#and he tells himself this resigned like it’s some silver lining and not a curse

[dadvans]

Buck in a fire lookout staring at the mountains, tap tap tapping a pen against his mouth. He picked up the GREETINGS FROM LOS ANGELES postcard on his way out of the city.

He writes:

Dear Maddie: it turns out firefighting’s for me but teamwork isn’t. I got a new gig manning fire lookouts! Maybe I was always meant to fly solo, and maybe you always knew that, but you knew I would be okay too. It can get a little lonely sometimes but you should see the view.

The hotshots thing in the press release for S8 has me thinking about types of firefighters and now I'm thinking about a fire watcher au. Buck who fully isolated himself after the injury and decided fuck this fuck them fuck it all imma go sit on a mountaintop and watch for smoke. Fully alone in the still deserted parts of the world, just watching the horizon for signs of fire to radio back in and let people know he's spotted something. So distant from not only his friends and family but the very thing he considers the REASON he had them in the first place. And instead of going towards the fire, when Buck spots a fire now it usually means he's about to get evacuated out.

[paralyze-fic]

Paralyze.

Side Story; Shinso vs Bakugou [Special Chapter]

|This is a Love War|

|Shinso and (L/n) were both transferred to 1-A|

It was after Bakugou saw (M/n)'s abilities at the Sports Festival that his interest peeked. He shrugged it off as simply seeing a potential rival in him, but when both of the transferred extras showed how capable they were during their rescue training with All Might, Bakugou couldn't help but feel even more curious and interested.

But only the tall (h/c) haired boy caught his attention. That purple-haired freak only made him feel anxious.

That's why, on the bus on their way back to the school campus, he interrupted their talk. "Hey, muscle weirdo." Both stopped talking and looked over the seat at the explosive blond, "After school, at my house."

And like that, he sat back down.

Both guys sitting behind him were curious, and they silently discussed the matter with visual contact. They've known each other their whole lives, that's why they could communicate with eye contact alone.

But after that, the class went by normally. (M/n) sat at the front and Hitoshi sat behind Izuku, not that he disliked it, really, the greenette was actually very nice.

But he wanted to be closer to (M/n).

When the last bell rang, Hitoshi and (M/n) talked happily, walking out of the classroom and discussing what they'd be doing at Hitoshi's house.

But then the rough and calloused hand of a certain spiky-haired boy gripped (M/n)'s tie and began dragging him out of the school.

"Why do I have to go to your house, Bakugou-kun?!" Hitoshi saw with shocked eyes how his best friend, and eternal crush, whined in a scared voice while he tried to pry himself from the aggressive porcupine's grip.

"I'm not going to hurt you if that's what you're thinking," Bakugou growled with a slightly offended tone in his voice, a scowl adorning his features.

He was stumping while still dragging the taller male, who just sighed in resignation and let himself get dragged along the sidewalk.

Hitoshi was too shocked to react in time, and when his feet finally moved, both of them were already out of his line of sight.

"Damn it!" He cursed and kicked a pebble on the ground, slightly scaring some students who were walking past him.

That very day, (M/n) and Bakugou fought, in a spar kind of fight.

And the blond acknowledged the taller's strength, by simply calling him '(L/n)'. Such a simple thing, but to Bakugou it had meaning.

And the meaning was that he wasn't as strong as he thought he was, and had somebody to help him get stronger.

A few days went by, and those two were unconsciously behaving hostile toward each other. Shinso and Bakugou didn't get along, and everybody could tell.

Everybody except (M/n), because we all know how dumb this cinnamon roll is, right?

And when Aizawa reminded them of the exam, (M/n) didn't think, at all, about what he was going to say.

Hitoshi had walked up to him, so he could ask him if he wanted to study together when the [brunette, blonde, raven, etc] heard the spiky red boy's cheerful voice.

"Bakugou! Can you help me study?" Instantly, (M/n) turned and held Hitoshi's wrist, pulling him closer.

"Us too," he quickly said, without noticing his purple-haired friend's dumbfounded stare.

Bakugou was about to refuse, but then he thought of something.

If Hitoshi wasn't there, he could try to get closer to (M/n), and maybe make him ditch that damn extra.

"Yeah, sure." He smirked when he saw Hitoshi's annoyed expression.

But Hitoshi wasn't going to hand (M/n) in a silver tray like that to no other than Bakugou Katsuki.

"Good, I'll go to."

Their study sessions at the café were spent with Bakugou screaming at Kirishima, Hitoshi looking at cat pictures on his phone and (M/n) reading the blond's notes.

Needless to say, neither of their plans worked. Not a single day they studied. Not even today.

Bakugou couldn't focus on (M/n) at all because of Kirishima, and Hitoshi was being ignored was his friend, who actually did want to study, so the last day of the four of them studying was spent in a sour way.

Later the next day, Hitoshi remembered an important thing.

The practical exam was going to be against robots again! Meaning he won't pass the exam!

Immediately, he picked up his phone to text (M/n).

;Dude, what are we gonna do about the robots for the exam?

(M/n)💜;

Well, Bakugou is training me to turn off electronics.

What are you going to do, Shi-chan? I'm worried about you!

Hitoshi felt his blood rush up to his cheek when he read that (M/n) was worried about him. But then...

"Why does he have to be with that damn blond every day?" He growled to himself, clenching his jaw and closing his fists, but he ignored his jealousy and replied.

;Not sure what I'll do, but I'll figure it out, (M/n), you don't need to worry about me.

And after that, they continued talking for quite a while. Until Hitoshi asked...

;Can I stay the night at your house?

Sorry, Shi-chan, but I'm staying the night at Bakugou's house.

That made Hitoshi throw his phone across his bedroom.

"Fuck!!"

At Bakugou's house, an oblivious boy was staring down at his phone intrigued.

Shi-chan hasn't replied yet... how weird. Maybe he fell asleep... or saw a cat outside his window...

"Oi, (L/n)," Bakugou came back after they took a small break after they ate dinner, "Let's keep going."

A few minutes ago, Bakugou noticed the boy looking at his phone, and he assumed he was talking with the purple extra, so he decided to make his appearance to make (M/n) focus on him again.

He wasn't not going to deny it, because it was useless at this point. Bakugou has a tiny crush on the taller male, but with Hitoshi in between he couldn't really figure out the (e/c)-eyed male's feelings.

It was, basically, a silent love war between Bakugou and Shinso. Both trying to make the poor guy known as (M/n), fall in love with them.

And neither of them was going to back down.

//////

(M/n) walked into the infirmary after All Might allowed him to, and Hitoshi waited outside for him. But the curiosity got the best of him and he stepped closer to the door, pressing his ear against the wood.

"(M/n)-kun..." he heard Midoriya slowly talking, and his best friend might have answered because the green-haired haired talked again, "Do you... like Kacchan?"

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Hitoshi's heart was beating rapidly with nervousness and anxiety. Breathlessly awaiting for (M/n)'s response, which seemed to be taking way too long.

"Well... maybe I do, but..." His words faltered for a second, and Hitoshi was starting to feel the knot in his throat tightening, "But I... think I like somebody else... too, I'm confused..."

And that was like, both Bakugou and Hitoshi, began developing their mastermind plan.

Because, yes, Katsuki gained his consciousness back just in time to hear Deku's question and (M/n)'s answer. As far as he knew, the other guy who (M/n) liked was that purple extra, but Katsuki wasn't going to allow him to steal the (h/c) haired male away from him.

"The other person you like is... Shinso-kun, right?" And the mentioned boy's heart skipped a bit.

Katsuki and Hitoshi heard (M/n) scoff-like-chuckle and his voice sounded kinda ashamed.

"Am I that obvious, Deku?"

But none of them heard the freckled boy's reply, because they collectively thought...

"I'll make you fall in love with me, (M/n)."

///////

During the weekend, Hitoshi and (M/n) were together walking around the shopping mall, talking and joking around. They were having a great time together until Hitoshi's phone rang.

Turns out his mother called him to help her with some things, seeing as his father was working at the moment, and reluctantly, he had to leave his best friend. (M/n) wasn't annoyed or anything, being alone meant time to think things over.

And he did so while walking around until he finally decided to enter a store to buy the things he needed. As soon as he walked in, his phone buzzed inside his pocket.

Bakugou was calling him.

He picked up and spent a long time talking with him too, when a loud alarm echoed in the mall.

//////

Later that day, at Bakugou's house, (M/n) achieved something impossible for the majority of the people.

He made Bakugou openly laugh.

(M/n) felt how his body was overflowing with amazement, the cute noise of the blond's laugh imprinted into his memories, along with every image of Hitoshi's smile and laugh.

And that was when he realized the mess he got himself into.

So, deciding he needed more time to himself, he got up and bid goodbye to the mad dog he had as a friend and, instead of walking, he ran back to his house.

"How could have I fallen in love with two completely different guys?!" He yelled into his pillow, trashing around his bed frantically.

At some point, he stayed still, facing the ceiling but with his pillow still covering his face, now thinking about what to do.

"Ignoring them might not work, but... I can try it."

And even though those were his words, now he was being pulled back and forth by both of them, each one holding one of his arms, angrily screaming at each other while the rest of the class stared at them.

"He's going to sit with me!" Was the only thing they yelled at each other.

(M/n)'s heart was beating rapidly about to burst out of his chest, and his heated face almost bursting into flames. But he was also getting pissed off.

He had been planning to ignore them since that one day at the mall, rejecting Bakugou's invitation to his house and everyone asking for him to go to the pool, going as far as to tell his mother the excuse that he was feeling kinda sick, so she wouldn't drag him off his bed when Hitoshi came to go to the school pool with him.

But now, both of them, the purple-haired and the ash blond were fighting over who he would sit next to.

Until Aizawa got annoyed and stepped in front of them. Out of the three, only (M/n) stood straight and tense, well, as much as he could while being tugged side to side.

"Just go sit at the back of the bus and stop arguing over who sits with (L/n)." He glanced over his shoulder and stared at the rest of his class, "Get on the bus."

Long story short, (M/n) was sitting in between Bakugou and Hitoshi for the whole duration of the trip, completely tensed.

Even when both of them fell asleep on his shoulders, there was no way he could relax. But it was a good thing the rest of his classmates were asleep too.

He just let out a deep sigh and shut his eyes for a moment, questioning life. "Why do these things happen to me?"

That's how the entire trip to where they would be spending their training camp went, and getting off the bus was relatively easier. Now, off of it, his hands were occupied once again.

And poor (M/n) was getting rather frustrated.

That's when the ground underneath them collapsed because of Pixie Bob's quirk. When he got up and slightly dusted himself, he realized his hands were free, and he decided to run away from the boys.

So he was now standing next to Todoroki, who only looked at him with curiosity, but ignored him otherwise.

They had to destroy those dirt beasts, and it was difficult for him, but Todoroki offered his limbs, so he was grateful for that.

Another opportunity to get away was when that black-haired kid punched Izuku in his 'special place', and he took it upon himself to get him an ice pack.

Sitting together in one of the sofas the place had, they talked for a bit.

"So... how's everything with Kacchan and Shinso-kun...?" Izuku sweatdropped at his friend's reaction. (M/n) went from being content and relaxed, to being particularly worn out, slouching his upper body and groaning.

"It's been difficult... I realized I like them both and... tried to just-" he made hand motions as if he was pushing something, "Ignore them and those feelings, but... you saw them today, right?"

Izuku nodded with a sorry expression on his face.

"(M/n)?!"

"(L/n)?!"

Two booming voices echoed inside the room, making (M/n) flinch and try to hide himself by pressing his body against the sofa as if trying to melt into it.

"Help me, Izuku..." he whispered-yelled towards the injured boy, who just played with his fingers and reluctantly nodded at him.

"He uh..." Bakugou and Hitoshi turned to look at him, both with a frown on their faces, "He went to the... bathroom."

What happened after that, was that crimson and violet eyes stared at each other, before running further into the inn, completely oblivious to the boy hiding in plain sight.

Another sigh left the boy as he sat up correctly, "What do I do, Izuku?"

//////

Deku's idea was to just... always be with any of their classmates... not that he could really do that.

But he chose Izuku or Todoroki.

And yeah, that seemed like it made Bakugou and Hitoshi quite annoyed about it, but none of them tried to get closer to him after that. So it was a good thing that it worked, at least for now.

But, it worked, even the next day when they had training. Until (M/n) went blind as he overused his quirk.

Bakugou won against Hitoshi this time because he was able to hold his wrist as soon as the class gathered around. The tall boy was resisting his dragging, making him really angry. Bakugou just thought that (M/n) wanted to be with Hitoshi and not with him.

But then the ash-blond heard the [brunette, raven, blonde, etc]'s words and immediately released him, causing (M/n) to fall.

When he heard the soft, "I can't see..." his body trembled with worry. He knelt in from of him and lifted his head by his chin, staring at the completely white eyes of the boy, his pupils and irises were pretty much gone, they were hard to see unless you were up close.

Hitoshi saw them from afar and kinda knew what happened when Bakugou helped his friend up and took him with Aizawa and the Pussycats. While the rest of 1-A and 1-B cooked their dinner, Bakugou and Hitoshi every now and then went to check up on him and asked him how he was.

Despite what he previously wanted to do, (M/n) was happy that both of his crushes were concerned about him, and he thought, 'Fuck it.'

I like both of them... but it's not like they like me back either way, so I shouldn't keep ignoring them... not like it was really working, anyway.

The next day went by the same way, but he trained with Bakugou and Hitoshi that day, not at the same time though, and he managed to turn off more electronics without going blind again.

And right after dinner, he was paired with Jiro for the bravery test.

Of course, Bakugou and Hitoshi tried to make the poor girl change teams with them, but then they argued with one another, only making Jiro and (M/n) sweatdrop.

They walked into the woods as the test started, and talked for a bit, some times Jiro clung onto him from a jumpscare, getting (M/n) to hug her by her shoulders in a protective way and they soon fell into a comfortable silence. That was until Jiro talked again.

"(L/n), have you realized that..." she stopped her words suddenly, making the boy turn to look at her with curiosity, "That... Bakugou and Shinso... seem to like you?"

(M/n)'s brain stopped working for a couple of minutes, processing what the small girl just told him. Then, his face began to burn, heat rising from his neck.

"T-th-that's n-not t-t-true, Ji-Jiro-chan... why w-would they l-like me?" He waved his arms around, probably looking very much like Izuku when he was nervous, and that caused Jiro to laugh.

"It's just that... they seem to be like, kinda fighting over you, y'know?"

No, I don't know, Jiro-chan...

But he couldn't really reply to that because a buzzing-like sound filled their ears, making him look over his shoulder.

"What it's that?" Jiro turned too and made a confused noise, she let go of his arm and walked to the pink cloud of gas, "Jiro, I don't think you should-."

He couldn't finish his sentence, because Jiro's body began to fall straight down. Thanks to his quick reflexes he caught her and avoided her getting any other kind of injury or wound.

The gas was closing in on him and he just picked Jiro up in his arms and began running ahead, away from the poisonous pink gas.

He encountered Bakugou and Todoroki. As soon as the blond saw him as they turned around due to the noise of rapid footsteps, he sprinted to (M/n) and hugged him. The three of them -because he was still carrying Jiro-, ended up kneeling on the ground, while Katsuki hid his face on (M/n)'s neck and hugged him tight without uttering a word.

Todoroki just looked away and around, far ahead seeing somebody kneeling on the ground.

"There's... someone there," Todoroki whispered, trying to avoid getting that person's attention, and Katsuki looked over his shoulder, (M/n) straightened his upper body and observed over spiky-blond hair.

"Who went before us...?" Katsuki asked while standing up slowly and helping the taller male up as well.

"Tokoyami and Shoji."

The figure began turning and standing up, mumbling words over and over.

"Everyone from class A and B! In the name of the pro-hero, Eraser Head, you're allowed to combat! I repeat! Everyone from class A and B! In the name of the pro-hero, Eraser Head, you're allowed to combat!" Mandalay's message echoed inside their heads, making their bodies tense, "We've discovered two of the villains' targets! Two students: Kacchan and (M/n)! Kacchan and (M/n) have to avoid combat and act independently! Got it, Kacchan, (M/n)?!"

Hitoshi panicked as the message ended, and he turned around about to go into the woods to look for (M/n), but a navy-blue-haired boy with glasses didn't allow him.

He would've used his quirk to make him shut up if it wasn't because Vlad King was also there, and he wasn't allowing anyone to go outside.

Hitoshi was feeling really frustrated, his quirk could brainwash anyone, and he could make the villains surrender in an instant, but the pro-heroes wouldn't allow him outside because the students were their targets.

As far as he knew, he could also be a target for the villains. Any student could be. That's why the teachers weren't allowing them to go out there and fight, they were safe with the teachers.

Back with (M/n), he was running towards the direction of where three figures were flying in the air, following one way ahead.

If his classmates were after a villain, then... They probably caught Katsuki.

And (M/n) wasn't going to stand by to see how his crush got kidnapped by meaningless lowlifes.

But, even with his speed and reflexes... he couldn't get to Katsuki, who was being held by a black-haired and scarred villain.

The look in Bakugou's eyes was going to hunt him for a while, whilst his scared voice echoed inside his head over and over, like a broken disc.

"(M/n)... help me."

"I'll save you, Katsuki..."

//////

After Izuku woke up, the basic plan was said out loud by Kirishima and Todoroki. They were going to get Bakugou back.

Everyone left the room, everyone except (M/n), who looked at Izuku with tears filling his eyes, but he blinked them away, smiling at the freckled boy.

"I'm gonna save Bakugou, Izuku."

Hitoshi heard him, and his jaw clenched.

Why was that damn loud, aggressive and proud asshole so fucking important-?!

Wait... don't tell me... he already decided who he likes more... no, no, no... why, why him...

But he didn't let his thoughts get the best of him and silently waited outside for (M/n).

He waited for almost two hours until Izuku's doctor came in and told (M/n) to get out. He closed the door behind him and walked to the seats by the door, only to see Hitoshi already there.

It was silent for a moment, until the tall boy attempted a smile in Hitoshi's direction, "Hey."

He just nodded once as a greet back, and (M/n) sat beside him.

"You can't," Hitoshi said after ten minutes of complete silence. (M/n) just glanced at him with confusion.

"What do you-?"

"You can't go and risk yourself to save that... that..." he bit his tongue, without wanting to sound like more of a douche in front of (M/n), "I won't let you go there."

(M/n) couldn't comprehend why Hitoshi was telling him this, but his blood boiled when his thoughts cleared up.

"Who-... Who do you think you are, Hitoshi?!" He exclaimed, getting up and looming over the purple-haired boy, "Katsuki is my friend, and I'm not going to just sit and watch!"

Hitoshi felt a stinging pain in his chest when he heard (M/n) calling Bakugou by his first name.

"You don't need to save him! The heroes are looking for him! Be reasonable, (M/n), you can't go!" The (h/c) haired male clenched his fist and he drew his dominant hand back.

A loud thud was heard when his knuckles collided with the wall above Shinso's head, cracking the wall. (M/n) looked down at him while Hitoshi backed himself into the chair, staring up at his taller friend looming over him.

"I was extremely close to saving him back in the camp... and I couldn't do it because I was weak..." he lowered his bloodied hand and let it hang by his side, the blood slowly dripping down his fingers and onto the white-tiled floor. "Now, I can reach him... and I'm not going to let you stop me, Hitoshi..."

And like that, he walked away to stop by the reception desk, showing his bloody hand to the nurse behind the marble desk.

The woman immediately got out a first aid kit when she saw the boy's hand, quickly and carefully disinfected it and wrapped it with a bandage. (M/n) thanked her and walked out of the hospital.

Like five minutes later, Hitoshi walked out too, but he was totally and completely ignored by (M/n) who was looking up at the darkening sky, and he walked away, walking to the nearby hotel both classes were temporarily staying in.

//////

That night, (M/n) was true to his words and reached his hand out for Katsuki to grab.

The relief filling his entire body made tears blur his sight, but he could still see the smile Katsuki was showing at him, smiling back brightly.

(Katsuki's Ending)

(M/n) hugged the boy as soon as he wrapped the newly open skin of his knuckles. His strong arms wrapped the blond's slim waist and pulled Katsuki's body closer to him as he hid his face in the shorter male's neck

"I've... missed you, so much Katsuki." A sob left his shaky lips, and he bit down on the bottom one, holding in the urge to fully cry on Katsuki.

The blond was tense for an instant as he felt (M/n)'s tears rolling down his neck and wetting his t-shirt. He stayed still, unsure of what to do until he finally lifted his arms and hugged the crying boy, caressing his back up and down, calming him down.

"It's okay now (M/n)... I'm fine, alright?" His voice was soft and sweet, making the tall boy hug him tighter.

Izuku glanced back when he didn't see both males following them, but immediately looked away when he saw them hugging so carefully and lovingly.

"Katsuki..." (M/n) whispered, softly inhaling the sweet scent on the shortest boy's body.

"Yes?" He whispered low, one of his hands going up to stroke (M/n)'s hair.

"I love you."

Katsuki's breath hitched, his hands stopping their movements, unknowingly making (M/n) tense and panic. The tall boy was about to back away from the hug, but Katsuki held the collar of his black t-shirt and pulled him down to his height.

"About time, you idiot."

(M/n)'s eyes were wide open as he stared at Katsuki's face as they kissed. But his (e/c) eyes were covered by his eyelids when two warm palms cupped his cheeks and pulled him closer to deepen their kiss.

Their lips separated for a few seconds to catch their breaths, and Katsuki showed (M/n) a big, bright and unusual smile.

"I love you too."

(Hitoshi's Ending)

Back in their homes, (M/n) took out his phone and texted Hitoshi.

;Can we meet up? I wanna talk to you.

Hitoshi read the message and hesitated. But he was ready.

If (M/n) was going to reject him, he wouldn't break down and hold a grudge against him.

Shi-chan;

Sure.

When?

;How about now?

But is ten at night...?

;I don't care.

;I want to see you, Shi-chan.

That last message made his heart beat fast, his face heated up and his hands trembled with nervousness, but he took a deep breath in to calm himself down and replied.

Okay. Where?

;In the park in front of your house.

;I'm already here.

Never, in his entire life, has Hitoshi dressed up to go outside as quickly as he did that night.

When his mother asked him where he was going so late at night, he explained it to her. She allowed him to go but said he shouldn't take too long.

Hitoshi looked at both sides of the street before jogging across and walking into the park.

It didn't take him long to spot his best friend, seeing as (M/n) was sitting underneath a lamppost by the water fountain. He jogged towards him, the sound of his steps catching the sitting boy's attention.

"Hey," Hitoshi smiled slightly and awkwardly sat beside him, the chill summer air refreshing on their bodies. "Um, I... I'm sorry, for... yelling at you." (M/n)'s voice faltered a bit, and Hitoshi only shook his head.

"You don't have to apologize... I should've known." (E/c) eyes stared at him with curiosity.

"Known what?"

Hitoshi couldn't look at him, so he looked up into the night sky.

"That you like Bakugou."

(M/n) choked with his saliva and coughed for a couple of minutes, worrying Hitoshi, who patted his back repeatedly.

"I-... I don't like Bakugou, Shi-chan," he chuckled as his coughing stopped, and now Hitoshi was the one to observe him, confused.

"Then-?"

"I like you, Hitoshi." (M/n) bluntly said, and Hitoshi blushed when his brain processed the words. He covered his face with his hands and mumbled something. "What?" He got closer to the purple-haired boy, who mumbled again, slightly louder, but still not clearly enough, "Hitoshi, I don't understand-."

"I like you too!"

(M/n) stared at Hitoshi surprised. His friend had placed his hands down and was gripping his pants tightly, with his face completely red, making him smile at his cute reaction.

His dominant hand reached out to hold Hitoshi's chin and turn him to make visual contact. But poor Hitoshi couldn't handle their closeness, so he closed his eyes. (M/n) chuckled and closed in, pressing his lips on Hitoshi's.

With eyes closed tightly, Hitoshi tried his best to move his lips against (M/n), but he was too tense and nervous to do it properly, so he pulled back slightly embarrassed at how bad he was at kissing.

"I'm so bad at this, sorry..." He mumbled while looking away, and (M/n) couldn't hold back his smirk, keeping his hold on Hitoshi's chin and making him face his way again.

"Well..." He started with a lower voice than usual, enjoying how he felt Hitoshi tremble under his hold, "We just have to keep practicing, don't we?"

[mythiccheroacademia]

What You Fight About

part 2

A/N: just something I thought about

Headcanon: what you two would fight about the most

Warnings: toxic behaviors, yelling, cursing, angst

Midoriya Izuku:

his absence

being the number one hero is demanding

it’s also been his dream since he could remember

you understood that, but that didn’t mean it didn’t frustrate you when he’d disappear for days at a time

izuku tries to balance his job and home life

but it isn't enough

~~~

You and Izuku don’t fight much. In fact, you never really do. You’re both so compromising that disagreements rarely happen.

But when your kid is involved, that complacency slips away. Even when it comes to one another.

“I’m done talking about this.”

“Honey, why won’t you just listen to me?” he begged, but the irritation in his tone gave it more sharpness than he intended. “[S/N] doesn’t need the tutor. It’s just the teacher.”

You began to pick up the leftover toys from floor more so to expel pent up energy rather than to simply clean. You scoffed, shaking your head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Excuse me?” Midoriya snipped. His eyes followed you as you discarded the toys and crossed your arms beside the couch, finally giving him your attention. “I think I know my own son, Y/N.”

Izuku cared so much for your child and you knew that. But that underlying message your brain processed within his words pissed you off.

“And you think I don’t?”

“I just don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”

An incredulous laugh left your lips before they moved into a frown. “He’s failing 4th grade, Izuku. We can’t move him to a different classroom every time he gets a bad grade. At some point, we have to take responsibility! He needs the extra help!”

“You just don’t understand,” the hero muttered, running a hand through his hair.

What he said shouldn’t have set you off, but it did. Everything suddenly flooded your head. All the stress you had to deal with alone bubbled up your throat and exploded.

“No, you don’t understand!”

“Yes I do!”

“How!? You’re barely in his fucking life anyways!”

It went silent shortly after that.

The outburst felt good, but the aftermath made your squeeze with guilt. Izuku’s frown softened into shock before melting into something deeper than pain.

Once your words finally processed through your head, you immediately tried to take it back.

“Izuku, I didn’t mean that—”

“Yes you did.”

You thickly swallowed and averted your eyes to the floor. He was right. You did. You’d been wanting to say it for so long, but this wasn’t the way you planned to deliver those thoughts.

Your gaze moved back to your husband once he gathered his duffle bag and slid on his shoes.

“Baby,” you sighed, your voice much softer than before. It was almost insane how easily the anger left you. “Where are you going?”

You wilted with his next words. “I’ll stay over at the agency. To give you some space. We’ll talk more after we’ve both cooled down,” he sadly smiled.

Despite the hurt silver-lining his green eyes, Midoriya softly held your chin and kissed your forehead. Something he always did when your disagreements didn’t end on a good note. As if to reassure you that, even though he was upset, he still loved you all the same.

And that just made you feel worse.

“’Zuku—”

“Don’t worry about [S/N]. I’ll take him to school tomorrow.” He paused to look you in your eyes. “I love you, always.”

“I love you too,” you quietly resigned and watched him disappear behind the front door leaving you to let your head fall into your hands.

Bakugo Katsuki

his jealousy

bakugo is confident in many areas of his life

it’s one of his qualities that won you over

but he still had those tiny insecurities that showed up in large ways

aka losing you

and he had no idea how to handle it

~~~

The alcohol probably wasn’t a good idea considering Bakugo was already noticeably pissed on the way to the house party. But everyone assumed it was just another one of his moods he’d get over sooner or later. He wasn’t a drinker, but a beer or two usually loosened him up.

