger than the hall of the jarl, her mother, but it was uneven, and half of it sloped enough to send her tumbling into the sea. Vertigo made her equally certain that she was already falling.    Her fingers dug into the hard earth until, slowly, she pushed herself up. With a deep breath, she grounded her feet and looked around. A fjord opened a ways back behind her, and the mouth of the river opened up to the sea, with other rocky, tree-topped towers scattered in between. The sky above it was purple, streaked with long wisps of cloud, and the sea below stole a great deal of its colour for itself. But it was nowhere she knew. And, she suspected, nowhen.    "What..." She had no idea what her own question would have become. This wasn't what she'd expected. Anything could happen when one was Called, it was true - but she'd expected to fight, not be abducted...    It wasn't until a voice sent a tremor through the ground that she realised she stood alone.    "Katriga Ormslíkir."    She managed not to slip as she spun around to find it. "Yes?" She could see no one at all. "Where--"    "You seek to travel," the voice boomed on. It sounded like an accusation. "To leave your ancestral home. Your roots. Your people. What do you expect to find out there that should be worth leaving your family?"    Dizziness forced her to stop spinning, but she was given no chance to answer.    "You have reached your eighteenth year. You have answered our Call. And now, you will be challenged."    She wasn't sure if she should feel relieved at that or not, but at least something was happening now. 'Show respect, don't argue, and succeed.' That was the best advice she'd been given the night before, among plenty of worse, and some she couldn't think for a moment would ever have been applicable. But as simple as even those words were, it was the best she had, and she would heed them to the letter.    Kat straightened and placed her fist over her heart. "I'm ready."    In that moment, all colour bleached from the world as a fog closed in. It consumed the sea, the fjord and the very precipice in a heartbeat. She fought against taking a single step backwards in case the edge had moved after all, but the cloud thickened quickly, pressing in, smothering, seeping into her very lungs.    And then, as alarm began to creep up her spine, she saw a shadow moving through the veil. Then another. And another. Five of them circled around her, vanishing and reappearing in the depths of the fog, until one of them broke from its path and lurched its way towards her.    Here was her fight.    Her fist tightened. She had no weapon but her plated knuckles - but that was just fine.    Before the shape could fully coalesce, she drew back her arm and loosed a rapid hook. The shadow shrieked, its voice distant and muffled, and staggered backwards leaving a trail of grey in its wake. Had she hit it? She hadn't felt her fist strike anything...    She was given no time to think on it before a second closed in.    "You can punch me," the same ghostly voice rumbled through the ground, "kick me...and cut me...but always...without blood or weapon...will I march back upon you."    She could barely spare a moment to curse, let alone comprehend the threat, and continued to lash out as, one by one, the shadows attacked, retreated with a hiss, and lurched their way forwards yet again.    "What...am I?"   'Riddles?!' But her immediate answer remained firmly behind her teeth. It wouldn't agree with showing respect. She continued instead to fight them off, growling against their unearthly snarls, channelling her frustration into her strikes. But for every one she repelled, another fell right back upon her. And every blow yielded nothing but that same grey wisp.    Doubt quickly set in. Her fists had never failed her before - but she'd never fought things like this before, either. She couldn't even be sure that any blow was actually landing or if they weren't dodging backwards at just the last moment, trying to wear her down before setting upon her in earnest. And if she was hitting them, and those shrieks were shrieks of pain, it didn't seem to be doing a damned thing to stop them.    And the fog helped nothing, disorienting her as each shadow vanished and reappeared after every attempt. How many were there? Really? She'd counted five at first, but was that just a trick? Were there more? Less? Or were there others waiting just out of sight, and each strike she made defeated one entirely, only for it to be replaced by another from uncountable ranks?    Kat's boot slipped on the frosted ground and a startled curse barked from her lips. She grounded her feet again and stopped herself from spinning. But the assault continued from all sides.    They were tireless, unstoppable; always they closed back in. And as for what they were, how was she supposed to know?! And how was she supposed to defeat something that didn't bleed?! It was as if they were made of the fog itself!    The thought struck her so hard that the momentum of her punch overtook her.    Perhaps they were made of fog. And how was fog overpowered?   'It isn't...'    Her teeth clenched as her fist passed through another misty figure. It was a chance. But if there was no substance for her fist to hit...maybe they had no substance to hit her with, either...    With a deep breath, Kat lowered her arm and loosened her fingers. The shadowy figures slowed to a prowl and watched her through the cloud. The deep voice came again: "What...am I?"    "The fog."    The creatures slunk back into the grey. Then, slowly, the haze began to lift.    Katriga released an unsteady puff while the voice reverberated again, quite without a note of congratulation: "Not everything can be fought. Not everything should be fought. Some things will only drain your energy and leave you exposed when a true danger arises. Learn to observe and reason, and trust that some things will pass on their own."    But, as the last of the fog evaporated, an earth-rending roar shook the pinnacle and seared fresh alarm into her heart. And towering flames swarmed all around her.    She spun around, shielding herself against the heat of the crackling flame, and found herself staring into the seething ruby eyes of a dragon. Its great maw cracked open, and another roar bellowed free.    Instinct alone burst a matching roar from Katriga's own throat. Her boots grounded, she stared the great creature down, and it rightly shrank away. But before she could attempt to approach it, another roar gusted against her back, and the ground blazed in another wreath of fire.    She staggered away, cursing colourfully, and watched between barred arms as the second dragon ignored her entirely, snapping its maw at the first and swiping at its answering bellow. And she found, despite all rationality, something almost familiar in that first colossal beast while it stood its ground just as stubbornly as she had - familiar enough that she felt a sudden surge of rage when the attacker's talons raked across its face.    "I am as small...and as light...as a feather." She heard the voice perfectly clearly even over the fury and flames. "But the strongest man...cannot hold me for long."    Her fists tightened again, though she had no clue what she could possibly do, and dove forwards to try to help the smaller dragon.    "What...am I?"    Even in the scuffle to avoid the teeth and talons of both beasts, her mind had just room enough for a thought. But it couldn't possibly be Mogar, could it?    "Wrong," the voice boomed, and the dragons continued their fight while she scurried about between them, thrusting her fists against the attacker's scales. "You are thinking...about yourself..."    'Thinking about myself? While trying to defend this massive thing?!' And then another thought tumbled in. 'Not everything can or should be fought...' So she should do nothing?    Another roar rent the air, and the burning ground shook with an advancing step. The smaller dragon inched backwards, and for a moment she caught the briefest flash of fear in its eyes. A dragon rarely showed such a thing.    She couldn't do nothing.    So Katriga threw another punch into the attacker's hide with another draconic roar of her own, then another, and another, until she noticed her footing begin to slip. The ground was thawing. A snatched glance behind her revealed the crumble of the edge - and another to the side that the attacker was losing ground far more rapidly than its victim. If it kept breathing fire so furiously, it was going to make itself fall off.    When the smaller dragon roared its hatred and retreated another step backwards, Kat moved in. She ran around the larger dragon, punching against its impenetrable hide, making a nuisance of herself more than anything, if the thing had even noticed her. But she ran and struck anyway, doing all she could to draw its attention. A sharp flare of heat across her back suggested it was working.    Flames followed her in spurts and bouts, and the ground beneath her feet continued to soften, crumbling stone continued to fall, until, at last, the beast's great wings unfurled and it took to the sky with a frustrated howl of defeat.    "What," the voice came again, "am I?"    She stole a moment to breathe as she watched it go, then turned back towards the smaller dragon and held her hand out towards its burned muzzle. She smiled as it pressed back against her palm. "Fire," she replied, and with a rumble of approval, the dragon pulled back, spread his wings, and lifted off with a single powerful beat.    "Some weapons are double-edged," the voice intoned as the surrounding flames began to thin, and the pinnacle ceased its collapse and began instead to rebuild. "Learn when to press on them, and when to hold back, or you risk undermining your own efforts and carrying yourself to defeat."    She watched the dragon vanish among the thickening clouds above, smiling after it even while she considered the words. It was only when a chill prickled at her cheeks that she looked back to her surroundings and found, once again, that the fjord, the sea and the edge of her cliff had vanished in another thick fog.   'No,' she thought, 'not fog...' It was too white, too cold. Then something small and wet struck her cheek. She lifted her fingers to it, then saw another land on the back of her gauntlet and spread from a small white speck to a single, crystal drop. Snow.    Kat looked up and around herself while more flakes brushed her cheeks, and watched the cloud grow denser. Little grey discs drifted through the air for as far as she could see, growing gradually larger the higher she looked. The chill, too, began to bite, and she pulled her clothes tighter before squinting at a grey shape in the distance.    'Again?' A growl slipped through her numb lips, but she prepared for the assault anyway, gritting her teeth against the cold, and fought her mind to focus. Slowly and steadily, the shape drew nearer. And, unlike the last, clearer. Something that looked like enormous antlers rose from the top of its head, and the pad and click of feet through the snow numbered four. 'Caribou?'    She inched backwards as a face formed clearer through the cloud. Caribou didn't have tusks. Nor, she noticed as it continued its approach, claws. Her fists tightened, but movement to the left drew her eye as another beast appeared. Then another.    By now the snow was thick, and visibility had dropped to mere feet, but the creatures kept coming. Something about their slow and steady pace unsettled her, and she boomed a great draconic roar towards the first to frighten it off. It flinched and hesitated, but the second was undeterred. The first soon resumed.    She spun and roared again towards another, and it, too, faltered in fear. But the hesitation was shorter than the last. And more had since appeared.    "As two...as five...as seven...as nine..."    She spun and backed away as six antlered, fanged and clawed beasts slowly closed in around her.    "Without a face...the voice shouts loudest... Without identity...the heart rings strongest."    There were too many of them, and yet not one of them was attacking. A chill moved up her spine as confusion spun her around even faster. 'Why aren't they attacking?!'    "What...am I?"   'What are you, what are you...think, Kat, think!' She stamped her feet, in part to warn off the creatures, in part to warm her legs. But the cold was already seeping in. 'Fog, fire, snow. One, five, nine, loud voice - wind, snowflakes.'    "Snow!" She shouted, making towards a break in the approaching wall of antlers.    "Wrong."    The wall closed before she could reach it. The creatures slowed further and clustered around her. Tusks drew close, and furry muzzles sniffed at her face. Mouths opened and chewed at her clothes. She stiffened, more than prepared to strike back, but still not one of them touched her beyond the warm gust of a snort through their noses.    The knot in her brow tightened. They weren't attacking. They weren't attacking, because she wasn't a threat. Not while there were so many of them...    Her gaze passed over those gathering further out. It was a whole herd of the things. Some were huddling together, looking at her but making no attempt to get close and investigate like the rest. And there were smaller ones, younger ones, bouncing around without a care. Because they knew they were safe...    A tentative smile tried to tug at her lips, but doubt kept it at bay.    "What...am I?"    The young beasts bounced and bleated. Finally, her smile came through. "Family."    The creatures didn't turn and leave. The snow didn't relent, the wind didn't fade. The chill continued to bite.    Her frown grew deeper, until the deep voice rumbled again. "Community. ...But 'family' will suffice." On that cue, the animals moved on and continued their migration, paying her no more than a final, cursory sniff as they passed.    "Accept and embrace the people around you. Strength comes from within, it is true, but together, that strength can move mountains and protect things far greater than yourself."    The cloud and snow vanished, and Katriga found herself standing back on the pinnacle with the fjord behind her, the purple ocean crashing against its foot, and the sky touched again by only a few wisps of cloud. The air felt almost warm. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of comfort. Whether she was built for the cold or not, it didn't usually come on so suddenly.    But she started in fright when she opened her eyes again and found a figure standing before her, one that flickered between a ghostly woman and the dried husk of a draugr. But she didn't raise her hand towards it. Instead, she bowed with her fist over her heart. When she rose, more spirits stood behind it.    "Be sure of yourself, Katriga Ormslíkir," the ancestor said in the same booming voice, one that still seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere. "Be sure of your choices, and do what needs to be done. Take strength in your hands and wield it. But don't shun the help of others - among your kind, or the world beyond. It will be a lonely, dangerous place if you confine your trust to your clan alone. And," the draugr's lips peeled back into a crooked smile, "Mogar doesn't count."    "Mogar!" The thought struck her before she could even try to mull over her words. "What of him? The prophecy said--"    "'Upon whence your kin is born of dragon's blood, so shall this creature bond with them'." The ancestor nodded sagely. "The prophecy said what was needed."    Kat's face screwed up in dissatisfaction. "That's not really an answer."    "And yet," the ancestor flickered back into a ghost and gave her another crooked smile, "it is the absolute truth. Patience, Katriga."    She was about to protest when she felt something strange pass over her, and fought breath back into her stunned lungs. "What was that?"    "A boon. Fortitude. Luck and awareness on your travels, wherever they might take you." The ancestor stepped forwards - it was one step, she was sure it was one step, and yet it covered the length of the seven or so strides between them, and her cold, dry hand was suddenly pressed over her heart. "Live well, Katriga."    Then the world went black.

