#and it’s a wider problem that people can’t be happy or content without it

[petrichara]

Young adult life can be very isolating if you don’t drink alcohol. The response to that isn’t “okay so drink”, it’s “how can we make our activities more inclusive”

[watchmegetobsessed]

Sparkles - Harry Styles

happy new year folks! this is my NYE gift for all of you, hope 2021 will treat you well and see you soon with hopefully a lot of content! thank you for being here with me this year, 2020 was an emotional ride for me, but tumblr remained my happy place. thank you for all the support you showed me and my art this year, cheers to a new one! enjoy this little soon-to-be-dad!harry piece as celebration

word count: 2.5k

masterlist

Harry finishes up the last touch on the virgin mojitos, adorning his work he did with the sugar-coated edge of the glass, feeling quite proud how he nailed it. He softly hums along the music that’s flowing from the record-player as he cleans up after himself, leaving the kitchen spotless, just when he hears his name called out.

“Harry? Can you help me?” Y/N’s voice comes from their shared bedroom and he is quick to drop everything to come to her rescue.

“Coming!”

He shuffles into the room, finding his very pregnant wife sitting on the edge of their bed, her favorite pair of heels at her feet that go well with the loose dress she is wearing. She has ditched wearing anything tight a while ago, feeling way more comfortable in baggy clothes since her bump started showing. He never tried to convince her to wear her usual clothes, he has read enough to know how much she goes through with her body image during pregnancy, so he just always wanted to make sure she feels comfortable over fashionable. Also, she looks breathtakingly beautiful to him regardless of what she is wearing. Or what she is not wearing…

Her eyes lift up to him as he appears in the room, she is leant back on one arm behind her while her other hand is cupping her bump.

“Can you please help me put them on?” she pouts and Harry is on his knees in front of her without a second thought. It’s not the first time she struggles to put her shoes on, but Harry doesn’t mind helping her do such mundane things, if anything, it just makes him feel involved, like he is able to take just a tiny part of the hard side of pregnancy away even if it’s just as small as putting on her shoes or shaving her legs in the parts where she can’t reach anymore.

“You sure you’ll be fine in heels all night, baby?” he asks, carefully sliding her slightly swollen feet into the heels, but they luckily still fit.

“Already packed a change, don’t worry,” she grins, her hand running up and down her stomach as Harry finishes up the task. Smirking up at her he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to her bump, cupping the sides in his palms. Though he can’t wait to finally meet their little baby girl in just three short weeks, he gotta admit he’ll miss the bump.

Over the course of this pregnancy, he has grown to love this state of the woman he is in love with. See her go through the changes, experience new things and grow a new life in her own body, it’s been a privilege to be by her side through the journey and Harry can’t wait to see her do it again whenever the time is going to be right.

Standing up he helps her to her feet, she smoothes out the soft fabric of the dress that reaches just above her knees.

“You look amazing, baby,” he smiles, kissing her lips softly.

“Thank you. What time is it, should we leave?”

“Let’s drink our cocktails and then we can leave,” Harry nods. They move out to the kitchen and she squeals in happiness seeing the mojitos she requested from him earlier.

“These look so nice!” she gasps doing a little happy dance as she takes the one Harry hands her. “Is yours alcohol free too?”

“Of course.”

“You know you can drink, right? I don’t mind it.”

“I know. But I don’t want to,” he smiles down at her, clinking his glass against hers. “Cheers, baby.”

She smiles up at him stealing a quick kiss before they both taste the drink.

“Mm, this is amazing, H,” she nods to herself, gulping from the cocktail again and again.

“Yeah? You like it?”

“Yes. Can’t wait to have one with actual alcohol in it,” she smirks making him chuckle. He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head before chugging down his own drink.

Not so much later they get in the car and head over to one of their friends’ New Year’s Eve party they’ve been invited to. Harry was hesitant to accept the invitation at first, knowing well she would be close to full term at this point, but she seemed too excited to go out, something she hasn’t done too much lately. Pregnancy has made her way too tired most of the time to even leave the house, her natural habitat became their king sized bed, wearing mostly Harry’s jumpers with just her knickers.

Upon arriving to the party that’s held in a penthouse, Harry keeps a hand on her lower back at all times, making sure she is okay, whether it’s about needing something to drink, to eat or if she decides to change her shoes. That happens quite fast, barely over an hour into the evening Y/N makes her way to one of the plush couches and Harry gladly helps her get rid of the torturous heels and put on her ballerina shoes.

It’s past eleven when he first lets her out of his sight, only so she could go to the bathroom, though he asks if she needs help with that as well.

“I think I’ll manage,” she smiles at him, hand sliding to the back of his neck to pull him down for a quick kiss.

His eyes cautiously follow her disappear down one of the hallways, nursing the same soda he opened an hour ago. He returns his attention to the conversation they were in before her leaving and barely notices that she is taking way too long in the bathroom. When he realizes that she hasn’t returned, he excuses himself from the little group to go and find his wife. Dodging anyone who tries to pull him into another conversation, he makes his way down the hallway he last saw Y/N waddle away. It’s not his first time here, so he knows exactly where to find the bathroom, however, his eyes fall on something that diverts from his destination.

Walking past one of the many bedrooms, he notices an all too familiar pair of slightly swollen feet propped up on the edge of a bed through the door that’s ajar and a smile falls on his lips right away as he pushes it further open. Lying comfortably on top of the king sized bed, there is Y/N resting on her side, the only position she can sleep these days, hugging one of the giant pillows to herself, snoozing adorably.

Harry knew she would get tired way too early, though she was convinced it wouldn’t be a problem, staying up past midnight, yet here she is, sleeping the night away while the party is still buzzing outside. Her shoes are abandoned at the leg of the bed, purse tossed to the nightstand and Harry swears she probably came in to just lie down for a bit because her back was starting to hurt, but eventually fell asleep.