However, your friends looked at each other with worry behind the door to the room you two were in. Despite the party lights and booming stereo, they could hear the angry muffled yelling you two were doing.

You were 100% drunk, but you were 110% sure this man was telling you to stay away from your friend. Your best friend.

“If it’s one thing you have, it’s the audacity,” you sassily quipped.

“I’m not fucking playing around with you, Y/N,” Bakugo snapped with too much bite than you cared to hear. “I want you to stay away from that two-bagged eyed bastard!”

“You always do this! Shinsou’s my friend!”

The redness in his ears wasn’t only from the drinks as his nostrils flared with barely contained irritation. “Friend my ass. You didn’t see the way he was looking at you, and that fucker had the nerve to grab you in front of me!”

“He was moving me out of the way!”

“He fucking felt you up is what he did!”

You smacked your teeth, entirely done with the argument. You weren’t getting anywhere. “Now you’re just being delusional.”

Bakugo pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out in a desperate attempt to calm himself. A feat even he was surprised about considering the situation. He tried so hard to not be as explosive, to reign in his emotions, for you. But his jealousy burned hot within his veins.

“Y/N. I’m asking you, as your man, to put some distance between you and Shinsou,” he lowly warned.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, but the words flew out of your mouth before you could stop them. “Like hell I will. Hitoshi’s been here longer than you have by years. I’m not gonna drop him just because you feel insecure.”

That withered away any form of self-restraint Katsuki had left. He felt exposed and hurt. And dealt with that the best way he knew how.

His hazy brain clouded over with anger and he went on the defensive.

“I bet you want him.”

“What? No I don’t?”

“You’re probably sleeping with him behind my fucking back,” he dryly laughed. “Am I not good enough anymore? Is that it?”

You were quickly sobering up. “What the fuck is wrong with you!? Of course not! I’m not a cheater!”

“Then why won’t cut him off, damn it!?”

Your voices rose in volumes too high for comfort. The crackle in his palms didn’t scare you one bit, but it was enough for Kirishima and Mina to come in and try to separate you two.

You ignored their pleading and the two of your found each other in the other’s face.

“Why are you so jealous!?”

“BECAUSE HE’S TAKING YOU AWAY FROM ME!!”

“NO HE’S NOT!

“IT’S SO EASY FOR YOU TO DEFEND HIM AND PROBABLY JUST AS EASY FOR YOU TO SPREAD YOUR FUCKING LEGS—"

A resounding slap cut him short. That seemed to snap him out of whatever alcohol induced rage he was in. However, Bakugo only had a moment to register your expression of disgust before Kirishima pulled him away.

“Fuck you, asshole” was the last thing you said before Mina lead into the hallway.

Kirishima watched his friend’s breathing turn ragged with each puff.

“Come on, man. Let’s just—”

“FUCK!” Katsuki roared before throwing a nearby water bottle to the floor. He fisted his hair and clenched his teeth.

He messed up. Big time.

And as upset as he was with himself, he couldn’t help but be even angrier at the thought of who you’d run to first.

Todoroki Shouto:

how blunt he is

he was a bit socially inept and you loved him for that

but sometimes, you get frustrated

todoroki does too because 9 times out of 10 he doesn’t understand why

when you get angry, he completely shuts down bc he doesn’t know how to handle it any other way