    A startled squeak turned immediately into excited little peeps as Mogar swept back up onto Katriga's shoulder, and she blinked back towards the barrow. Trees had replaced the sea, standing stones the ancestors, and the fjord, as she whipped around, with a crowd of people, her family beaming among them. Her youngest sister Ragna was the only one who hadn't yet turned eighteen, and she stared back at her from their side with a mixture of fright and blazing fascination.    When her mothers, Skurta and Jarl Thorhalla, stepped forwards and embraced her, the rest of the crowd burst into cheers, and she felt the tension in her ribs finally ease.    She'd done her clan proud.    And now...now she could chase adventure...

---

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The following story was written for Brooke, who owns all the characters and their histories. This story is not to be copied or reproduced without both mine and Brooke's permission. Words copyright © Kim Wedlock

[playedbetter]

( feverish ) : suffering from a high fever and severely ill // from Harrier to Kim! might as well toss one your way while i'm here!! DE my EXTREMELY beloved :]

Meme Hoard / Accepting!

The windows had all be thrown open eighteen minutes ago to fight back against the haze of heat and misery that was overtaking Harry's apartment in all its ac-less glory. A breeze blew though providing as close to fresh air as they were going to get at the moment.

Kim put a cool damp towel on Harry's forehead, he had insisted the detective lie down and rest given the state he was in. Likely a result of the dumpster diving behind a medical clinic that had been undertaken last week. Perhaps I should have been more insistent on better protective gear (not like we had the money on hand for that). "We need to get some fluids in you, are you up for coffee or should I just grab a glass of water?"

[thebarefootcajun]

Tragedies at Courbe l’homme Mort

Down the road from a small Cajun village is a curve named Courbe d’homme mort, Deadman’s Curve. It was named that awful name because of it’s sharp angular curve without much play for error. No one’s fault, not drunkenness, childish play, driving incompetence, or the like. More like fate, it was simply a fatal flawed design in the road. Many memories were left there at that curve. You can feel the love, pain, regret, and a wide range of other feelings that can make your heart ache for the deceased and the loved ones left behind. The curve is alive with spirits as you wind around its deadly passageway. On quiet, cool nights when windows are rolled down you can hear singing spirits rejoicing in their togetherness in Glory.

And when you live in an area where you’ve lost your child, spouse, friend, neighbor, etc., it’s a constant reminder. Markers line the highway, crosses with names, flowers, plastic and real, memorabilia, children’s toys, and other odds and ends. These are monuments to lives lost at Courbe d’homme mort. Leaning into the pain instead of ignoring it is how one makes sense of the reality of what’s happened. Lots of weeping and wailing in cycles. Just when you think the sorrow is over; it appears again. That’s when you realize the love that you have for your loved one who lost his/her life on Deadman’s Curve.

The community is deeply spiritual, mostly a Roman Catholic faith with larger churches and indeed smaller ones stunningly beautiful. Catholicism adorns their churches with Saints, the Cross and Mary, the Mother of Jesus Christ as provocation to thinking as one prays. In fact there are five churches within a one mile radius of Deadman’s Curve, not all of them are Catholic, some are protestant. Faith is the way the Cajuns survive le joie de vivre, the joy of life and also la douleur de la vivre, the pain of life.

A Fatal Night of Pumpkin Pies

One grandmother who quivers as she remembers when she got the news says that she wants to feel the pain of her grandson who died in that very curve one rainy, cold, freezing night in November, Wednesday before Thanksgiving of 1969. When the small town police dropped in, she was rolling out the sweet dough for the pies. She fell to her knees as she saw the expression on the officers face. She knew her grandson was gone. Louisianians are not equipped to drive in that weather especially on hairpin curves like Deadman’s Curve. However, the young man, age 19, was driving home on a Wednesday night when he felt the car losing control. It careened into the next lane and the collision was head on. The nineteen years old grandson died immediately. The coroner said he never knew what hit him. Of course no one really knows what last moments before death are like. We’ll all face that one day. He had told his boss that he was going home to help bake pumpkin pies with his grandma with whom he lived. Each Thanksgiving she rolls out the crust but doesn’t finish the pies just like the night of her grandson’s fatal evening in Deadman’s Curve.

An Innocent Cow and an Innocent RN

Another story the comes to mind is a young woman, age eighteen, engaged to be married the next week. She was driving home one night after her shift that ended at eleven o’clock at a local hospital about a thirty minute drive from where she lived with her parents. She was the only child to these two beautiful saints whose love created her. A beautiful young woman named Angel. Mom had picked out that name because they had trouble conceiving a child. At thirty-five her doctor had told her she would have a baby. In those days one didn’t know the sex of the baby, but her grandmother had said that she was going to have a girl because of how she was carrying the child inside of the womb. She and her husband-to-be would be happy with whatever the Lord sent their way in the way of a child.

Angel’s mom had begun her career as a nurse’s assistant, and completed her RN degree in a nurse’s training program. Angel had decided to become an RN, too, making her mom so proud. Angel and her betrothed had moved a trailer, a south Louisiana starter home, onto a pasture just beyond her parents’ home. So much joy in that household.

When on a fateful night in June, the wedding month, of heat and high humidity a loose cow was crossing the road as Angel was turning the angular hairpin curve known as Deadman’s Curve. Angel hit the cow mid center and flipped her truck. In those days there were no seatbelts and she flew out of the truck into a deep ditch filled with water. It had poured all day long until the sun came out at four o’clock pm, but the water had not subsided. Angel drowned.

That same policemen had to deliver the news to Angel’s Mom and Dad that very night. Awakened by a knock at the door, they assumed it was bad news. It was an hour after angel was expected home, midnight. Dad and Mom leaned out of the door, saw the sheriff and invited him into the kitchen. Angel’s mom offered the sheriff an iced tea, even in crisis, a southerner is willing to serve a cold drink. They knew before the sheriff shared the news that they had lost their darling, precious, Angel girl.

Mom and Dad knelt down right there with the sheriff in that kitchen while the ice tea glass perspired onto the kitchen table. They prayed to Jesus and told him that Angel was His and that she had been a blessing on loan. With great sorrow in their hearts they dedicated her spirit back to God.

Cajuns possess strong faith.

[chenzou]

Time Capsule Part I Chen

Pokémon is a childhood memory of mine, and it has been with me since I was in kindergarten. Although this card was a replica obtained at a McDonald's event after I came to the U.S., I actually have a stockpile of close to 10,000 cards in my home in China, and this was almost completed as a child, so you can see that my allowance sacrificed a lot for me. Before there were any Pokémon related video games children almost established class status among themselves through cards! Who has a rare card will be revered. And many in the absence of pocket money to buy snacks when such cards can be traded as hard currency among children, almost like the status of the dollar as a savings currency among children, and can be bartered. Although growing up I found that I may have suffered a childhood investment failure resulting in my current lack of dollars and gold, because it reminds me that life also has its moments of glory.

You can see that he is a gorgeous guy, he shines with a mysterious luster, he is my old comrade, a steelhead that sold for thirty dollars. He has accompanied me on a lot of sea battles, and he has had a lot of success and a lot of success. My first target was an island reef near my hometown, where in September every year there are powerful yellow-striped amberjack as big as a bull, there are dark currents, no one on the boat dared to be careless, I used it to search in 30 to 60 meters of water, due to inexperience eventually I was careless, it was a heavy guy, the model of my rod did not match it very well, I lay on the deck exhausted and sunbathing, while the boat The experienced anglers continued their work. To my surprise after most of the day's search no one had too good a catch, the catches were almost all small fish, as I was about to head back I tried to make one last attempt but I suddenly found I couldn't retrieve my line, I thought I had hooked a reef in the sea but my line kept pulling out, I had hit the jackpot! I retrieved my little fish with all my strength, this tug of war lasted for ten minutes, the silver light flipped on the surface, this was my first prey over twenty pounds, I was so excited, it followed me to many waters after that, I also took it to challenge the bluefish off Long Island after I came to the US for graduate school, you can see it lost its eyes, but it was unbeatable, it was my mascot!

This is a bracelet with a Buddhist theme, because of its length it is usually placed in the hand to finish coiling. I used to like to collect some Chinese literary objects during my college days, I have many treasures including jade, amber, bone products, etc., but due to the convenience of travel I only brought it with me, it is actually made from the seeds of olives, I value it more for its subject matter than for the material. The eighteen Luohan are traditional Chinese gods and goddesses, which can be understood as the guards of Buddha. They have different expressions representing the joy, anger and sorrow of the earth, and it helps me to comprehend some thinking when things are not going well.

This is a book about traditional Chinese theater costumes, which I participated in editing during my university days. Although the main editors are teachers, it also contains my heart and soul, I am mainly responsible for data collection and picture taking, if you have a deeper understanding you will know that this kind of costumes are not washable, and it is troublesome to carry, there are too many small pieces need to split and organize, countless trips between the theater and the studio, how difficult it is to compile a book!

[ageofevermore]

Eighteen | T. Holland

Summary → you’re tired of feeling like the world silences you, but after an interview with sebastian and anthony, you start to wonder if maybe it’s your fault.

Warning(s) → mentions of anxiety, mentions of sexual harassment, mentions of inequality in gender roles, use of the word slut, fluff if you squint 

Word Count → 1.9k

Note → this is a heavier topic, one that might be personal to some. if you don’t think you can handle the subject matter, please don’t force yourself to. this is relatively watered down, but it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s not being said. the ending features boyfriend!tom consoling the reader, so it does end on a fluffy note, but don’t hold out for those few ending paragraphs. 

add yourself to my taglist 

It’s getting hotter in the interviews. A thin layer of sweat sparkles on your skin, and even though the air conditioning has been turned down multiple times, there are too many people in the room to feel any drastic differences. It’s unfortunate for you. Hot flashes are a lovely addition to your anxiety disorder, and press always sets your nerves ablaze. It doesn't matter what project you’re promoting, who you're partnered with, or what you're wearing-- you’re always hot. 