Walking inside he closes the door behind him, the bedside lamp illuminating the room enough for him to navigate to the other side of the bed as he kicks his shoes off. He couldn’t care less about all the people outside, it doesn’t matter that they probably should be out there mingling, right now he just wants to hold his pregnant wife and have a nap with her, regardless of the fact that they might miss midnight.

As soon as he lies down behind her, his arm circles around her, hand coming to rest just above her popped out belly button and though he tried to be as careful as possible, she still wakes up, blinking at him over her shoulder a little groggily.

“Harry? I fell asleep,” she whispers, partially to herself, rather than to him.

“I know baby. It’s alright.”

“M’sorry, I just came in here to have a breather, but I just felt so tired,” she adds, yawning into her words at the end.

“Don’t worry. Wanna stay a little longer or do you wanna go out?”

“How much time do we have until midnight?” she asks, furrowing her eyebrows before her eyes go wide. “Wait, did I sleep through midnight?”

“No, you didn’t,” he chuckles softly, kissing her shoulder. “Want me to set an alarm for us?”

“Please,” she nods, dropping her head back to the pillow. He fishes his phone out of his back pocket, setting an alarm ten minutes before midnight so they have a little over twenty minutes to rest before they have to emerge from their temporary bedroom.

Dropping the phone behind him to the mattress, he places back his palm to her bump, gently caressing it as she leans back against his body, enjoying the warm embrace of him. They both doze off soon, the party outside is long forgotten as they enjoy some alone time, but those twenty minutes go by faster than they wanted it to and they are shaken up from their shallow sleep by the sound of his phone’s alert.

“Ah fuck,” he slurs, blindly tapping around the mattress behind him until his hand finally finds the phone and he turns it off.

“Why am I so tired?” she breathes out rolling to her back, staring up at the ceiling with sleepy eyes. Harry’s eyes wander down on her body and he can’t help the smile forming on his lips seeing her bump towering high. He is still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that there’s a tiny baby girl in there, his baby girl.

“Because you are growing our baby. That needs a lot of energy,” he mumbles kissing her tummy softly, running his hand up and down on it.

“Do you think she’ll look more like you or me?” she asks excitedly, tangling her graceful fingers through his hair as he presses his cheek gently against the side of her bump.

“I hope she’ll take more after you,” he smiles at her.

“Really?”

“Of course. But like, with a hint of me,” he adds, making her chuckle.

“I want her to have your eyes. I love them,” she muses and reaching out she runs a finger delicately through his left eyebrow, bringing it down the side of his face until it reaches his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the pad of her finger, tugging her smile wider with the softness of his actions.

They hear the buzzing increase outside, so they figure the countdown is close. Though the both know they should be heading out to be with the rest of the guests, neither of them moves.

“I’m a little afraid though,” she whispers as the smile falls from her lips.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’ll be weird that it won’t be just the two of us anymore.”

“Do you… regret…?” he implies hesitantly, a little afraid of her answer even though he knows it.

“Of course not,” she breathes out with a soft smile. “I wanted this. We both wanted, right?” Harry nods at her question. “I just… I’m a little afraid we will lose… us. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do,” he nods again, pushing himself up before he scoots closer, caging her between his arms on the bed as he holds himself up above her. “And I promise you I will never stop working on us. I’ll try my best to keep these sparkles alive for as long as we live.”

“So you still feel the sparkles?” she asks with a shy smile, hands sliding to the back of his neck as she starts playing with his curls.

“Of course I do,” he smirks.

“Even after spending five years with me, you still haven’t gotten bored of me?”

“I could never,” he chuckles shaking his head dramatically, making his curls brush against her forehead.

“Yeah?” she giggles. “Not even when I’m making you watch Big Hero 6 for the millionth time?”

“Not even then,” he assures her. He could never say no to her pouty look whenever she is trying to make him watch it again, because it’s her favorite Disney movie of all times. If anything, he cherishes the moments when she is all cuddled up to his side and quotes the lines perfectly, eyes shining so brightly. He would do anything to make her happy.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!” The countdown begins outside, yet they still don’t move. Staring at each other, they preserve this precious moment, one of the last ones where they are on their own. Her hands go to cup his cheeks, her thumb running along the soft skin under his eyes.

“I love you. So much,” he breathes out, closing his eyes for a short moment to enjoy her soft touch.

“Seven! Six! Five! Four!”

“I love you too,” she whispers, getting lost in his eyes once they lock on hers again.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year, my love. I can’t wait to see what this year brings for us.”

“Happy New Year, baby,” she smiles, pulling him down for a sweet and appreciative kiss, the first one of the year.

They drag the moment a little longer, enjoying the sparkles that are still clearly there, before they pull back, grinning at each other like crazy.

“We should head back, don’t we?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Can we leave soon though? I don’t think I can stay awake much longer.”

“Of course,” he chuckles pecking her lips one last time before he scoots to the edge of the bed to get off of it.

“Harry?” she calls out and when his eyes return to her frame, she is still lying in the same position.

“Love, we really shouldn’t stay any longer in here,” he huffs, eyes soft on her, but she shakes her head.

“It’s not that. I think… I think I need some help getting up,” she admits chuckling.

“Oh right,” he mumbles shuffling over to her side to grab her hands and gently pull her up until she sits on the edge of the bed. He kneels down without a second thought, putting on her shoes, making her smile. “There,” he breathes out, helping her to her feet. She circles her arms around his neck, pulling him as close as possible with her bump.

“You are going to be such an amazing dad, Harry,” she breathes out kissing him delicately.

“I hope so,” he chuckles nervously, his hands squeezing her hips gently. “Come on, let’s schmooze a little longer so we can go home and sleep.”

“That’s the best thing you said tonight,” she sighs dramatically, making his eyes go wide.

“Oh really? That was the best?”