and it didn’t help that he was petty asf

~~~

“Okay.”

You looked up and folded your lips in a tight line. It was the same monotone answer he’d been giving you all day and it was getting on your nerves.

“Sho, baby, can you at least try and act like you somewhat care about this vacation we’re planning,” you said as sweetly as possible.

Although you were annoyed, you understood that things flew over your boyfriend’s head sometimes and, hopefully, a little nudge would point him in the right direction.

“I’m listening, prince(ss),” he dimly responded.

He didn’t bother to look up from the papers he was reading at the table and it made you huff. Folding up the magazine, you just stalked your way out of the kitchen.

“You know what? Don’t even bother. I’ll do it myself.”

That made Shouto look up. His brows furrowed in confusion and he caught your hand before you could completely pass by him. Why were you suddenly upset? He told you he was listening.  

“Hey, wait. What’s wrong? Did I do something?” he asked.

You let him pull you in between his legs. He looked genuinely lost and it was enough to soften your exterior.

“I just feel like you don’t care sometimes,” you said, deciding to just be blunt.

“Huh?” he hummed. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know…it just seems like you don’t have an interest in anything I have to say if it doesn’t involve hero work, your family, or something like that.”

Todoroki took offense to that. Of course he cared about what you had to say. He loved you. Just because he wasn’t gripping on to every word you spoke in mundane life didn’t mean he didn’t care.

There were ways to express his thoughts, but Shouto wasn’t always the best at gently doing it.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t agree,” he said.

You looked off to the side for a second before looking down at him. “Well that’s how I feel,” you retorted.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you’re wrong.”

You watched him for a moment, waiting for him to explain himself. However, he just stared back at you as if there was nothing else left to say. The silence was sickening.

You snatched your hand out his grip. “Okay, Shouto,” you bit and left.

He hadn’t heard his first name in a while.

Your boyfriend dumbly blinked already feeling more lost. He didn’t understand why you were so angry.

He called Midoriya about it and was told he was being intolerant. The entire conversation honestly made him feel like an asshole and Todoroki didn’t like that at all. So he gave you some space before finding you in the kitchen again, this time equipped to right his wrongs—even though he still wasn’t entirely sure what he did.

He called your name once and instead of responding, you just kept going about your task. That sort of miffed him, but he tried again. This time, you hummed back but the tension behind it made him feel defensive for some odd reason.

“Can we talk about this morning?”

“What? Are my feelings suddenly valid to you now?” you sarcastically replied.

Todoroki raised a sharp brow at your attitude and decided he was over it already. Here he was trying to apologize, and you were being difficult. He wouldn’t fight with you over something so insignificant.

“Fine. When you’re done with your little tantrum, we can talk about this like adults.”

You’d never spun around so quickly. “Really, Todoroki?”

Last name basis. Petty.

But he was even pettier.

“Yes, really, [L/N].”

His half-lidded bored stare made your scalp prickle.

“Fine. Me and my little tantrum are gonna go somewhere and you can plan the vacation all by yourself like the adult you are.”

“Fine. I’d probably get it done faster anyways.”

You let out an offended gasp. “Fine!”

“Fine!” he tsked, crossing his arms.

You two looked away from one another and stomped out of the room in childish anger.

[lune-hime]

Exposed (Sidon x f!Reader)

The ornate silver neck piece made contact with the tiled floor with a satisfying clank. With each clasp undone, Sidon felt his body buzzing at the newfound lightness. The metallic chime of his final piece of garment, his left bracelet, was a beautiful sound that echoed off the vast pillared walls of his chambers. Although it already had been a day since his arrival, his muscles still ached with a dull tightness brought onto him from the journey to Hyrule Castle. A subtle form of tiredness akin to jetlag was quickly draining his energy and he could not wait to submerge himself in the ample pool that laid before him.

Sidon padded to the edge of the water, streaks of ivory moonlight passing over his crimson scales. He kneeled down, wincing as he heard a few of his bones crack, and dipped an experimental hand into the basin. The warmth of the liquid sent a shiver up Sidon’s body and he immediately slid into the water in one fluid movement. The castle maids had prepared his pool with warm water, per your request, to the exact temperature you knew he liked it. Although this was just one of the many guest rooms in the immense castle, he felt your homey presence in every corner of the chamber. It made his heart flutter in adoration.

Sinking lower, he let the water engulf his shoulders. The tension diffused out and a supple moan escaped his parted lips. Lightly treading water, his thoughts circulated through his mind much like the gentle current of the pool. The officials and champions he had rekindled with today, what was he going to eat tomorrow morning, how radiant you had looked in your formal w-

“Prince Sidon, I forgot to ask you on more question before you retired to the room!” Zelda’s melodic voice carried from the hallway. Her small but sturdy frame emerged from behind the towering door, the hem of her gown swaying about her ankles as she danced her way into the entryway. Soon after she appeared, your head peeked its way around the frame.

Perhaps it was the abruptness of the entry, the intimate solitude of the chambers, his discarded garments, or all factors combined, but Sidon suddenly felt hot. Uncomfortably hot; and not from the water.

“A-ah, yes Princess, what did you want to, ah, ask me?” He coughed, awkwardly sinking lower into the pool. He cursed the palace for having such crystal clear water.

Your brow knit into a firm line at his flustered state. Never before had you seen him act like this seemingly for no reason. When his eyes began flicking anxiously from the pile of metal to you, a wave of understanding flooded your consciousness. Sidon felt exposed. And he was embarrassed about it.

It was natural for Hylian habits to rub off on him since the two of you had started courting. When you were in the Domain, the only time you spent away from the Prince was when you were working on Vah Ruta or the one to two hours of his council meetings. With all that contact how could a few things not start to be ingrained in Sidon’s daily routine? It was clear now by the steady reddening of his cheeks that one of those habits pertained to wearing garments. Or more specifically, when one is caught not wearing them.

“Oh, is this a bad time?” She blinked, unclear of what had him acting so strangely. Sidon looked like he was about to expire in the cloud of uncomfortableness that was circling above the pool. As adorable as he looked, shuffling bashfully and avidly studying the carvings on the nearest pillar, you needed to save him. Biting back your laughter you tapped Zelda lightly on the shoulder. Her head whipped around, confusion still inscribed on her face.

“Zelda, it appears that Sidon was not expecting company this late at night.” You stated, giving her a knowing look you prayed she would pick up on. You cocked your head subtly towards the armor and Zelda gasped softly, the tips of her pointed ears running rosy. She then looked to the Prince with panic written all over her features and he returned the expression tenfold. The two of them turned from mimicking rose petals to beats instead, only making the aroma of the room more thick with tension.

“Oh my goodness! My deepest apologies, Sidon. I didn’t realize you were having, ahem, some alone time.” She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to the floor so fast you wondered if she got whiplash.

“Well, Y/N can just tell me your answer tomorrow morning. Until then.” She stuttered, abruptly turning on her heels and disappearing behind the door. Once the brisk click signaled her departure, every muscle, tendon, and scale in Sidon’s body went lax. He sighed, tipping his head back against the edge of the pool with a gentle clunk. You took a moment to drown in his appearance. He was like a slightly wilted lotus flower with coral petals basking in the rippling droplets of indigo moonlight.

It now physically hurt to restrain your hysterics and you suddenly burst into a fit of giggles, drowning the luminated room in a symphony of laughs not unlike a songbird’s. Sidon poked one eye open and shook his head in mortified distress, still lazily leaning against the tiled rim.  

“Stop laughing, Y/N. I bet she thinks I was doing something lewd or weird. In her castle of all places.” He grumbled, raising his hands out of the water to run them over his face.

Once you had reigned in your cacophony you padded over to the pool and sat down next to his deflated form, feet dangling into the water.

“Nah. It’s okay, Si. She’s my oldest and best friend. If she does I’ll tell her the truth.” You nudged him playfully. He lolled his head to the side in your direction.

“That might be even more embarrassing…” Sidon trailed off, his face contorted into a slight grimace. You returned it with a fond smile.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He huffed, a feigned pout forming on his features. The rosiness on his cheeks bloomed once more as he lightly splashed your feet where they embraced the water’s surface.

“You know, you used to never be embarrassed about being seen without your accessories.” You stated innocently, eyeing him to observe his reaction.“They don’t really leave anything to the imagination, anyway.”

“Hylian customs are rubbing off on me, I guess.” He replied in a small voice, snaking an arm around your calf to press himself into your side. He started idly playing with your toes, offering a squeak from you. You lightly kicked out, hoping to shake him off. Instead he only scooted closer yet he resigned from his tickling.

“What did the Princess want to ask me?” Sidon inquired. He seemed to be mostly recovered from the ordeal.

“She wanted to know what you wanted for breakfast tomorrow. You left before she could put in an order for the chef.”

“Damn, that’s an important question.” He muttered, setting his chin on your knee and looking up at you with anticipation, his eyes large and blinking.  

“I was planning on telling her smoked salmon.” You informed the prince, giving his caudal fin a loving stroke. Sidon’s eyes lit up, his saffron orbs turning a brilliant gold that put the calming hue of the starlight to shame. He could feel himself start to salivate at the mention of the Hylian delicacy.

“Don’t drool on my leg.” You teased, chuckling as he gulped audibly. You were unable to convey your thoughts on the dish as the deep chiming of the castle’s clocktower replaced whatever voice you would have spoken. The twelve bells signaled it had just turned midnight.

“It’s late, we should both get some rest. We need to wake up early for the festivities tomorrow.” You let out a bittersweet sigh, not wanting to break away from the closeness you shared but knowing you would be the walking dead in the morning if you stayed up any longer. As you rose to your feet, Sidon’s head limply fell into the water, his gaze never leaving your form. Just as you were about to deliver a sweet goodnight, he gingerly grabbed your ankle.

“Please stay, my pearl.” He suggested, a gentle plea that caused your heart to skip a beat.

“Can’t get enough of me, hm?” You sang.

“A very true statement, darling.” Sidon cooed, the warmth radiating from his gaze brushing the tips of your ears and leaving a blushed residue in its wake.

“Alright.” You responded through a yawn.

“We can go back to your chambers, if you’d like.” Sidon suggested, releasing his hold on your ankle and making a move to leave the basin. You shook your head and held a hand out to stop him. He halted his movements immediately and blinked up at you.

“You’re soaked. You’ll get my bed wet. I will go get some blankets and return.” You chuckled as you strode towards the doors. He hummed in agreement, a breathy laugh puffing from his chest. Grasping the knob, you turned to face Sidon once more.

“Better keep an eye on this door, my prince. Wouldn’t want someone to see you so exposed now would we?” You warned, tone velvety and blithe. The last thing you heard before you skittered out of the room was a loud groan and the sound of an unlit candle being halfheartedly thrown at the door.

[thiswasinevitableid]

88. I dropped my watch in an open grave, jumped in to get it, and while you were visiting your dead grandmother, you saw me climbing out of the grave (credit to @enchantedcass)

Indruck, sfw or nsfw, please!

Here it is! This is technically SFW, though there's some discussion of sex and a bit of steaminess at the end.

“Here, these are fresh.” Indrid sets the wildflowers on the small, stone marker, so covered with moss and worn with age that no one can read it. He only knows where to find her because he watched from the Barrens as she was put in the ground.

Temperance Leeds. His grandmother, the one who narrowly avoided accusations of witchcraft, the only human who ever set foot deep enough in the trees to bring him food, to drape blankets over his shaking shoulders. She never forgot him, and he shall return the favor as long as he lives.

There’s a thump of earth behind him and he whirls; it’s midnight in a graveyard, who could possibly be here? The ghosthunters usually wait for darker nights to come. In his periphery, a hand rises from an open grave.

Great, if the dead rise he’ll probably be blamed for that too.

“Fuck” A young man pulls himself from the grave, staring at his cell phone, “c’mon, please don’t be fuckin cracked.” Light illuminates his face and sighs, “thank fuckin christ.”

The light disappears and he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark. Indrid, too caught up in working out why he’s in the ground, hasn’t bothered to hide as he should. The human notices.

“Uh. I. Uh. Dropped my phone checkin the time. I, uh, definitely wasn’t smokin in the off limits, uh, fuck, graveyard I, uh, I fuck, promise I’ll clean up my beer bottles I mean, uh, fuck.” He scratches the back of his neck, “please don’t call the cops?”

“Can you see me?” Indrid cocks his head.

“Yeah?”

“And you are worried about me alerting the police?”

“I mean, guess we’re both breakin the rules but I kinda figured you were staff here because of the clothes.” He gestures to the ensemble Indrid cobbled together from clothes lines.

Indrid stands, stretches his wings, flicks his tail and watches the human slowly notice the color of his eyes and the outline of his horns.

“Fuck. Look, man, whatever you are, I swear I won’t tell, I’m just tryin to keep busy, please, my folks are already worried about me-”

“I’m not going to harm you.” Lightning cracks through the sky, flashing his shadow across the frightened human, “I just wanted you to see me clearly.”

Rain patters on the leather of his wings. The man looks up at the sky, face seeming even younger as it fills with resignation. Indrid recognizes it’s source.

“You have nowhere to go, do you?”

“No. I, uh, decided I wanted to get outta town and never come back, made it as far as here before I ran outta money.”

Indrid offers his hand, watches the man’s face zero in on the claws, “You may spend the night with me, if you wish. My home is a ways into the woods, but it is dry and warm.”

“Okay.” The young man replies softly, letting Indrid help him up as the dirt turns to mud. Indrid shelters him as best he can with a wing until they reach the cottage. Indrid kneels by the fireplace, lumps kindling into a pile as the young man sets his backpack on a chair.

“Nice place. Gotta admit I was expectin somethin more dilapidated. On account of the whole, uh, y’know.” He gestures to Indrid’s horns and cloven feet.

“It was much like you expected, once upon a time. But a human named Arlo Thacker took pity on me and helped me build it with the aid of a few friends. There.” The fire flickers merrily, “that should keep us warm. You may--ah, what are you doing?”

The young man has removed his jacket and shirt, revealing what Indrid recognizes from human magazines as a sports bra. His hands are now on the fly of his jeans.

“You said I was supposed to, uh, spend the night with you?”

“Yes, in that you may sleep here to be safe from the weather and any who might wish you harm. Not so that you may keep me warm. So to speak.”

“You’re not gonna fuck me?”

Indrid flicks his tail, surprised, “You would offer yourself to me, looking like this?”

The man nods in a way that suggests he’s run a calculus in his head and decided Indrid’s desire was less abhorrent than some other option. Indrid crosses the small living room, bringing them face to face. He reaches out a hand, runs his claws through black hair until the human closes his eyes. Then his hand slides to cup his cheek, one nail tracing fond little shapes on the skin as the man sighs. Against his better judgement, he tilts his head down to nose the dark locks; smoke lingers there, just as alcohol hangs on his breath. He’s so warm, so willing and so very soft. Indrid wants nothing more than to undress him further, carry him to his cozy bedroom and discover what sounds come when he fits their bodies together.

“What’s your name?”

“Duck. It’s a nickname.”

“A charming one. But no, Duck, I will not take such advantage of you. I may be called a devil, but I do not believe in making one trade their body for basic kindness. Come along, the bedroom will allow you more privacy.”

“Thanks.” Duck sways, and Indrid senses a weariness he’s not certain a good nights rest will fix. Tomorrow he will be sure to be gone when Duck awakens, leaving his dry clothes and a map back to town outside his door so that he can do what Indrid can dare to; leave the Barrens and find a life waiting for him in the world beyond.

-----------------------------------------------------------

There are some days when Duck thinks his encounter in the woods was a dream. The hand-drawn map he keeps folded among his books tells him otherwise.

He’d come home after that night, made his peace with Kepler for a few years more, and often awoke from dreams where he was pushing through brush in pursuit of a strange shadow. He never cites these as a reason for his taking a job at a state forest in New Jersey that includes the Barrens.

Now, he’s decided to upgrade from his apartment to a house in the woods that’s been listed for over two years and is a goddamn steal because of that.

“As you can see, there’s another residence across the clearing; that’s why the company that built this lovely dwelling was able to do so. They intended to build a nice little community here.”

“The fact that ain’t happened got anythin to do with the reason I gotta stay the night before I make an offer?”

Ned’s smile falters, “Indeed, dear boy. I like you, so I’ll be forthcoming; we’ve never seen anyone in the other house. But they have most certainly seen us.”

Duck settles in for an uneventful afternoon and evening, reads his book and considers whether he could fit some windowboxes on the house for garden space. It’s not until it’s pitch black outside that it starts; footsteps on the roof, followed shortly by red eyes peering in through the living room window.

He opens the front door, the undergrowth rustling hurriedly to his left.

“Uh, hey there. You may not remember me but, uh, we’ve actually met before. About ten years ago. You uh, you let me stay the night?”

Only some crickets, unaware of the tension in the air, reply to him. Then the bushes grow two, ruby red flowers.

“Duck?”

“Yep. Y’know, you never told me your name. If we’re gonna be neighbors, feels like I oughta know what to call you.”

A shadow moves from the trees, stopping when it reaches the light spilling from the windows. He’s as Duck remembers him; short horns sprouting from a mop of silver hair, claws on his fingers and black wings folded on his back. His skin is a swirl of ashy grey and ember red. And his face, while striking, is human. That was the part that always tripped Duck up; the Jersey Devil was always drawn with a goat or horse face, making him question whether that’s who he met all those years ago.

“Indrid. My name is Indrid.”

“Nice to see you again, Indrid.”

The other man smiles, and Duck knows what will replace the mad hunt through the brush in his dreams, “Likewise.”

-------------------------------------------------

“You know, she had three more children after me. None of them suffered the same curse.” Indrid kicks idly at the long decayed remains of his family home. Their nightly walk brough them close to it this time around, and Duck had been curious. His interest is never prurient or morbid; Duck wants to get to know Indrid, not his legend.

“That fuckin sucks.”

Indrid chuckles, “I do enjoy how you put things so plainly.”

“I’m serious, what kind of folks put their kid out when it’s a baby? I mean, mine weren't always the fuckin parents of the year but at least they understood lookin after me was part of the deal.”

“It was a different time.”

“Fine, but I’m still judgin the hell outta them.”

Indrid looks fondly down at the human, “That’s as fair a fate for them as any.”

---------------------------------------

“It don’t weird you out?” Juno indicates Indrid’s house from where she and Duck are sitting on his front porch. The twin Adirondack chairs are a new addition, as the warmer months mean he and Indrid spend ample time trying to see the stars through the treetops.

“Nah. Indrid’s a real good neighbor when he’s around. He’s uh, from an old family so he don’t gotta work. Part of why he keeps such weird hours.” Duck wishes he could introduce them; it’d be nice for the three of them to have dinner before Juno heads south again. But Indrid has several centuries of shitty human encounters that dig under his skin like splinters, and Duck will never push him to ignore that pain. Besides, there will be other visits.

The summer and fall pass in much the same ways last winter and spring did. Duck works in the park, visits friends in town, runs errands, and generally goes about all the mundane moments that make up a life. Then he spends his evenings in one of the two cottages, or walking alongside Indrid on long-overgrown pathways.

The hardest part of it all is not mentioning Indrid in every single conversation; Duck is already tempting disaster being unable to lie and the neighbor of a cryptid. He doesn’t want to also drive his friends up the wall talking about said cryptids art, or his laugh, or the little herb garden Duck is helping him grow.

They’re in the stretch of days between Christmas and New Year, and Indrid has just finished opening the gift Duck brought him; a thick, soft sweater that Duck stitched a “I” into the front of along with a few little pine tree patches. Indrid smiles at him and notices that Duck’s sweater is done in a similar fashion (in fact, everyone in the Newton family wears one like this). The grin turns bashful and Indrid rubs his cheek against the fabric.

“Thank you, Duck. I, ah, I’m sorry I do not have anything to give you. Holidays are not my strong suit.”

“Just gettin to see you is enough.” Duck stands to refill his tea, Indrid’s gaze caressing his back as he moves through the room. He almost hadn’t gone home, had offered to stay and keep Indrid company. But his friend insisted, reminding him that while it felt odd to be without each other, they both had spent plenty of time apart and been fine. All the same, when he got home yesterday Indrid was knocking on his door before he even put his bag down.

Duck didn’t mind at all. No more than he minds when Indrid sleeps with his head in his lap or strokes his hair while they read on the couch.

The cryptid stokes the fire as the snow gives way to sleet, streaking the windows with icy drops.

��Goodness, what a frigid night.”

“No kiddin.” Duck sets his mug down, turns just as Indrid gets to his feet, “can’t say I mind, kinda reminds me of the night we met.”

The colors of Indrid’s skin make a blush difficult to spot, but Duck’s learned which dip of his head and quirk of his lip means it’s there.

“‘Drid? Did you ever think about that night? Because I did. I, uh, I do.”

“Yes.” Indrid’s tail twitches.

“What do you think about?”

“I, ah, I...you first.”

Duck crosses the creaking floorboards, looking up into red eyes, “I think about how safe it felt when you brought me here. How when I woke up, I felt like this was some kinda weird sign, that I needed to rethink some things and that’s how come I went home, which turned out to be a good call. And” he smirks, “I think about how I was drunk and desperate enough to ask the fuckin Jersey Devil if he was gonna fuck me.”

Indrid blushes once more, studies the ground as Duck touches his shoulder, “I must say that is the part that dominated most of my thoughts. Not right away; for the first few weeks when I thought of you I only hoped you were alright. Then I would let myself imagine that I had been devilish indeed.”

Gently, Duck raises Indrid’s hand and cradles his cheek with it as they did that night, “What would you have done, devil of mine?”

A snicker, “I will answer that only if you tell me whether you are angling for the demonstration that I think you are.”

“Damn right.” He closes his eyes, heart swelling and skin prickling as Indrid steps closer and nuzzles the top of his head.

“I would have asked if you were tired of running. If you wanted a home. And would you like to make it here, so that we could keep each other company. I know in my heart this would have been a selfish offer. I am glad I did not make it, did not trap you here, resign you to a fate that was not what you would have chosen freely.”

“I’m pretty fuckin free these days.”

“And that all on it’s own fills me with joy. But yes, there were nights where I wished I’d been selfish.”

Duck tips his head up, brushing their noses together, “Say you made that offer and I accepted. What then?”

Indrid cups his face with both hands. The kiss is chaste, Indrid sighing against his lips as he twines his claws in his hair. Duck wraps his arms around his waist, lightly teasing the edge of one wing.

“Then” Indrid murmurs, “I’d carry you to bed.”

“Yeah, that part woulda been easier when I was seventeEEN” he laughs as Indrid scoops him into a bridal carry with ease. He’s never been in Indrid’s bed, so he giggles again when he discovers it’s ten times squishier than his own. The cryptid sinks onto it with him, guiding him so they’re face to face on their sides.

“May I undress you?”

“Knock yourself out, darlin.” Affection deep and warm as a thermal spring wells up in him as Indrid carefully removes his sweater and shirt before dainty setting his claws to work on his fly. When Duck is down to his boxers, hunger enters Indrid’s eyes for the first time.

“Oh you are divine.” One hand strokes his leg, pausing at the crease of his thigh each time it reaches there. The other curves along his belly up to his chest before caressing his face, the black claws making his skin seem oddly pale and very fragile in comparison.

Duck touches the hem of Indrid’s shirt and the cryptid freezes.

“‘Drid? Is this okay?”

“Do you...truly wish to see me unclothed?”

Duck surges forward to kiss him as he rucks up his shirt, the movement a sufficient answer for Indrid to raise his arms and let him pull the sweater and battered shirt beneath it away. His skin here is the same swirl of colors as the rest of him, but there’s a dusting of peach fuzz fur across it. It’s delightful under Duck’s tongue, though the little keen of pleasure from Indrid is even better.

“It’s strange” Indrid traces hearts and zig-zags with his claws along Duck’s sides as the human continues kissing his chest and neck, “I thought that seeing you like this would so overwhelm me with need that I’d beg to have you this instant. But it seems I feel much the same way I did in my fantasies of that night.”

“Oh” Duck reaches up to toy with the base of a horn and Indrid groans happily before continuing.

“Had you stayed, knowing you were now mine, I’d have taken my time. Nestled you under the blankets, opened you up on my tongue until you were weak from pleasure. That way it would be easy to take you when I was ready. Perhaps on your back, so you had me to hold onto if you needed. Or on your belly, so you would be even more sheltered from the cold, cruel world by my body and wings. And I’d stay there for hours, make up for decade after decade of touch starvation by glutting myself on your young, willing body.”

“Holy fuck, ‘Drid.” Duck pulls him down into a kiss, “christ that’s a fuckin good image.”

“Mmmm” the cryptid licks his cheek, “it is, isn’t it. But since you are not going anywhere, and we are not limited by the confines of my imagination, I am even less inclined to rush. Will you indulge me with just kisse tonight?”

Duck brushes silver hair from his forehead, planting a kiss there when he’s done, “Of course.”

----------------------

The morning brings several feet of snow and announcement that those who can stay in their homes and shelter from the ongoing storm should. The pines drop heaps of white across the ground, and frost makes the windows so icy it’s better to draw the curtains and stay curled up in the dark.

Duck doesn’t mind at all.

[lazaefair]

Has anyone done the Disney Princess AU yet

Part 1 - written by me, @poemsingreenink, and @iwritesometimes

poemsingreenink: Like, if anyone has big, soft innocent eyes it's Marwan who I swear to god looks near happy tears in most intense scenes. I at one point during Aladdin in theaters thought "You know Jafar's maybe just not had a great life. He's really having a day here." BECAUSE OF HIS BIG SOFT EYES.

lazaefair: LUCA MARINELLI HIMSELF SAID IT

sarah: HOWWWWW DID HE EVEN GET CAST AS JAFAR LIKE THOSE ARE DISNEY PRINCESS EYES

lazaefair: I...I need somone to draw Joe in a Disney Princess dress

sarah: but WHICH PRINCESS i feel like belle's off the shoulder gold ballgown has promise

lazaefair: Ariel’s pink gown would really drive the point home, though Although you’re right, Belle is a literate, dreamy brunette who loves poetry, so she’s closer as an archetype

sarah: i'll be honest: i was mostly thinking of getting his shoulders nude

lazaefair: Nicky is Ariel. Big blue eyes, otherworldly, utterly uncivilized.

sarah: YES

So imagine: Prince Yusuf, who had a giant statue of himself gifted to him on his birthday, and who hates it because his best friend (and immortal general of the army) Andromache is NEVER GOING TO LET HIM LIVE IT DOWN.

Also imagine: feral merman siren Nicolò who bites off fishheads and communicates through weird clicking noises, when he’s not singing men to their deaths. He’s not one of those useless pretty koi mermaids, no. He’s a motherfucking creature of the deep. Lamp eyes that are used to distract fish prey. Claws and pale fins and an intense stare and fangs.

Now imagine: Prince Yusuf going overboard in the storm that hits his royal yacht. Struggling, swept away, half-drowned and losing hope fast when an unearthly song fills the air, low and sweet and compelling. He’s swimming towards the singing before he realizes it, delirious, until something closes around his ankle and drags him under. The thing under the water kills him quickly.

And then kills him again, when it doesn’t take. After the third killing, Nicolò’s on his way to being well and truly mystified (“Okay, don't panic. They all die eventually, maybe...maybe I’ll just need to do it again?”) and gives up after the fourth and fifth killing. He drags his (attempted) prey to a little sheltered island he knows about, kills it one last time just to make sure, and then watches, resigned, as the flesh heals up and the lungs push water out until it’s coughing its way back to undeniable life.

“You rescued me,” is the first thing Yusuf says to him. “Your song – it is the song of my heart. My soul.”

Nicolò...has no idea what to do with this, coughs awkwardly in reply, and leaves before he can think too hard about the warmth in his chest answering to the warmth in the human’s expressive, grateful eyes.

(He doesn’t tell Yusuf the truth about their bloody first meeting until years later. It’s too goddamn embarrassing, to be perfectly honest.)

Of course he comes back within a day, almost shamefully quickly. Unable to help being fascinated by this gorgeous, well-spoken, kind and generous human who cannot die. He starts bringing things to Yusuf: at first just fish, then interesting-shaped fragments of rock and coral, and then bits of treasure he’s collected over the years, just to hear what new poetic turn of phrase Yusuf will spout on the spot when he’s given something.

“...this is my family crest on this treasure chest, Nicolò. How strange.”

“It is the chest you said your great-great-grandfather lost,” Nicolò says, the words coming out dry and halting from long years of disuse. Watching Yusuf’s hands as he traces the elaborate lines engraved on the lid, now blurred with rust and coral. 

“That’s amazing. Truly. I am at a loss for words,” Yusuf says, smiling.

“No, you aren’t,” Nicolò says, and keeps watching so he can see the moment when the smile turns into a laugh.

Another day, he brings to Yusuf what Booker had told him was called a ‘dinglehopper’ and was what humans used to keep their hair in order, as they did not have the ocean to spread it out like beautiful seaweed in the waves. Yusuf takes it, mouth twitching in a way that makes Nicolò doubt the accuracy of Booker’s explanation. Yet Yusuf does not correct him, but in fact solemnly thanks him before offering the dinglehopper back and asking him to help untangle his riot of curls.

And so it goes. Days pass. Fascination becomes infatuation, turns to desire and then into love, until neither can imagine living without the other, and yet—

Eventually, Nicolò has to give Yusuf up. The prince is too noble and good to just abandon his people indefinitely. And because Nicolò loves him, he goes out and once more lures a ship in with his song, but not to dash it to pieces on jagged rocks this time. He leads them to the island. Watches from a distance as the astonished shouting begins, then back-pounding hugs and joyous celebration as Yusuf boards the ship and sails away. Watches Yusuf turn back more than once to scan the beach, clearly looking for Nicolò, but Nicolò does not follow. Instead, he watches until the ship is lost to his sight and he cannot feel the ship’s current or smell, and then he dives deep and goes to visit Merrick.