Your cheeks are flushed dangerously when the last interview before lunch is called for yourself, Sebastian, and Anthony. This is your first press tour as an adult. You joined the marvel franchise years ago, when being eighteen felt like the equivalent of turning thirty, and you weren’t blind to the changes of tone. People were harsher to you, more forward. If they weren’t shutting you up, they were hinting at something less then appropriate, usually something sexual. 

The next interview started with a short introduction to the media outlet, and your interviewer. He was middle aged, kind smile, salt and pepper hair. He asked for your names, then he told you his, and one by one he shook your hands. His grip on you was criminal, lasting longer than was comfortable. Sebastian and Anthony we’re oblivious to the few extra seconds of contact between you and him, but it made your skin crawl in a familiar discomfort. 

Your fingers curled into fists, heart high in your throat. The questions started out easy. They were mostly directed towards the boys, like always, but this time you couldn’t find yourself to be annoyed. You had dealt with handsy and sexually charged men before, but he set a fire beneath you. It wasn’t behavior you should tolerate, but being a woman in the industry, inappropriate touches and glances we’re easier ignored then dealt with. When you spoke up you caused drama, made headlines, attracted nasty social media comments that called you a whore. It was easier to just internalize. 

“Y/N.” 

You hummed, looking towards the call of your name. He was smiling sweetly at you again, a predatory glint in his eyes that put you on edge. You shifted your weight closer to Anothony unconsciously giving the hungry man your professional attention and a nod. 

He shuffles through his index cards, but his eyes don’t read the scripted questions his employers have supplied him with. It’s not often male interviews do their own research, usually they’re briefed by a colleague and handed a set of questions and topic point by a higher level employee, but this man doesn’t even read the card before he’s staring you down and opening his mouth. 

“You finally got the Stark suit update,” He says, motioning towards the promo poster that shows off your CGI suit in all of its edited glory. Although the actual costume is breathtaking, the computer effects give it an entirely different, more technologically charged, feel. 

“Yeah,” You nod, a forced smile on your lips as you try to ease the uncomfortable tension from your tone. “She’s finally--” 

He cuts you off before you can give him any explanation for the upgrade. He isn’t the first one to address your new wardrobe, but he’s the first one to leave you antsy and uncomfortable. Sebastian frowns when you’re cut off, but he doesn’t think much of it. He lets the man continue, though a professional sharpness pulls his grin into a scowl. 

“Were you able to wear undergarments underneath it? It’s tight, doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Was there ever a moment where you reflected how much your wardrobe has changed through the years?” He asks, a dirty grin on his lips. 

Sebastian and Anthony are shocked at the blunt, inappropriate construction of his question. The public eye knew nothing of your battles with body image, or health concerns that lead to surgery. Your mind was plagued with doubts and self-criticism, and his invasive, pervy question both infuriated you and broke you apart. 

You stutter to find an answer, heat overwhelming you. Your hand grips onto Anthony’s arm, and you can’t decide whether anger is what burns your skin or anxiety. Are you making a big deal of this? You don’t know. You feel like you have every right to feel violated and uncomfortable, but you’re a young woman in the entertainment industry, isn’t this the kind of ignorant commentary you signed up for? You don’t know anymore. You grew up with people always having an opinion on your appearance, sexualizing you as early as twelve. You’ve carried around pepper spray and  self-defense keychains long before you even had an understanding towards predatory men and sexual assault. You’ve been conditioned by the world and the media to carry on with your day, no matter the broken boundaries or disrespect. You’re tired of remaining silent, feeling like your less than your male counterparts. Women and men should hold no differing values in society, and yet you walk to your apartment with keys between your fingers and Tom doesn’t even lock his front door. 

“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question.” You choke out, voice hard and nowhere near the soft and frilly pitch it usually obtains. You’re livid, absolutely pissed to the point of a quivering cupids bow. You’re humiliated, and horrified. Your feelings are everywhere, but you remain as professional as you can. If you yell, try to defend yourself at all, you’ll be painted as a diva in every media outlet for the next week, subliminally inviting backlash and slut-shaming comments into your social media messages. If Sebastian and Anthony come to your defense, they’ll be sung high-praises. 

The double standards men and women are held to, especially in the industry, is infuriating. 

He stumbles out a response, but his time is already up. For the first time today, you’re thankful these interviews are only ten minutes. He leaves the room, shown out by security, and even then he still sends you a wink over his shoulder as if your glimmering eyes meant nothing. 

“Hey,” Sebastian's voice is soft, his hand on the small of your back. You flinch away from his contact, head heavy in memories you’d rather forget. 

“Sorry,” You mumble, voice trembling with tears that you refuse to let fall. You’ve already been humiliated, you don’t need to further paint yourself as some helpless teenage girl. “I’m sorry. I’m going to go find Tom.” 

Anthony and Sebastian nod tightly. They watch as you quiver in your heels, hands clenched into fists at your sides. They’re proud of the way you handled yourself, though still absolutely enraged that any adult would find it appropriate to address you like that, especially in a professional setting. 

You stumble into the dressing rooms, right into your boyfriend's chest. Your mind is racing, but the minute you attach yourself to him, you break down. Shy sobs break Tom’s heart. He holds the back of your head to his chest, other hand on the small of your back and wrapped around your waist as you cry. You’re trying to stay quiet, but the attention is already on you. Chris and Robert are worried, and Zoe’s trying to act like she hasn’t noticed, but they don’t all watch as you try to console yourself with your boyfriend's warmth. 

“What happened?” Tom’s voice is soft, trying to keep this a private moment. He tries to move the both of you back into a corner, but you panic and squeeze around his waist tighter. “Baby,” 

You and Tom have been dating for six months, and although you’ve shared with him stories of your traumatic experiences as a woman living in LA, he’s never seen anything upset you like this. 

“I’m such a slut.” Your words come out so shy and small, you aren’t even sure you can hear yourself. No matter how  many times you tell yourself that your makeup and clothes don’t give men permission to make passes or feel you up, it’s getting harder to believe that your verbal consent is as strong as your clothes. Maybe you are asking for it, and in a wave of nausea, disgusted with yourself, your arms leave Tom’s waist to pull at the bottom of your borrowed dress. 

You’ve been hit on in sweats before. In ball gowns and crop tops. Somebody’s even pushed themselves against you while you wore Tom’s hoodie, but you still convince yourself that it’s your fault. That you we’re asking for it. 

Tom’s jaw sets harshly into place, and he tilts your chin upwards to meet his eye. His brown stare is hard, only adding to your distress. Maybe he agrees. Maybe he’ll blame you for what just happened. He’s probably going to break up with you. Other guys just can’t keep their hands and eyes off of you. He doesn’t want a slut for a girlfriend. 

“What the fuck did you just say, Y/N?” His tone causes you to flinch, words bouncing off of the dressing room walls. Everyone flinches, hearing only his heavy response. You try to divert your attention, but Tom squeezes your jaw, forcing your eyes back on his. “Say it again.” 

“I’m such a slut.” You sniffle, submitting beneath his fiery glare. Tensions are high as you try not to break down again. Apart from Tom, everyone in the room has watched you grow up, never losing that shy and sweet sense of yourself. You’re an exuberant light, a brilliant scene partner, a rising star who has big things in store for the future. You are many things, but a slut, isn’t one of them. 

Tom looks behind you, glaring straight at Anthony and Sebastion who are both stone eyed and still. They’ve not calmed down any since leaving the production room, instead, it seems their anger has only risen. The sight of you so distraught churns their stomachs. 

“Some asshole tried to make a pass.” Sebastion said in short, words angry and delivered as such. 

Tom’s breath hitched, his arms tightening around you and pulling you closer to his chest. His chin digs into your crown, eyes pinches shut as his hot exhale feels heavy. 

“You aren’t a slut, Y/N.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, but you try anyways. Tom has no patience for it, and so he tilts your head back and plants his lips against yours harshly and eagerly, desperate to show you love and intimacy. “You. Aren’t. A. Slut.”

You nod, ducking your head back down into his chest as you try to believe him-- try to remember that you never asked for hands around your waist, or cupping your boobs. Wolf whistles, or handshakes that turn into forced frontal hugs. You didn’t ask for any of the harassment, no matter the outfits you wore and what they revealed.  

Tom lowers his voice, whispers melting into your hair, “This isn’t your fault, baby. Please believe me. None of this, is your fault. It’s disgusting and inappropriate, and you don’t deserve to deal with any of it.” 

You sniffle. You can’t tell him you believe him, not yet. Not when your heart is so heavy. Maybe one day you’ll believe him, but that’s just not now. 

taglist (urls with a strike through won’t let my tag) →

@deionswannabegirl @killingbxys @mauvesdior @mischiefandi @dmonchld @waddlenut @tanakaslastbraincell @hollandsxheart @quacksonhehe @tothemoonandbackx3000 @stiles-o-dylan24 @tikapollak @tomthetease @spookybooisa @geminiparkers @teen--marvel @rogersparkerbarnes @sarcasticallywitty15

[raziroo]

Cotton Candy

Pairing: Lotor x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Saying "Shit" twice

Word count: 2,076 (yay) (also, I edited this, I still need to update the word count)

Author’s Note: I'm crap at writing dialogues, and this is my first time writing for a gay couple. I'm so sorry if it seems forced or unnatural or shitty. Don't be afraid to call me out.

Story Moodboard!

It’s with a grunt of effort that I manage to lift the carton containing the cotton-candy-maker.

‘Here, dad,’ I say as my dad takes the box from my hands. ‘That’s all?’

‘Yep, that’s all of it. We’ll conquer this carnival with our delicious cotton candy,’ I nod, doing jazz hands while saying the last part. Dad chuckles. I grin.

‘Hey, Honey!’ I turn back, squinting to spot where my other dad is in the crowd of bustling people. Where, where…? Yep, there he is – in his embarrassingly brilliant sunshine yellow and bottle green striped shirt and hot pink trousers, a sharp contrast to his natural bright red hair. Don’t say that it can’t look that bright; you’ll never know just how blindingly bright bottle green can really be until you see the shirt my dad’s wearing. And trust me, he usually dresses in simpler tones; such bland tones that you’d be surprised to know he was capable of wearing colourful hues as well. It’s only that he’s very passionate about his job, and so whenever we set up a booth in fetes such as the current one, he never misses to match the shop logo.

‘Hul-lo, father dearest, how seems to go your day?’

‘Oh, quite lovely, if I do say so.’

‘Well, that’s simply charming –’

‘Alright, enough,’ my other, not redhead dad snaps with an exasperated sort of smile on his visage. You see, my not redhead, a.k.a. brown-haired dad happens to be British. And that means that me and dad would rather paint our teeth blue than to not tease him. ‘You both need to shut it and start helping me with the decorations, now. You know I’m trash at all that.’

‘Aw, now don’t get discouraged,’ I say, patting dad on the back. ‘After all, not everyone can be as blessed as me, can they?’