“Just kidding!” she chuckles pinching his cheek before adding in a mumble: “Kinda.”

“You’re lucky you are pregnant, I wouldn't let this slide otherwise,” he shakes his head, taking her hand as they head towards the door.

“Oh, but you love me too much to get mad at me, right?”

Smirking he opens the door and holds it open for her.

“I do love you a lot.”

Thank you for reading! Like/reblog if you liked it and leave a feedback!

[luimagines]

He Asks You to Dance Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

Part 3 will include Wild, Wind and Legend.

Content under the cut!

Wild

Wild didn’t even know Terry Town was planning a festival.

But here he was, with all his new friends, celebrating with old, the one year anniversary of the inauguration of Terry Town. 

Wild had to be quick on his feet for what felt like the whole day.

Between preparing for the celebration, getting all the requests filled and making sure the group weren’t left to their own devices for too long, Wild felt like he didn’t have a lot of room to breath. Let alone take a break.

But that fine.

The group eventually pitched in and the whole thing managed to run smoothly without any problems.

By the time the sun was gone and the large bonfire was lit, Wild finally let himself sit down and enjoy the atmosphere.

He watched, content and satisfied that everyone seemed to be having a good time. 

Legend and Wind were haggling the musicians in the best way possible. Time, Twilight and Warrior happened to open up the booze and were drinking away with some other men of the town. Four and Sky seemed to be happy enough eating what they had prepared on the sidelines while Hyrule, he knew, was actually up by Mija and her fairy fountain.

He wasn’t a fan of crowds and wanted to talk shop and magic with the fairies.

Wild couldn’t blame him.

Wild took a deep breath and leaned against the bench, closing his eyes momentarily with a smile on his face.

Until he sensed movement next to him.

He opened his eyes again and looked over.

You sat next to him, a quiet and subdued air around you. You smiled at him and if he didn’t know any better he would assume it was genuine.

He’s instantly on edge.

“Tired Wild Child?” You ask. “You were running around like a cucco without their head all morning and afternoon, I thought the place was going to run you ragged.”

Wild snorts unexpectantly and he sits straighter. “A little. But nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’m just glad you’re actually taking a break.” You sighed and lean back. “This is nice. You did a good job.”

Wild preens a little at your words and he feels like he’s floating. “Go enjoy it then! You don’t have to spend the night moping next to me. I’ll hop in, in a minute. I just wanted to catch my breath.”

You hum and look away. “That eager to get rid of me, huh?”

Wild almost shoots off of the bench at your words and backpedals at the speed of light. “No, that’s not it at all! I was just-”

“Relax Link.” You smile that lie again. “I’m just messing with you.”

Wild frowns and looks over his shoulder to where Legend and Wind have more or less taken over to music and have begin to play something soft but lively, enough to get the people dancing and spinning around.

Wild gets an idea.

“Dance with me.” He stands and holds his hand out.

“What happened to catching your breath?”

“Caught it.”

You snort and look over. You’re sad, and he doesn’t know why. But what he does know, is that he doesn’t want you to lie anymore.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Dance with me.”

You consider it- longer than Wild would have thought to and finally, place your hands in his.

He’s stunned by how soft it is and how you fit into his hand perfectly, like a missing puzzle piece and he grips is gently, tugging you forward. “Just one.”

“Ok.” You looked down and step with him. “I can do that.”

You look back up and Wild’s breath gets caught in his throat. The light of the colored lanterns all around the two or you give you a pleasantly soft and sweet look to your face and your hair and Wild forgets that there’s more than you two at the moment.

He swallows and takes the leads.

And your smile.... well....

He can tell it’s not a lie anymore.

Wind

Wind had no idea what his grandma was expecting him to do with so little time to prepare for the High Tide Festival but Wind was never one to back down from a challenge.

The others were quickly put to work in helping in decorating the place and getting all the food together to feed to whole island and the visitors of Wind’s friend group. 

Wind didn’t actually want to help at all- he had promised to show you all around his home and he was stuck doing everything but that.

He doesn’t even know where you are right now but he wants to be by your side.

Not stuck by the stuffy adults and.... stringing up streamers.

He would normally be more excited for it, but not having you in his line of sight was putting a bit of a damper on his current mood.

He had promised...

“I got this Wind.” Twilight comes up from behind to take the box from his hands. “I think they miss you.”

There’s a bit of  teasing remark on Twilight’s breath, Wind can feel it but he looks over to where he gestures and see you there with your arms crossed and looking to the middle of the courtyard...

You look lost.

Wind feels himself still in that minute and he doesn’t think he actually had it in him to approach you.

Twilight snorts and pushes him forward slightly.

“They don’t bite.“ He says. “You wanted to spend time with them anyway right? Why the sudden cold feet?”

Wind gulps and tries to think of a smart answer. “Uhhh...”

Twilight claps him on his shoulder and walks away. “They were wondering where you were by the way.”

Wind bite his lip.

He did promise...

His first few steps are hesitant and unsure, and even when he finally makes his way next to you, you don’t seem to know he’s there.

“Hey.” Wind smiles ad takes your hand.

You startle and the small smile that graces your face does something funny to his chest. “Wind!”

There’s some music that begins behind you two, the musicians of the island begin to try and find the right mood they want to setting sun to have.

Wind grins and grips your hand tighter, pulling up gently in the direction. “Will you dance with me?”

You blink and smile wider. “Sure Wind.”

Wind feels himself grin and neither of you actually know how to dance but you’re laughing and he spins you around. 

Wind likes this.

Wind thinks this is nice.

Your laugh is nice.

Your smile is nice.

You’re nice.

Legend

Legend wasn’t really comfortable with the current chain of events.

He knew that every one was supposed to have a good time and relax and eat until they felt like they could burst... but he didn’t feel the desire to join them in this time of merriment.