Meanwhile, Yusuf arrives back at the capital, where his other best friend, Quỳnh (immortal admiral of the navy) feels terribly guilty about the prince going overboard on his birthday. Which is why she uncharacteristically doesn’t give him shit when he comes back babbling nonsense about mermaids. Or when he spends the next few weeks moping around, writing mermaid poetry and drawing mermaid pictures.

To be fair to him, the particular mermaid he sketches over and over does look pretty striking. Otherworldly and all that. Good cheekbones. Nice pearly scales. “Fucking...giant anglerfish eyes,” Quỳnh mutters while she and Andy look over the latest pile of sketches Yusuf’s left abandoned on a library table. “Our prince has been fucking bewitched by a fucking fish.”

“Mm,” Andy agrees. 

So when Nicolò arrives at the palace one fine summer’s day – naked, his fangs smoothed away to look perfectly human, a giant emerald in one hand and a silver fork in the other – and walking, on legs, it causes a bit of an uproar.

“You still smell like the sea,” Yusuf says hoarsely into Nicolò’s neck, the two of them wrapped around each other as closely as two bodies can be.

“Oh, fuck,” Andy says, lowering her axe. Quỳnh looks more closely at the dirty naked wild man their prince is embracing as if his life depends on it. Angular face. Skin encrusted with salt. Absolutely enormous piercing blue eyes. Naked, did we mention naked.

“Oh, fuck,” Quỳnh says.

“You get them separated,” Andy says. “I’ll go...get them a bath.”

The price Nicolò paid for his new human shape:

His siren song.

His immortality.

What he gets in return:

Yusuf teaching him what a dinglehopper is actually called, and what humans actually use it for.

Yusuf teaching him how to read and write his native tongue, and a few other tongues besides.

Yusuf reading poetry to him or sketching next to him on long lazy afternoons in the gardens.

The immense pleasure of intimidating the fuck out of any remaining would-be suitors for Yusuf’s hand in marriage who are still hanging around the palace for some reason.

“I am Nicolò di Genova,” Nicolò replies to the marquis’s indignant demands – predator’s smile still frightening even without endless rows of needle-sharp teeth. “You have seven days to leave this place forever. Get your affairs in order.”

Friendship with Andy and Quỳnh.

“Holy shit. Did he just—”

“—stab the marquis with a fork, at dinner, in front of the entire court? Yep.”

“...”

“...”

“New best friend.”

“Obviously.”

Yusuf writing poetry about him and to him. Nicolò likes them all. He wouldn't know a good human poem from a bad human poem, but nothing Yusuf touches could be bad, so ergo it's good.

Sightseeing throughout the kingdom with Yusuf’s strong, gentle fingers twined around his.

Yusuf breathing blissful curses into Nicolò’s ear, exactly like he used to do on their island, as they move together on his enormous bed.

Yusuf. Yusuf. Yusuf.

(Booker is also there. He insisted on being turned human, too, and coming along to make sure Nicolò doesn’t totally fuck this up, but he’s really mainly there for the entertainment. And the booze. Andy asks him at one point about losing his immortality. He shrugs. “Look, if we die, we die,” he says, then offers Andy another pour of fine French brandy. The two of them get along famously.)

It’s all going great until one night on the beach, while they’re walking along hand-in-hand under the stars and idly discussing human and merfolk constellations. Someone approaches them, dressed splendidly and moving with arrogant grace. He is also angular, also fair-haired, also possessed of unsettling eyes. And he has Nicolò’s siren song, gently humming from the shell that adorns his neck.

“Merrick,” Nicolò hisses as Yusuf’s eyes grow glazed and blank, and he tightens his hand on Yusuf’s, afraid for the first time. “Our deal—”

“He can’t bear the idea of living forever without you, can he? And so he hasn’t proposed,” Merrick says, smiling cruelly. “You’ve missed your chance. He’s mine.” And he extends his hand out to Yusuf—

Who stirs, suddenly, and turns to Nicolò. “Limpid, or shimmering?” 

“What?”

“Shimmering,” Yusuf decides, peering into Nicolò’s eyes. “Yes. Limpid would be too pretentious, I think.”

And that’s pretty much that – we don’t actually get the plot with Merrick the Sea Witch because Yusuf only has eyes for one weird-looking white guy. Also, his one artistic failing is that he's tone deaf.

They do eventually kill Merrick because true love wins out and we are all about those happy endings, Grimm’s can suck it, etcetera, so Nicolò gets his immortality and his siren song back. He’s also back to being a merman, but Yusuf does not care. “I could paint your beautiful tail for the rest of my life, my love, and still fail to capture the luminous iridescence of you,” he murmurs, stroking said tail with tender fingers. The last person to touch Nicolò’s tail got his hand bitten off. Here and now, Nicolò runs his claws through Yusuf’s hair, clicking deep and happy in his throat.

(“This is weird, right?” Quỳnh asks from where she and Andy are busy scraping evil kraken guts off their armor, a prudent distance down the beach from the lovers. “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird?”

Andy says nothing, just offers Quỳnh the rest of her bottle of vodka. This is why Quỳnh loves her so.)

(The wedding is a nightmare, at least according to the palace chef charged with cooking the wedding feast. “What is this, this, abomination? What in heaven’s name have you brought into my kitchen!”

“Tubeworm,” Booker says. “Considered a fine delicacy among our people. Don’t worry about it.”)

[pressedinthepages]

Curiosity

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Eskel & Ciri (Platonic/Familial)

Word Count: 1412

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request [from @sometimesiwrite​ Ciri and Uncle Eskel??? OMG DID THEY LEAVE ESKEL IS CHARGE OF “THE TALK???”] i am LIVING for the awkwardness that is Eskel.

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: discussion of consent, as well as the use of r*pe for definition purposes, language

Eskel really wishes he had gone hunting.

    “Uncle Eskel?” Ciri’s voice chimes across the table, empty save for the aforementioned Witcher. Geralt and Lambert left this morning to rid the surrounding area of a family of draconids that have settled in, and Vesemir has gone to the lake to catch some supper for everyone. “Can I ask you about sex?”

    Eskel’s spoon clatters to the table as he blinks at the girl-no, the young woman. Cirilla is growing into a young woman, and it makes sense that she should ask someone about that part of life. However, Eskel is not sure that he’s the best person for that. “Shouldn’t you ask Geralt?” 

    Ciri scoffs, shoveling another generous portion of jerky into her mouth. “Well, I did. He got all pale and he kept just shaking his head, whispering “Fuck” as he fled the room. And before you can say it, I did ask Lambert too-”

    “Well, there’s a mistake.”

    “But he just doubled over laughing and told me to ask you. Yennefer won’t be back until winter, and I can’t ask Vesemir, that would be weird…”

    “And this isn’t?” Eskel grumbles, trying to figure out where exactly in his life he fucked up so royally to lead to this moment of having to teach someone else’s damn kid about sex. 

    “Not really, you’re the sanest person here,” Ciri says nonchalantly. She is a summer child, having just turned fourteen around the solstice. Eskel finds himself thinking that, if they were here under different circumstances, she would be undergoing the first of the Trials soon. 

    He shakes that line of thought away, focusing back on Ciri. He sighs, resigned to a very long afternoon. “Can we go sit in the library?”

    Ciri nods, finishing up her lunch at a relaxed pace. She still has some tendencies of being raised in a royal family, such as eating as slowly as she pleases, thank you very much. Eskel stands, depositing his empty bowl and spoon into the washbasin for later. He trudges towards the library as if he were headed to the gallows, his steps echoing through the empty halls. 

    The scent of old books and abandoned alchemical experiments greets Eskel as he shoulders open the great wooden door to the library. He sits in a comfy chair by the fireplace, casting Igni to help warm the room. Autumn is approaching, leaving some of the larger areas in the decrepit castle a bit drafty. Eskel finds a copy of Half a Century of Poetry, or as Geralt calls it, A Load of Horse Shit. Eskel opens it up to a random page, reading through the tales of his brother as he waits for the Princess. 

    He doesn’t have to wait long, for she soon tips open the door in and peeks inside. When Ciri finds Eskel just as he said he would be she sags with palpable relief, stepping fully into the room and sitting in a seat directly across from him. 

    “Right,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I have a few questions.”

    Eskel hums, closing the book and setting it on the ground next to him. Should’ve grabbed the copy of the Beastiary that’s hollowed out with a flask of wine…

    “So, I know about a woman’s cycles,” Eskel flushes, remembering that debacle of a few years prior. How they all missed that Ciri had hit that part of womanhood was beyond him, and he had vowed to do better by her. I guess this is where I do that, huh?

    “But I just want to understand the mechanics of it all, I just don’t see what the big deal of it is.” Eskel watches as Ciri messes with a stray thread on the hem of her shirt, apparently a habit picked up from himself. He smiles to himself, pondering how to start what will be the beginning of a bit of an uncomfortable conversation.

    “Well,” Eskel clears his throat, attempting to soften his voice. It doesn’t work, it never does. “When a man and a woman...enjoy each other’s company…well, it doesn’t have to be that way, it can be two men, or two women too, or just people together, oh Melitele…” He runs his hand down the scarred side of his face, attempting to get his thoughts together. Ciri only looks at him, waiting for him to go on. 

    “You know how Lambert goes all rigid whenever something touches him by accident?” Ciri’s brows scrunch up in confusion with the sudden change of direction, but she nods along anyways. “Well, that’s because he’s very sensitive to touch. Ever since he went through the Trials, and probably even before that. People touched Lambert without his permission, and they hurt him. I’m sure you’ve heard how his father treated him?”

    “Of course, I still can’t understand how a parent could do such cruel things to their own child, or any child for that matter.”

    Eskel shakes his head, knowing just how far some people’s ruthlessness can go. “Well, sometimes that happens to adults too, with sex. If someone isn’t interested in someone else, or they do something that they don’t like, or anything to make them uncomfortable, it’s not okay. It’s rape.”

    Ciri’s eyes widen at the word, having heard it before in discussions eavesdropped upon in court. She never understood the connotation, but she knew the pain that it could cause for those affected. “So, if someone wants to have sex with me, and I say no, but they do it anyway, that’s rape?”

    Eskel nods before adding, “Even if you don’t exactly say “no,” but definitely not “yes,” it’s still rape. And you can change your mind, too. You can be right in the middle of something with a person and decide that you don’t want that anymore. Just say the word, and they should leave you alone. And if they don’t, you fight like hell. No one should take that choice away from you, ever.”

    Ciri sits quietly for a few moments, clearly thinking about what was said. “Okay, and what about when they do want to have sex, what then?”

    Eskel’s mouth gapes like a fish out of water, unsure of exactly where to start. He mentally curses every single gods-forsaken person that is supposed to be in the keep before launching into a very awkward discussion about different kinds of sex, how it can fit into relationships, always reiterating on the importance of consent. Ciri interjects with questions and further discussion from time to time, and if Eskel didn’t know any better, he would think that she was just trying to prolong his torture. But he does know better, that Ciri is really just trying to understand this part of life. 

    “Hey Uncle Eskel,” Ciri says, standing with a confidence gained from years at court and a sureity gained from her training in Kaer Morhen, “thanks for this. I appreciate it.”

    Eskel only grunts as she takes her leave, peering out the window to watch the sun begin to dip below the horizon. He heaves himself out of the chair and walks to the courtyard, finding the three missing Witchers all arriving through the gates. Vesemir tosses him a bag of fish, which Eskel promptly sets to the side. He puts his hands on his hips in his best impression of the older Witcher as he watches Geralt dismount Roach. 

    “You have a nice day?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow at Eskel’s stance.

    “Fucking marvelous, thanks.” Eskel’s voice is a low growl, his lips pursed in annoyance. “Apparently, Ciri’s father has been ignoring her questions about sex, and left her to ask me instead.”

    Geralt’s eyes widen comically, and Eskel can’t help the way his lips turn up at the corners. “And what did you tell her?”

    “The truth, you moron. Nothing salacious, but she needs to learn about this stuff Geralt. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

    Geralt sighs, running his hand through his silver hair. “You’re right. She already so grown up. I don’t want her to grow up…”

    Eskel moves to stand before Geralt, pulling his brother into an embrace. He pointedly ignores Lambert’s faux gagging before patting Geralt on the back a few times as he steps back. “You owe me so much alcohol.”

    Geralt chuckles, nodding as they all walk off towards the keep, ready to tuck into a night of rest and relaxation, or at least as much as a bunch of Witchers can get. 

[queenk00k]

but what if we were pure gold all along? jj maybank (chapter 2)

Summary: After the assumed death of their best friend, the Pogues are falling apart at the seams. With Pope and Kiara getting closer and JJ left with nowhere to go, he finds himself left to his own devices. Feeling lost and rejected, his luck seems to turn when he meets Scarlett - a Kook who doesn’t treat him like shit and has an affinity for partying. JJ gets sucked into her world as she promises to help him forget.

How much longer can he keep running from his demons? And what happens when he starts sharing a bed with one?

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, child abuse, angst, sexual content, drug use, underage drinking.

Author’s note: Hi all, this is my multi-chapter fic I’ve been working on. My oneshots & Rafe series have taken off so I thought it was time to share this one too. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 1.9K

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

the one where those damn kooks are charming when they want to be

JJ had never really gotten used to a beating. He knew when to expect one, based off Luke’s mood when he got home, the glint in his eye, the way his tone changed when he spoke to him. Thanks to being scared shitless of his dad for the majority of his childhood, JJ was well attuned to the subtleties of other people’s emotions. Silver lining, he figured. Means he always knew when the other Pogues were pissed at him without them saying anything, always knew when Rafe was looking for a fight.

Didn’t make having the crap kicked out of him any more enjoyable.

“You think I wasn’t going to find out you stole from me, you stupid boy?” Luke spits his words as if they were venom, standing over JJ who’s clutching his stomach in pain on the floor.

JJ looks up at his father, jaw clenched. “I was helping John B, Dad! I thought you’d be happy I was screwing over the cops! We didn’t know about the storm!”

JJ quickly comes to realise that was the wrong thing to say.

Luke’s eyes are aflame with rage, his stare boring holes into JJ as his dad hoists him up by the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall, fists clenched around the cheap cotton.

“Happy?! Boy, nothing about you makes me happy.”

A punch to JJ’s gut.

“You cost me thousands –“

Another blow, this time to his jaw.

“- spend your life doing fuck all except smoking weed-“

JJ attempts to throw Luke off him but the older man is stronger, despite clearly being drunk out of his mind, and he slams JJ back against the wall, knocking a picture onto the hardwood floor in the process.

“And now you’ve stolen from me, you ungrateful, worthless piece of shit!”

Luke slams his fist into the side of JJ’s head and his father’s red face, contorted with rage, is the last thing JJ sees before he falls, unconscious, onto the floorboards.

When JJ comes to, head pounding, he blinks his eyes open slowly and raises his hand to the side of his face. He brings his fingers away from his cheek shakily, notices they’re sticky with blood, touches his lip gingerly and realises that’s split and swollen too.

JJ grunts and moves to roll onto his back before attempting to get up.

Attempting the operative word, as a searing pain in his side forces him to lay back down briefly, hissing at the pain.

Great, he thinks. He’s really done a number on me this time.

JJ lays there for a few moments, staring up at the slightly dilapidated ceiling of the Chateau, listening for any telltale signs Luke was still in the vicinity. He wouldn’t be surprised if Luke stuck around to lay down another beating but he’s grateful for the silence that confirms he’s been left alone once again.

After a few shaky breaths, JJ finally finds the courage to stand to his feet, wincing at the soreness in his body and making a mental note to find an icepack somewhere in the kitchen. Kiara used to be the one to look after him when he showed up at the Chateau after disappearing for days, her gentle touch calming him more than he liked to admit, soothing his bruises and making him feel like someone gave a shit about him.

JJ swallows thickly. He wishes Kiara was here now.

JJ scoffs at the thought and the feeling of tenderness dissipates as quickly as it appears, replaced by the more familiar feeling of bitterness that rises up like bile.

Resigning to the fact that he won’t see Kiara for a very long time because she doesn’t want to see him (conveniently forgetting that it’s not like she has that much choice in the matter), JJ sighs heavily and makes his way down the hall.

JJ ignores the feeling of complete desperation and confusion as he enters his old, dead friend’s kitchen and opens the fridge, silently praying the cops at least had the decency to leave their beer alone.

For the first time in a few weeks, something’s gone his way and JJ cracks open a Budweiser, letting himself smile ever so slightly.

He’s surprised he remembers how.

--

Drinking alone is never as fun as you think it is.

JJ’s sprawled out on the steps of the porch at 1am, beer bottles surrounding him like a shrine, his Zippo the only form of light in an otherwise unusually dark night.

Suddenly, JJ gets the overwhelming urge to take his bike and ride it across the island to Figure 8.

Never mind that he’s drunk, never mind that he knows he’ll find his way back to places that painfully remind him of his friends, and never mind that by taking the risk of going to the other side of the island he could run into a Kook.

Maybe JJ was looking for a fight tonight.

Before he’s had a chance to think rationally (but when does he ever?), JJ is speeding through the streets of Figure 8, past big Kook houses and Kook golf courses, struggling to keep his bike straight as his vision blurs.

He’s doing reasonably well at staying on the road for someone of his inebriated state, and he’s honestly pretty impressed with himself, enjoying the feeling of the warm wind whipping through his hair.

That is, until he realises he’s going past the Crain house and he sees Rose Cameron’s face on a placard and he’s filled with overwhelming rage and he’s distracted and all of a sudden the bike swerves off the road.

JJ panics and makes a futile attempt to straighten up again, but its too late and he skids off the road and is catapulted into a thicket of trees.

JJ groans and pats himself down, checking that he still has all of his necessary limbs. He breathes deeply and squeezes his eyes shut.

Typical, he thinks.

JJ plans to stay lying on the side of the road for the rest of the night, if he’s honest with himself, before a girl’s voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“You know you’re supposed to keep the bike upright, don’t you?”

JJ opens one eye to see someone, a Kook, standing over him. She’s slender and dressed in a white sundress, the contrast stark against her tanned skin, her dark hair tied back in a braid.

JJ huffs. “What do you care, Kook?”

The girl crouches down and looks at his battered face, wincing. It’s not the usual disdain JJ is used to – he thinks he can actually see some pity reflected in her features.

“You look like shit, what happened?”

“Leave me – wait, do I know you from somewhere?”

--

JJ knows he’s a good friend, but sometimes it feels like he’s loyal to a fault.

That’s how he finds himself in the middle of a Kook nightmare, pressed against rich assholes dressed in designer clothes, all for the annual Midsummers party.

JJ’s walking around the perimeter of the country club, looking over his shoulder for Rafe and his henchmen and cursing John B under his breath for putting himself in this situation in the first place.

He’s needing to pretend to be a waiter, so JJ is absentmindedly picking up empty glasses as he goes, feeling grateful he hasn’t had to speak to someone yet.

That is, of course, until he almost trips over a figure crouched down on the patio.

“Woah, you trying to kill me?”

JJ looks down and sees a girl in a black dress, bending down, her fingers wrapped around the neck of a vodka bottle.

“Can I point out that you’re the one in my way? This is a tripping hazard.”

The brunette girl rolls her eyes and gives JJ the finger, but he can tell its not malicious.

“I’ll make you a deal, Pogue.”

JJ widens his eyes in panic. Cover blown.

The girl chuckles. “I know you’re a Pogue. I’m drunk, not stupid. Plus, don’t think I haven’t seen you around at the boneyard.”

JJ hates that he wants to flirt with her, and he clears his throat. “What’s your deal?”

“I won’t tell the Camerons you’re here, practically committing fraud, and you won’t snitch to the country club that I stole their top shelf vodka to spice up my evening.”

JJ’s mildly impressed. “I guess we’re both criminals,” he replies and moves to walk away, before turning back briefly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The girl smiled mysteriously. “Unimportant.”

--

“Yeah. You nearly tripped over me at Midsummers,” the girl replies, holding her hand out for JJ to take, which he does, and helps him onto his feet.

JJ attempts to dust himself off. “Do I get to know your name now?”

She smiles. “I’m Scarlett. You’re JJ, right?”

JJ nods. “How’d you know?”

“I know some people that know you, but it’s unimportant. I’m sorry about your friend.”

JJ doesn’t want to talk about John B, least of all with a Kook. “Right, well, I best get going,” he says as he turns towards his bike, dreading the ride back to the Chateau.

Scarlett looks at him incredulously. “You look nasty as fuck.”

“Thanks,” JJ responds bitterly.

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “You didn’t let me finish. Let me take you back to mine, help you clean up a bit.”

Then, sensing the hesitation in JJ, she adds “At least let me give you bandaid or something, and you can do it yourself if you’re so tough.”

JJ figures there’s no harm in using someone’s supplies, especially a Kook’s, and it’s not like he can go home to anyone else.

He shrugs. “Sure, whatever, thanks.”

--

After Scarlett convinces JJ his bike will be just fine hidden at the Crain property (the Camerons have more pressing issues at the moment, Scarlett tells him, her voice catching), they make their way to Scarlett’s house.

It’s the biggest and most impressive house he’s ever been in, and JJ can’t help but feel extremely uncomfortable at the thought of stepping into a Kook’s home.

“Where are your parents?” He asks, as Scarlett rummages around in her drawers for first aid supplies, his arms folded over his chest.

“They’re out,” she replies simply, and brandishes cream and bandaids at him. “Are you going to let me do this for you?”

JJ furrows his brow and snatches the supplies from her outstretched hand.

“I’m good, thanks. I can do it myself.”

Scarlett nods and sits down at the edge of her bed in silence, as JJ clumsily cleans his cuts, face scrunched in pain as it stings. He successfully places the last bandaid and looks at Scarlett, who hasn’t said another word.

“I, uh – thanks, I guess,” JJ says awkwardly, placing his hands in his pockets. “I should go.”

Scarlett looks at her phone at the time, 3:30am, and shakes her head.

“You can stay here, it’s late and I have a feeling you’re not quite up to the ride home.”

JJ panics, eyes wide, and resorts back to guarded defensiveness. “I’m not sleeping here. I don’t even know you.”

Scarlett sighs. “You didn’t seem to have an issue with that when you came home with me. Look, you can sleep on my couch,” she says as she gestures towards the plush couch in the corner of her large bedroom.

JJ huffs. Kooks, he thinks, but he nods reluctantly.

It’s the feeling of overwhelming loneliness, coupled with the fact that someone actually cared about him, that leads JJ to spend the night sleeping on a Kook’s couch.

taglist (message me to be added to my taglist for all works): 

@letsgofullkook @stargazingstarkey @harrysbbby @socialwriter @thatjohnd @ssjiara @jjsmentalpolaroids @bailspogue @jjtheangel @rafecameron​ @obx-direction-sos​ @pixelated-pogues​ @jjmbanks​ @ims0golden​ @obbx-tings​ @drewstarkey​ @teenwaywardasgardian​ @tembo-ndoto​ @prejudic3​ @starkeymarkey​ @snkkat​ @drewxxrudy​ @pogue-writings​ @pookie-cleary​ @jjmaybcnks​ @shawnssongs​ @obxjj​ @drewswannabegirl​ @curlybrownhairedboys​ @the-moon-looks-old-and-gray​ @peach97​ @k-k0129​ @broken-jj​ @annedub​ @starlightstarkey​ @starrystarkey93​ @jiaraendgame​ @sarahcxmeron​ @overly-b​ @erraaxh​ @pink-meringues​ @rollinsstuff​ @microwaved-timmies​ @iamaunicorn4704​ @a-golden-sunflower-vol-6​ @ptersparkers @jjmaybankx @sortagaysortahigh​ @honeyycheek​ @downbytheouterbanks​ @milamaybank​ @dpaccione​ @hbooth0411​ @girlsru1eboysdroo1​  @moldisgoodforyou​ @surfalldaybaby​ 

[dramaticsnakes]

“Please don’t walk out of that door.” With, you guessed it, anxceit

Thank you so much for sending a prompt Raf! 

My mind couldn’t come up with a cool AU or something, like you’re so good at, right away with this one so it’s mostly based on canon, though Virgil and Janus are probably both a bit softer. I had fun with this and I hope it’s enjoyable!

Ship: Anxceit

Word count: 3486

TW: Cursing (this is me making up for not letting Virgil curse properly in my multichapter fic flkjaks). I am not sure if there is anything else I should tag. Please let me know if I missed something!

Summary: Janus and Virgil try to talk to each other with varying success.

Janus and Virgil were close. Very close in fact. Inseparable friends, in a way that was affectionate. Affectionate in an understood way. Neither were too keen on big speeches or meaningful declarations but it was clear to anyone from an outside perspective, that they mattered a great deal to one another. They communicated silently, with brief touches and knowledge no one else had. One always knew what the other wanted, and those silent displays, mattered a great deal to both of them, even if they didn’t always realize it. 

In the evening, Janus and Virgil would often sit together and talk to one another, while Remus was off doing his own thing. It was then, that the most prominent signs of affection crawled to the surface, and then that Janus felt the most content. Sometimes, Janus found himself staring into Virgil’s eyes. He wasn’t ever quite certain why. They seemed to glow in the dim lighting,in a way that reminded Janus of a storm. Of course, Janus quickly shook the thoughts off. It was strange to consider someone else's eyes like that. Just because Virgil could hold Janus comfortingly just by sending him a glance, Janus shouldn’t let himself get distracted by that. 

Janus remembered a day where he’d been on a rant about the government and society as a whole (it was an important topic) and Virgil had given him a gentle punch, which felt electrifying, like a lightning. Not the harmful kind, or at the very least not harmful in the same way. Virgil was electrifying in general. Janus realized it a long time ago, but he figured it didn’t earn him anything to say it out loud. Things were nice. Understood. Content. They all had each other, and Janus and Virgil were close. 

That was until things started changing. 

Janus didn’t mind change too much. He always considered himself adaptable. He was good at changing his shape. Good at pretending. Virgil was a different case. He wasn’t too keen on it, which was one of the reasons why it took so long for Janus to fathom everything that ended up happening. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did, Janus thought. If it happened differently, it would’ve been fine. Janus would’ve adapted just fine. Janus tried his best to believe that. He was good at telling lies, but wasn’t quite as good at believing them. 

Janus never liked to call things ‘inevitable’. They shouldn’t be. With the right words, things could be prevented. Nothing was inevitable if you let yourself have a say in it. Which might’ve been another reason it pained Janus to think about all the ways he could’ve prevented it.

When Virgil returned after being summoned for the first time, perhaps Janus should’ve asked more questions, rather than thinking of ways to take advantage of the situation. When Virgil came back and was having second-thoughts about various things, perhaps Janus shouldn’t have lashed out in jealousy right away. When Virgil had been punching the wall with anger, perhaps Janus should’ve asked him what was wrong, rather than accepting it. Rather than letting him.

When Virgil had walked straight to his room after being summoned, and when Virgil refused to talk to Janus, perhaps Janus should’ve done so anyway. Or perhaps he should’ve waited and taken the next chance he had.

But with each moment Virgil spent up there, the more strained the moments with Janus became.

And when Virgil left, perhaps Janus’ first reaction shouldn’t have been to observe. To keep an eye on Virgil and his new ‘friends’. His first reaction shouldn’t have been to lie his way up there.

But what choice did he have?

Soon, tension hung in the air whenever Janus and Virgil were around each other. Leftover promises and signs of conversations they hadn’t had. Insults were sent in every direction, and it became clearer and clearer to Janus, that they were no longer close. Virgil had found a different place to be, a new life, and Janus wasn’t a part of it.

And that made him angry, and bitter and all the things that caused people not to think properly. All those stupid emotions that made Janus’ heart burn up and twist inside him.

“Things are going to be different now.” Patton had said, when he was talking to Janus after the hectic events of that day. The day Janus was almost but not quite accepted. For a moment, Janus allowed himself to believe that Patton was right. Even if it didn’t feel quite true.

As he was standing outside the door to Virgil’s room a couple of days later, he wasn’t sure if he believed it anymore.

His interactions with Virgil had been brief and uncomfortable once Virgil learned what had happened. At first, Janus had seen something resembling anger on the other’s face. “You can’t be here.” he’d said, and Janus had simply looked down, resigned and unable to think of anything to say to that.

Later they’d been in the living room, by themselves, and neither of them had said a word to each other. 

What had prompted Janus to go to Virgil’s room however, was when their arms had brushed against each other in the halls, and Janus suddenly realized just how unbearable it was not to address it. He needed to talk to Virgil. He was desperate for them to say something to each other. Even if it was just yelling and insults, Janus needed Virgil to say something directed at him again. Just to know exactly how fragile their connection had gotten.

Janus knocked on the door, but didn’t receive a response. He tried again. Nothing. Eventually, he decided to check if the door was locked in the first place. It turned out it wasn’t. When he opened it the air became dense and all-encompassing, as if it had a tight grip around Janus’ heart and throat. The very moment he saw Virgil, sitting on his bed with his headphones on, Janus suddenly felt like the one who couldn’t speak. As if someone was holding his own hands to his mouth and pushing some invisible force down to his vocal cords. As he watched Virgil, sitting there, Janus suddenly understood exactly what Virgil’s famous ‘fight or flight’ reflexes felt like. Virgil hadn’t seen him, and for a desperate moment, Janus almost didn’t want him to. 

But Janus was a protector, not a coward. He recomposed himself, as he’d done so many times before. He attempted to put on a nonchalant express- no, he shouldn’t go for nonchalant should he? Virgil needed to see that Janus was there, and was ready for any genuine words Virgil might have for him. Any insults that Janus probably deserved. Janus wouldn’t deny that he’d done bad things in the past. Virgil had to know that. That was why they’d hardly spoken. That was why spite hung in the air whenever Janus showed up. Janus knew that.

“Virgil?” Janus said, but the voice came out choked and silent. It didn’t seem like a way to get Virgil’s attention as much as a desperate, wistful whisper, that wasn’t meant to be heard. Virgil didn’t react either. Maybe Janus should walk back out. He hadn’t been invited in. It was a bad idea. He didn’t want to disturb Virgil. He remembered when they were younger, and Virgil needed some time to himself in silence. It was why they’d gotten him the headphones in the first place.

Janus was about to close the door, when Virgil turned his head. Then time froze (figuratively, as Logan would’ve said). Virgil’s expression went from calm to surprised, then confused and uncertain. Janus’ heart started beating faster. Virgil removed the headphones from his ears quickly, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. “De- Janus.” he said, hastily. Janus realized that it was the first time Virgil had used Janus’ name for a long long time. The word felt like the sound of the vintage record in Janus’ room. Comforting and familiar, yet distant and a little worn. “What are you doing here?” 