‘Hey, why don’t you go look around for a bit? You’ve been helping out since before I have.’

‘Yeah, he’s right, pet. You should.’

I huff, rubbing my palms on the fabric of my jeans. ‘You guys sure? I’m not tired, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘We’re not worried, we’re just saying you should also get a look, you know? There’s a lot of surprising booths this time around. I mean, there are aliens participating too, so…’

‘Hmm,’ I play with my bottom lip a little, then, ‘yeah, okay. I’ll be back in like, an hour? Forty five minutes? Sound okay?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘Bye, then.’ And with that, I turn on the heels of my Converse, wandering about the pretty stalls and eager children and kissy couples and aliens with curious features.

It really feels bizarre, just how astonishingly fast mankind has accepted the existence of aliens. It seems simultaneously ages and just a day before when conspiracy theorists raged all around the world, presenting baseless theories and concepts as to why and how the three-man squad on the Kerberos mission disappeared. Then came the Galra, bringing along with them global terror – because alien life, intelligent alien life existed and humanity remained oblivious all these millennia, and now they were actually attacking us. It could’ve been, perhaps even was, in some other dimension, the end of Earth. But then a defender appeared; Voltron appeared in all its glory, bringing along with it proof that however much these purple aliens claim that humans are scum of the universe, humans were, in the grand scheme of things, the ones that saved the universe too.

It feels even more puzzling to actually be on a first-name basis with the leader of Voltron; that’s right, I’m personally acquainted with Keith Kogane. It was around six months after him leaving the Garrison did I come across him. He’d been loitering around the neighbourhood, had ended up in a fistfight with some other kids, and along with that a split lip and bruised cheek. I’d been watching. When the fight ended, I (somehow) persuaded him to come along so that I could at the very least provide him with a band-aid.

Long story short, we’d bonded over how our moms were no-shows and how dads were the best and we became surprisingly close friends; the only difference was that after the death of his old man, he lived alone. I’d been adopted by my two current fathers. I told him about how when they’d initially adopted me, I was excruciatingly shy. I wouldn’t even come out of my room except meals. It was only when I came to know that they knew how to make candy floss had I timidly approached them if I could have some, because previously I’d always been grossed out at the thought of having to eat that. I’d overheard this group of kids saying that cotton candy was actually just dyed granny hair, so that’s where that came from.

I love cotton candy now. So much so, that even at the age of twenty-six, I will pout if someone takes some of mine without my permission. As if I’d ever allow them to.

Speaking of Keith, I haven’t seen him in years. We lost all contact when he turned eighteen, and then he went off into space, and even when he came back, I didn’t get a chance to meet him. I bear no ill will, though. He must have formed some close relationships. Our past friendship is comparatively much more trivial.

I spot a booth selling grilled corn. I instantly head there.

As I’m about join the crowd of humans and aliens who also want corn, a familiar call of my name leads me to pull a three sixty.

Lo and behold. Keith Kogane.

Despite him having obviously grown a lot, the face was still the same. I’m sure that, if he gets a split lip and bruise on his cheek right now, he won’t look all that different.

There’s a questioning hesitance on his features; he’s probably wondering if he’s got the right person. My pleasantly surprised smile and raised eyebrows assure him. As I step away from the grilled corn stall, I notice a motley crowd behind him; some are purple, some are holding Voltron plushies, and some look way too curious to be in a carnival. The introduction is going to be fun.

‘Keith! You're gonna live a hundred years - I was just thinking about you. But anyways, it’s – it’s great to see you,’ I say with a little giggle. ‘Though I am kind of surprised you actually approached me. The sixteen-year-old you would never.’

He smiles awkwardly in return. ‘Y – yeah… I, just… oh God, this is – I’m sorry,’ he says, his inner turmoil evident.

‘It’s all good. I know you’re shit at small talk, so… like, introduce me? Maybe?’

He nods rapidly, brows furrowed. ‘Yeah, um,’ he turns to the people behind him, telling them my name, how we met, the whole affair. I give them a wave. Most of them greet me back.

‘And, this is Shiro and Curtis,’ he points to the tall, white-haired yet young man, holding hands with a tanner guy, ‘Lance, Pidge and Hunk,’ he points to a lanky, bright-smiled guy, a buffer, kind-seeming person, and a short chestnut-haired woman who, despite wearing baggy jeans and a baggier tee, looks somehow better dressed than me. ‘Then that’s Allura, Coran, and Romelle, they’re Alteans,’ a woman with enchanting beauty and a regal aura surrounding her, a redhead who’s significantly older than the rest with an impressive moustache, and a youthful appearing girl with a big grin, ‘and Lotor, he’s Galran. The Galran Emperor, in fact.’ Lotor is a tall, lilac-skinned man with aristocratic features who shares the same cheek markings as the Alteans. Oh, and he’s unfairly gorgeous, his hair a luscious mane of white which I just know will be soft. It’s hard not to stare. You remember how I said Allura looked like royalty? Yeah, the way this man carries himself, he has the aura and visage of a God. Even in a white tee-shirt and jeans he looks way better than should be legal.

I rip my eyes away.

‘So…are Noah and Oliver here too? I’d love to see them. I mean, I never did get to thank them to permit a possible criminal to sleep in their house.’

I laugh. ‘Never mind that, but we actually sit up a stall here. I could, you know, maybe even get you guys something to eat.’

‘Free? Please don’t.’

‘It’s nothing, really, just… I don’t know, accept it as a small thank you present for not letting the planet go to shit.’

A bit of thinking. Even after a nod from Shiro, it was Lance who said yes. Good ol’ Keith.

When we reach the stall, my British dad is the only one we find there. He looks up, about to say something to me, when he notices Keith.

‘Dad. You remember Keith?’

‘Your possible criminal friend who turned out to be the saviour of the universe Keith?’

‘That Keith. He wanted to see you.’

‘Oh? Well then,’ he dusts his hands, stands up, and greets Keith. Both of them engage in a conversation.

‘You guys wanna try something?’

‘What do you got?’ asks Pidge.

‘What do we got? Um, we got chocolates, candy, marshmallows, jellybeans, tortilla chips, ice cream, popcorn – butter, cheese, caramel, peri peri – Lays, like, a lot of Lays, and the good old cotton candy. What d’you want?’

So, after providing the humans with two Cream n’ Onion Lays, a pack of tortilla chips, a double scoop of butterscotch and chocolate, a small tub of popcorn, and three cotton candy sticks, I turned to the aliens.

‘I’m assuming you guys aren’t familiar with a lot of this stuff, so you could either pick whatever looks to be good, ask your friends, or I could recommend something. What’ll it be?’

Romelle was the one who asked, ‘What’s ice cream like?’

‘It’s sweet. It’s cold. And it’s like… heaven in mouth.’

‘Ooh. I want an ice cream. The… pink one?’

‘That’s strawberry. You can eat it in a cone, or in a cup.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Well, the cup you can’t eat. The cone is like a crispy biscuit,’ judging by her face, she didn’t know what biscuit was. ‘I’ll just give you a cone. It’s all on the house, so no worries if you don’t like it.’

I watched eagerly as she licked the ice cream. An unreadable look crossed her face. Then – ‘This is almost as good as Hunk’s cookies!’

‘Really?’ Coran asked, twirling his moustache. ‘Well, then…’ he squinted to read the names of the various flavours. ‘I would like “cookies and cream”. Yes.’ A cone of cookies n’ cream was served.

‘Allura?’

‘Do you have something that isn’t sweet?’ That was a plot twist. I’d have taken her as someone who appreciated sweeter foods.

‘We do. You want spicy?’

‘…Sure.’ Peri Peri popcorn was given and enjoyed.

And last… ‘Lotor. What would you like to have?’

It takes me a lot of will to not laugh at Lotor’s way too analytical expression. ‘What would you recommend?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Out of all this stuff, candy floss is my favourite.’

‘Candy floss… the item that looks simultaneously like a cloud and an old woman’s hair?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I would like a helping of candy floss, then.’

As I hand Lotor a stick of cotton candy, I wait with anticipation for his reaction.

‘How am I supposed to eat this?’

It takes me a moment to process that. ‘Uh, you just… pinch a little of the stuff in between your fingers, then eat it. Or you could just, um, go in directly, which I’m thinking isn’t really your style.’

He narrows his eyes, but follows my instructions nonetheless. Only a second after putting the stuff in his mouth, Lotor purrs.

Everyone around him, being me, Coran and Romelle (Allura’s off telling Lance how great Earth food is), looks with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Lotor appears as if he’s just died inside. The berry-shaded blush on his face is adorable, though.

'I didn't, like, poison you or something, right?'

'No. It's that... I would never in my lifetimes have expected something so tooth-rottingly sweet to be this delicious.'

'So you're okay?'

‘Yes. In fact, I quite like… this cotton candy.’

I grin.

[harryspet]

wrapped in red | p.parker & b.barnes

[Warnings] dark? peter parker x reader, dark bucky barnes x reader, peter is still pretty sweet and bucky is evil, aged up peter, mafia/gang au, gang boss!bucky, waitress!reader, noncon/dubcon sex, light bondage, kidnapping, bucky likes to watch 

A/N: idk its 7 am and I still haven’t slept and now I’m posting this. THIS IS ADULT & TRIGGERING CONTENT READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

In which Peter likes you and Bucky makes you both regret that. 

main masterlist

word count: 2.9k

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” You asked the blue-eyed man sitting at table eighteen. Your coworker had an emergency call so you found yourself tasked with tending to the table of two men. You didn’t recognize the man at first but as your eyes connected with his left arm … your breathing hitched in your throat. You smiled through your worry though, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that you knew exactly who he was. 

Bucky Barnes ran this neighborhood, but since you had never run into him, it was easy to believe he was just a myth. 

“No, doll. Just the check please,” He spoke simply and you might not have been intimidated if you hadn’t noted the many expensive rings on his right hand. The man sitting across from him was younger, his eyes were nervous too as he looked you over. His face was familiar and you thought you might have seen him in one of your classes. 

There were several empty beers on the table as well 

You nodded your head before turning away, “I’ll be right back.”

Peter’s eyes lingered on you as you walked away from the table. For a moment, he forgot that he was supposed to be counting. His pen roamed over the sheet and over all the numbers. 

“See, you’re only making a hundred grand from this guy's shipments. He’s using all your resources to make sure the product is clean but you could easily just do that for yourself. You cut out in the middle man and I think you could triple your profit,” Peter turned the paper so Bucky could look over all the numbers he was running. Peter folded his hands, trying to read the man’s expressions. 

As you returned to the table with the check, Peter was once again caught in the trance you put in. He recognized you from his anatomy class. He arrived at class five minutes early every day just to make sure that he could watch you come in. Part of him was unsure of what you’d think of him now, knowing who he was sitting with. 

Money didn’t grow on trees and Peter was the man of the house. College was expensive and the rent was even more expensive so he had to do what he could to get by. You were working minimum wage at a rundown restaurant, Peter didn’t doubt that you could understand that. Still, what you did was honest work and Peter couldn’t say the same for himself. 

“Thank you, doll,” Bucky thanked you, resting his arms against the table as he smirked up at you, “You doing something tonight? What time do you get off?”

Your lips parted as you stared in shock. Could you just answer a simple no? “I actually have to close up today … so I … uhm-”

“I-It’s okay,” Peter rushed out nervously, seeing the way that Bucky was eyeing you, “That’s it, thank you.”