Call him a barnacle if you wish but he would really be in bed and inside. But this was his Hyrule and he had to keep appearances for the group because they wanted to be out here in the festivities.

He wasn’t going to rain on their parade just because he wasn’t in the mood to be there.

He walked around, letting the time pass and watching all the other around him have fun and dance and sing- he would enjoy the party vicariously through them.

It was enough.

Until he saw you.

Briefly anyway.

You took off before he could really see what was happening but something in his gut told him that something was wrong. And he knows better than to ignore his gut at this point in his life.

He follows you and slows when he sees you rubs your eyes and pinch your nose and show all the signs of trying to stop a sob before it actually takes over.

“Hey.” The sounds leaves his mouth before he can even think twice.

You startle and harshly wipe the evidence away from your face.

“Are you ok?” Legend gulps slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You say. Like a liar. “I just got emotional. This is nice. Your home really knows how to throw a party.”

“Yeah.” He agree on his breath. “Are you-... What’s wrong?”

You sniffle and blink owlishly at him.

“I...” You start and sigh, wiping your hand on your tunic. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I? I’m fine really. I’m just a bit homesick, is all.”

“Homesick?” He walks toward you.

“Yeah. Around this time, back home, we’d have a festival just like this.” You say with a blissful look on your face. “It has everything. Food, music, games, shows and good company too. It... it didn’t really register that I’d miss it this year until a moment ago. I won’t be with my family for the first time and I just... got emotional. I’ll be fine. Really. Go have fun. You deserve it.”

Legend stands there, stunned before his ears pick up the subtle tune of a slow song in the background.

He looks behind him and then back to you.

You look too good to look sad right now, and it’s not like Legend is going to rain on the parade just because he would rather be somewhere else.

He holds his hand out and tilts his head. “Come on. Dance with me. You’re too beautiful to hide yourself away.”

“Link.” You sigh.

“It won’t be as much fun without you.” He says in a final attempt to get you go with him.

You look at his hand and smile, letting him pull you toward him and sway left to right with the music. “Alright. You win.”

For a moment, when he spins you around and begins to lead a more cohesive dance with you in his arms, Legend actually thinks that there’s no other place he’d like to be.

[fandomlovingfreak]

Glacial Passion (7/?)

Regulus Black/Reader

Rating: NSFW (at end of chapter)

Trigger Warning: Arranged Marriage, sexual content (consensual)

Word Count: 3715

MasterList Link I AO3 Link I Wattpad Link

Summary: Glacial, cold, icy… all words that described Regulus Black’s grey eyes. Was there truly no emotion behind those eyes, or did a caring man exist beneath? Could she defrost those glacial eyes?

Disclaimer: Regulus Black (Walburga Black, Orion Black, and Sirius Black) is a character from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Reader or y/n is not owned by Rowling. This work has not been created for profit or financial compensation, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

Notes: No notes really. Sorry for the wait.

Enjoy

***

Mother & Father,

(y/n) and I will be continuing our honeymoon for at least an extra week. We will be traveling outside of Paris. I will send an owl once we are settled in the hotel.

Walburga stares down at the letter. 

Cold shock fills her at her new daughter-in-law willingly is staying past the allotted time Regulus had planned for the couple's honeymoon. 

Walburga thought them to be so indifferent about one another that they would have arrived home days earlier than planned, not extend their time alone together.

Hopefully, though, this meant the next heir of the House of Black would be on the way.

Part of her knows her son will continue to be stubborn, casting those infernal charms. Walburga didn't understand why her son insisted on-- engaging with his wife if he was just going to waste the attempt with a literal flick of his wand. The way he ignored his duties to his birthright was infuriating. She had thought she had raised this son to honor his pure blood and pedigree. To never ignore the responsibilities he had to his family.

Walburga glares at her husband. Blasted Orion had been the one to teach Regulus the contraceptive charm. Although she is glad no bastard children are running around, something she knew Regulus was aware could not happen, she wasn't happy that her golden boy is presently defying her wishes. If Orion hadn't insisted on taking her son to his-- whores, they wouldn't be in this position. Regulus shouldn't have been exposed to those dirty blood, good for nothing tarts. 

Tainting one's flesh was as good as tainting one's blood, in Walburga's mind. Not that she'd express her thoughts to anyone of their status. Men of Pureblood never seemed to view things of this matter as she did.

She knew this from experience.

Walburga sets the letter down on the breakfast table, "Regulus and (y/n) will be extending their-- holiday for another week yet."

"Is that right?" Orion says absentmindedly, continuing to scan the Prophet. She can tell he isn't listening to a word she says. Even after all these years, Orion's inattentiveness still boils her blood to an extent. You would think one would get used to being ignored, especially after all the years she has had to get used to it.

"I wonder where he will be taking our daughter-in-law."

"Yes, very weird."

Walburga's expression sours-- further. She snatches up the letter from Regulus and storms out of the breakfast room without another word.

***

I bustle around the room when Regulus is away, posting another letter. The afternoon and night before had been nice, to say the least. Regulus had been sweet, almost affectionate, the entire time we spent together. It was a big change in a short amount of time, which worried me a bit. Hopefully, he wouldn't revert back to his old ways in the next few days. Merlin-- I hope he won't at all.

I rearranged the bed pillows for the sixth time, trying to distract myself from my thoughts.

The door's key noise disturbs my thoughts as Regulus steps into the room.

"Hi," I rub my hands down the front of my dress.

We stare awkwardly at one another for a moment before he speaks.

"I've been thinking about traveling outside of Paris. Would you be interested in extending our-- honeymoon?" 

I'm taken aback by his sudden choice in conversation, "Where outside of Paris?"

"We can go wherever you please," he holds my hand, pulling me closer to his chest. This is the closest we've been since before he committed to trying our relationship out.

I clear my throat, "I-- guess that I'm just not really picky about where we go."