Janus tried to detect the spite in Virgil’s voice, but instead found something resembling fear. Concern? Janus didn’t like questioning how he read people. Reading people was one of his most useful skills. Maybe it was some sort of wishful thinking, but that couldn’t be right either. Some part of Janus, wanted there to be spite and tension in the air. Though perhaps, a much bigger, different part of Janus longed for something more comfortable. Wanted to get closer to Virgil and sit on his bed with him, while they talked about all sorts of things. How society could be improved, a novel, or one of Virgil’s emo bands. Janus missed seeing Virgil’s eyes lighting up, and it only became clearer each time he was in the same room as him. “I… I wanted to talk to you.”

“Talk about what?” Virgil said somewhat darkly. It made Janus want to take a step back again.

“Oh, because there has been absolutely no tension between us since I came here.” Janus said. The sarcastic tone came out before he could stop it, and he almost felt like covering his own mouth, like he’d done with many others. Keep himself calm, collected but genuine. Why did it feel so difficult and sickening to be genuine? Virgil’s mouth became a thin line and he furrowed his eyebrows. “I apologize… That came out wrong…” Janus added, “My silver tongue seems to have a mind of its own at times.” he said in an attempt to relieve the tension a little.

Virgil scoffed. “You could’ve knocked.”

“I did.” Janus said.

“Oh.” 

Virgil looked down and Janus followed his glance without realizing it. Say something say something say something… “I don’t mean to impose.” he said, feeling that the sentiment was a little too formal, but he wasn’t sure if putting it in any other way would be welcome either, “I just m- I’m just s-” Janus stopped himself, and caught Virgil giving him a glance as he did so. This wasn’t a good idea. Virgil wasn’t ready to talk about it. Virgil wanted him gone. It had been so clear from their previous interactions. The fact that Janus even considered that talking to him now of all times would be a good idea, especially when Virgil hadn’t even yelled at him or said anything yet, was stupid. Virgil wanted Janus to leave and Janus had overstayed his welcome the moment he opened the door.

“Janus…” Virgil said, and Janus flinched at the sound of his name, “What is it?”

“I…” Janus whispered. No, he definitely shouldn’t be here. Not yet. His gut twisted uncomfortably, and he felt like his heart was burning in more ways than one. He couldn’t speak like this. He barely knew what he wanted to explain. “I’ll go.” he said quickly, “I’ll leave you be. I shouldn’t have come.” he turned around abruptly. Virgil didn’t want him there, and no one could blame him. Janus hadn’t earned it y-

“Please don’t walk out of that door.” Janus heard Virgil’s voice say. It came out like a hiss, a yelp, but an uncharacteristically confident one. Desperate and self-assured all at the same time. When Janus turned his head again, he saw that Virgil was suddenly standing. Fists clenched, and eyes wide, as if he hadn’t quite realized what he’d said himself. “I mean, uh… fuck…” Virgil placed a hand on the side of his own face, with something resembling frustration. 

Janus turned around and looked at Virgil, not entirely sure what he should anticipate. 

Virgil fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Shit… You’re right, we uh… We should talk I…” he locked eyes with Janus and sent him a nervous smile of sorts, “Why don’t you uhm… Come over here?”

Janus saw Virgil nod towards his bed, and Janus could hear his own breathing loud and clear. Shaky and confused. Unfortunately vulnerable. No, that didn’t make sense. There was no way Virgil really wanted him to… “Are you certain?”

“Look, I’m not the liar here jus-” Virgil cut himself off, “Just uh… Just come on if you want to, I don’t bite.” he sat down on his bed.

“I beg to differ.” Janus half-whispered, with a wry smile.

“That was one time.” Virgil defended, and Janus caught a smile on the other’s face. It didn’t make the burning in his heart decrease at all, but it felt like the tension in the air settled a little. Janus hesitantly approached Virgil’s bed, feeling his body grow heavier with each step. Once Janus made it there, he sat down with his back straightened. He flattened the fabric on his clothes and placed his hands in his lap. Perhaps his quickly beating heart, was partially because of the effects Virgil’s room had on him. Janus stared at the far wall.

He felt Virgil glancing at him a few times, but other than that Virgil was sitting more or less in the same way. They sat there in silence for a few moments. Janus sighed. “I’m so-”

“I missed you.” Virgil interrupted hurriedly and it took Janus a second to realize exactly what he’d said. He gasped and tightened his muscles. There was a moment of silence after that. Virgil looked at Janus. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, uh… Was that weird? I’m sorry if that was-”

“What? No! I just didn’t expect you to… Well…”

“To miss you?”

“No, I mean…” Janus wasn’t sure what to say. He usually always had some way to get the conversation where he wanted it to, but he wasn’t entirely sure where he wanted it to go. He’d given Virgil the control the moment he’d stepped inside. The moment he’d decided to apologize. But Virgil wasn’t taking that control. Virgil had never quite been the type to do that. 

“I… Look I know I didn’t communicate properly. I should’ve said something all those times before I… I left…”

“What are you talking about?” Janus asked confusedly. Desperately.

“I missed you. You should’ve… We should’ve… Look, I get if you’re angry at me for all those times I snapped at you, but I just-” Virgil kept talking and Janus wasn’t sure if it was entirely directed at him anymore.

“It’s okay.” Janus said, with something resembling a chuckle. Not because the situation was that funny, but because he didn’t quite know what to make of it. “I was the one who came here to apologize.”

“Huh?”

“Apologize? For all those things I did.” Janus clarified, “I didn’t talk to you properly when you needed it. You know how I am with all those… Thoughtful and genuine moments, they… Frankly they make me sick, but I acted out in the worst possible ways when you left. I used you, I used your… Your friends-”

“We weren’t listening…” Virgil added, and that made Janus inhale sharply. 

“Maybe not, but I shouldn't have done that. None of you deserved that.” the words felt distantly true, “You have every right, to be mad at me Virgil. Sometimes my tongue gets the better of me… I say things before I can stop it, but that’s no excuse. I-” Janus stopped speaking when he felt Virgil’s shoulder brushing against his. It felt like electricity. An alluring and dangerous feeling.

When Virgil didn’t say something right away, Janus feared he’d said something wrong. That he’d been carried away in his thoughts and feelings and said something uncalled for. When Janus turned his head however, he noticed that Virgil was shaking a little. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Janus paused. “I… I know…”

“You’re supposed to say it back.” Virgil said.

“What?”

“Say it back! Say I’m an idiot.” Virgil said, looking at Janus with almost pleading eyes. Janus looked into them a second too long.

“But you’re… You’re not-”

“For fucks sake, you and I both know its the case. If I call you and idiot, you call me an idiot. That’s how it goes.” Virgil said.

Janus’ eyes flicked to Virgil’s lips but he looked away again he second he realized that was the case. “You’re an… You’re an idiot?”

Virgil gave a sigh of relief, that made Janus furrow his eyebrows. “Thank you.” he locked eyes with Janus again, and as Janus finally looked at Virgil’s jaw and eyes up close and looked at the soft-looking brown hair falling down into the other’s eyes, he found himself silenced once again. “You’re petty as hell, and so am I.”

Janus chuckled, and noticed Virgil’s breath hitching slightly as he did so. Then Virgil chuckled as well, and Janus suddenly realized that it was the most beautiful sound he’d heard in years. Ugh. Such disgusting sincerity. How did anyone deal with that? “I suppose you’re right.” Janus said. He didn’t add anything else. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, which was an unfortunate thing to admit.

“I was scared when you came here you know.” Virgil said. Janus looked down. “I was scared, because… I don’t want you to… I don’t want to…” Virgil groaned, “I was scared to death, because you’re an idiot and so am I and I am honestly so sick of our bullshit.”

“You’re being awfully blunt today.” was all Janus could think of saying.

Virgil shrugged and sent Janus a smile. “It’s probably the company.”

“Why are you smiling so much?” Janus snapped, which made Virgil tense up for a moment. Janus closed his eyes. “No, no it wasn’t meant to come out like that.” he took a deep breath. There was an anxious feeling creeping up on him, and the room was probably starting to get the best of him. What exactly was it Virgil was trying to do? “You’re just being nice all of a sudden…”

“I called you a fucking idiot.” Virgil said, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean! We called each other idiots all the time before-” 

Janus was cut off by his own hitching breath, when Virgil suddenly grasped Janus’ gloved hand. “I regret a lot of things.” Virgil said, quickly.

Janus could barely breathe. “So do I.”

“And we have a lot to talk about.” Virgil said.

“We do.” Janus said.

“But I really don’t like talking about things.” Virgil added.

Janus huffed, but didn’t say anything to that. They sat in silence for a while, still holding each other’s hand. When Janus’ heart skipped a beat, he suddenly found himself thinking, that now that Virgil had initiated touch, Janus wouldn’t be able to let go on his own accord again.

Virgil was the one who broke the silence. “They saw your hand… When you revealed your name.” 

Janus nodded. “Yes.”

“Can I see it?” Virgil asked. 

Janus swallowed something in his throat. “You already have.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Janus had revealed his hand as proof. Proof that sometimes, he could be trusted too. That he wasn’t on a different side than anyone else. He was on Thomas’ side. He was Thomas’ side. Perhaps now, the free hand could prove something too. Janus didn’t always like it when his hands were gloveless. The gloves kept him safe. Protected him. “Alright.” Janus said. Virgil gasped slightly at the response, as if he hadn’t entirely expected it. Janus took a deep breath and gradually removed the yellow glove from the hand he’d shown just a few days earlier. Virgil watched the act intently, and Janus felt slightly exposed. Even more so, when he could see his own skin. Virgil looked at the hand with a gaping mouth.

“It looks nice.” Virgil said, and if Janus didn’t know any better, he’d say Virgil was blushing.

Janus inhaled sharply. “Thank you.”

Janus almost couldn’t take it, when Virgil placed his hand on top of Janus’. It felt so natural. It wasn’t the first time the two had held hands, and Janus was overwhelmed with just how easy it was to do it again. “I was scared when you came here.” Virgil said, repeating the statement from earlier, “I was scared I wouldn’t be able to… uh… Fuck I lost track again.”

“Am I that distracting to you?” Janus said, jokingly.

Virgil took a deep breath and looked straight into Janus’ eyes, grasping Janus’ hand properly. Electrifying. Magnetic. Like a storm within Janus’ heart. “It’s stupid isn’t it?”

Janus tensed up, because Virgil’s response carried more meaning than the joke deserved. “Maybe so.” Janus said, “But as you said... We’re idiots.”

Virgil smiled. “We are.” he placed a hand under Janus’ eye, “We should get out of here before it gets worse. It took Janus a moment to remember the visible bags he probably had, after staying in the room for this long. He decided that he liked the sound of the ‘we’ Virgil spoke of.

“We should.”

[ichorizaki]

part of your world—s.d.

꒰ ❛ genre ❜ ꒱  — fluff. just, pure fluff

꒰ ❛ pairing ❜ ꒱ — timeskip!sawamura daichi x f!reader

꒰ ❛ warnings ❜ ꒱ — uhhh some curse words and teeth-rotting fluff, asahi’s terrible fashion taste

꒰ ❛ word count ❜ ꒱ — 2.7k

˚ ༘ˀˀ  ꒰‧⁺ a text from sol —  ✎ˀ !!! my first req!!! ily ily hehe i had so much fun with this; i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it! thank you so much for being patient, @ceo-of-daichi​ huhu

-`,✎ synopsis!  ; ♡ disneyland is just as magical as anyone dreamed for it to be and more.

One of the things that you love about Sawamura Daichi was how he calculated different factors to make sure that his intended outcome was accurate and to his satisfaction. Maybe it was the way his dark brows furrowed in concentration as he mapped out the plans, or perhaps it was in the way he had that small grin that boasted pride when he was done. You didn't know why he was planning so intently for a quick weekend trip to Disneyland Tokyo, but you didn’t quite care because it made for the perfect setting for you to pop the million-dollar question. While you would love to have the trip be just the two of you, you required an audience and moral support, which was why you had Sugawara Kōshi happily laying down in the backseat of the rented car and Azumane Asahi waiting for your arrival at his condominium complex at Ginza, Tokyo.

“Dai, how much further from Tokyo are we? I wanna ride the rollercoasters!” Kōshi complained from the backseat, propping himself up on his elbows. It was a miracle that both you and your boyfriend had heard him over the booming stereo that blasted the Disney playlist curated specially for the trip. He noticed that Daichi had his hand gripping your thigh where it was exposed by your denim shorts and made a gagging noise. “I thought I wasn’t gonna third-wheel.”

“We’re not even making out, you drama queen,” Daichi snorts. His eyes drifted from the rearview mirror to the GPS he was following on his phone next to the steering wheel. “We’re about fifteen minutes from the checkpoint.”

“Finally. Fifteen minutes more and I won’t be the only third-wheel.” You laughed at his comment as he went back to laying down in the backseat, scrolling through his phone and singing along to the songs. In his impatience, you knew it was excitement. Partially for Disneyland, but you knew the real reason behind it: the small velvet box sitting in your Kanken bag that sat by your feet.

Kōshi has been your partner in crime ever since your Karasuno days. You knew he had your back when it came to anything that consisted of the element of surprise, as you had his. You’ve said it a thousand times and you’ll say it again: the Karasuno VBC should be glad that you weren’t one of the managers. Otherwise, you were sure that their productivity would fall drastically.

Feeling your boyfriend’s calloused hand give your thigh a slight squeeze dragged your eyes from your phone screen to his beautiful face. You raised your eyes in question before he nudged his chin towards what lay beyond the glass windows, eyes fixated on the road. You followed his gaze and a small gasp of surprise left your lips.

It was by no means your first time in Tokyo but it never fails to take your breath away every time you near the border. Silver buildings line the landscape, blindingly glinting as they reflected the meridian sun. Billboard signs were but a blur of colours as Daichi drove past. You could practically smell the metallic scent of the metropolitan metal forest.

“Kōshi! Look!” You cried out, the palms of your hands flat against the glass along with your cheek as you tried to get closer to the scenery in the confines of the car. The second you passed the checkpoint and were cleared, the excitement was blatantly obvious in the way it seemed to send jitters down your spine. “Ah, I can’t wait to see ‘Sahi. I’m so glad he agreed to come out of his shell and spend time with us.”

“Right?” Kōshi got up from his position to squeeze his torso in between your seat and Daichi’s. “Man, I can’t wait to go feral at Disneyland and sleep for free in a downgraded hotel.” Daichi couldn’t help but laugh at the statement that his friend had made in reference to Asahi’s place. He had offered his condominium as accommodation for the night. You guessed that he was tired of being so lonely in such a spacious living space. The last time you checked, you were sure that he had two guest rooms which was perfect for the three of you.

Daichi continued driving into the city, easily finding his way to Asahi’s condominium complex. He was waiting there, scrolling through his phone in what could easily be the most tourist-y getup. He didn’t notice the vehicle pull up before him, which prompted you to wind your window down to call for him. Kōshi mirrored your actions, calling for him by his favourite nickname since high school.

“Oi, Negative Beardy!” He giggled as the bigger man looked up from his phone. His hair was cropped short, his previous peach fuzz now a well-groomed beard. He got up from his seat and you couldn’t help but notice the neon green fanny pack standing out exceptionally from his ensemble. You didn’t hold back the laughter and neither did your boyfriend as the clumsy man slid into the backseat next to Kōshi, the apples of his tanned cheeks a bright pink.

“Five months and the first thing you do is tease me . . .” Asahi sighed.

“How can we not when you look like a tourist?” Daichi countered as he began to drive out of the complex. “For a fashion designer, you sure do have a terrible sense.”

“Yeah, ‘Sahi,” you chimed in. “Isn’t the neon green fanny pack a little overkill?”

“Huh? Then where am I gonna put my wallet and phone on rides?” The three of you laughed it off, leaving a resigned Asahi shaking his head. Years may have passed and there may have been distance among the four of you but the chemistry was still there.

The drive from Ginza to Urayasu was about twenty minutes, but time seemed to fly by when you’re having fun because the next thing you know, the four of you were climbing out of the car with entry tickets in hand and standing in line. It was late into the season of spring and you could smell it distinctly in the air. The breeze was nice and chilly against where your skin was exposed as the sun cast a mighty glow upon the citizens of Tokyo, excitement buzzing in your veins like static electricity as you bounced back and forth on the balls of your feet.

Kōshi was the only other person who was being loud about his excitement, running as soon as he was granted entry into the magical grounds of Disneyland. You bounded after him, your voice disappearing into the large expanse of space as you screamed out loud.

“Y/N! People are staring, you idiot,” Daichi called out after you, taking your hand in his as soon as he caught up. You gave him a cheeky grin and wink along with a finger gun with your free hand. Now that you were finally at Disneyland, all you had to do was wait for the opportunity to make this fine man yours for the rest of your life. Kōshi gasped when he saw your linked hands and immediately turned to look at Asahi who tucked his hands behind his back in response.

The four of you started off at World Bazaar, taking a tour on the omnibus around the plaza before deciding to go in hard and strong at the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Adventureland. Needless to say, Asahi was the only one who emerged trembling like a leaf. You felt like a high school student once again, spending time with your best friends and your crush in what appeared to be a fantasy-like wonderland. Your laughter filled the air as screams and children’s excitement harmonised along.

Regardless of where you ventured in the theme park, you were smiling and laughing and running around like a child with Kōshi as Asahi and Daichi both looked on. The former was visibly embarrassed by the commotion that the both of you were causing while the latter simply bemused by how happy you were. Hell, simply ‘happy’ didn’t cut it. You were in absolute childlike ecstasy as you pulled him along to the different rides and exhibitions, asking him to take your picture with Daisy Duck or Peter Pan or some character whose name he had forgotten. He was completely enthralled by you and knowing that you were his simply sent his mind reeling and his heart thumping against his ribcage as he fondled with the navy blue box nestled in the pocket of his bermuda shorts.

To say that you were nervous was an understatement. You were about to ask the man you love if he wanted to spend the rest of his natural life with you. You kept telling yourself that you had no reason to be nervous, that no matter what his answer was, you’d respect it. It was only natural that you were restless, right? The adrenaline that flowed through your veins was keeping you on your toes at every exhibit, show, ride, and parade that the four of you spectated with bright, eager smiles.

It was only when the stunning blue of the sky began to mix with swirls of salmon pink and golden melting through fluffy whites were the four of you sitting on one of the benches outside Cinderella’s castle. Families of both locals and tourists had ice cream crêpes in hand as they strolled languigly. You had an ice pop in hand, sharing it with Daichi as he sat next to you whilst cooling himself with the electric handheld fan that you had brought along.

Kōshi was staring dead into your eyes, his silver eyebrows furrowing just the slightest bit as he nudged his chin not-so-subtly to an inattentive Daichi. You scowled silently back at him, wordlessly telling him that it probably wasn’t the right time. Probably. But then he went ahead and gave you a smug look that called you a coward for chickening out whenever the opportunity presented itself by neatly dropping into your laps.

He wasn’t wrong. You had the perfect opportunity to propose just about an hour ago during one of the parades at Fantasyland. Mickey had pulled you in for a dance on the road, and after your little grooving session, you had dragged your boyfriend who was reticent but never tried to hide the fond smile on his face. Poor Kōshi had wasted a good percentage of his battery filming several almost-proposals only for you to chicken out at the last second. You were sure that you weren’t going to hear the end of it if you didn’t get down on one knee to propose in the next hour.

“Do you still want the ice pop?” Daichi asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You turned to him, shaking your head. Now’s the time, you told yourself. No more backing out. You were going to ask this man to be your partner in life and that was final. How could you not? You’ve known this man close to two decades. He had been by your side the whole time, through the ups and downs, never once letting go of you even when you told him to. To you, he looked no different than he did when you first met him at the shy blossoming age of 15. He bulked a little and sure, there were smile lines and some wrinkles, but that was it. He’s still the same Sawamura Daichi that you fell in love with. “My love, is everything okay? Is there something on my face?”

“Huh?” You blinked. Crap, were you staring at him too obviously? You quickly told him that no, there wasn’t anything on his face other than absolute beauty, to which his cheeks flushed red. Kōshi was staring at you—you knew it from the glaring burning on the side of your face—and you finally reached your arm behind you where your bag was, nervously trying to take the violet box from the confines of the small pocket. You heard Kōshi whisper-yell a not-so-subtle “Yes!” as he fumbled around to fish his phone out.

Daichi’s ochre brown eyes never left your face as he watched you get up from the bench to sink down onto one knee before him. You felt your heart stammering in a jittery, shaking, quaking panic as your cheeks burned beet red. He was patient, waiting and watching you slowly rest your hands over your propped knee. Only then did you realise that the words that you had painstakingly memorised were beginning to disappear from your mind like a drawing in the sand erased up by waves.

“Daichi,” you began. There’s no going back now. “I never thought I’d ever find someone who’s my best friend and lover. I wouldn’t say that you’re my saviour or some shit cause that’s really cringey.” You briefly paused, swallowing the lump in your throat as you tried your best to fight back the tears. Why did you have to get emotional now? You cleared your throat, “Um. Listen. I’m in love with you. I had a script and I forgot what were the specific words on it, but I know this for sure: I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to watch you grow old and have kids who are gonna have kids, who are then gonna have kids, and then we’ll be sitting on rocking chairs at the patio of our house in the countryside, watching the sunset.

“I– fuck, this is embarrassing. But, yeah. I love you, and I’m just here to complete the final objective. I’ve taken your jackets, your firsts, and your heart, and I think it’s time I take your last name.” From the corner of your eyes, you noticed there were a few people standing by to watch. Some of them were obviously tourists and the fact alone made your entire face flush pink. Your eyes were trained on Daichi’s handsome face as he let a lone tear escape before quickly wiping it away and sniffling. He had that smile on his face—the very one that made your heart throb and sing hallelujah—and you couldn’t help but smile too as you revealed the golden ring seated intricately in a sea of white silk of the velvet box that you were holding. “So whaddya say, Dai?”

The second he got down on one knee and took out an identical velvet box from the pocket of his shorts, you let out a loud groan, throwing your head back to stop the tears from flowing freely down your face. You heard the spectators cheer and laugh, and also Kōshi screaming right behind you. Your teeth abused your bottom lip when you returned your tear-filled gaze to him, arms going limp by your sides. You refused to believe this was happening. It was the last thing that you had expected from Daichi, but life was full of surprises, wasn’t it?

“I don’t know, Y/N,” he mused. The corner of his lip curled upward into a sly smirk but the amount of love brimming in his eyes told a different story entirely. “What do you think?” By then, you had tears raining as you folded your feet underneath you so you could sit down and process everything. Even then, you were bawling your eyes out, holding his calloused hands in yours as he heartily laughed, kissing your tears away and pushing your hair out of your face.

“I think I wanna marry the fuck out of you, Dai.” Your shoulders trembled as your heart sang a euphoric tune that you never thought you’d be able to achieve. His bare, warm arms wrapped around you to guide you to sit down on the bench. He took his time wiping your tears and putting the ring on your finger before he did the same for himself.

“Tsk, babe, there are children here.” His teasing chides fell on deaf ears as Asahi and Kōshi joined the both of you, congratulations and teasing filling the atmosphere. You didn’t care that there were children there. Disneyland is one hell of a magical place, and you were just beyond thankful it turned all of your dreams into a reality.

[revasserium]

bewildered madness with keiji

send me a number and a character, and i’ll write you a drabblerequests are currently: closed 

155. bewildered madness akaashi ; 1,921 words

a/n: in which akaashi is prince hans, and you are the snow queen ( aka the disneyxhaikyuu that no one asked for ) ; also my submission for hqcreation’s monthly prompt sweater weather 

he only catches a glimpse of you, through the cover of trees, the forest frozen around you by the unnatural permafrost -- the moonlight above shattering the quiet darkness below, splintering into glimmering shards of light, refracting off the snow-covered earth. 

he sighs. 

but there are things he must do, for the sake of his future — for the kingdom that is yet to be his. 

he hears you before he sees you, the melody haunting as his childhood dreams, crushed beneath the feet of those with the simple advantage of an earlier birth; he’d always thought that custom ludicrous and dated. he was ever bit the man (and more) than his older brothers — why shouldn’t he have a chance at the crown? 

he shivers, and sighs, and pulls his thick cloak ever tighter around his shoulders and thinks that no matter how beautiful your voice might sound, you’re still the key to a kingdom that might one day be his. and for that, he’s willing to do anything. 

“i don’t want to hurt you.” 

the first words he says to you. 

“i’m not who should be worried about getting hurt.” 

your first words to him. 

“fair, fair —” he laughs, an unexpected sound, a strange, warm thing that blossoms from him. 

and for a second, you almost believe he’s sincere. 

“what i mean is, i mean you no harm, physically or otherwise — i simply with to…” 

you raise an eyebrow, drawing yourself up, your dress woven of silver and broken dreams heavy around your shoulders, even if the material feels weightless. 

“talk?” you offer. 

akaashi grins, sheepishly. 

“in a sense.” 

you cast him an unaffected sort of glance. 

“you wish to ask for my sister’s hand in marriage. i declined. what else is there to talk about?” 

he licks his lips, taking a moment to square his shoulders. 

“then i should be so daring as to ask for your hand instead.” 

a chill runs down your spine. 

“what?” 

akaashi lowers himself to one knee, bending his head, a hand outstretched. 

“you want to marry me.” 

he lifts his head to look up at you, and there’s something so broken, so strange yet familiar in his gaze that you find yourself taking half a step forward, and then a full one. 

it takes you a moment to realize that it’s loneliness — 

a thing that’s kept you company your whole life, and in doing so, isolating you from everyone else. not by choice, perhaps, but maybe — you swallow and think — maybe be design. 

you lick your lips. 

“you know, if you’re after the kingdom, this is a terrible way to get to it.” 

akaashi remains kneeling. 

“i don’t think so.” 

you scoff. 

“by fleeing arendelle, i am forfeiting my right to the throne — my sister will be queen, and —” 

“but you are the queen by birthright, arenelle runs in your blood — she will always be yours, so long as you have the courage to take it.” 

“and if i don’t… have that courage, i mean.” 

akaashi smiles, a sweet, soft, gentle thing, as he lifts himself up from his knees and takes a step towards you. 

and perhaps there’s still an entire ocean of loss and hurt between the pair of you, but for a moment, just a moment, you allow yourself to fall into the possibility — the thought of marrying, of being queen, of living a normal life.

maybe, maybe, you’d even be happy. 

“then i shall wait with you here until you do.” 

it’s such a strange sentiment, to be offered company in loneliness. and you’ve been alone for so long, willfully or not, that there’d seemed no other option. and yet here he was, this prince from some faraway southern isle, offering you — not love, but companionship, in a way that isn’t burdened with familial relationship. 

“and… if i hurt you?” 

he opens his palms, and slowly, ever so slowly, takes off his gloves. 

“then i shall let you.” 

that night, he tells you about his childhood, of growing up with so many brothers his own parents couldn’t remember if everyone’s eaten. of dreaming of one day having some place to call his own, of scheming of a way to get there. 

“you know, you shouldn’t be telling me this. especially if you’re trying to steal my kingdom.” 

akaashi slates you a look. 

“steal it? no, no — i just want to belong to it.” 

(oh.) 

“oh.”

you look down at your hands, the instruments through which your powers flow. and a part of you, the deepest, darkest part of you, whispers that you understand. 

such a strange thing — the wish for belonging — so simple to say, and so thoughtless to people who have it, but to those who don’t.

“it’s like… moving mountains or shifting seas,” you say. 

akaashi’s smile is a dancing shadow on the planes of his face, and for the first time, you take the chance to really look at him, sitting cross-legged on the floor of this ice castle, built from spirit and resignation and years of pent-up loneliness — 

and you think that he’s quite handsome like this, all dark hair and bright, intelligent eyes. 

“both of which, need i remind you, my queen, you are capable of.” 

you bite your lip. 

he inches closer. 

“and you’ve been capable of it since long before you knew.” 

you smile. 

“it’s a curse.” 

he chuckles. 

“it’s a gift.” 

you give him a flat-lined look and he shrugs. 

“call it what you will, but it’s power. and where i come from, that’s worth something.” 

you curl your fingers into your palms and wrap your arms around your knees, bringing them into your chest. 

“are you cold?” 

you laugh, even as he removes his jacket. 

“i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but cold is kinda my thing,” you say, gesturing at the palace around the pair of you. 

akaashi shuffles closer on his knees, and then drapes his thick cloak over your shoulders. 

“i know, but… you still seemed… cold to me. there, better?” 

he shifts back to admire his handiwork, the thick woolen cloak now fastened tightly over your dress. 

you flush, for the first time, feeling heat creep up your cheeks as he sits back down across from you, closer than before. 

and then, a moment later. 

“you really think i could do it?” 

“do what?” 

“be the queen… learn to control — ” you wave a hand around the cavernous hall of the ice palace, “all this.” 

akaashi smiles. 

“yes. i know you can.” 

you peer at him. 

“how do you know?” 

“because i’ve seen greed up close — i’ve felt it in my heart, and for the longest time, i thought that was what drove me. but then… seeing you, witnessing your power for the first time — it was… humbling. and, i guess i just never thought i could feel that kind of awe, that kind of…” he blushes, the color tinting his already pale cheeks the color of a winter sunrise. 

“... wonder.” 

you feel yourself warming, from somewhere deep in the depths of your belly. like all those mornings when papa would make hot cocoa and momma would tell you and your sister stories of the creatures that lived in the woods — friendly creatures, some, and others, not so friendly. 

“but momma, why are some creatures not friendly?” you’d asked, once upon a winter’s morn. 