Your smile was thin and awkward before you walked away. 

Peter’s eyes widened with frustration as he stared across the table at the older man, “What are you doing?” Bucky chuckled as he grabbed the check, clicking his pin in order to sign it. Peter didn’t know it but the man was leaving you a hefty tip, “Were you trying to scare her?”

“I was trying to get you a date!” Bucky retorted, “Your good with numbers, kid, and I appreciate you helping me out. I really do but your game with women is a little laughable.”

Peter shook his head in disbelief, “Why does it matter?” Peter lowered his voice as the realization set in that Bucky was right, “Why does it matter what kind of game I have? I’m just here to count your money, right?”

The look in Bucky’s eyes was almost sympathetic, “You count money for now but you’re strong, I can tell. You could become a very valuable person to me if you work at it. And part of being in my little family is having some fucking confidence. You were drooling over that girl instead of manning up and asking her out.”

Peter crossed his arms, “What if she said no?”

Bucky smirked at the younger boy, “She wouldn’t if you had some fucking balls,” Peter rolled his eyes, “But if she did said no … then you chase her. That’s the best part.”

There was something evil in the man's glare but Peter brushed it out. The man was a professional, drug dealing murderer. “You want to ask her to prom or something?”

Peter shook his head, annoyed, “I’m not in high school, Mr. Barnes. I just like her, okay? And it doesn’t matter that I like her because it’s not like we can date. I’m sure we both have bigger things to focus on. Now ... can we go back to talking about the deal that’s going on tomorrow?”

Bucky seemed amused by the kid’s awkwardness, “I like your idea. I hate that Brock guy anyways. He’s overcharging me because I used to mess with his sister. You know … maybe if he’s out of the picture then his sister is free territory.”

“Out of the picture how?” Bucky sensed Peter’s worry and grinned. 

“That’s right, you’ve never been on one of my infamous boat rides. You should come,” Peter knew exactly what he meant. If Bucky didn’t like you, you did not want to go on a “boat ride” with him. That was a quick and easy way for your body to end up chained to a brick at the bottom of the Hudson. 

“I have a biology project to work on,” Peter said.

“It wasn’t a question, Queens.”

+

Your heart skipped a beat as a black Escalade pulled up beside you while you were walking home. You didn’t look over as you heard the window roll down. You winced as you continued to walk. You only turned to look as you heard a whistle. 

You thought he’d give up after the weird encounter at the restaurant but here he was in all his handsome and dangerous glory, “You need a ride, doll?”

“Uhm, no. But thank you!”

What was it with kids your age? Perhaps Bucky was losing some of his edginess with the younger crowd, “Get in,” Bucky said, much more forward this time, “I just want to talk.”

You took a deep breath as you clutched your purse tightly. You found your feet moving before your mind could catch up. Your body thought you’d be safer going with him rather than arguing with the famous criminal. You heard the rumors about people that went missing because they pissed him off. Every time they seemed to arrest him, he was back on the streets weeks later. The cops, ones who he didn’t pay off, could never pin him to any of the murders. 

If you went missing because of Bucky Barnes, you and your legacy were effectively wiped away. 

He opened the back door for you and you climbed into the leather seat as he slid over. Shaking, you grabbed your seat belt and buckled yourself in. Bucky was used to the lack of eye contact and shaky fingers. It usually annoyed him but, for you, he found it endearing. 

As the door closed, the man in the front seat drove off, “What exactly do you want to talk to me about?” You asked, still confused about the entire situation. 

“My friend that sat at the table with me. Peter Parker,” Bucky spoke vaguely. 

“We don’t really know each other,” You explained, hoping that guy wasn’t somehow in trouble with Bucky, “We just go to the same college.”

“No, I know,” Bucky continued, “I just know that he’s interested in getting to know you better. And Peter’s a good friend of mine, you know?”

You nodded slowly. That meant Peter was dangerous, “Right. He’s … he’s never talked to me.”

Bucky chuckled, “He’s the shy type. You’re a pretty girl, he probably doesn’t think he’s good enough. That’s why I’m here talking to you.”

“What do you want me to do?” You asked hesitantly.

“That’s a good response,” Bucky gave you a smug look, “You’ll find out soon, doll. Sit tight.”

Your eyes widened as you looked out the tinted window, watching your apartment building pass by. Bucky’s driver gazed at you through the rearview mirror before focusing back on the road. 

+

Peter thought he wouldn’t be able to stomach. Watching a grown man cry and beg for his life before being tossed over the edge. You watched him sink and the bubbles slowly start to disappear as he went deeper, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Bucky had said to him.

Peter hated to say that it wasn’t as bad as he believed it would be. Perhaps the years of struggling had blackened his heart. After the murder, Bucky proceeded to drag you back to his million-dollar apartment, wanting to share a drink or to. 

Peter almost opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t twenty-one yet but knew the exact reaction he would get from Bucky. Bucky had his arm wrapped around Peter’s shoulder as he showed him to the kitchen, “One day, you’re going to have a place just like this,” He said, hinting at your luxurious surroundings, “You stick with me and you won’t need that piece of shit degree.”

Peter only nodded, accepting a beer from the man. Bucky watched as the boy chugged the content of his glass. Peter hoped it would get him through the rest of the night and help give him some liquid courage, “You’re a weird kid, Queens,” Bucky laughed, “I like it. C’mere, I want to show you something.”

You followed Bucky down the hallway, hoping it wasn’t another disturbing thing that the man found amusing, “What is it?”

“A present,” Bucky grinned, guiding Peter to the door at the end of the hallway. Peter would’ve preferred to be wowed by a million other things. Instead, his mouth was agape because he saw you. 

Whatever drugs he had given you to keep you relaxed had completely worn off. It kept you from fighting them when your clothes were cut off from your body. Your vision was blurry and your muscles were weak as they restrained your body. Now, clear as day you could see your captor … and his friend Peter. 

You were laid out on the bed, your hands handcuffed behind your back and your ankles tied together by a red ribbon. A red thong barely covered your lower region and a red ribbon wrapped around your front barely covered your nipples. Right in the middle of your chest was a red bow to compliment the red ball gag in your mouth. 

Peter flashed Bucky a mortified look. Bucky only sipped at his glass of beer, “Happy fucking birthday, kid,” Bucky beamed, “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

It wasn’t Peter’s birthday and he was definitely not feeling thankful. Peter watched as you struggled in your bondage, frightened tears staining your cheeks. “What the hell are you doing?” Peter asked, his teeth gritted in anger, “I-I didn’t ask you to do this.”

“What?” Bucky sounded offended, “It’s creative! Think of it as a welcoming gift. I know you want to fuck her so here’s your chance. Fuck her and get rid of her-”

Get rid of you?

Bucky was interrupted by a muffled scream which only caused him to roll his eyes, “Or fuck her and keep her, I don’t care.”

“No, no, I’m letting her go-” Before Peter could take a step forward, Bucky’s metal arm gripped his shoulder. 

You felt relieved only for a moment.  Bucky stepped in front of him, “I’ll fuck her then, no point in letting the opportunity go to waste.”

Peter’s heart stopped, “Mr. Barnes, please.”

“You do it or I will,” Bucky said firmly, “You’re smart and I want to keep you around but if you can’t … take a few fun risks then maybe you’re not the type of person that should work for me.” Bucky’s words settled over him. Peter thought about losing this opportunity and all the money that would come along with it. Looking into your teary eyes, Peter thought about how rough Bucky would be with you. Maybe he could explain that … Peter mentally cursed. 

Peter didn’t answer verbally, only pushed past Bucky, walking towards the bed. Peter felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as he stalked towards the bed, “That’s my boy,” Bucky spoke excitedly. He moved towards a lounge chair in the corner of the room, still taking swigs of his drink, “There’s no point in asking. If you want it, take it. Now put on a good show for your dear boss.”

Peter knew there was no going back now. He reached out to touch your arm, only to have you flinch away from his touch. Peter had imagined touching you for the first time and it was nothing like this. Peter turned that sadness to anger in order to fuel his adrenaline. 

Peter undid the ribbon around your ankles first. As soon as they were free, you were struggling against him. Peter was much stronger than you assumed and held you in place easily. Next, he moved to your gag, “Pl-Please don’t hurt me,” You begged, your voice hoarse. 

You saw something in his eyes similar to regret. Regret for the inevitable. As you shook your head, he said, “I won’t. Just … just don’t struggle,” He tried to assure you but as he moved your body over the edge of the bed, parting your legs and settling between them, you panicked again.

“Peter, please don’t.” He perked up at the sound of his name on your lips and you thought for a moment that you had gotten to him. He paused for a moment, only for a moment, before lifting his shirt above his head. He leaned his body over yours, his mouth brushing over your ear.

“Trust me, you don’t want him touching you. Just relax,” A shiver ran down your spine and you turned your head. Your scared eyes connected with Bucky’s and he smirked. It seemed the two of you were his sick entertainment for tonight. Your breathing was heavy but you tried to keep your muscles calm. 

You tried to convince yourself that Peter was the better option. He was your age and he didn’t have that evil look in his eyes. You hated that you preferred him. You hated that you were preferring this. 

Peter placed soft kisses along your collarbone and up the side of your neck. It baffled you that you got the feeling that he wanted to be gentle with you. You were ready to jump out of your skin when you felt your panties being moved to the side but you were interrupted by Peter’s lips crashing onto yours. 

Soon, you felt him at your entrance, teasing your opening. You gasped against his lips as he slowly sheathed himself inside of you. You wanted him away but you still found that your legs wrapped around him for support. 

Peter moved his lips against yours and you felt his own body shudder as your warmness wrapped around his length. He started to move in and out of you and it took you time to get used to the invading feeling. As Peter kissed your tear-stained cheeks, you bit down on your bottom lip. His pace quickened and wished desperately that your hands weren’t handcuffed behind you. 

“Y/N,” He grunted into your ear as he made long, deep strokes inside of you, “Fuck, I’m sorry… y-you feel so good.”

As he pushed deep inside of you, your head tilted back and a frustrated moan escaped from your throat. You hated that he was making you feel good too. You felt his hand running up your thigh  and then it was between your leg, slowly rubbing that sensitive bulb between your legs. That was enough to have you moving your hips against him. 

Bucky watched intently, the blood rushing to that area between his legs. He’d keep you in mind when he was deep inside Brock’s sister. 

“Ah, ah,” Peter kissed you, swallowing your moans as you both climaxed together. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Peter was supposed to finally gather the courage to ask for your number towards the end of the semester. You were supposed to text back and forth for a few weeks and then go on a few dates. You were supposed to fall for each other the natural way. 

Bucky had stolen all that. 

As Peter pulled up his pants, zipping them up, Bucky stood from his chair, “That was moving. Very romantic,” By his tone, Peter could tell the man was hoping for something for brutal. Peter scowled at his boss, “I knew deep down you were a ladies man-”

Peter interrupted, venom in his tone, “What do you want me to do now?”

Bucky only chuckled, “Nothing like some emotional trauma to toughen someone up,” He patted Peter’s shoulder as he made his way to the door, “Why don’t you buy her dinner and then take her home? You can take my car.”

“That’s fucking it? After all that?”

Bucky turned his head as his hand grabbed a hold of the doorknob, “She knows what’ll happen if she runs to the cops. Welcome to the team, Parker.”