He smiles, "Well, then I guess you'll just have to trust that the places I want to go are places you want to go."

***

Together we pack up our belongings, casually swapping small talk.

"Do you want to write to your parents?" Regulus looks up from packing his trunk. "I mean, you haven't seen them since the wedding."

"What?" I give him a weird look, "No. I don't have anything to say to them."

Regulus looks slightly alarmed, "What do you mean?" 

"No offense to you, but my parents practically forced me to marry you. I'm not too keen on speaking with them right now."

"You shouldn't just-- I mean, they're your parents."

"Doesn't mean what they did wasn't insensitive. I wasn't theirs to just... give away."

He reflects on my words before taking my hand in his, squeezing comfortingly, "Sorry."

"For what? I know you were coerced into marrying me. It's not your fault."

"I know that. And at some level, I was pushed towards-- doing the right thing-- but I also had the right to refuse, and you were not granted such a right."

I nod, looking away as tears threatened at the corners of my eyes, "It doesn't matter--"

"No, it does matter. You do matter." I meet his eyes. They're steely, the furrowed brow and sour expression I know are not for me. "Don't you see why I use the bloody contraception charms now? They've taken too much from us already (y/n). They're not going to take that away from us as well."

I blink again, "That's why?"

"Of course it's why. We're not-- we're people for Merlin's sake. You're not property (y/n). I won't let anyone treat my wife like that." I'm not sure what to say to him. Thank you? Maybe that would be appropriate. "Besides, we're too young to think of such things. Maybe in ten years--"

"Ten years?" I laugh, "you really think I can keep them at bay for ten whole years? Your mother would be calling in every fertility specialist in the wizarding world, insistent that something must be wrong with me. Certainly, she wouldn't believe the problem was you."

Regulus sighs, "Okay, fine. Not ten years, maybe-- five?"

"Regulus," I laugh, "I know you don't like it. I am completely aware that you don't like being pushed around and knowing that I feel bad for trying to trick you into doing what I wish. But, like you said earlier. You can refuse, do as you please, but I only have one option laid out before me as your wife. And, I can't wait forever for you. I don't have that option. In a much wider social stance, people will talk and make my life miserable. Along with that, your mother and my own will also make my life miserable. There's nothing I'd like to do more than to-- take time for us, or even just me, but that just isn't the life we can lead."

Regulus looks down at his packing. I have to change the subject, feeling that we've exhausted this conversation enough for now.

"Who are you sending letters to?" 

Regulus looks up, "Well, the first one was for my brother, and the one this morning was for my parents."

"Oh, I didn't know you were talking to your brother." I'm suddenly reminded that Regulus hadn't answered my questions.

"So..."

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you now to tell me about your childhood now?"

Regulus looks uncomfortable immediately. He rubs the back of his neck, "Um-- Sure."

I reach for his arm, hoping that my touch is just a little bit comforting, "You don't have to, Regulus. If you don't want to."

"No," his eyes look so... serious as he collects his thoughts, "I want to be honest with you, and this is a part of who I am." I smile at him, my fingers moving to intertwine with his. "My parents are-- well, they clearly are in a situation like ours. Except it has been a very long time now, and nothing good came from the union."

"Well, not exactly nothing," I squeeze his hand.

Regulus rolls his eyes, "I'm not sure Sirius and I are something good, but okay, yes. Not everything was bad if you insist." His reserved smile has butterflies exploding in my stomach. "Anyways, my father has always chosen to be... well, he's always strayed from my mother. Even when I was a child, I'm sure he chose to be unfaithful even before Sirius and I. And-- uh..."

"What?" I'm not sure I want to know. He's developed a pink flush on his cheeks, not meeting my eye suddenly.

"Well, I was just going to-- confess, I suppose, about his favorite whorehouse."

Frowning, I ask what he means by confessing? What in the world is the connection between Orion's favorite whorehouse and Regulus.

It dawns on me exactly what he's confessing to, right as he speaks.

Regulus reddens further, "I'm sure you understand where I am going..."

I guess I have no reason to be upset over Regulus's past trysts. He was older than me, and most importantly, he was a pureblood man who was expected to... well, act as a pureblood man acts. And that included sleeping around as a bachelor, or in the Black family's case, sleeping with a select group of people their patriarch has chosen.

"Orion thought that we should uh-- learn in preparation for our marriages. Get out any wildness in our systems with the protection of women who were paid and wouldn't try to blackmail with a bastard child." 

I feel the cold glacial feeling of guilt rise up from the pit of my stomach all the way to my skin. Had I been-- Had I been causing him to relive a painful moment when I demanded--?

"And well, there are plenty of other things that were-- questionable about my parent's parenting style. My mother, you probably recognize she is a cruel, cold woman. A part of our recently exchanged letters, my brother and I were talking about a memory of our mother. Before she was the woman, you know, she was, well, a much more loving mother to the both of us. You actually were the one who brought forth the memory."

"I did?"

Regulus nods, reaching to cup my cheek in his hand, "It was the night we went to that-- the restaurant my father suggested. You said something about-- uh, a potential child giving you the love you seek from me."

I look away, feeling embarrassed by my words. To some extent, I do-- or did believe that having Regulus's heir, that a child's love could replace the feelings that should be between us as a couple.

"I--" I'm not even sure what to say. "That was wrong of me. I mean, eventually, it has to happen but pushing you-- or well attempting to trick you actually, because I thought..." What did I think? That he was hopeless? That I'd be stuck in a marriage that would parallel his parents and every other miserable Pureblood couple that has come before us.

"You have to remember that I am far from-- where you want me to be." Regulus's thumb traces under my eye, "But I certain I want what you've been asking me for."

***

Our packing takes longer than we'd expected as we spend more moments in conversation about our pasts, present, and hopeful future.