and she’s laughed and booped your nose and tugged a spoon handle out of your sister’s mouth with the patience only a mother could muster. 

“because, my darling girl, sometimes what’s good for you, isn’t always good for others. and so those creatures, the not so friendly ones, might not mean you any harm — it’s just that what’s good for them, be the exact opposite of what’s good for you.” 

you’d frowned, leaning into the warmth of your mother’s embrace as she rocked you over her lap. 

“what do you do then?” 

momma had let out a small sigh, and brushed a strand of hair from your eyes. 

“you try to understand them… and, you try to forgive.” 

akaashi reaches out to sweep a strand of hair from your cheek and you almost flinch back, but something inside you holds you to the spot. 

here are two creatures, you think, towards whom the rest of the world is unfriendly. 

not because it wants to hurt you, but simply because… 

“... what’s good for the world, isn’t necessarily good… for us…” 

“hm?” akaashi’s head lilts to one side, and for a second, you can see the boy in him, the boy that had been forced to grow up faster than his age because of his brothers, his father — everyone who’d ever told him no. you see the boy that had just wanted a place to belong to, to call his own. 

you offer him a smile, one that’s true and honest and just a little broken. 

“nothing… just remembering an old story my mom used to tell me and my sister.” 

“tell me,” he says. 

you lick your lips, you think of all the reasons you shouldn’t trust this prince, this prince who makes no effort in concealing his motives in coming to find you, who asked for your hand in marriage simply because he wants to be king — but who also offered you his coat, and is sitting with you in this frozen palace, listening to your stories. 

and this is the thing about falling in love — it comes from the unlikeliest of places. its springs from rocks and trees, from the budding leaves of spring, the dazzling blooms of summer, from the afire-trees of autumn, and sometimes — especially — from the frosted mornings of winter. 

it’s kind of madness, you decide, some time later, with akaashi’s hand in wrapped around your own, trying to find steadiness in the way your heart is hammering inside your chest — love is. it’s a madness from which some people never recover, but what beautiful madness it is, to be in love — to love and be loved back, and to know it. 

“do you love me?” you’d asked, one of those many frigid nights the pair of you had spent in that castle hidden in the mountains, dancing and singing, and sharing stories. 

akaashi had smiled, pressed his forehead to yours and said, “no, but i think i’m learning to.” 

and you’d laughed and said, “me too.” 

because if he’d said yes, you’d have known he was lying, and you prefer it this way anyways. 

honesty, always. between the pair of you. 

“why me?” you’d asked another night. 

and he’d said, without a single thread of doubt in his voice, “because you.” 

and that, you’d decided was all there is to that. 

now however, standing at the precipice of what you knew would be the rest of your life, looking down over the kingdom that has always been yours, you feel a coldness spreading through you. 

you shiver, and akaashi reaches out to wrap his arms around your shoulders. 

“cold?” he asks. 

you grin, “a bit.” 

he reaches out to tighten the cloak around your shoulders — his cloak. 

“there, better?” 

you laugh, nodding. 

“sure is.” 

you take a deep breath; he takes your hand. 

“do you love me?” you ask. 

akaashi nods, “yes.” 

he squeezes your hand, and you feel the warmth in your stomach blossom into something so very much like spring. 

“let’s go home,” you say. 

akaashi smiles, and it’s a beautiful thing. 

“yeah, let’s go… home.”

--- 

taglist:@dorkyama @curiouslilbeast @tamcitrus @sushimii @lovebotrecs @wackatoshi @yusemis @beatific-drabbles  @lceiji @vventure @parkersvibes @lena-chan009 @tickles614 @therandomfandomcollector @nek-o-man @haikyuu-ink @kingkags @possumwho @kawanisshi @shouyouwrites  @nerdygremlin @deathcab4daddy @yams046 @aoba-j @ominous-meme @chokomoko @musekala @seto-sofia @k-gada @kylalily @roger-taylorr @kxgeyamasmilk @darkcb97 @bap-kingdom @keijichigo @nerdygremlin @cucci-man3

pls click here to be addedmessage me to be removed

[loonylupin5]

Sorcerers of the Arcane

'Let it be known who we are...'

A devastating massacre occurs at the Ministry of Magic on the evening of August 23rd, 1889. The murder of 127 witches and wizards sends the wizarding world into a state of anguish and worry. Who are the group of dark sorcerers that could commit such a crime? Will they be locked up in Azkaban? When will they strike next?

Ex-Auror turned professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Viran Leveret, is called upon to help the Aurors track down the cult of dark wizards and put a stop to them. He faces his past traumas, disturbing challenges and strained relationships, and must not lose himself to the task he has been set.

This is an original story with original characters set in the wizarding world of Harry Potter! Please give this series a chance, as I have worked very hard on it, and I really hope you enjoy it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

PROLOGUE (#1)

Faris Spavin was a man that loved to listen to himself talk. It was his favourite thing to do, in fact, and could simply go on forever about the story of how he narrowly survived an assassination attempt made by a centaur, who took offence to the punch line of his infamous 'a centaur, a ghost and a dwarf walk into a bar' joke; but changed the narrative each time to somehow make it longer than it really was.

Though he seemed like a complete garrulous fool, as his nickname of Faris ‘Spout-Hole’ Spavin would suggest, he was quite proud of his accomplishments in wizard legislation including the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, in 1875, thank you very much!

Sadly, little to his knowledge, a large portion of the wizarding world finally saw him for the long-winded annoyance that he was, when in 1883, the Muggle government made plans to flatten The Leaky Cauldron, with the creation of Charing Cross Road. Faris Spavin made a melancholy seven-hour speech before the Wizengamot explaining why the Leaky Cauldron could never be saved, which, to his word, “Will be the greatest loss of my entire lifetime. Countless hours I spent in that pub, drinking amongst friends, telling great tales, and cracking the best jokes. That reminds me, actually, of a joke I once told the Minister of Denmark may back in ’67, she absolutely adored it…”.

During the course of his tedious speech, however, the wizarding community rallied and performed a mass of memory charms (some say, although it has never been conclusively proven, that the Imperius curse was additionally used on several Muggle town planners), so that the Leaky Cauldron was now accommodated in the revised plans for the new road. After his speech, his secretary presented him with a note describing the developments that had just invalidated his words.

Miraculously, nevertheless, he still reigned as Minister for Magic for another year. In this time, Spavin made some particularly noticeable reforms to the game of Quidditch. One hot night on the 21stof June 1884, the Department of Magical Games and Sports decreed the institutionalisation of the Stooging penalty in Quidditch. This announcement caused widespread discontent among British Quidditch players and fans, who demonstrated profusely at the Ministry of Magic Headquarters: the assembled crowd bombarded a departmental representative with Quaffles, as well as threatened to stooge Minister Spavin himself. Wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were duly dispatched there and the crowd reluctantly dispersed. This was not without precedent: just over a year before, another riot had broken out at the Ministry when the Department of Magical Games and Sports had decided to get rid of "goal baskets" in favour of the modern goalposts.

Most disagreeable changes within the Ministry usually fell to blame on the gormless Minister. No sympathy was spared, however, since the country’s disdain for the man only seemed to fly over his head. Obliviously, he would hubbub endlessly to anyone who dared strike up a conversation with him. So, eventually, and almost naturally, people seemed to avoid him unless it was really necessary.

It was not a secret that people pitied the man’s most unfortunate wife.

Even in regard to his reputation, Faris Spavin was declared the longest standing Minister for Magic in history after his resignation in 1903. It was speculated that he was kept in office so long partly due to the obscure amusement of the wizarding world. Though, as Spavin sat in his office on a humid evening on the 23rd of August 1889, history, as we know it, had not yet run its course.

The Minister drew the fat cigar between his stubby fingers up to his mouth and sucked on it hard. He released the smoke from his lungs as rings in the air. Spavin smiled stupidly as he puffed again, continuing to entertain himself. Mounds of magical sweets littered his desk, with some of their wrappings discarded to the floor of the office. A rack of spirits stood against one wall, and grand, dusty, bookshelves lined another; but it was obvious which one was more frequently used.

Faris spun in his chair to gaze airily out the large window at the head of the room. It overlooked the atrium of the Ministry and the shining gold statues of the Fountain of Magical Brethren at the centre. A number of witches of wizards bustled around below, tending to their professions. He did this quite often, just to soak in the pride of the sheer fact that he was the Minister of Magic. In his eyes, he didn’t have many faults, and only rarely made mistakes when it came to how he ran the government.

It was a very quiet night at the Ministry. As quiet as it could get, anyway. No sign of a catastrophe, a mass breakout, a murder spree, or any damage whatsoever. Spavin sighed in contentment, drawing in another breath from his cigar. He had singlehandedly set the wizarding world on due course for peace and prosperity, he subtly agreed with himself. How could something go wrong at a time like this?

Then, as the clock struck 8:00 pm, the serenity of the wizarding world shattered.

Many miles away from the Ministry of Magic, a group of witches and wizards festered.

A chilling mist lingered in the dark cobblestone street, the moon hidden behind the clouds, with no other signs of life present, only the ordinary houses lining the street; the Muggles would be settled in to sleep at this time. There was no sound, except the noise of their shoes connecting with the stone beneath them. The cloaked figures brandished glistening silver masks, morphed into the shapes of moons or stars with strange, smiling faces delicately sculpted into them.

They silently formed a large circle; there were about thirty of them, or so. The air was tense, nervous, but full of excitement. None of the masked people could stand still as they glanced at one another and exchanged small touches. But then, as a significant-looking figure stepped forward, their restlessness quickly diminished. His golden mask, representing the sun, scanned them all briefly.

Two gloved hands were unveiled from under his black cloak, as the figure addressed them gracefully.

‘Welcome, friends. This day has been long awaited.’

The leader’s voice was deep, modulated, and mellifluous. His tone seemed happy, and the other figures fidgeted with heightening excitement. He stepped further into the middle of the circle, placing his arms under his hood. Everything fell quiet once more.

‘For too long have we lived in the shadows… cowering away in fear of what consequences we may face, if we are to be revealed,’ He began to say, slowly turning around to gaze upon each of the characters standing around him.

‘Our power should not be hidden!’ He pronounced, and his voice echoed down the street. ‘We hold a great gift. The darkest, most formidable, magic lays in the very tips of our wands, going to waste. But not anymore. That all changes, today.’

The cloaked figures nodded their heads rapidly, hanging on to every word, every syllable, uttered by the man. His quiet laugh protruded from under the mask, while watching the way his companions drew closer, their eagerness bouncing off one another.

The man held his hand up again, granting silence.

‘Now, you all know what to do. Let it be known who we are.’

Devilish laughter exploded into the air. The figures drew their wands, exchanged ready glances, then disappeared into the floor like shadows.

Witches and wizards dressed in neat, colourful robes were filing into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, preparing for a seemingly normal evening of work. Some chatted happily, while others had their noses buried in files and other important papers. Sorcerers of all different types appeared from the many green fireplaces lined on the high walls, making their way to their respected departments of work. Unbeknownst to everyone in the grand space; they were about to be greeted by many unexpected guests.

Screams and explosions erupted through the Atrium as the masked figures materialized from the ground. Their metallic masks shined brightly, and their wands were pointed at any person who dared move. They swept through the crowd with inhumane speed, knocking anyone who got in their way to the floor, cackling as they went. Flashes of red light flew through the air, causing the screams to grow louder. Duels broke out in the crowd as security arrived, but they were quickly ended by the masked figures with a single incantation.

The leader climbed onto the fountain underneath the towering golden statue of a wizard, watching the chaos that was occurring beneath him. Wizards and witches were being thrown through the air, suffocated by dark shadows summoned by the mysterious sorcerers, and stunned by the endless flashes of spells. Many tried to run and hide; but there was nowhere for them to go.

The sun-faced figure held his wand to his throat, and roared, “Sonorus!”

Silence filled the space instantly. All eyes landed on the man and time seemed to stand still. As he was about to speak, his eyes creeped up the furthest wall to the large window where Faris Spavin’s frightened silhouette could be observed.

‘Minister Spavin. What a pleasure it is to witness you, trembling away in your office which you so love to do,’ The leader drawled, his voice echoing loudly off the walls. The other masked magi screeched with laughter as if it was the funniest thing in the world, but he continued; ‘Your wife is doing well, I hope?’

The Minister did not move an inch. Obviously, he could hear every word the stranger was saying.

‘You thought, that by banishing dark magic, like your predecessors before you… it would simply disappear forever? You’re a fool, dear Minister.’

Limp bodies beside pools of blood littered the floor of the Atrium. Terrified faces of the wounded stared up at him. They did not bother to destroy their surroundings, but instead the people within, because that always portrayed a much more substantial message. The leader soaked in the glorious sight.

‘It is easier to walk with a friend in the dark than it is to walk with them in the light. I think you’ll all do well to remember this when our time comes…’ He uttered coolly, spreading his arms like a great dark eagle with a golden head. ‘Some can only dream of the powers we possess. Powers that had been kept hidden inside ancient texts that have been sealed away from the entire world. Fortunately, we learnt the secrets those texts depict, and now hold magic of the most prevailing. Magic so great, that is in incomparable to the nonsense you teach at your quaint schools of witchcraft and wizardry.

‘I advise you to succumb to us now, or sorely feel the consequence of what we will do to you, your family, your homes, and everything you love. It would not be hard to destroy you, I can promise that. This is a dark, cruel and twisted world we live in. Wouldn’t you agree, Minister? If my knowledge is correct, you are ignorant and unkind to those who belong to troubled backgrounds. And you do not accept those who are not pure of blood. You call us filthy and unworthy of magic. But look at what we have accomplished…’ His smile was almost audible. The man lowered his arms and gazed up at the golden statue behind him. He absorbed in its magnificence for many moments, before finally turning back to the crowd.

‘We are the Sorcerers of the Arcane. I’m certain you’ll be more aware of our presence from now on.’

With a swish of his wand, pure black vapour filled the air like a detonation. The attack had finished as suddenly as it had started. The darkness settled, minutes later, and there was no trace of the masked figures except the population of dead bodies strewn across the floor.

Mere hours later, in the Morning Prophet, it was revealed that one hundred and twenty-seven witches and wizards died at the hands of a group of mysterious and highly dangerous individuals that called themselves the Sorcerers of the Arcane.

Faris Spavin recounted the attack to journalists, Aurors, and anyone who could listen while his whole body trembled, and his face shone a ghostly white colour. He was later admitted to St. Mungo’s Hospital for the shock of what he had just witnessed and left the dilemma to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to control, and demanded, shaking his fists and screaming, that they left him far out of it. After his short stay in the hospital, the Minister promptly packed bags for himself and his wife and fled the country. This was most unfortunate for the witches and wizards at the Auror Headquarters, as they were stumped on a plan of how to handle the situation best.

Naturally, panic had engulfed the entirety of the wizarding world in the United Kingdom by the next day, August the 24th. The tale of what happened the night before at the Ministry and their Minister’s flee was the only topic for discussion across the country. Never before had they suffered a blow this deadly.

Approximately one hundred and two miles away from the scene of the disaster, in a charming cottage on Kemps Lane, Painswick, Gloucestershire, a spindly wizard by the name of Viran Leveret gasped loudly as he gaped at the front title of the Morning Prophet: ‘127 KILLED IN BRUTAL ATTACK AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC’.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Dead or Alive: Donny Donowitz x Latina!Reader

You don't have to be Latina to read (we do be needin the rep though XD)

TRIGGER WARNING: Xenophobia/Racism, Mentions of segregation

Requested by @sansasdove

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)

______________ Donny and Utivich were sent out to an isolated town, while the rest of the basterds finished up a mission a miles and miles south of there. They'd meet back up a few nights later, in their hideout in the woods. Meanwhile, Donny and Utivich were tasked with finding a new troop assigned to the basterds by the OSS. The only problem was they didn't know your name, rank, or what you looked like. All they knew was that you were a marine in the Pacific at some point. "You think that's her?" Donny narrowed his eyes, looking in the direction where Utivich had (tried to) discreetly gesture toward. "Are you pointing at the lady with the baby?" "Wh-" Utivich then realized the likelihood of that lady being their contact, and turned red as he stammered, "N-no... They wandered around the town, trying their best not to get any unwanted attention. After a while, Donny started grumbling, "Well no one fucken told us who the hell we're looking for!" "What about her?" 

Donny glanced up, and it took him a moment after he smirked to nod, "Yeah she's cute." "No...I meant...do you think that's her?" "Oh! Well..." His hand rested on the back of his neck, as he cleared his throat, "Sure, sure...uh..." He noted the way you stood by an old tavern, newspaper in hand, appearing innocent to the untrained eye.   "The kid stands like a goddamn marine." "Donny, wait!" Donny walked past you slowly, almost unnoticeably glancing toward you. Your eyes scanned over the newspaper, beneath the brim of your hat. You acknowledged the newcomers with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, and remarked beneath your breath, "I've been compromised. Don't follow." Donny stalled for a moment. "Leave. Now. I'll catch up." You spoke through gritted teeth, hidden behind the newspaper. Donny went ahead without a word, understanding the implications of associating with a compromised spy. He pulled Utivich along without explaining anything. They turned a corner, and Donny glanced back one last time, seeing if he could spot anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a nazi staring at you, and approaching, barking something in broken French and intermittent German. Your stone-cold narrowed eyes, and defiant, fearless face remained unbothered as you slowly lowered your newspaper, seemingly annoyed by the nazi's interruption. That alone told Donny you knew exactly what you were doing. But, night came, and morning passed. There was no sign of you at all. "Donny..." That was the first thing Utivich said since then. Of course, he was usually a quiet, composed kind of guy. Sarcastic and witty whenever needed, but only when he had something to say. He didn't now. He just hated the unsettling silence. Even more so, since Donny hadn't said anything either, which was even  more unsettling. Donny looked up, but what could really be said? If something had happened to you, then...another good, young life was meaninglessly lost in an seemingly endless war. And if something hadn't happened to you, then it was certainly coming, and Donny wasn't prepared to let that happen. Why? Well... in that infinitesimal instant that he glanced at you, he looked into your eyes, and he saw so much life. Something unexplicably cheerful, even in the face of the worst the world had to offer. A smug, determined intent to fight, to love, to go on. Something Donny only saw in the eyes of the innocent, and the brave. Somehow, you seemed to be both, all at once. He turned back, marching  toward the distant village. "Where are you going?" "I'm not goin' back to camp without that troop." "But-" "We're finding her Smitty. Dead or alive." As they'd soon find out, those were the terms and conditions given to the nazis that were hunting you. Donny was so hung up in finding you, he and Smitty were caught. They were tied up, and thrown beside you, in a line on a ledge overlooking a swift, lashing river, facing a nazi patrol in the forest. "I told you not to follow." You sounded more disappointed than angry, which struck Donny, though he didn't dare look at you. Smitty turned, "We didn't." You turned to look at his sergeant, "I could've handled this." "But you didn't," he quipped. "You got a problem with me, sergeant?" You challenged him, with a slight smirk he couldn't really resist. One of the nazis that had captured you had just about enough. The orders on finding the basterds were to keep them alive, and bring them in for interrogations and of course, torture. Orders for finding a common nuisance  believed to be an informant were as follows: dead or alive. So, the nazis had some leeway when it came to your fate...so they thought at first. Though, they did need at least some kind of answers. The nazi  noticed a silver chain around your neck. He reached, and frowned when he realized what he'd pulled out of your shirt was a dog tag.  Seething, he remarked, "Y/n L/n." He narrowed his eyes at your name, then spat at you. In his foul ignorance, he confused you with a Spaniard, he accused you of being a traitor to the axis. He strung together what little Spanish he could from dealings between Germany and Spain, "Traidora. Eres una española," (which was completely wrong) he swung and struck you in the jaw. Donny pulled against the ropes used to tie him and Utivich up, "HEY!" You looked up at the nazi, as two more dragged you back to your feet. Blood dripped down your nose, and out the corner of your mouth. You spat right back at him, staining his face and uniform with your blood. "I am not a Spaniard." You held your head up high, proud of who you were, who your parents were, and their parents. You muttered under your breath, glaring right at him with eyes that would scare just about any nazi, "Hijo de puta."

You stood strong, resilient, looking him in the empty, hateful voids he called eyes. The nazi glared right back, though a shadow of panic and fear loomed behind his shallow blue eyes, as he stammered to find words, and hid his fear in German curses and mumbles. The nazi was ready to attack you again, but Utivich and Donny started to put up a fight. When some of the nazis threatened to kill them, the nazi's colonel finally emerged from his tent, ordering his men to stand down. "Wir sollen die Basterds lebendig machen." 'We're to bring the basterds in alive.' The nazi that had attempted to torment you turned harshly to his colonel, demanding to know "Und das Mädchen?" 'And the girl?' His colonel tossed a gun at him, nonchalantly commenting with a disinterested shrug and sigh,  "Werde sie los." 'Get rid of her.' Donny turned between you and Utivich, "What's happening?! What the fuck's happening?!" You understood what was happening, but telling Donny would only put him in more danger. Besides, you could see the sheer emotion in his eyes. He wasn't scared for himself, he was scared for you, and you knew it. You stood silent, and glared ahead at the mob of nazis, right at your dim fate. Donny could tell from just that look. A resigned, brave soldier? It was something he was all too uncomfortably familiar with. He and Utivich lurched forward, in spite of the ropes,  toward the nazis, "COWARDS! YOU FUCKING COWARDS-"

While everyone was distracted trying to control Donny, they all stopped and turned, hearing the rushing river splash unusually loudly. You were gone.   The nazis rushed to the edge of the ledge, and peered toward the river below. The colonel looked at the other nazis, shouting, "STEHEN SIE NICHT NUR DORT. OFFENES FEUER." 'DON'T JUST STAND THERE. OPEN FIRE.' Each of them rushed over to the end of the ledge, and started to fire into the murky rapids. After a seemingly endless torrent of bullets...there was nothing. No body floating, no cloud of red in the water. The colonel turned, snatched the dog tag from the soil, and read the name. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach,  as his eyes went wide with rage, "IHR IDIOTEN." 'YOU IDIOTS.' Utivich turned to Donny with a bloodied smirk, "Well I understood that." The colonel's commanding officer wanted you brought in for questioning. In fact, so did everyone in the German army who was someone. You were a ghost story in the Matanikau River, when you were still stationed in the Pacific. When you emerged in the European theater...well...all of Berlin was sacked, and all of Paris was turned upside in an effort to find you.

"Find. Her." The nazis wasted no time, they all knew that he'd show them no mercy. The nazi that had been responsible for the confusion...well, he begged, shaking in his boots. One shot to the forehead was all it took to quiet him down. His colonel kicked his body to the side. He stayed behind, sitting by a fire, as the sun set, watching Donny and Utivich intently. Eventually, he began to noticeably shift around, constantly checking his watch. He wasn't used to being kept waiting... None of his men came back. All the while, Donny taunted him, meaning time went by a thousand percent more slowly. He reminded the nazi who the fuck the basterds were, telling him it wouldn't be long before Aldo the Apache was coming down the hills. Donny swore it wouldn't be long before Hugo Stiglitz got his hands on the nazis. It wouldn't be long before... He detailed how he and the basterds had quite literally ripped local nazis to shreds. He even gave names. Names that colonel definitely knew. He screamed for Donny to shut up, barely able to control his murderous impulses, even knowing high command wanted Donny and Utivich, or any basterd for that matter, be taken in alive as a trophy, and for information. He really couldn't do much more than beat Donny up, and Utivich for good measure. But at the end of the day, the only one that was terrified was the nazi, and each second seemed to be slower than the last, while Donny and Utivich looked at him smugly. Eventually, around midnight, after hours and hours, and after Utivich was sure there was no way out, he hung his head down again. Just then he heard an agonizing, almost sobbing, gargling sound coming from the now calmer river. The remaining nazi stood up, his gun trained on the basterds, as he marched cautiously toward the river bank, every few steps, looking back at Donny and Utivich making sure they hadn't moved. "Give it up, kraut. Your boys're no match for ours." Donny taunted him again. The unmistakable sound of a muffled scream, and a knife made both Donny and Utivich turn toward the river. It wasn't exactly who they were expecting. You were standing there, dripping from the river, your clothes soaked in cold water and stained blood. "You're alive?!" Donny's voice was happier and more relieved than he intended to let on, as you cut them free, "Yes, sir." "How'd...how'd you do that?!" Utivich looked at you with star-struck eyes. "I'm a marine," you winked with a smile. "Marine, huh." Donny twisted his hands around his aching wrists, trying to relieve the soreness from being tied up so long. "Lance Corporal Y/n L/n, at your service, sir." You saluted him. "Nice to meet'cha kid," He smiled, genuinely, though his soft glance had to be cut short by the realization that you were all still in the middle of a war, and possibly a man-hunt. "And nice of you to salute and all, but we better get movin'." You nodded, and tossed something at him, catching the light of the moon in a fleeting silver glint. "What's this?"

"Their colonel's dogtag." You eyed the ones that Donny kept around his neck as trophies, "I see you got a collection going there." Donny smiled, as his heart skipped a beat. You'd fit right in with the basterds...

Your first mission with the basterds was not quite what anyone would expect, but then again, neither were you. For an impromptu rescue, it wasn't too bad. ************* All three of you sat kilometers away, a few hours later, still under the guise of the dark night, by a small fire, attempting to remain hidden, though all of you were freezing cold, especially you. Donny gave you his coat, and Utivich gave you his hat, trying to keep you from catching anything. "Heard ya made a mess of Berlin and Paris." You glanced up at him cheekily, "They sent me to you for a reason, sir."

"Call me Donny," he smiled warmly, between the steely moonlight, and the golden embers of the fire. Utivich asked, "So...you heard of us, but how come we ain't heard of you..." "Some of us are good at making things look like an accident," you teased him a little, and Utivich laughed.   Donny turned a little red, and nodded subtly, damning himself for seeing the stars adorning your hair, and the night sky in your eyes. His heart was pounding, and he didn't even try to deny why. Who would, when they saw you the way he did? You were all silent for a few moments, then Donny asked you what he asked any of the other basterds when they first met. "So, uh...why'd ya enlist?" You were quiet for another moment, then looked back at Donny. Your eyes seemed tired. Not from the long day, or even from the impressive tactics... Tired from memories, doomed to be repeated, as you sighed, "You ever see those signs?" "What signs?" He raised his eyebrow, then glanced at Utivich, who seemed equally as puzzled. "The ones in nice stores and parks and schools. Places like that. The signs that go 'no dogs, no black people, no mexicans allowed.' Doesn't even matter if you're Guatemalan, Dominican, Bolivian or Argentine, anything...They don't give a fuck. Those signs." Utivich looked at you, his heart was heavy as he nodded quietly. He was from a particularly open, urban place in the west...and even then he'd seen things like that. Things he didn't want to see when he went back home... He knew what it was like to have people hate you for what you were... Your name, your language, your family. Most of the basterds knew. Aldo and Hugo may not have known first-hand, but they'd be damned if they let anyone get away with that sort of bullshit while they were around. Donny's heart sank a little, as he murmured, "Fuck a duck..." He looked up at you, nodding slowly, "Yeah I've seen those." "Yeah, well I didn't see those in any bases. The one chance I got at being treated like a human,  and it's gotta be when I don't know if there's a tomorrow. Get it?" His heart broke, in a way he didn't see coming. He shook his head, and you sighed as you shifted a little closer to the dying fire, "Anyway, this fucking war's been on for what, three years, now? I wanna end this before my kid brother has to. Guess that's another reason right there." Donny understood that too. He had nothing more to say other than what was on his mind. "You're a good kid, Y/n..." "Thanks," You glanced up at him. And for a moment...a moment he would've missed if he'd blinked...you didn't have that trademark bold, striking look in your eyes. For a moment, you glanced away, shyly, with a small, quiet, innocent smile. Utivich noticed. He looked at Donny with a smirk, but said nothing. He knew to leave well enough alone.... "Ya know, I got a kid brother too. His name's Mikey."

You smiled softly, and pulled out a locket, tightly wrapped around your finger. You didn't open it, but you let it dangle a little, "Carlos." Donny chuckled, "Smitty there is the kid brother. At home, and at camp." "So that's how it's gonna be, Donny?" Utivich tilted his head with a laugh. You chuckled, "And how's that working out for you, Utivich?" He shrugged a little, though he was clearly amused, "Great. So far...I've only gotten one purple heart, which may be the lowest out of all the basterds....But my mom's still going to kill me when I get home." "Why?" "I enlisted, see? Didn't get drafted." He smiled at you. He was, as you'd soon learn, a real sweet, honest guy. Sometimes you wondered how a guy like that even made it into a team like the basterds... But then you'd see him in the battlefield, or getting a few scalps, and you'd remember why.  "My sisters tried to talk me out of it. My older brother couldn't enlist because he's got asthma. He just married too, so it would be real upsetting... Anyway... What can I say...Of course they didn't want me to go, I'm my mom's  youngest kid." "A baby," Donny remarked, which Utivich ignored. "They wanted me to go to college, but honestly? I don't regret a damn thing, Y/n." You smiled, understanding that need to be free to choose. Soon after, you all decided to was best to put the fire out, for fear of the smoke giving away your place. You were sure they were asleep. You shivered, still damp from the river. You were wide awake, your arms wrapped around yourself, watching as your breath turned into a cloud before your eyes. You sneezed softly. "Hey..." You heard a voice, warm, and quiet. Donny wrapped his arms around you, and you instantly sank into his chest. He smiled a little, speaking quietly so Utivich wouldn't wake up. "Can't have ya getting sick on us now, can we, kid?" You didn't protest much, as you couldn't remember the last time you were so tired. So Donny smiled sleepily, and held you tightly as he fell asleep. (He may like being big spoon but who knows ;) ) He couldn't tell you how panicked, and lost he felt when you disappeared on them for those long hours....But he'd tell you that some other day. Some day, when you were far away fom there. When you were safe...