+

hope you enjoyed!!

[wandsandwheezes]

Fake It | Weasley Twins | CH2

one //

Warnings | Mature themes, fake relationships, secret relationships, love, sex, drama, angst, fluff, other chapters include smut 18+

Summary // Fred Weasley has been set up to publicly date Y/N, London's best Quidditch Seeker in order to drum up some publicity. Y/N however has a different ginger man on her mind; George Weasley.

creds to @vogueweasley​ for the moodboard<3

The warmth on your skin as George's arm lazily draped over your side, truly was a feeling you could get used to. Shamelessly it was your fourth night in a row you'd spent in his bed, a part of you longed for you to wake up in his arms every morning. George was not a heavy sleeper, easily disrupted by anyone and anything, perhaps the only way he'd ever sleep through the night was when he'd passed out drunk. Having seen just how affectionate he gets after a few too many shots, you were glad you hadn't been at the fire whisky fuelled celebrations. 

Sneaking around with George was much easier at Hogwarts, no cameras, no fame, no interruptions; just kisses and evenings together. Part of the reason you and George had such a good time together in Muggle London was that more often than not, you were just a normal couple, free to kiss and hold each other in front of everyone. He pulled you from bed early that morning to take you on a surprise trip before your training that evening. 

He'd gotten you to wrap up warm and comfy in an attempt to block out the freezing British winter winds. The ten minute walk from your home to the Embankment was full of conversations about all of the gorgeous Christmas displays, you even begged him to let you put up the Christmas tree early in the house, giving in when you looked at him with your puppy dog eyes, "I'm so whipped, aren't I?" he laughed, fingers interlocking with yours as you walked. His eyes trailed across the river before an Idea popped into his head, he nodded towards the London Eye, sat proudly across the river in all of its glory. "What do you say, Princess? Fancy heading up there for a bit?" 

Your eyes were beaming the minute the wheel started spinning. You'd managed to get a pod all to yourselves, a rare opportunity, but one you grasped with two hands, laughing as he picked you up and spun you round and around. "We should run." you spoke softly, hand running through his hair gently as you looked into his eyes. "For you, I would." he murmured, catching your lips for a long kiss, it wasn't quick or fiery, just a deep, long passionate kiss. He took his time with you because he had it, there wasn't any rush here, no chance of being caught or stopped. His kiss said a thousand words about the way he loved you.

Looking out over London's bustling city with your head in George's chest made you realise just how perfect a life with him was. When there were no cameras, no press, no fakery and especially no Cherry in sight, It was easy to feel every beat of his heart, as they synced together beating as one. You were tracing circles on the back of his hand taking in every curve of his knuckles and the beauty of every sporadic freckle. Only you could differentiate the touch of your lover so distinctly, you felt him in the way he curled his fingertips up when he cupped your jaw, or how his arm would wrap around your waist with enough strength that made you feel protected. 

"Where would we go if we ran?" You mumbled softly, your small fingers slotting through the gaps between his own. "Remote Indonesia…" he joked, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "I'd go anywhere with you, My Love, one day we won't have to run, I Just wish eighteen year old me had enough balls to say he loved you and then we wouldn't be in this mess." you shook your head, pulling his arms around you tighter as you snuggled into his hold, "Don't you dare, George, It's you and me forever, no matter what, right?" he hummed contently, pulling your hand up to press a gentle kiss to your knuckles, trailing kisses up your arm to your neck between every word. "Forever, and ever, and ever, and ever…"

 //

You'd just stumbled your way into your dorm, arm still in a sling after a pretty nasty accident, a bludger to the ribcage never did a girl any good. A box of chocolates lay on your bed, as well as a note. 

Words aren't enough to tell you how sorry I am, I'll make it up to you, I promise . Get well soon, Y/N <3

-G

Locking eyes with George from across the great hall as you sat with your friends and he with his, he was looking at you with pleading, guilty glances. It really wasn't George's fault that the bludger hit you, sure he hit it, but you were on rival teams and that was the danger of the game. If the fact that he was the first at your side when you struck the floor should've made it obvious, but the fact that you were struggling to breathe and you couldn't move much really over shone the moment. 

You were sat in the room of requirement, in front of the roaring fire, staring directly at each other. You were only a month into the relationship and It wasn't awkward, just unfamiliar, he wasn't sure if he could touch you or hold you, let alone kiss the pain away. Instead he settled for holding your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it comfortably. 

"You need to stop blaming yourself George," 

"But I hurt you, and I-" 

"Shh, baby, the massive Iron ball hurt me… It’s all part of the game." You had now leant forward to crawl onto your knees, kneeling before him, you pressed your lips to his, making him forget about his bewitching thoughts, now only focused on you. 

"I'm going to protect you." George stated so matter-of-factly, that it made you recoil slightly. It was tough words from a 16 year old. He caught your expression, "I'm serious. It's going to be me and you, Forever." You were blushing, he made you feel like the only girl in the world. 

"No matter what?" You questioned. 

"Forever, no matter what."

//

After your impromptu date, George made his way to the shop and you went back to his to grab your phone, and get ready for practice. You'd left it there, the time away from the pinging and buzzing from Cherry's latest update

 or her next best opportunity. You were unsurprised by the 30 odd messages from your Publicist rambling on, but one stuck out like a sore thumb. Fred. 'shit' you thought, 'I've gone and missed something.' hesitantly opening the message to see just one message. 

>> are you gonna head by the shop today? No worries if not, I know you're busy x

<< I’ll try and pop in before practice, if not… coffee tomorrow? :)

You contemplated how your reply sounded while you stripped from your clothes to pull on your branded activewear, a picture caught your eye, the Gryffindor quidditch team, captained by Oliver Wood in Harry’s first year. They all looked so young and eager to get out onto the field. A devilish idea crept into your mind and you found yourself rooting through George’s drawers, finding exactly what you had set out for. You pulled on the old Gryffindor quidditch sweater, observing yourself in the mirror, It was odd to see yourself in the deep maroon and orange after years of donning the silver and green. You picked up your phone, sending George a quick text. 

<< Meet me down the alley by B&B… I need to show you something. I’ll be 5 x

>> I won’t ask ;) x

You wrapped your coat around your shoulders, slinging your duffel over your arm before grabbing your wand, apperating just up Knockturn Alley. you checked over your shoulder, hoping not to be caught, you passed Bourgin and Burkes, spotting the boy with fiery red hair standing down the secluded alley. 

“What did you need to show me then, trouble?” he joked leaning against the wall, steam billowing from his lips from the bitter cold. You smirked, unzipping your coat to show him the knitted sweater. “Is that-” you cut him off with a nod, fingertips reaching to zip your jacket back up, but his strong hands catch your wrists, pinning you against the wall. “Take it off or I’ll rip it off.” he was half joking, smirking down at you as you rolled your eyes. He caught your lips in a hurried kiss, his hand leaving your wrist to cup the side of your face. 

Even with your eyes closed you noticed the bright flash, a flash you knew all too well. You’d been caught. Thinking quickly on your toes, you put on your signature giggle, pushing George’s chest away while whispering a soft ‘play along’, as your eyes caught his, you bat your eyelashes. “Freddie, stop it will you?” he tried his hardest not to laugh, as he backed up holding his hands up in defeat. “I can’t hold my girl from her practice any longer.” the small group of paparazzi were begging for another kiss, or at least more interaction, you dragged George away from the scene, “show’s over I’m afraid folks!” the cameras continued to rapidly flash as you  quickly apperated him away from the scene to his office. 

“That’s gonna be the front page tomorrow,” you sighed as you slumped into his desk chair, throwing your bag to the floor, “Cheryl is going to murder me in broad daylight,” He was gently rubbing your shoulder, before he leaned down pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We’ll fix it, baby.” he reassured you, tilting your chin up to look at him. “Forever.” the word that quickly became your ‘I love you’. You stood and pulled off the jumper, as well as your jacket, handing him back what was his. “Make sure to take it home will you? We can have some fun later with it,” you smirked, picking up your bag and sending him a wink before apperating to practice. 

Cherry’s deep red car was outside of the stadium, you dreaded the conversation that was about to happen, contemplating just bolting out of there. ‘Better to face her head on than piss her off’ you thought, taking a deep breath to calm yourself down before opening up the door and climbing into the passenger seat with a smile. “You should’ve said you were swinging by and I would’ve showered, I feel bad stinking up your car!” you joked, trying your best to sound surprised by her visit as you pulled your duffel onto your lap. 

“Good news, You’ll be the front cover of the prophet tomorrow.” you gasped, a smile on your lips, “I am?” she laughed, tapping away on her phone, pulling up a picture, “Yeah it’s you and Fred… locking lips. Care to explain what happened to the ‘no kissing’ rule” You took the phone thrust into your face by your publicist, looking at the picture snapped just a few hours prior. You had to admit George did look pretty sexy in the position he was caught in, you looked over at her with pleading eyes. “I’d love to congratulate you, but that’s not Fred you’re kissing, is it?”

You cocked your eyebrow at her, “Who else would it be? Of course it’s Freddi- wait you don’t think that’s George do you?” you laughed, pressing your lips together, to stop the full laugh erupting. “Don’t let Fred hear you say that, he gets funny about people mistaking him for George, you know.” she looked back at you blankly, clearly unappreciative of your laughter. “Come on Cherry, what reason would I have to be kissing George?” you tried to think of a reason around the ‘no kissing rule’ “The only reason I don’t like kissing Fred at events is because I don’t want it to seem fake, I’m obviously not adverse to kissing him, I just like to do it in private, He is an attractive man after all.”  Cheryl was now squinting at you, she sighed however, pulling her phone back out of your hands. 

“You’re right, why would It be George?” she adds, pulling the car out of it’s parking space, “Here, I’ll drop you home, you need a shower desperately.” you laughed pulling out your phone, seeing a text from both of the twins. 

>> Let me know when you’re on your way home, I’ll stick the shower on for us ;) x

>> Coffee tomorrow it is! :) 

When you jump out of the car, Cherry rolls down her window, to speak to you. “I want a nice kiss like that for the product launch.” you go to protest but she cuts you off. “Make it happen.” and with that she was away in the wind.

Today was a close call, almost too close for comfort. You and George needed to be more careful, and harder yet, you had to keep that copy of the Daily Prophet out of Fred’s eyeshot. 

// TO BE CONTINUED // Chapter Three >>>>>

taglist //  @starlightweasley​ @slytherinsunrise @gcdric @theweasleysredhair @whiz-bangs78 @weasleysflowr @vogueweasley @minty-malfoy @vivianweasley @feetoffthetablee @thisismynerdyself @rip-us @witch-and-a-half @sarcasticallywitty15 @pandaxnienke @loony-loopy-lupinn​ @pigwidgexn​@starkidpotty​ @mrmoonyy​ @mackaywhore​ @softlyqoos​ @colorfulprofessornickelangel​ @fandomscombine​ @satellitespidey​ @txtdreamss​ @aaannabbanana​ @kaylahmarie​

[thefallennightmare]

Vas Prizrak-Eighteen

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader. Slight Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: 2000

Warnings: swearing, some smut if I’m feeling frisky, tiny bits of fluff, and a whole lot of angst.