Regulus tells me about his first owl, a little brown owl originally named Maverick but nicknamed Rick because Regulus hadn't been able to pronounce it at age six. He tells me about family vacations that ended in disaster and his first date with a half-blood girl in year four that went terribly wrong. He reluctantly tells me about losing his virginity after I argue he already knew my story. With each moment, I feel more connected to him. How you feel at the beginning of the relationship when you're getting to know someone, the silly stuff that matters because you want to know them.

Checking out of the hotel is a bit-- strange, to say the least. As my husband talks to the witch at the front desk, who introduced herself to me as Seren, has been grinning an extra amount at Regulus, who appears to be oblivious to the flirtatious nature of the girl.

I'm surprised by the annoyance I feel as she flirts with my husband right in front of me. Without a second thought, I reach for his hand. I make sure that the ring Regulus gave me is obviously placed as I look Seren straight in the eye. Her eyes fall on the large purple jewel before her eyes shoot back up to mine. She at least has the decency to look embarrassed, her cheeks pinkening. Regulus frowns slightly at the interaction before going back to paying the witch.

I can't say that I'm not glad when we officially check out and walk out of the door. The jealousy is alarming, but what am I supposed to do when someone is ogling my husband? 

"I'm not completely oblivious, you know." Regulus glances at me, a small amused smile on his face.

"To what? The girl flirting with you?"

He chuckles, "That and your possessive behavior."

I look at him outraged, "I was not possessive."

He holds up my hand, "What was this about then? You casually wanted to hold my hand?"

"So what if I did?" 

Regulus rolls his eyes, "If that's what you really believe you were doing and not claiming me--"

"Claiming you?" I snatch my hand away.

"What else are you doing when you're showing off that ring?"

"I'm hardly claiming you. She was just-- too comfortable for my liking."

Regulus makes a sound in the back of his throat, "If you say so."

I bite the inside of my cheek, "Why didn't you do anything?"

He tries to hide a smile, "I hardly was indulging her."

"You didn't tell her to--" fuck off.

"I guarantee you, my dear wife, I have been deflecting her attempts all week." Oh, so maybe this wasn't exactly Regulus's fault... completely.

"You have?"

He stops me on the sidewalk, "Yes, of course. Do you really think I would flirt with another woman? Especially now?"

I shrug, "I guess-- no. I don't think you'd do that."

He shakes his head, "Of course I wouldn't."

***

I hold (y/n) tight against my chest as I apparate us to our new destination, remembering how she reacted the last time we apparated. 

The moment we're safely on the ground, I continue to hold her, asking quietly if she's okay in a hushed tone. (y/n) nods, her fingers gripping the sleeve of my coat.

For a second, I contemplate pressing a kiss to her temple as I rub my hand up and down her back, but I stop myself before I go through with the reaction. Even with the small progress we've made, it feels too intimate, even as a gesture of comfort. 

"Tell me when you're ready," I whisper.

Slowly, (y/n) pulls away from my embrace, (y/e/c) eyes opening hesitantly.

"I really don't like it." She says hesitantly.

"I can tell." We stand still for another beat before she confirms she is in better shape.

"Where are we?"

"Cork, Ireland." 

Her eyes widen with curiosity, "Really? I've never been. Dad's been a few times, but obviously, with school and other things, I hadn't had the chance to successfully convince him to take me with."

"So there were places you wished to visit." I can't help but tease her as she prattles on about the things her father has told her about the city we're visiting.

"Of course, but you spring things on me too quickly. I can never recall things when I've been surprised."

I chuckle, "Fair enough. We should check in soon; it's nearly ten. Whoever's running the front desk won't be happy we've arrived so late."

***

By the time we've checked in and opened the door to the suite, it's nearing ten-thirty. 

(y/n) takes a quick peek around the room before turning back towards me, "I suppose we should unpack--"

I don't let her finish the statement as I take two large steps towards her, cupping her face in my hands and kissing her soundly on the mouth. She makes a sound of surprise but doesn't pull away or smack me or something she ought to do, really. I'm not even sure where this need to kiss her came from. Maybe the way the soft light of the dimmed bedroom lights landed across her person, making her picturesque, ethereal even.

All I do know is that I must have her this instant. Must feel her soft skin under my fingers, feel her silken warmth as we move together atop the sheets of the hotel bed.

I have to have her, and I can only hope she feels the same way.

Tentatively, I run my hand down her spine, fiddling with the ridiculous amount of buttons that I could easily open with the flick of my wand. Something about the thought of painstakingly unbuttoning each individual button was incredibly erotic.

"I can never seem to control myself when you're around," I whisper as I kiss below her jaw. The way she seems to melt under the words has me smiling against her neck as I continue to kiss down to her exposed collarbone. These damn dresses she wears always showed off just enough cleavage to draw my eyes towards the neckline. "Do you wear these dresses on purpose? Torturing me all day, having to see only the tops of your breasts." Her breath hitches, egging me on. "Do you like it when I talk about your body like that? Like the way, just the sight of some of your naked flesh has me turned on? Hm?"

"Regulus--" My name comes from her lips like a prayer. 

"Tell me what you want." My hands worship her body, squeezing her covered tits. I would do anything to get this blasted dress off of her.

"I-- I want you."

"Want me to do what? Use your words, kitten."

Her lips, red and abused, open and close attractively once or twice before she finds her words, "I want you to fuck me."

"Fuck you? You want my cock, huh? Is that it? In any way that I'll give it to you?"

She blinks, a bit confused, but nods. I can't believe I've rendered my wife so speechless, so cock-hungry she can barely articulate what she wants.

"Let's get this off then," I tug at the neckline of her dress, "turn around, kitten." She quickly obeys, and I get to work on the buttons, finding I can release her from her dress easier than I had previously imagined. 

The fabric hits the floor as I gaze at her naked back, "turn back around. Think you've teased me enough. I want to see those tits."

Slowly, she faces me once again.