******* You all arrived at the hideout finally, extraordinarily late, even for Donny. After you were introduced to the legendary basterds, Aldo took you aside for a little talk. He asked you what happened out there. You were days late, after all. Being a spy, you naturally spun a tale so convincing, it damn near worked,  as a way to cover for the boys' little mishap, and to save face for them. Frankly, Aldo just nodded, saying it was fair enough, and let you on your way. He then joined Donny and Smitty, who were both looking for something to kill their headaches with (of course after being punched that many times in the face, it was understandable). "I know Y/N's coverin' for you both." Utivich, slightly startled, turned around with a jump and panicked. "What? We didn't tell her to do that, we-"

Aldo didn't care for explanations, "Now, I don't give no goddamns, but if I didn't know any better, I'd think she was tellin' the truth." He chuckled a little, "But, I know you two are some damn trouble makers." Utivich nodded, and sighed, "Ok, you got us." Donny turned slowly to Utivich, and narrowed his eyes, "Snitch." Aldo shrugged, "And anyway...even if her story did check out, it don't explain to me why and how you got yourself a black eye, Donowitz. And why my boy Utivich here's got his lip busted open, does it." "Aldo..." Aldo sighed, "That kid's let the boys in her old teams take all the credit in public. But here, well, she gon' make one hell of a basterd, ain't that right Donny." He winked, and smirked. Donny sighed, "That obvious, huh?" There was no use in denying it anyway. It would only be a matter of time before the basterds started to notice the way Donny looked at you. Aldo shrugged, as he tossed  a bottle of pain killers at Utivich, "Just a lucky guess, son." He started to make his way out, but turned around for another minute, "Oh, and Donny?" "Yeah?" "Go on, you fucken basterd." Aldo shook his head, grinning. Donny smiled, as he walked out, and made his way over to you. Somehow, you made him feel a way he never felt before for anyone. When you were around, Donny was calm. He'd never admit it...but after what happened the day you met...he felt safe when you were near. Maybe your reputation preceded you... Maybe that was all...

But then again, when Donny talked to you, he wasn't as loud as he normally was. When he looked at you, and walked toward you, he didn't try to make himself look and act the like biggest, baddest basterd around. He didn't need to. When you were around, he knew he didn't have to worry. He knew he'd somehow make it home. When you were around, the question was no longer dead or alive... When you were around, and he saw that smile, and those eyes, he knew he'd be alright. Who the hell wouldn't, when they had you?

[eury--dice]

history, huh?

chapter 3: propius

(check the rb for chapters 1 + 2 on tumblr + ao3 links!)

Adam was woken at 5 o’clock on the dot with a series of sharp knocks on his door. “Up and Adam,” Gansey’s voice called, making the one stupid dad joke that always set Adam’s blood to a boil. He was too tired to react, however.

“Kindly leave until a later time,” he called, his voice heavy with sleep. “I don’t have class for another three hours.”

Gansey opened the door anyway, striding in with more pep than anyone should have in the morning.

“You’ve made the tabloids, my friend. Your weekend with Ronan finally hit.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Nope,” Gansey said cheerfully. “‘From America, With Love: Ronan and Adam flaunt friendship.’” He turned on his heel once he’d crossed the length of the room, which Adam could never forget was formerly Malia Obama’s, and seated himself in Adam’s desk chair.

Adam had never been closer to considering strangulation. He elected to shove his hearing ear into his pillow instead.

Unfortunately, the muffled sounds of Gansey speaking still made their way in. “‘Photos: Adam’s Weekend in England,’ oh, that’s boring…ah-hah: ‘New Bromance Alert? Pics of FSOTUS and Prince Ronan.’”

Adam resigned himself to his fate and mentally promised himself a giant cup of coffee. “As long as I’m getting fewer death threats on Twitter, I’m happy,” he mumbled into his blankets.

Gansey ignored him. “Why are you so tired? It’s the hour of kings, time to be awake and alive.”

“I’d settle for dead if it meant I could sleep at this point, to be frank.”

“Please don’t be frank. Be Adam.”

Adam sat up, eyeing Gansey in his wire-framed glasses with disdain. “Any more puns and I suffocate myself with this pillow.”

“Please don’t,” Gansey said, but his eyes had already returned to his screen. While he read through the articles, he continued his line of questioning. “Working on the campaign late last night?”

“Not really,” Adam admitted. “I had a Press and the Presidency paper to write.”

“Just write ‘I’m Adam Parrish’ on a piece of loose-leaf paper to turn it in and you’ll probably get an A. You live it every day, for Christ’s sake.”

“And yet I still need to cite sources in Chicago Advanced.”

“You’d think nepotism would work out more in your favor.” He flicked to a fresh article, a gesture Adam only recognized from all the other times Gansey had done it. “Luckily, I think the press is eating this one up.”

Adam grimaced. “Fantastic.”

“Not-campaign-ruining, you mean.”

“That too, I suppose.” He wanted nothing more than to flop back against his pillows and get the sleep his body so desperately craved after being jet lagged for a week, but he fought the urge.

“That _ People _exclusive takes the cake, I think. I didn’t realize how much you cherished your relationship with Ronan.”

“Fuck off, please. Or end my misery.”

“No to both. Why are you even taking that press course?”

Adam slid out from under his blankets, rolling his shoulders to try and wake up more. “Curiosity, I guess. It never hurts to learn more of what not to do.”

Gansey looked up from his phone to level a glance at Adam. “And what have you learned so far?”

“…Don’t have a sex scandal?”

“You _ would _need someone to tell you that.”

_ “Hey,” _Adam said, affecting outrage.

Gansey lifted his thumb to run over his lower lip, tilting his head consideringly. “One of us three will probably have a scandal before your mother’s second term is up.”

“If there is a second.”

“Chin up, young padawan. With you working on it we’re guaranteed.”

“I don’t know, Gansey,” Adam replied. “I don’t think I’m the good luck charm you believe in.”

“Of course you are,” Gansey said. “We won the first time, no?”

Adam glanced exaggeratedly around the room and to the phone in Gansey’s hand. “I’d say so. That or we’re about to get questioned very thoroughly about the the events of last three years.”

“Don’t make me cut you off on the true-crime videos.”

His eyes narrowed, focusing on Gansey. “Don’t you dare.”

“Blue agrees, anyway,” Gansey said, successfully deflecting topics. “Said there’s a ninety-four percent chance you’ll get into a sex scandal before the general.”

“Both of you date more than I do, why am I the one who’s supposedly having a sex scandal?” Once his initial outrage passed, disbelief crept in at the time of day. “Did you just text Blue at five AM and get a response? How the hell did you manage that?”

“She’s been up,” Gansey dismissed. Adam stared at him for a moment, and then Gansey seemed to feel the weight of his stare. His eyes widened almost comically. “Oh, Christ, no, not that. Nate Silver asked for another set of eyes on the Superbowl predictions, and she’s trying to get a shoo-in with them before the primaries begin. I just brought her some coffee.”

“And you didn’t bring me any?”

“You’re the only one of us who hasn’t been up all night. You need coffee the least of all of us.”

“Don’t blame me for your bad decisions.” Adam squinted at Gansey. “Were you working on an article all night or something?”

He snorted. “Hardly. They’ve been blocking all of my pieces. Too far from my mother’s politics, too far from your mother’s, too controversial, too critical, all in that order.”

“Thought you were liking the _ Post _gig?”

“On paper,” Gansey dismissed. “I’ve defaulted to writing about Welsh history.”

“Sounds like it’s right up your alley, then.”

“Once again, on paper.”

“How do you even connect the Welsh to the hellscape of American politics?”

Gansey waved a hand. “‘Eternal spirit,’ ‘fighting for honor,’ ‘remembering Glendower and others who set a pristine model,’ et cetera, et cetera.”

“People read that? That just sounds like you in high school spouting off again.”

“Yes, Adam. People read it.” Gansey squinted at his phone again. “Twitter _ really _likes you and Ronan together.”

“We’re exciting,” Adam said dryly, reaching for his laptop. He scanned over his most recent paper while Gansey dramatically narrated replies to the gif of them on _ This Morning. _

“‘Either of them could stab me and give me one of those smiles and I’d thank them,’ Jesus Christ,” Gansey read, “They really love your fake smiles… ‘name a more iconic duo, I’ll wait,’ hm, maybe any other duo? ‘Oh my God, just _ kiss already.’” _

Adam choked out a laugh as Gansey punctuated the last one with a dramatic and uncharacteristic hand wave. “At least it’s working,” he allowed, shutting his laptop once he felt secure about his essay. “Now get out. _ Some _of us have places to be.”

Adam’s phone buzzed on his way out of his cursed Presidency and the Press course.

Somehow, the interest of those around him seemed to pique even higher when he looked at his phone instead of in front of him. It wasn’t a new sensation by any means; ever since starting at Georgetown, he’d felt eyes on him constantly, but the intensity increased tenfold each time his classmates thought he was too occupied to see them staring. He noticed every time, but of course nothing could be done about it.

The name _ HRH shitty bird boy _ popped across his screen. How strange - in only a week, he’d almost entirely forgotten that the name he had (quite maturely) given Ronan in his phone was… _ that. _As he swiped the notification open, he felt a certain amount of trepidation as to what a technology-averse prince would ever text him about.

His harassment and emergency fears flew out the window with the body of the text, simply a screenshot of their tabloid appearance with the added caption of _ youre the nerd and I’m the cool jock. _

_ Competitive yachting? _Adam asked in response, nearly tripping over his own feet while typing.

_ ffs i told them to stop writing that as my preferred sport. _

Adam felt his lips twist against his will.

_ I’m sorry, this is a common problem? _

_ you can’t even imagine. _

_ I appreciate that they consider competitive yachting a regal sport. _

_ status symbols and faux athleticism are the core of the monarchy. _

Adam blinked down at his phone, stopping short abruptly. Persephone, from behind him, adjusted accordingly.

He…hadn’t been expecting this. Any of it. The text, the almost-joking response, the casual statement about the monarchy being ridiculous despite him being in it. Their conversation ended there, and it was probably for the better. He resumed his pace, trying to get to his next class. He almost forgot about the texts, too; save for a rogue screenshot Adam sent him of speculation on Ronan’s presence in Majorca, nothing else went between them.

Sometimes, Adam could _ just barely _ get away with being on his phone during briefings with Maura. He hated to be distracted during them - they were _ important, _he knew that, but all the same occasionally she spent a particularly long time covering an obscure dignitary’s comments and he’d gotten too few hours of sleep to truly focus and someone or other was blowing up his phone.

Maura’s topic of conversation this week appeared to be a series of Buzzfeed articles run on the lack of pets in the First Family, complete with a power point dissecting their points

The glamorous side of politics, truly. Discussing a clickbait series in the West Wing briefing room.

_ iMessage chat to _ ** HRH shitty bird boy **

_ Resumed 30 October, 2019, 1:47 pm _

_ if you want a pet chainsaw dragged in a mouse the other day _

_ Ah yes, the mouse. A pet eternally beloved by constituents. _

_ we can’t all have a raven, that would be unfair _

_ Your heights of cool and goth are truly dizzying. _

_ im glad you agree _

_ Modest, too. _

_ it comes with the wealth and fame _

_ As long as you’re being straight with me, feel free to be as ‘modest’ as you like. _

_ i’m the prince of bloody england. i’m straight all the damn time _

_ That’s the biggest lhxemxlp_

His phone slipped from between his fingers, landing with a dull _ thud _onto the wooden floor. Adam stared helplessly at it, a sleek black rectangle hiding between types of oak. But Maura repeated his name, and he suddenly remembered what had made him drop his phone in the first place. He dragged his eyes up, staring at a spot on the sterile white wall just beyond Maura’s head.

“Adam,” she said a third time, but he refused to look her in the eyes. She conceded immediately. “What the hell?”

He felt his cheeks darken as blood found its way up. “I’m sorry.”

Her lips thinned just like Blue’s did, turning into a dark line on her brown face. “Do you even remember what I was saying?”

“Er…” he scrambled. “Don’t mention animals in any public setting?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then picked up a mug of coffee and took a controlled sip.

“Get out?” she said once she’d swallowed her sip.

“I-”

She pointed to the door. “I am impossibly busy. Take your phone and go laugh in private.”

He nodded once, finally, ducking under the table with his spine pressed against the bottom to grab his phone. His fingers closed around it, grip the edge of the wood, and he was up in a second.

He couldn’t regret it.

Because - well, here was the weird thing.

He wanted another text from Ronan.

_ iMessage chat to _ ** HRH shitty bird boy **

_ Resumed 31 October, 2019, 12:03 am _

_ it’s finally spooky day in your hell country _

_ Isn’t it 5 am in England? _

_ Do you ever sleep? _

_ bold of you to ask that question _

_ halloween, bitch _

_ it waits for no one _

_ I’m really going to have to advocate better habits. _

_ I understand, you’re enthused for Halloween. _

_ do you even care at all _

_ I enjoy halloween like everyone else. _

_ Though your level of excitement feels a little pagan? _

when the skeleton army rises Jesus will forgive me

_ appreciate this glorious day parrish _

_ I have enough fear in my daily life, thanks. _

_ I filed my own taxes all throughout highschool. _

_ And payed rent. _

_ The horrors of early adulthood. _

_terrifying _

_ terrible i’ll never deal with that shit _

_ You’re the prince, we know. _

_ Do you also not have enough horror in your life? _

of course i do

_ but parrish. listen. _

_ this is the one day a year all the monarchy and parliament dress as they are in life _

_ hideous monsters _

He laughed a little harder at that than he should have.

_ You’re telling me the monarchy plays dress up. _

_ ronan_frankensteins_monser_costume.jpg _

_ matthew insisted. did this on me an hour ago _

_ oh my god _

The makeup _ was _really good, and the monstrous look suited him, but hell if Adam ever said that to him.

He may have saved it to his phone, though, to glimpse Ronan’s green-paint covered skin and crooked, drawn-on stitch smile on his perfectly blank face.

Although Adam certainly didn’t intend to make a habit of texting the Prince of England, when he saw a funny bird or a stupid article or an obscure meme his first thought became _I should send that to Ronan. _And Ronan, clearly, was thinking along the same lines. The sheer number of sole emojis that seemed to tell a Ronan-centric story he received at all hours only affirmed that. And somehow, between all the pictogramme and jokes, he started to learn snatches of information. Declan was a better storyteller than Ronan, Matthew was the only person who could make Ronan attend family dinners ever since their father died, and his mother - the Queen of England, Adam had to remind himself sometimes - drew further away every day.

The problem became that he always wanted to know _ more, _and Adam didn’t know if that was due to his rampant curiosity or something else buried deep inside of him, and he was too afraid of what he might uncover by digging to look.

Adam had very few friends.

Most of that came with the territory of being part of the First Family; nothing made casual acquaintances drift away quite like being constantly surveilled by Secret Service agents and trailed by NDAs. Adam didn’t have time for small talk and coffee, a fact which he sometimes lamented and often loved. Part of this came from the type of friendship he became accustomed to with Gansey and Blue, the all-encompassing type of friendship that took over their minds in spare moments and forged ties stronger than steel between them. He’d probably forgotten how to have normal, casual friends, not friends an outsider would think he was completely in love with. And, perhaps more than anything else, it came back down to Robert Parrish and his heavy hands and ringing words. Adam’s memories of his first few years were scattered and inconsistent, but they filled up a too-large corner of his brain all the same. Blue, who entered his life at the tender age of 5, had won his trust with greater ease than their other peers, and Gansey had done the same in high school. They knew him and what he’d been through, and so they could (platonically) love him for all that he was. When campaigning and political office came into the mix, that full truth of Adam Parrish became a secret to guard like any else.

But, oddly enough, Adam had a third friend: Noah Czerny, the thirty-three-year-old baby of the Senate.

Noah and Adam met through an Aglionby networking event while Adam was a student and Noah a recently-elected congressperson, both green as grass in different ways. Adam, thrown neck-deep into a Presidential campaign, had questions, and most of the time Noah had answers. Although all of the professors had warned Adam to proceed cautiously with Czerny, Adam found nothing to fear. Noah had mellowed out quite a bit from his high school days, becoming a familiar face at political events and a surprisingly-wise piece of advice always at the ready. Despite Adam’s near hero-worship of this brand-new politician, half-Mexican just like him and just as frequent to lose sleep rewriting policies that unjustly taxed communities of color or defunded children’s education, they’d formed an improbable bond. The summer before his sophomore year, Noah let Adam closer to the politics process than even his mother had as he ran for the Senate, and Adam took to it almost at once. A politician twelve years his senior was perhaps not a conventional choice of friend, but Adam seldom remained conventional.

It wasn’t too out of the ordinary for Adam to arrive at Noah’s congressional office unannounced, either with business or without, and so when Adam rounded on Noah’s stark, bright, white office, he wasn’t at all surprised to see him ducked over an obscene number of papers.

“It’s Friday night,” Noah said without looking up, barely before Adam had even crossed into the office. As always, the tiny burst of color in the Pride flag deposited in a tourist mug drew Adam’s eye for a long moment before Noah himself did. All Adam could see of him was his brown curls, resolutely held in place even as bent over a desk. “Go party or something.”

“Damn, I didn’t _ think _ this looked like a frat. I knew something was off.” Adam slid into one of the seats across the desk. He had several inches on Noah, but he always felt smaller in those chairs across from the most important legislators in the country. “What’s got you here at eight PM?” Off of Noah’s brief, incredulous look, he amended to _ “this _particular time, I know. You’re salaried. Shouldn’t you…ever go home?”

“I’m trying to get something done so that there’s at least a hope of banning fracking in our lifetimes.”

Adam scoffed quietly, though not for lack of faith in Noah. “Let me know when you’ve cracked the code.”

_ “If, _but sure, I’ll be in contact. Now, why are you here?”

“You didn’t answer my leaving-the-building question.”

Noah’s eyes flickered shut briefly. “Jesus, Adam, I am salaried by the taxpayers of millions of Americans. I’m not going to slack on them.”

“Fine, but don’t make me drag Gansey in here to make you take a long nap and drink some hot soup.”

Adam’s phone buzzed, but he ignored it; despite it being almost 1 am in England, Ronan could presumably take the blame. Noah asked, “Did you catch the Fox town hall last night?”

Adam grimaced. He’d seen part of it, trying to multitask with his macroeconomics homework at the same time, but instead he’d fallen asleep with his head on the laptop screen. “Part of it. It was a shitshow.”

“You can say that again.”

“I honestly thought that Whelk would pull more support from the extremists. He just seemed desperate last night.”

“Oh, he definitely was.” Noah leaned away from his desk, appraising Adam as though considering his words carefully. “We went to school together.”

“Aglionby?” Adam asked. He knit his eyebrows together. “How did I not realize he went there?”

“The school doesn’t exactly love toting him.”

“He’s older than you, though, right?”

“Yes, Adam,” Noah said slowly. “I’m thirty-three. He’s already announced a bid for President. How old do you have to be to run for executive office?”

Adam scowled. “I just came from class, I can’t use my brain. He was a senior when you were a freshman?”

“Yep,” Noah replied. “We were paired in upperclassmen-lowerclassmen bonding.” His lip curled a little. “He outed me.”

“Wait, _ what?” _

“He outed me to the school,” Noah repeated. He looked back down to the papers on his desk, his voice softening to a barely audible level. “I trusted him, which was a dumb thing to do, but I was a really stupid freshman. Scared, too. He was a friendly personality.”

_ “Fuck,” _Adam said, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, that’s…”

“Terrible?” A bit of Noah’s life returned to him. “Don’t worry about it, kid. It was years ago.”

“But then…Whelk, he was the reason you…?”

“He didn’t make my parents react the way they did. They did that on their own. But no, they wouldn’t have known without him.”

Adam shook his head. “I thought it wasn’t possible to like the guy less, if only because of his politics, but he’s done it.”

“Done what? Received the full wrath of Adam Parrish?”

“He very well may.”

“Don’t worry about him. Whelk will be out soon, believe me. I know him. He may have his parent’s money, but he’s barely old enough to hold office and he’s running on fumes.”

“If he’s not, I’ll convince Blue to skew stats until he is.” Noah knew just as well as Adam that that wouldn’t change anything, but it lightened the air anyway. “It seems kind of pointless to entertain any of them. Greenmantle is probably going to win no matter what.”

Colin Greenmantle: former antique collector, congressperson from Massachusetts, and millionaire with the funds to take over the Republican primary, and very possibly the whole election, before any papers were even filed.

“It’s early,” Noah said. “Too early to worry about it. Too early to even be _ talking _ about it.”

Adam slanted a half-smile at him. “Never too early to worry about an election.”

Noah looked back to his papers before broaching the next topic. “I hear you’ve got a job on your mother’s re-election campaign.”

“Once I graduate, and maybe a little earlier, yeah.”

Noah cast a glance around the office. “Are you sure this is the life you want?”

Adam knew he was referring to the constant bustle, the fear of disappointing and harming instead of helping, and the ever-evolving media scrutiny. He knew it was the closest Noah would give to a warning. “I’m sure.”

Noah sighed. “Fine.” He pointed to the door. “But I won’t let you throw your youth away, not this early. After you graduate, Parrish. Go get drunk and make out with someone.”

Adam stood, his frame unfolding and standing tall. “You are a terrible role model.”

“Can’t hear you over the loud music.”

“You and Blue and Gansey - if I die of alcohol poisoning, it’s all your fault.”

“Feel free to blame, so long as you’re out there and not here.”

“Alright, alright, Jesus. You’ve made your point.”

“Finally,” Noah called after Adam’s retreating form. But Adam could hear the amusement in his voice all the same.

For someone so allergic and averse to technology, Ronan sure seemed to share a lot with Adam.

_ iMessage chat to _ ** HRH shitty bird boy **

_ Resumed 13 Novemeber, 2019, 8:38 pm _

_ bird.m4a _

_ she wont stop nuzzling my head?? _

_ Picking for lice, probably. _

_ God knows you have so many. _

_ my scalp is perfectly clean _

_ Forgive me for abstaining from running my hands over it all the same. _

_ I’ll leave that to her. _

He didn’t always respond, though.

Adam tried not to read into it.

(He mostly succeeded.)

Adam never tired of stepping into the Oval Office. On the Wednesday right before Thanksgiving, he stepped in with the same amount of awe he always had, allowing himself a single moment to glance around at the wide windows and perfectly upholstered furniture. He sat on one of the couches without preamble.

His mother looked up from what was in front of her on the desk and smiled, albeit a tired one that frayed a bit at the corners; Adam had seen a few particularly troublesome foreign dignitaries be escorted away not long before, so he didn’t have to guess at the reason. Ana looked like she belonged to sit right there amongst all the history at that desk, from the sun dipping just beneath her halo of hair straightened within an inch of its life and her stick-straight posture. It might have been a lot at times, but seeing her was a reminder of all the good that came from her position.

She rose and walked to join him, her heels clacking lightly at the ground before she sank onto the cushion beside him and pulled him into a loose hug. Adam had overtaken Ana in height some years before, but there had been a long gap in there as he grew - like one day he was three and a half feet tall and wrapped tightly in her arms and the next he was off to Georgetown and several heads taller. She pulled away after a minute, slowly and bit-by-bit as though savoring her moments as a mother rather than a president. Her hand reached to muss his hair a moment later, and Adam ducked away instinctively before exchanging an identical grin with her.

“God, I forgot how light your hair looks in here,” she said, leaning back a little. “Almost golden.” She tilted her head as though examining him. “Nah. Still brown. But much lighter.”

“How could you forget? The photo here was in _ GQ, _the same article that first declared me the family golden boy.” At the corner of their conversation was the knowledge of where he’d inherited that hair color, as it sure as hell wasn’t from Ana. But he let the thought stay buried, patting the dirt back down with the shovel himself. Their relationship always had an absence in it, and he didn’t particularly feel like deepening it in the Oval Office.

“Ah, so that’s the one I have to blame for your big head,” she responded, reaching for a piece of fruit from the little coffee table. It was a familiar half-jest, borne from Adam’s constant contradicting confidence and imposter syndrome. Idiosyncrasies were just Adam’s style, never one to make things easy for himself. He sometimes wondered if so much of himself conflicted because he tried to walk the middle road so often, balancing his weight over all sides to minimize the damage if the rug was yanked from beneath him, like lying down on a bed of nails: a thousand tiny, dull pains over one sharp, potentially fatal puncture. She smiled again. “Is Noah doing well?”

“For Noah he is. He would barely look up from some new reports on fracking, seems hopeful he’ll be able to garner enough support.”

Ana snorted. “Good luck with that. I’ll be shocked if it reaches the floor for debate.”

“That makes three of us, then.” He nodded towards the desk. “Bad meeting?”

The frown lines on her face deepened. “Don’t get me started,” she drawled, falling back fully against the cushions. After only a moment, she _ did _ get started regardless of what Adam did or didn’t do. “We received the memo a few days ago that a delegation from Sweden wanted to be in contact, right? Fairly standard stuff, Maura gets back to them quickly because they worded it like it was an urgent matter, and there’s a back and forth for a while about scheduling and accommodations. We’re of the belief they won’t be out here until Monday at the earliest.”

Adam knit his eyebrows together. “It’s not Monday.”

“You fuckin’ tell me. Anyway, I’m halfway through a meeting with a few UN representatives when Maura has to interrupt. They arrived at the White House, claimed they had a meeting, and just…didn’t leave. Evan Maura couldn’t get through to them, which is the thing that scared me a little.”

“You should have put Calla on it.”

“Believe me, if she were here, I would’ve. But as it was, I had to hurry out the UN members to deal with decidedly more antagonistic foreign relations.”

“Why were they even here?”

“They wanted to discuss the military relationship between our countries-”

“What the hell?”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” she said, waving one hand in dismissal. “Any points they were trying to make went straight out the window when they started pulling out cue cards, to be honest. I might have to call Löfven to smooth things over.”

“Well, there’s never a dull moment,” Adam said fairly. His mother snorted.

“Sure isn’t. Anyway,” she said, glancing at her watch, “it’s now Thanksgiving, so no more meetings for twenty-four hours.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

She pulled a face in dismissal. “We take our patriotism seriously, darlin’. Don’t want our home state gettin’ too mad.”

“Of course.”

Ana checked her watch again. “The turkeys will be on their way to the Willard by now, so we’re not ruining any American traditions today.”

“Wait,” Adam said. “Where?”

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “The Willard. They stay there every year.”

“What? No. _ No. _You cannot give the turkeys five-star accommodations with taxpayer dollars. You’ve been doing this every year?!”

“It’s public knowledge, sugar. Every news outlet mentions it.”

“How did I not-” Adam cut off. “There is no way you can do that! They’re turkeys! It’s a waste!”

“It’s precedent, Adam. I’m not sure if there’s anything to be done at this point.”

Adam stood quickly, pacing back and forth, and his mother stood behind him. “It’s a _ blatant _waste of money, I’m shocked we haven’t already been-”

“Hon, every president so far has done the same-”

“Imagine the story if we broke the tradition! Even conservatives would have to applaud your frugality-”

“We can’t play games with tradition, you know they already call us disrespectful-”

“-we can’t be using _ taxpayer money-” _

“-by all means, if you have the time to find lodging for two forty-pound turkeys-”

“Put them in my room!” Adam blurted. His mother stopped short.

“You’re not serious,” she said. “We’re not putting the turkeys for me to pardon in your bedroom.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Adam-”

He shifted his feet, coming to a stop. He lifted himself up to his full height. Debate Captain Adam, six-time Best Delegate Adam, and First Son Adam converged into one. His mother barely looked phased.

“Oh, God,” his mother said. “I can’t listen to another sales pitch.”

“Madame President,” Adam began, “I’d like to echo the sentiments of the forebears before me-”

“Nope,” she said, making double-time back to her desk. “You’re not going to filibuster me.”

“In 2018 alone, at least forty-three articles in the Wall Street Journal accused the sitting administration of wasting tax dollars. This came on the heels of a tax increase for Americans making more than ten million dollars per year and the subsequent pushback from a more conservative electorate in Congress.”

“Fine!” Ana said, her hand falling to the desk with a thump. She brought it back up to her head to massage her temple a moment later. “I’m too tired to hear my own history read back at me. You win.”

He sat back down on the couch, crossing his legs primly. “Perfect,” he said, allowing himself to smile once again.

[my-soul-sings]

This Is Everything I Never Wanted: Chapter 1

Fandom: Wannabe Challenge Characters: Everyone! Mainly Taehee VS. Yooha (but not TaeheexYooha) because I’m here for the drama and tea  👀☕️ 

Summary: An alternative account of events in which Taehee was the one who summoned Yooha from the scroll instead of MC.

A/N: I live for Taehee and Yooha's brawling in the game. This idea popped into my head last night and I went ham on it, enjoy this crack-fic, I hope it makes you smile/laugh. :)

Now up on AO3!

***

It all started the day Biho came home with a scroll painting. Frankly, it looked weird. There was a man with long, silver hair on it, and Taehee didn’t like the weird aura coming from the scroll. Or maybe it was just the man’s face he didn’t like. Something about it pissed him off—probably that annoying, arrogant smirk on his face. 

But Taehee couldn’t object to Biho hanging it up on the wall in the living room, especially not when he looked so mesmerised by the picture of the sea in the background. The younger man had always been fascinated by the sea, so Taehee decided to leave it alone. MC also seemed to like it too, and if the house owner herself had no complaints, who was he to protest? 

On hindsight, he should have said something. Insisted on his way—something he rarely did and would probably be easily forgiven for.