Summary:  Bucky and Reader’s life in Wakanda had been everything they ever wanted. But when they are told about the fight that was on it’s way to them, they fear that life would be dusted away for good.

A/N:  There are only two chapters left after this one! The final one and then an epilogue. I’m so sad that it’s ending! 

TAGS: @mggpleasedontlookhere @grey-force-jedi @austynparksandpizza @lovelyladymayyy​

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” 

The redhead nodded, giving me a small smile. “I will.” 

“Don’t be a stranger, Wanda.” 

The funeral had ending awhile ago, most of us staying behind to chat and catch up. I wasn’t sure if I’d see any of these people again so I made sure to give them all proper goodbyes.

We gave each other another hug before parting ways and I headed towards Bucky who was looking out at the waters of the lake behind the Stark home. 

My arm wrapped around his side and he snaked his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in. A soft kiss to the top of my head brought a smile to my lips. 

“You alright?” I asked. 

During the funeral, I could feel Bucky filled with so much regret; regret for not only what happened to Tony but for what The Winter Soldier did to his parents. 

“I never got to apologize to him, really, for what I did to his parents,” Bucky’s voice sounded broken so I gave him a loving squeeze. 

“It wasn't you, Buck.”

He sighed, finally looking into my eyes. “Where’s the other two trouble makers?”

I giggled at his nickname for Sam and Steve. 

“They’re with Bruce checking out the new quantum tunnel. I guess Tony had been working on another, better model.” I said. 

Bucky hummed while he led me towards the three men, who were in a heated discussion, but seized when Bucky and I walked up. 

“What's going on?” I asked with a raised brow.

Sam ran a hand over his tired face, letting out a deep sigh. We were all exhausted still, not having much time to recoup after yesterday's fight. Right after Tony’s funeral, we all decided that now would be the best time to return the stones. 

“Steve wants to return the stones himself which I think is crazy if you ask me,” Sam said. 

My eyes landed on Steve, who was already dressed in his suit, briefcase full of stones in one hand and Mjolnir in the other. 

“Can we talk alone for a minute?” I questioned. 

He nodded and we walked towards a bench that faced the lake, both sitting in silence. Steve didn’t have to say anything, however, because I already knew what he was thinking. 

“You’re not coming back?” I finally tore my gaze away from the water and looked into his eyes. 

Steve hesitated, trying to think of the right words to say. 

“What do I have left here, Y/N?” 

I scoffed, immediately feeling hurt by his choice. 

“What about me? Bucky and Sam?” I asked, pointing to them behind us. 

No matter how far away we sat from them, I knew Bucky could hear our conversation. 

He ran a hand over his face but remained silent. No matter how much I begged or pleaded to have him come back to us, his mind had been made up. Steve was going back to not only return the stones but to live a life with Peggy. 

The anger had intensified, knowing he was giving all of us up for her. 

“I can’t believe it,” I stood while shaking my head. “You’re leaving all of us behind for her?” 

Steve shrugged. “I love her, Y/N.” 

“And I love you, Steve. Just because I chose Bucky doesn’t mean you have to forget about me.” 

He stood with a start and lifted my chin with his finger, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I will never forget you, Y/N. You will always be a huge part of my life, I can’t forget someone I love.”

“Then why can’t you stay?” I wondered with a quiet sob. “Please stay.” 

Steve’s lips ghosted a kiss over my forehead. “I have to do this, Y/N.”

In the end, I knew that Steve was right. There had to have been a small part of me that understood where he was coming from, right?

Everything I had done lately for my love of Bucky was no different than Steve staying in the past so he could live a life with Peggy. We all deserved a happy ending after defeating Thanos, Steve included. 

I pulled my jacket closer to my chest and reluctantly nodded. Our arms wrapped around each other in a final hug and I left a soft, lingering, kiss on his cheek.

“We love you, Steve. I understand why you want to do this but can’t stay here and watch you. If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be,” I said, gently cupping his cheek once more. 

Tears welled in his eyes but Steve quickly blinked them away. 

No others words came through my lips, unsure of what to say exactly, so walked ahead of him while he followed behind. He wanted to say goodbye to Bucky, one final time. 

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” Steve joked. 

Bucky chuckled. “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

The hug between them was quick, Bucky not wanting to linger any longer around him. Even though it was Steve’s decision in the end, Bucky couldn’t agree with it. After everything they had gone through together, Steve was giving it all away for Peggy. 

I could almost see the jealousy and anger oozing out of Bucky. 

“Take care of her,” Steve nodded towards me. 

I laced my fingers with Bucky and gave Steve one final smile. “Safe travels, Stevie. I love you.” 

Bucky and I turned to walk away as tears fell from my eyes. I had lost another person I loved and cared about however the one who meant the most was still here, lightly swaying our hands together as we walked alongside the lake, far from Steve. 

“You know,” Bucky spoke after some time of quiet, “I think we should get a place on the lake. It’s quite peaceful.” 

“Remember my family’s cabin we stayed in after the fight in D.C?” I asked, the memory pushing its way forward. 

It was the first time I had shared time and made memories with Bucky, not Soldat. 

Bucky smirked and nodded. “That seems like a lifetime ago.”

“We’ve been through a lot together,” I stated. 

We came to a stop and Bucky pulled me into his chest, vibranium fingers brushing the hair out of my face. He lowered his lips, giving me a tender kiss. 

“I love you, Y/N,” Bucky gushed.

Leaning up on my toes, I gave him another quick kiss. “I love you too, Bucky.” 

We started walking again but suddenly, I remembered the surprise that I had yet to show him. 

“I have something to show you, only if you’re up for it.” I said. 

Bucky wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close again. “I’m always up for anything if you’re involved, doll.” 

“No fucking way,” Bucky gasped. 

“I know it looks a lot worse since the last time you saw it but I have so many ideas on how we can fix it all,” I babbled on while pointing to different things around us, stating how we could change things. 

“If you think about it,” I continued to ramble, “All it really needs is new flooring throughout and a good paint job. And the kitchen could use an update. Oh, the bathrooms need to be completely gutted.” 

“Doll,” Bucky reached for my hands causing me to come to a complete stop. 

He wore the pridest, widest, smile I had ever seen on his gorgeous face. It was the type of smile that made the corners of your eyes crinkle. 

“You bought my childhood home?” He asked. 

I nodded but grew anxious the longer he stared into my eyes. “Should I not have? Was that too weird?” 

Bucky hushed my ramblings with a kiss. 

“I fucking love you, doll. I can’t believe you did that,” Bucky mused against my lips. 

Our fingers laced together and I pulled him along, filling him in on how we could fix things and update the home to its former glory. 

The dining room had a huge window that when the sun would set int he evenings, it would cast the home in an orange hue. 

We could tear down the wall between the kitchen and living room, giving the home a large open concept. 

There were three bathrooms total, all of which needed to be completely gutted. 

Out of the five bedrooms, I guided Bucky towards my favorite one. His old bedroom. 

“I know your room was the smallest but what if we tear down that wall,” I pointed to the one opposite of us, “And connect the two rooms. I really love how large the windows are in here. We could put in a set of French doors that lead out onto a deck.” 

“That all sounds amazing, Y/N.” 

Bucky had not stopped smiling since we stepped foot through the threshold. He knew immediately where we were the second I had turned on the street. 

“The agent told me that there’s a small lake behind all of those trees. I tried to get in contact with the man that owns that land to see if he was willing to see but I guess he disappeared with the snap,” I stated while we turned to look out the large window in the room. 

A small chuckle erupted from Bucky’s throat, earning a confused look on my end. 

“What?” I questioned. 

“Names James Buchanan Barnes. I heard you were interested in buying my land,” Bucky extended his hand towards me, wanting me to shake it. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

Confusion was an understatement on how I felt at the moment. 

“Before I went to war, back in the 40’s, my parents surprised me with that piece of land. They wanted me to have something that I would be able to make a home on and raise my family close to them,” Bucky shared. 

My lips parted slightly at his words. Between the both of us, we had now owned just over two acres of land?

“I can’t believe it,” I laughed, shocked. 

Bucky wrapped his arms around me from behind, placing a kiss on the top of my head. 

“Thank you for this, doll. I can’t wait until we fix this up and start raising our family here,” he mused, thinking of his exciting future ahead. 

I turned into his arms, snaking my arms around his neck. “You want to have a family with me?” 

Bucky’s eyes shone with so much love and purpose. I could feel the pride emanating from his soul. 

“Y/N, I want to live with you for the rest of my life, even when we’re ghosts. I don’t want to experience this life with anyone else,” Bucky sealed the admission with a kiss. 

Suddenly I had remembered that there was one more final thing I had to tell him. I knew that with this news he wouldn’t be so happy. As I opened my lips to speak, Bucky had beat me to it, rambling on about ways we could fix up the rest of the house and the backyard. 

He spoke with so much purpose for the future, our future, and it brought tears to my eyes knowing that after the hell of a life he had, he was excited for something. Bucky had a future to look forward too that didn’t involve death or heartbreak. It involved us and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Sam. He was all we had left and I refused to leave him behind, even if Bucky tried to kill him. 

With a silent nod, I had decided to keep that final secret of losing our child in the snap to myself. 

“Buck,” my voice came out husky and raw. “Why don’t we head back to the hotel to celebrate?” 

Seeing how excited he was for our future brought immediate warmth to my core and the itch to feel him between my legs again. 

Without a second thought, Bucky’s pupils turned dark with lust as he lifted me onto his shoulder and ran out of our home. We didn’t want to waste any more time.

[prettywordsyouleft]

Peach and Pear

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x female reader

Genre: strangers to lovers / fluff

Warnings: none

A/N: So I woke up the other morning and wrote this story before getting up for the day. It’s set in a place here in New Zealand and I’m really proud of this little world I randomly created.

Word count: 2945

Once upon a time, there was a little peach that lost his way for the first time. The peach had always been a very successful fruit, doing many things each day to become one of the best peaches around. He was strong and healthy and he was full of talents. A lot of the other fruit admired him a great deal--

“Then why did he get lost?” a curious, high-pitched voice asked, and before you could continue with the story, someone else did for you.

“He woke up and realised he was tired of being successful because he did so much each day,” your husband Jinyoung answered, walking over to you and your daughter, who scooted out from under the blankets you had just tucked her under to reach out her little limbs towards her father. Sitting down on the opposite side of the bed from you, Jinyoung pulled her into his arms, planting a kiss on the top of her crown affectionately.

“You know this story too, Daddy?!”

“Oh yes,” he replied, shooting you a look. “Who do you think told Mummy about it?”

“I want to hear what the peach did next!” she exclaimed and you cleared your throat to continue the story.

Jinyoung laid there, unmoving, as the alarm continued to shrill around the room. Normally he would turn it off and roll back over, knowing he had a second one set for when he truly had to be out of his bed. Yet, when that one sounded as well after the first one had gone on for too long and given up, he still didn’t rush out from under the blankets.

For the first time in a long while, he felt unmotivated.

He had business meetings and English lessons to attend today. Not to mention, his daily swimming practice was waiting for him to start the day. He would then head into the office, working until six precisely, where he would go out for dinner with a client who was investing more into his company. Afterwards, he was expected to hit up the gym for leg day, and finally wind up back here, finalising any paperwork before reading another chapter in a self-improvement book and go to bed by eleven.

And then the day would repeat, usually with some variation to the workday, but still with the continued structure that he expected from himself each day.