"I think I wanna fuck these," I say as I reacquaint myself with the feeling of her breasts in my hands.

"You want to-- what?" I often forget that my wife's sexual experience starts and ends with what we've done. She's looking at me like I've said something odd.

"You want me to show you? I think you'd look lovely with my cock between your breasts." I discard my pants, shirt, and jacket, pulling her towards the bed, lightly guiding her down to the floor as I sit.

"What about fucking me?" She frowns up at me.

I chuckle at her indignant frown, "Don't worry, darling. I plan on cumming inside of you. Now, push your tits together nice and tight around me. There we go."

Hesitantly, she does as I say. The sight alone has me twitching. 

Gently, I thrust up. If I thought the view before was good, seeing her innocent face watch as I seek pleasure from a new place on her body. She's radiant, on her knees, watching my cock disappear and reappear. 

"Do you like that, darling? Like watching?"

Her eyes flit up to meet mine, "Yes." It takes nearly everything within me not to cum on the spot. Merlin, what was this girl doing to me?

"Do you want me to fuck you, kitten?" I hold her chin, so she has to look at me.

"Obviously." There's that attitude I expect. Chuckling, I pull her from her knees, maneuvering her on her back.

"So impatient. Just itching to feel me deep inside ya, huh?" She nods, "words, darling."

"Yes, please."

The first inches feel like coming home. She makes those breathy noises I love, pleading with me for more, to give her everything and anything I can. 

It's a symphony in the room, the headboard of the old creaky bed knocking against the wallpapered wall, the noises (y/n) makes every time she moves her hips against mine... There's no doubt that we're alerting the rest of the occupants exactly what we're doing in room twelve. 

This thought stirs something inside of me. Clumsily, my fingers find her clit hoping to get her exactly where I'm at.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop--" her voice is utterly fucked as she practically chants these words.

"Cum for me, kitten. Don't hold back." Merlin-- please don't hold back.

If our neighbors weren't aware of the little-- musical act happening in our room, they were now. (y/n) writhes beneath me, fingernails digging into the small of my back.

"Fuck--" I don't hold back as she clenches down hard. 

Was it ever this good with someone else? I can't think of a single woman who makes me cum as hard as I do with (y/n).

As the weaker aftershocks continue to rack my body, I lay down next to her, pulling her into my embrace. I reach for my wand in my discarded jacket, silently casting the charm.

(y/n) looks like she wants to say something, but I stop her, kissing her forehead.

"I promise, someday. But not today." (y/n) doesn't say anything but nods as she gets more comfortable in my arms. "You know, this is the first time we've done this."

"What do you mean?" (y/n) laughs, "we've done this a few times now."

"Not that. I mean, usually, one of us runs off after we've done that. This is the first time you're voluntarily in my arms."

(y/n) makes a soft noise of agreement, "That's true."

I smile. This was progress.

[murasaki-murasame]

Thoughts on Higurashi Sotsu Ep15 [FINALE]

For better or worse I think Ryukishi achieved exactly what he set out to do with this series, and I guess everyone’s just gonna be forced to reckon with how they feel about his own perspective on this franchise versus how they feel about it, lol.

Anyway, thoughts under the cut, plus Umineko spoilers.

I’m not entirely sure where to even start with this, but I guess the TL;DR is that I honestly think Gou/Sotsu was ultimately just fine despite it’s issues, and part me of can’t help but be like ‘I told you so, lol’ about how this really did end with this episode, and also committed pretty hard to the Umineko prequel elements.

It’s not like all of my theories were correct in the end, but I at least think I was pretty spot on in my prediction last week that this would end with the miracle of them side-stepping the sword issue entirely and choosing the third option of forgiveness and reconciliation. And also them ending it with an epilogue where we go back to the Matsuribayashi timeline and get a happy ending for Rika and Satoko that provides a ‘non-magical interpretation’ for the story while also giving us an idea of how Bern and Lambda formally split off into their own entities and start the relationship we see in Umineko.

I didn’t quite expect them to go down the route of having them agree to just spend a few years apart and accept that they don’t need to literally always be together, but I think that was a really good way to wrap things up between them. It’s pretty much the healthiest compromise to their conflict that doesn’t come across like it completely invalidates one of their dreams. I get why it feels too anti-climactic and convenient for people, but when you pull at that thread you get into wider topics of what the entire story is about, since this was always going to end with Satoko being redeemed and forgiven. People might not have taken him seriously, but Ryukishi was 100% genuine about his regrets about Matsuribayashi’s ending, and how part of why he came up with this new story was to create a better ending, while also doing more with Satoko as a character.

Basically I think a lot of the fandom negativity towards this boils down to people fundamentally disagreeing with the idea that Matsuribayashi was even ‘flawed’ in this sort of way to begin with, or that Satoko was badly written. It’s valid to disagree on this stuff, but at the very least we all have to grapple with how Ryukishi has his own specific relationship with this series.

People like to focus on how he’s a troll who likes to mess with people, but I feel like this is a bit of a wake-up call for people about how he’s actually extremely sincere, almost to a fault, and he likes to use his stories as a vehicle for expressing his personal philosophies and ideals. 

This whole story is also a good example of how he just sees this as ultimately being a fictional story about fictional characters, and not literally a matter of real people who need to be sentenced for their crimes or whatever. As early as the original VN he was almost being outright preachy about the message that nobody is irredeemable, and that philosophy carries through to this. But to be more specific, nobody *in this story* is irredeemable. He’s pretty open about the fact that in practice you can’t apply this sort of ideal to real life, but fictional stories are their own separate matter.

I think this whole issue of how he views this as a story first and foremost is also the central reason why this ended in a way that comes across as Satoko being let off too easy for her crimes. One way or another, Ryukishi’s made it clear that he sees this as being no different to how other characters had arcs where they committed crimes but still got forgiven, or how Takano is basically a straight up war criminal who also got forgiven for her crimes.