At first, Taehee kept noticing the painting, unnerved by the feeling that the man’s eyes were following him, watching his every move. He swore it wasn’t his own imagination, and he felt goosebumps rise on his skin whenever he walked past it. He couldn’t ask Biho to put it in his own room though; the wall in their room already looked messy enough because of Hansol, who had a compulsive need to buy posters of his favourite musicians. 

With little options at his disposal, Taehee tried to brush it off. Ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there. 

It took a few days, but soon enough he practically forgot that the painting even existed, for the most part. And life went on, as per normal.

That is, until Cleaning Day.

It was his favourite day of the year, as excruciating as it could get at times. No matter how clear or detailed his instructions were, his housemates never seemed to understand how to clean properly. That, or they simply didn’t care, which Taehee didn’t understand. 

It was easy enough to be patient when it came to MC. After all, she was probably just tired. He could manage doing part of her share of the work.

But Biho and Hansol? Those two hardly ever performed up to par. Hansol would say that he had finished wiping the shelves, and Taehee would swipe a finger on the underside of the wood, and there would be a sheet of dust coating the pad of his finger.

Biho was no better. After making a towering stack of his books and simply leaving them in the corner of the room, he would find a place to sleep, even if it meant hiding under the bed to avoid Taehee’s attention. Or wrath. 

After a full three hours of back-breaking work that day, Taehee had neared his limit. The breaking point came when he just finished washing the toilets, and he arrived in the living room to the sight of all three of his housemates knocked out blissfully on the couch.

“You... haa...” He had no words. He was exhausted too, but the kitchen had yet to be touched. And yet the three of them were already resting as if they had accomplished a lot over the past three hours compared to him. 

In his mind, the list of chores still unfinished gnawed away at the remaining strands of his sanity. That wasn’t even including the things that he’d probably have to re-do, courtesy of his housemates’ terrible cleaning standards. 

The thought of the work left undone was enough to draw another long sigh from him as he deflated a little, a frown appearing on his face. Taking care of his house was a huge weight on his shoulders. In fact, it started getting a little too heavy for his shoulders to bear.

It took Taehee a hot minute to realise that the weight was no longer metaphorical.

“Ew. I’m finally out of the damn scroll after so long and the first thing I see is a guy’s sweaty back? What the hell?”

He heard a foreign voice in his ear. A man’s voice. And then he realised there were arms wrapped around him, as well as a pair of legs and unfamiliar shoes behind him.

Shoes. In the house. That he just mopped. Twice.

Taehee turned around, about to let loose a string of curses at whoever it was, when he realised just what exactly he was looking at. 

It was a man he didn’t know, dressed in some traditional cosplay, his curious grey eyes scanning the house around him. 

Instinctively he jumped back, confused and alarmed by the presence of a stranger whom he didn’t recall letting in. Where could he have come from? The doors had been locked and the windows were open but they certainly weren’t big enough for a man this size to crawl through easily.  

But wait... there was something familiar about him. Taehee couldn’t quite place his finger on it just yet, but he didn’t like the feeling of deja vu washing over him. Or the sense that this guy wasn’t just an ordinary man—if he was even human at all. 

“Hey.” Taehee’s attention snapped to the man who was now looking at him. He bristled, for some reason already disliking the guy and his narrow eyes. 

“Were you the one who summoned me?” the stranger questioned.

“What?” Taehee had to be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or both. It was probably from being overworked, which he blamed his housemates wholeheartedly for (except for MC). 

"Do you not speak Korean?” the stranger prodded when Taehee went silent for a tad too long.

“O-Of course I do,” he replied, not sure why he felt the need to be polite with this intruder. 

Wait. He didn’t. 

“How did you get in the house? I can call the police on you, this is trespassing.” 

“You’re asking me?” the strange man sputtered, raising his hands. “You’re the one who summoned me! You called my name!” 

He could at least come up with a more reasonable-sounding excuse. Taehee didn’t know who he was, let alone his name, for goodness’ sake. 

“I didn’t call your name. I don’t know who the hell you are, but explain yourself. Who are you and how did you get in here? I’m not joking when I said I will call the police,” Taehee warned, holding up the used toilet brush in his hand as a makeshift weapon. Even if it didn’t do much physical damage it would at least disgust the guy enough to make him go far away.

“Hey, hey, I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding here. I, need you, to explain to me where the hell I am. What year is it anyway? You guys have some interesting clothes,” he said, his eyes trailing over to the three sleeping housemates. How they were sleeping through this was beyond Taehee, but he felt alarm bells go off in his head when he noticed the man’s gaze lingering on MC’s sleeping form.

Before he could attack with the toilet brush though, suddenly a blinding white light engulfed the man, and Taehee had to squeeze his eyes shit. 

When he opened them again, the light had vanished and the man now sported a shorter haircut, his silver wavy locks styled in a more modern way. His costume had also disappeared, now replaced by a blue silk shirt, a silver necklace hanging around his neck and a pair of long black slacks. Thankfully, the shoes were gone. 

“There. Much better.” He walked casually over to the television to check out his appearance reflected on the blank screen. “Not bad,” the narcissist muttered to himself.

“What did you just do?”

“Changed into something more appropriate. You sure your brain is alright?”

Taehee ignored the insult. “You still haven’t explained yourself properly.” 

“I told you. You summoned me here by calling my name.”

He was quite persistent with this ridiculous story. Deciding to play along in case he could get more information out of him, Taehee asked, “What’s your name?”

The stranger stared at him like he was stupid, but Taehee maintained his frown long enough that the intruder finally relented begrudgingly with a dragged-out sigh. “It’s Yooha.”

Yoo-ha. Yooha? Taehee didn’t know anyone by that weird name, much less said it out loud for no reason.

Unless...

“You... haa....” 

Could it be... it was all because of that resigned sigh that had escaped his lips when he stepped into the living room just now? 

The realisation struck Taehee like a bucket of ice cold water being poured no him. That counted? Seriously? 

“What’s your name?" Yooha asked. 

“Taehee,” he replied thoughtlessly, before biting down on his tongue. This was hardly the time for introductions. “Now tell me, what are you? Where did you come from?”

In response, Yooha gestured casually to the wall by the television. More specifically, the painting that Biho had bought the other day, except now it looked ostensibly different: 

The man in it was no longer there.

“I was trapped in that painting, but you called my name so I was finally released,” he explained, the nonchalance in his drawl grating on Taehee’s nerves. Was this a joke to him? 

But... the more Taehee thought about it, the more he realised there was no other way to make sense of this bizarre situation. Yooha’s explanation seemed to be the only logical one, even if impossible. Unless, of course, he was dreaming. But a quick pinch to his arm and the sting that followed indicated that he wasn’t, quite unfortunately.

There was a groan, and Taehee glanced in Yooha’s direction. “What.”

“It’s just...” he scratched his head, his face contorting with a perplexed expression. “I’m not happy about this... but since you’re the one who summoned me out of the scroll, I’m now bound to you as a servant.”

“Come again?” Taehee gawked, which earned him an exasperated sigh.

“Of all things, I had to be bound to a mere goblin...” he grumbled to himself. Then, raising his head, he gave Taehee a hard look. “You’re not very smart, are you?”

“I’m a doctor. And wait- are you by any chance... a seon-ho?”

“Finally saying something sensible, are we?” the man scoffed with an eye roll. Taehee had to purse his lips into a thin line to keep from making a sharp remark. There was no need to prove himself to this complete stranger who was now calling him his... servant? The hell?

“So what,” Taehee began, “I’m your... master now?”

“Ugh, it sucks when you say it out loud, but yes. That’s right.” Yooha plopped onto an empty chair, stretching his limbs and settling into a comfortable position. He sort of resembled a cat.

“And who are they?” Yooha jabbed a finger at the pile of sloths as well as MC on the couch, who were still asleep. 

“The people I live with,” Taehee replied, eyes narrowing at him. 

“Three guys and a girl? What’s up with that?” 

“None of your business.”

“Ooh. Master is feisty.” He paused, a devious smirk playing on his lips. “Is it because of the girl?” 

“Shut up,” Taehee snapped quite uncharacteristically. It had been less than fifteen minutes and already this guy was seriously wearing his patience thin. “And stop calling me ‘Master’. It’s gross.”

"Yeah, I will. I almost threw up after saying that.” 

A moment of silence passed, neither knowing what to say. This was a weird situation, to say the least, and Taehee wasn’t sure if he had fully processed it yet. A lot had happened today and he just wanted to take a nice, hot shower and go to bed. Screw dinner, he was too tired to cook. Maybe when he woke up, this would all go away, including this pesky nuisance, and everything would go back to normal. 

“So...” Yooha spoke up, unceremoniously interrupting Taehee’s attempt to comfort himself. “What now?”

Taehee shrugged, but before he could say anything, he heard a voice. 

“Taehee...” MC mumbled. Her sweet voice usually made his heart flutter, but right then, it made his entire body go rigid. 

“Who’s that?” 

[aregebidan]

Fëanáro is Glaurung AU, or: Arda’s conspiracy theories 101

@xirinofarvada Apologies once again for the endless wait! The first snippet (that ended up being a bit more than a snippet) is finally done, and I’m delighted to share it :D

This takes place toward the middle of the Third Age in an AU where Fëanor and Glaurung are the same being, through some creepy soul-magic of Melkor’s. Centuries have passed since his children have left the Halls, but he’s determined to apologize to them and show his love somehow.

word count: 4328 words content warnings: fire, blood, mild body horror

The soul had been a great many things in life: a newly awakened Quendë, a naive young thing on a journey, a tortured thrall, and eventually the hardened leader of his captured kindred. 

He had finally perished in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, as the battle was called by the rest of the slain, on the third day— or was it the fourth? He could not remember many details of his time in Angband these days. The first time he had ventured out of his and his companions’ chambers in the Halls, he had done it to ask one of Mandos’ Maia why his memory was no longer clear. 

You are healing, the spirit told him, and would have left it at that if he had not grabbed them by their robe and demanded further explanation. 

I am grateful to be rid of my torments, but I do not wish to forget my comrades, he’d said. Is there no other way to go through this healing?

Comrades? 

He would never forget the look of subtle distaste on the Maia’s face. No doubt they’d been spending too much time with the Noldor, the ones who had been killed in their original skin; most of those who had died as Orkor kept their familiar scars and disfigurements when they bothered to manifest, and Ainur, as a rule, tended to gravitate towards beautiful things. 

The Noldor are worthy warriors, and far more kinder to us than your folk, the Maia snapped, pulling the thoughts out of his head. I will speak to Lord Námo of your predicament. Now leave me be. 

The soul had huffed in frustration and begun the long walk back to his rooms. 

He hadn’t reached them until three living days had passed. He had heard the stories, of course— so-and-so got lost and never returned, so-and-so wandered the halls for years until she wasted away and lost her physical form entirely. But words often made things seem smaller than they were, and he’d been unprepared for the sheer size of the Halls. 

Mandos was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers closed off by hanging tapestries instead of walls, even larger than Utumno, though a few of his elders had told him it had started out small and expanded as more dead arrived. Silk veiled the gaps between the tapestries, shifting in the cold air like smoke. It was a rare thing to meet anyone by accident here, and difficult to meet anyone on purpose. 

Which was why, on the day of his release, the soul had expected to be alone. 

But then, he thought dazedly as the Prince of the Noldor advanced on him, Fëanáro Curufinwë has always been known to have a gift for the impossible. 

He backed up a few steps, the floor cold and hard on his bare feet, making him wince. He had been in this new form for less than a day, and each sensation was multiplied; even the birdcalls that floated in from the other side of the door sounded like what he remembered of a fire-drake’s roar. Were there any of those left? It had been a long time, more than an Age, but the creatures had been made to endure… 

The prince stalked after him, driving him away from the door and cutting off his line of thought.

In a world of smoke and shifting silk, the many gates to Mandos were the only truly solid things, carved of dead wood and secured to the walls by metal hinges. Looking at Fëanáro’s tall, crimson-robed form against this door, one might think he was back in his beloved forges, if it were not for his eyes. They glinted a bright, fierce gold, not unlike the jewelry and chains the Lieutenant used to be so fond of.

Gold? He frowned, then cursed himself mentally. Orcish faces were designed to be impassive, but his new Elda’s features would certainly betray his emotions. If anyone found out that he’d been rude to a prince’s face— well, there would be no real consequences, but he had spent so long relearning his manners, becoming civilized again. He couldn’t throw all that aside the second he was reembodied.

“My lord.” He bowed, perhaps not as deeply as he would for Fëanáro’s father, whom he had actually known things about besides “went mad and started a war.” I am his elder and his better, and have seen far more battles, he reminded himself.

Or rather, had to remind himself, because the fire prince was certainly living up to his name and reputation.

Flame flickered along his forearms in faint wisps of red and blue, painting a darkness across his face that never touched these bright eyes. His hands were stained black and tipped with long claws, and the mere sight of them— even now, all these centuries after his defeat— sent shivers up his spine. Pitch-dark hair slashed down the front of his tunic, crowned with a silver circlet that looked strangely fluid, as if it were constantly being melted down and reforged. 

And then there were the other things. The prince moved strangely, as if he was not used to manifesting in his own shape; his eyes were too large, the whites near invisible, the pupils little more than black slits. Again the soul could not help but think of the Lieutenant before he spotted the thin line beneath Fëanáro’s cheekbone. 

It was nothing more than an errant streak of silver paint in one moment, and in another a gaping chasm, as a crack in the earth, split open by the something churning beneath his skin. A bright, hungry sort of fire, not essentially malicious but rather entirely too much for this world, as if it would consume the hall and tear the sight from both their eyes without the cracked-porcelain mask of the prince’s face to keep it confined. 

The longer he looked, the more such faults he could see: on the backs of his hands, his neck, even across his eye at one point. They were always shifting across him, lingering near his eyes as if reaching out to caress those long lashes. It was as if Fëanáro had the same troubles as he did, and couldn’t quite remember what his living face had looked like.

He hadn’t been so unnerved by someone since the first dragon-lord. The fire, or rather the implication thereof, was a creative way to fill in the gaps, but he shrank away from it all the same. 

“Ai, Nirvë.” Fëanáro smiled, revealing row upon row of long, cruelly pointed teeth that shouldn’t be able to fit inside his mouth. The soul’s spine shook again. Nirvë, yes, that had been his name. He wondered briefly if his lord Finwë had been the one to tell it to his son, but no— the two hadn’t been as close since Alqualondë and the whole Silmaril debacle. 

(A great chamber of iron and obsidian, a jagged silhouette on a throne and the golden one commanded by him, throwing him to the floor and snarling Have you not recovered it yet—)

This was getting out of hand. He would try to find a polite way to reprimand the prince on his disconcerting tastes, but first he would have to recover what was left of his dignity. He would stand tall, keep from running.

Golden eyes narrowed, a look he’d seen all too often in them both, and he backed into the corner. Perhaps Mandos would be merciful enough to re-disembody him right then and there? 

“I have need of you.” The prince’s voice was low and inexplicably familiar, and grated on his nerves for it. 

“I would suggest you stop trying to intimidate me then,” Nirvë shot back, beyond manners now and glad to know his mouth was not yet frozen. The more powerful Eldar could have that effect on people, he knew. His fellow Orkor soldiers had spoken of Maglor and Nerwen’s gifts, the way they could command stone and steel alike with their words. None who faced either of them head-on ever returned alive, and if the dead of the War of Wrath spoke true, the former had only gotten worse after he took in those clever twins of his. 

And wasn’t Maglor just one of Fëanáro’s outrageously many sons?

This is getting out of hand, he thought. 

Fëanáro did not heed his words; in fact, he gave no sign that he had even heard them, save for a slight tilt of his head, a surprisingly regal gesture in such a wild thing.

“I require you to take a message to my sons,” he announced. 

“A message, my prince?” Nirvë managed. Before he was aware of it he was falling back into old habits again, trying to think up excuses to avoid the task instead of a simple refusal, thinking only to survive under a being that couldn’t be refused. He swallowed and ran through his list, perhaps a little shorter than it would have been in wartime. Fëanáro’s sons would not want to be bothered by a stranger. Even if they would believe his words to be truly from their father, which was a very big if, he had no idea where to find them, and…

“Ask one of the city guards for directions to the House of Maitimo,” Fëanáro said with a dismissive wave and almost Maia-like surety of his words, “and you will learn where they are.”

Nirvë could feel himself relaxing, resigning himself to the inevitable, but he put up one last defense for appearances’ sake. “And why would I agree to this?” 

Fëanáro seemed surprised by the statement. It was the first time Nirvë had seen him look even vaguely like another elf. Something sharp and childishly spiteful reared up in him, catapulted into him straight from his claw-footed, Edain-hunting days. You thought a few pretty fires would be enough to bind me to your service? Fool!

But Fëanáro recovered quickly, and it was with another being’s face and sheer, stone-heavy presence that he responded. “What have you to lose from doing my will?”

“What have I to gain from doing your will, and what have I to lose from simply walking out of here?” Nirvë retorted. 

Fëanáro’s eyes flashed the color of magma, as if he had been waiting to hear this exact thing. “Why, my Nirvë,” he laughed, “what makes you think I would let you simply walk out?”

The other elf felt his face drain of color. Instinct had him crouched down and looking for a weapon before his thoughts could catch up with him, before he could remember that this was Mandos and civilized places did not have spears and knives lying around on the floor. No, that had been Utumno, that had been Angamandi where courtesy did not exist and you could hear the Lieutenant’s laughter echoing off stone as he threw another thrall to his Valaraukar, or into the care of his master if he was feeling especially unmerciful. One more for me to break? Ai, my Mairon, you spoil me. 

“Look at you.” The prince’s voice was everywhere, in his ears and the wind and the stars of the White Lady Herself. “You have been alive only hours. It would not be very hard to keep you here, even when I am like this.” 

I have not had elven blood in so long, sang his uneven shadow and the cruel light inside of him. Let me out, let me out, let me have this one thing—

The heavy tapestries that served as walls shook, creating a sound not unlike that of beating wings; the silk doors fluttered and mist circled above their heads, briefly dimming the torches inside Fëanáro’s wrists. Wind tugged at their robes, whispering in Nirvë’s ear.

You will have your second life. 

Nirvë shuddered. My lord Mandos. 

“Námo.” Although now damp and thus robbed of much of his former splendor, Fëanáro glowered up at the mist, no doubt in disapproval of whatever the Vala was telling him. “Yes, I am aware of my relative freedom and the way it can be taken away. I am also aware that you are on the other side of the Halls, and that not enough of your will is gathered here to hold me for long.”

His voice had taken on the calm cadence of a practised lecturer, a father to many, but it exploded back into anger after several more seconds of listening. “A second life that I should have been given, whether or not you are comfortable with it! You would treat me as you treated the Enemy, when you and your kind owe everything to my children, including the company of their father, marred as he is.” 

The wind sighed next to Nirvë’s head. Fëanáro Curufinwë is a special case, it told him. 

“What sort of special case?” he asked it, curious despite himself. Yes, the prince had died in fire fighting the Valaraukar, but so had dozens of others. His appearance and power could not affect Mandos, so what could make him stand out to him?

Newly-kindled eyes snapped to his, and he flinched as the full weight of that gaze bore down on him. “One who would not have killed you, but is now contemplating otherwise.”

The wind hissed. It spoke no words, but Nirvë heard the message anyway: Such insolence from one so foul. 

Fëanáro let out a short, harsh laugh. “Come now, fearful one, are you so easily fooled? I expected more wit from one who survived so long in Angamandi. I can do you no harm” —making a rude gesture at the mist above his head, ever defiant— “or Námo will have me locked away again. Will you not, my lord?”

Nirvë knew better than to say anything to that. In the few precious seconds of silence he went over the gesture again, wondering why it looked so damned familiar, like he’d seen it before. But such things hadn’t been invented before he was taken, and surely the prince couldn’t have talked to enough Orkor to learn it in his short time in Middle-Earth. 

“It’s true,” he mused, “I have nothing but empty threats to convince you to do this. But I know you, Nirvë Elennion. I did not come all this way to see a stranger.” 

That smile again. Where had he come from, anyway? Nirvë found himself regretting the way he’d spent his time in Mandos. The dead Eldar, particularly the Vanyar, had gone straight to the Vala himself to learn what he had to teach, while Nirvë had only helped a number of his soldiers with their healing. It was a worthy task, but one that had kept him busy. After several centuries here, he still knew so little about it. 

“I know you.” For a second Nirvë thought he saw an oddly vulnerable look in the prince’s face, a slight dimming of golden eyes that had nothing to do with Mandos, but Fëanáro began to pace quickly, his hair hiding his face and his voice falling back into that confident, superior tone again. 

“I have seen the way you scurry after Irmo and his Maiar, looking for someone to serve again. I have seen you try so desperately to become good again and judge yourself unworthy every time. What was it that you said to your friends? Each deed is a tally mark?”

Nirvë bristled. “That is none of your concern-”

Fëanáro only waved his hand. “I have been dead for millennia. Everything here is my concern. And what I have learned from watching you is that you want a cause to follow, and you want to do good things. I can give you that.” Another quick smile; he looked like Nirvë himself back in the old times now, explaining a strategy to yet another dull-witted squadron.

“And would it not be good,” the prince finished with another elegant gesture, “to reunite me with my children this way, since those above us seem to have no care for them?”

those above us seem to have no care for them

Nirvë stared at him, hands hanging limp in shock. “What did you-?”

Fëanáro raised an arched eyebrow as if to say, do go on, but he couldn’t finish. He was not in Mandos; he was back in the Halls of Iron, back in the throne room of unnatural black stone, covered in armor and scars and too tired to care about it. All he cared about was the still-healing whip mark on his back and getting his soldiers into position before they were punished again.

The Lieutenant had been in a foul mood that day; Nirve had had to reform the lines several times, putting everything in order the way he liked it. He kept one eye on his dark silhouette at all times, a mockery of elven-fairness that had earned him a good deal of reluctant admiration from those who had been taken at Cuiviénen. 

This had better be good, the rogue Maia had muttered to himself, and Nirvë privately agreed. If they’d gone through all the trouble of organizing an assembly for nothing… 

He avoided thinking about that. There was no time for thinking, anyway, not when the footsteps in the corridors closest to them were drawing nearer and nearer. The Lieutenant straightened up and commanded him to take his own place at the doors, and Nirvë complied with the order shoved into his mind, momentarily erasing all other thoughts. 

He stood, bore silent witness as the doors creaked open, and gave way to something many of his brethren seemed to have mistaken for the sun itself; they threw themselves to the floor as the light streamed in, drowning the chamber in silver reflections that winked off dark stone like stars on the water. He was half tempted to follow them, but noticed that there was no pain when the light touched his skin. 

This was no Vala’s siege-fire, then, but the old flame of Utumno. Whoever had the One deemed worthy of receiving it? Nirvë watched with bated breath as the light cleared, gold and black flames that danced in the air around the form behind it, a wicked serpent-like form tipped with claws of gleaming metal, led on by the unmistakable form of the One himself. 

The new being’s golden scales constantly shifted and re-formed on his left side, showing the hard steel of his heart and the fire-river of his blood. Even more impressive was the intelligence visible in every feature, every tilt of his head as he listened to the One’s instructions. 

Those in the West would have no care for the others, then, an unfamiliar voice said, seeming almost sad, and Nirvë silently committed the words to memory forever. 

All the other beings of Angamandi and the old shapes of his comrades would fade from his mind over time, but this vision he knew he would carry to the end of the world. That had been the only time he had been stunned like that— and now, standing at the door for a second time, overwhelmed by the same being. 

“My lord Glaurung…” he breathed. 

It was as if he’d never left the Iron Halls; one second he was standing still, a strange sort of respect settled in his heart, and the next he was being pinned against the wall with claws pressed to his throat and blinding red eyes inches from his.

“You would dare,” the prince snarled, mouth widening as he watched to reveal yet more teeth; Nirvë smelled smoke from his throat, and that dark hair now seemed ready to ignite. He swallowed on instinct, drawing these eyes to his neck, only for Fëanáro— Glaurung?— to hiss in annoyance and fling him away. 

He landed on the stone floor with a loud crack. The world vibrated; he groaned and touched his head, pulling himself into a sitting position with his free hand. 

When he had managed to get back on his feet, the prince looked a little calmer, the fire and smoke that had surrounded him faded. Nirvë still kept his distance and was glad for it when he began pacing, fists clenched. Blood fell from his palms in heated red drops, nearly identical to Nirvë’s own and oddly out of place among the other aspects of his form. 

“…five thousand years.” A low, fey laugh echoed off the tapestries, which had turned almost as hard as stone. Nirvë realized belatedly that they were probably meant to contain them. “Five thousand years I have been here, and all my attempts have been for nought.”

Attempts? Has he tried to escape before? Nirvë certainly wouldn’t put it past the prince, especially considering their… shared background. Still, that he was able to attempt multiple times was worrying. Mandos was supposed to have knowledge and power over all who resided in his Halls, and Fëanáro belonged to him as surely as he had belonged to the One. That must be why he hates him so much, Nirvë thought, and the wind answered with another sigh. 

Yes, his distrust has only gotten worse after his enslavement. I have tried to tell them he does not fully belong to me, to send him to the realm of Ulmo where he can be less restrained, but they insist upon holding him here for now… 

Does not fully belong to you? Nirvë frowned, watched Fëanáro prowl around the entrance hall for a few heartbeats before it hit him. The Silmarils. The One used to say they were the only thing that could control him… 

Melkor was right about one thing. A shiver shot down Nirvë’s spine, and the voice took on a gentler tone. I am sorry, young one. I did not mean to frighten you. 

“The fault is mine,” he said aloud. “I should be over this by now.” 

“Over it?” Fëanáro cried, sweeping the floor with the hem of his robe as he turned on him. “Ai, yes, I know what you mean. You and Námo’s Maiar— all of you want to forget your suffering as quickly as possible, as if you could get over it now.” 

Nirvë had been in many fights, but he had never been the target of such mighty disdain; each word from the prince’s mouth, however unreasonable, he felt like a lash on his skin. “As if you could simply put it behind you, like the selfish thing you are. Perhaps family means nothing to your kind, but I had children there!”

This last part he shouted at the ceiling, and now he focused on Mandos, blood still pooling on the floor beneath him. 

“I had children,” he whispered, and broke off with a hitch in his breath, sounding almost pained. “Maitimo and Makalaurë, Tyelko and Curvo and Moryo, the Ambarussa, Ancalagon and Gostir, Scatha and Smaug.” 

The last dragons of Middle-Earth, the broken and defeated heroes. All his and all precious to him. 

What happened next Nirvë could probably chalk up to fear and excitement, but he’d never felt as rational as when he stepped up, took his lord’s shoulder in his hand, and said, “I will take your message to Maedhros.” 

Fëanáro stared. The silence filled the room for an agonizingly long moment before he finally replied, “Why?”

“You need it,” Nirvë said out loud, and added in his head, I’ve no idea. Contradictory. Unclear. The Lieutenant would have his head for that; there must be an explanation, and he tried to create one as he went over his next words.

Perhaps it had been the children. He’d been a child once, after all. Taken by the dark powers before he could even reach adulthood, forced to grow up too soon, tortured and mutilated, but he had been a child, and he wanted to accept that. 

“You don’t believe in second starts,” he told his prince, “but I do. You were right about what I wanted, and your sons do not deserve this silence from you.” None of them did, not even the ones with your own fire in them. 

“Your hand is burning,” Fëanáro said distantly, then snapped back to attention, pinning Nirvë again with that wide golden gaze. Nirvë could see the desperation in them, the fever. Despite the pain in his hand, he tightened it around the crimson-robed shoulder. I will not leave you, my lord.

“Tell Maitimo.” The prince hesitated; Nirvë knew all too well what he was going through; he had had no idea what to say when he’d met the others who had been taken from the Lake of Awakening, friends long dead who he’d thought he had forgotten. “Tell them all that I am sorry for the pain I have caused them. Tell them I love them still- no, wait! Tell them I love them, but it is up to them whether they choose to return that love. They never knew that.” 

Fëanáro was smiling, the words falling out of him, and Nirvë ached to see such unfamiliar glee on his face. “Tell Curvo to start standing up straight for once, Tyelko that he must stop tormenting his brothers, and tell Makalaurë— Maglor— that I am so proud of the twins. Tell him I am sorry for what I did in the Gap.”

Nirvë Elennion, Mandos warned. The door is almost closing. 

Nirvë looked at himself. His physical form was beginning to fade again, becoming less solid, but Fëanáro would not let go. “Promise me,” he said urgently, “promise me you’ll remember everything. This last part is most important. Apologize to the Ambarussa for me as well, but you must tell them I will never let it happen again. In these exact words, do you hear me?”

Son of Finwë, it is time to go back. 

“I understand,” Nirvë said simply, and then the door was opening and finally pulling him into the light of Valinor, the promised land he had never gotten to see. 

A sense of almost childlike joy woke in him, and he looked back only to see Fëanáro leave, golden scales replacing skin before he took to the air in the shape of a great, winged flame, majestic and hopefully at peace at last.