Today, however, he didn’t care for any of it.

Jinyoung wanted a break. He couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t follow the same continuous pattern that all around him had come to rely on. He was too predictable now, twenty-six and thriving as a businessman, successful enough to have his name in the tabloids often as a measure that many others in the industry strived to match. No one had expected the handsome man to create such a storm at his age, let alone at all. Yet the proof was in the pudding, or in Jinyoung’s case, his relentless endeavour to create a stable and solid life plan for him and his company.

Whilst he had worked tirelessly on building the foundation of his business, his university pals were off taking in the world. Mark had gone snowboarding at every well-known skiing resort, and Jackson was in America promoting Team Wang whilst collaborating with top names on every country’s celebrity list. Jaebum had travelled to Europe to learn more about the way music was produced there and BamBam was never in the same continent for too long, having fun being young and rich. Even Youngjae and Yugyeom had found themselves leaving this place to find better horizons. Only Jinyoung had stayed.

He wasn’t bitter that he had chosen to, but it did mean his youth was spent grinding each day and not truly lived. As he laid in his bed, still uncaring that the second alarm had come and gone, he realised he craved reaching out for what he had missed out on. He wanted to explore a foreign place and do so without much planning.

He was usually the research and implement type of guy, but today, he simply packed a small suitcase with the necessities for travel and climbed into his car, heading towards the airport.

With passport in hand, he watched the departure board for one of the places to stand out to him. Many flights were heading out within the next couple of hours, though there was one about to leave in forty minutes. Striding towards a desk, he smiled at the clerk and asked to buy a ticket to that destination.

“Sir, are you sure?” she asked, slightly perplexed by the sudden passenger request. Jinyoung nodded and she cringed. “There’s no business class left and it will take-”

“I’ll take it,” he confirmed, sliding his credit card across the tabletop towards her.

And that was how Jinyoung found himself in the back row of a twelve-hour plane ride to New Zealand.

“Wow!” exclaimed your daughter, eyes round with the adventure. “The little peach travelled all the way here! Did he make any friends?”

“Well,” you said, glancing at your husband before nodding once. “He turned up unexpectedly and asked to stay at a pear’s broken down bed and breakfast.”

“Which was basically in the middle of nowhere,” Jinyoung added on with a smile, glancing over at you fondly. “And it didn’t have any central heating.”

“That was because the pear herself hadn’t quite found out how to fix that problem, and the peach had chosen to get on a plane without checking that New Zealand was in the middle of winter.”

Jinyoung laughed, placing his daughter back under the blankets before continuing the story.

You blinked at the man standing upon your porch, shivering in his thin coat, the snow that was falling outside having covered his dark hair. And when you realised you weren’t hallucinating, you gasped, jerking open the old door across the wooden floors and stepped aside.

The foreign man dove inside out of the howling wind, and you shut it out with some effort in closing the door before stepping in front of him.

“How did you… I mean, it’s freezing out and you’re barely layered up. Please, follow me to the fireplace, you need to warm up.”

Once he was positioned as close to the fire as he could get, the man unravelled his arms around his waist and outstretched them towards the embers to thaw out. You left him there and dashed down to the kitchen, flicked on the jug and waited for it to boil.

Just who was this strange man? And how had he stumbled across your place at this time of night?

When your uncle died earlier in the year, his estate had been left to you. Your father, and his brother, had passed away some years prior and since your parents had been separated, what your uncle owned had been rightfully designated as yours.

“An inn?!” you echoed the words the lawyer had just read out, sitting up further in your chair. “My estranged uncle owned an inn?!”

“I wouldn’t be too excited, the place hasn’t had any guests in years,” the lawyer remarked, but you were already looking at the photos of the charming building, imagining what a bit of paint and gardening could do for the place.

So that’s how you wound up leaving the city life for the small township in the Buller district that had less than 1000 people living there. And, it was definitely going to take more than paint and some gardening to fix this place.

“You’re as crazy as your uncle was for trying to do up that house,” Katie, the owner of the only tearooms in Reefton, mentioned when you came in for lunch earlier in the day. “It’s got more problems than the number of people living here.”

You smiled grimly. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“Why not sell it and go back to where you came from, Y/N? The land would be worth some. I’m sure a farmer around here would happily bulldoze down that eyesore of a home and run his sheep or cattle over it just fine. In fact, I think Bill was-”

Imagining the crumbling building no longer existing didn’t make you feel any better. Glancing up at Katie, you shook your head. “It’s Reefton Estate. You can’t just go tearing down history like that.”

“There’s history, Y/N and then there’s money traps. Sure, in its heyday that place must have been spectacular and full of guests all the time with the gold rush and all. But this isn’t the eighteen hundreds. There’s only the novelty of finding gold at Shanty Town if you’re a tourist these days.”

“I don’t need gold, and I can’t just sell up.”

So you got stuck in with what you could do. You hired a contractor from Greymouth to come and look at your home, and with an extremely long list of projects thereafter, you started tackling them one by one. The place was liveable, but it still had a long way to go to be back to its former glory.

And you certainly were slower than most, being a one-woman team, with a trickle of funds available. As a joke, you placed an advert up online looking for volunteers to help lovingly restore the estate.

Of course, no one had come, until now.

Handing the stranger a mug of tea, you sat down beside him and smiled gently. “Did you mean to come here?”

“It’s a long story,” he said, smiling weakly. “I’m Jinyoung and you are?”

“Y/N,” you replied, holding out your hand in greeting. He took it, and your eyes nearly popped out of your head with how cold he still was. Rubbing it repeatedly, you tried to warm him up until Jinyoung gripped at your wrist and eyed you warily.

You balked and let him go. “Sorry, it’s just that you’re so cold. Not many people venture out at night around here without thermals on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he mentioned with a soft smile, nodding once. “Thank you for the tea.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Before the night wore out, Jinyoung had told you of his rash plan. He had left Korea and come to New Zealand on a whim, and again, chose his next destination in the same way as he had his last.

You gasped. “Of all the places to choose in New  Zealand, you ended up in Greymouth?!”

“To be fair, I wasn’t really aware. I thought it would be bigger and have more people,” he admitted and you laughed.

“The coast has people; just they tend to know each other. Oh boy. It won’t be long until word spreads about you coming here either.”

“How will that happen when it’s just us two here?” Jinyoung asked and you sighed.

You didn’t want to have to explain it tonight. When you had arrived from Christchurch, it was as if you had a giant beacon on your head that every resident of Reefton could see from their homes. You had been inundated with visitors both very friendly and extremely nosy for an entire week before you felt that you had met almost everyone. And although you got used to the gossiping nature of the place, you still didn’t quite like it either.

You somehow felt protective of Jinyoung. Besides, when the light arrived in the morning, you were certain he would climb into his hired vehicle and continue on his sightseeing ways.

However, you found him merely staring at your entryway, aghast.

“Morning,” you called and he whipped around, trying to wipe the perturbed look off his face. Clearing his throat, you shook your head to stop him. “I know, it needs a lot of attention.”

“Only one fireplace works, the rooms are freezing even with the space heater you gave me and you have a hole in the ceiling above me.”

“There’s also the west wing that has two inaccessible rooms, one of the bathrooms upstairs is blocked and there’s no way anyone will be able to stay here in the next few years to produce any revenue,” you added on with a smile, handing Jinyoung the coffee you had made him. He thanked you silently, before allowing his gaze to travel up the walls again. “It would probably make nice firewood to some farmer who tore it down for the land to run his animals over-”

“It has charm,” Jinyoung said then, cutting you off. You merely stared at him, wondering who he really was. He was the only person you had met since inheriting this place that had said those words to you. “It has a lot of potential to become something amazing, after a lot of work, of course.”

“I think so too.”

“Do you have the blueprints at all?” he asked and you cocked your head to the side.

“Thought you were sightseeing?”

“Well, there certainly seems to be a lot to look at just within this house, don’t you think?”

Jinyoung said he would stay for two weeks, helping you with projects that could be started with a bit of manual labour. Two weeks turned into a month, with trips to Greymouth for further supplies. And after then, you stopped asking when he was going to go back to Korea and his company. Part of you didn’t want to know the answer, having grown attached to the man. He was more playful than you had expected, and you spent most of your days laughing and soon your nights curled up together in front of the fireplace.

Of course, the gossip mill ran wild. Jinyoung didn’t care, and after three months, he even held your hand as you walked downtown, allowing the nosy store owners to pick up their phones and ring around that you had found yourself a man.

“Did the peach ever return home?”

“He did, three times,” Jinyoung stated, holding up the right amount of fingers before counting them down as he spoke. “First, because he felt he had to go. But he had found he could run his company from New Zealand with relative success.”

“Especially once he invested in better internet connection at the inn,” you interjected with a knowing look and Jinyoung rolled his eyes before dropping another finger.

“He came back here because he couldn’t stop thinking about the house and worried that pear would end up hurting herself badly. Which, had he not gotten on that plane and walked through the door when he did, pear would have fallen off a ladder onto the ground.”

“Instead she fell on top of the peach,” you said with a laugh and Jinyoung nodded.

“And the third time he went back was to finalise the sale of his company and bring his parents back with him.”

Your daughter sat up eagerly again. “Why did his parents come?! Did he miss them?!”

“Of course. But there was another reason too,” Jinyoung said, glancing at you and reaching out for your hand. You took it and he rubbed the set of rings that lay over your left finger. “The peach and pear got married.”

“Wait a minute!” your daughter breathed, pointing at her father and then you repeatedly before clapping and squealing. “That’s you and Mummy!”

“And now we live in Reefton Estate together, don’t we?” you told her, and her little head bounced up and down.

“Which thankfully has heating.”

“And no more holes in the ceilings.”

“The west wing can be rented out to staying guests.”

“And the peach and pear lived happily ever after.”

“With their own little peachy-pear!” cried your daughter to end the story, which had you all laughing, hugging the sweet child.

And once she had finally drifted off to sleep, you stepped out into the hallway on tiptoes, trying not to make the floorboards creak and wake her back up.

Of course, the house had been repaired. But it still carried most of its original parts, and definitely needed more work. The floors were next on the list to replace.

For now, tiptoeing back to your room down the hall was the best option you had. And when Jinyoung shut the door behind you, he pulled you into his arms, resting his head on your shoulder. You leaned back into him, cherishing the moment.

Mostly for his warmth, and he knew it.

“We need to work on the heating in our room.”

“It made sense to do the guest rooms at the time so we could make money,” you reminded, spinning around softly so you could face him. “Besides, I remember you saying at the time that we had each other to keep warm with.”

“That’s how peachy-pear came along,” he pointed out with a low chuckle and you slapped his shoulder playfully.

“We should get that heating sorted quickly then in case we end up growing more fruit,” you teased but Jinyoung shook his head in answer, leaning down to capture your lips briefly.

“I don’t mind growing more fruit with you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s one way to keep us both warm, too.”

“Why did you turn up on my doorstep all those years ago?” you breathed out, staring at your husband lovingly. You still couldn’t quite believe your luck.

As if he read your mind, Jinyoung smiled. “It wasn’t luck that brought me here. It was a need to find my forever home.”

“You chose well in a broken-down inn,” you retorted, to which he chuckled again.

“It has its charm,” he said before nuzzling his nose into yours. “And it has you.”

_________________

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