Anyway, this episode at least committed to the Umineko stuff, so that was satisfying. Sure there’s people that still want to deny it, but at this point I think a lot of people are just being stubborn, so it’s not like anything would have really convinced them, lol. I’m also genuinely not sure what people even would have expected them to do beyond what we saw her, aside from having the two of them literally put on their gothic lolita outfits and turn to the camera and go ‘we are literally Bernkastel and Lambdadelta from the video game series Umineko When They Cry’. I almost feel like there’s some kind of misunderstanding from people who aren’t familiar with Umineko when it comes to the idea of what it even means for this to be ‘an Umineko prequel’, or ‘a Bern/Lambda origin story’. I mean, this is quite literally exactly what I expected and hoped for in that regard. It’s not like I was expecting them to incorporate anything related to, like, Beatrice or the Ushiromiya family.

I think this is also one of those things where you just have to decide for yourself whether or not you want to earnestly engage with the story that’s being told, or if you want to assume that there’s some level of malice or trickery going on.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting them to literally have Rika and Satoko recite part of Bern and Lambda’s final conversation with each other word for word, lmao. Combined with the scene at the end where ‘Witch Satoko’ talks to herself about how she’s going to give her body back to Satoko while she goes chasing after Rika, it was literally just the exact origin story of their relationship as it’s depicted in Umineko.

I still feel like this would all only really be ‘worth it’ if we actually get something like a full on anime remake for Umineko, but at this point I can’t help but feel satisfied with this part of it all.

It’s not like I think Gou/Sotsu as a whole is perfect or anything, though. I don’t hate it as much as basically everyone else does, but I think Ryukishi’s the sort of VN writer who really struggles with the shift to writing for an anime. I think a big part of the frustration people have is just from how this is formatted as a weekly anime series spread across basically an entire year, instead of being something like a stand-alone VN chapter that you can read at whatever pace you want, even if it ultimately takes the same amount of time to read as it would to watch all of Gou/Sotsu.

There’s also the whole issue of this being a sort-of-remake, which snowballed into a whole list of structural problems. They absolutely tried too hard to have their cake and eat it too, and they should have just committed to it being made for old fans only, instead of trying to sincerely incorporate elements from the VN that old fans don’t care about anymore because they’ve gone over it already.

And as I’ve said several times before, it was a major issue for them to decide to put Nekodamashi in the middle of Gou and then spend like 20 episodes on flashback answer arcs until finally getting back to that cliffhanger. I’ve been waiting until this all ended to decide exactly how I feel about that, and now that it’s all over I still think it was a really bad idea. I don’t think it was an issue for them to reveal that Satoko’s the culprit that early, but having the gun cliffhanger specifically happen that early just gave people misguided expectations and tainted the answer arcs because people were just impatient to get back to the cliffhanger. And then the cliffhanger itself ended up being somewhat anti-climactic, which is what I’d been fearing would happen. It would have worked fine if they shuffled it around so that the cliffhanger happened right before Kagurashi and was followed up in the very next episode, or if this was a VN where you could binge your way through the flashback stuff, but spending like half of an entire real-life year to get back to that point only to have the resolution be ‘Satoko just shoots Rika and the death loops keep going’ just didn’t really work properly.

I’m a lot more generous towards the Akashi arcs than most people are, since I think they really over-estimate how much re-used content there is there, but they still suffer from the central issue of the show trying to be accessible for new fans. It could have been heavily condensed otherwise, without losing anything in terms of Satoko’s whole character arc.

On the other hand I think the first half of Kagurashi was awful specifically because it highlighted how bad of an idea it was to put Nekodamashi so early in the story. They still ended up having to go back to that arc and repeat it anyway, in the most 1:1 recap-y way in the whole show, but that wouldn’t have even been an issue in the first place if that was instead the first time that arc happened in the show.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I would rearrange the story to make it flow better while still following Ryukishi’s intentions, and I think they could have condensed it into a 2-cour season with this sort of structure if they did something like this:

-First arc where Rika gets thrown back into the loop and quickly figures out that somebody intentionally caused this to happen, and it’s not Takano because at least in this idea of mine she’d try and investigate her only to find out that this version of Takano regrets everything and is planning to flee the village with Tomitake.

Basically I think this could tie into the idea of Satoko initially wanting to just concoct an idea world for Rika so that she won’t want to leave this time, but sort of like what I think happens in Saikoroshi, Rika would still reject it, and this time around there’d be the additional layer of her knowing that somebody did this to her for an unknown reason. Maybe they could even initially market it as a new adaptation or a remake of Saikoroshi, and then reveal that it’s a sequel, to keep that whole element to the series. Either way I think this would end with everything going to shit when Rika rejects that fragment and wants to go back to St. Lucia’s, and Satoko basically snaps and kills her, and that way the audience can find out about her being the culprit without Rika finding out about it yet.

Maybe there could even be some dramatic irony where Rika’s attempts to meddle with certain ‘trigger events’, and her displaying her looper side, inadvertently triggers people around her to get paranoid, and the whole fragment would start to spiral into tragedy from there. I think they could at least use the whole conflict in Tatariakashi about Teppei actually being good this time as a starting point for that sorta thing.

-Second arc, rounding out the first cour, which is basically just Satokowashi. I don’t think there’s much that you’d need to change here, but like I said above I like the idea of her initially trying to just invent a perfect world for Rika and her to live in, instead of jumping straight to murder. But maybe instead of her literally just watching Rika’s loops, she could instead just be stuck using her looping powers to try and figure out how to create that ‘perfect world’ in the first place, by personally investigating all of the different tragedies and how to prevent them.

-Staring the second cour, a third arc where we basically just get to see those loops Satoko goes through, and her whole process of solving the tragedies and ‘purifying’ characters like Teppei and Takano, until we eventually see her perspective on the first arc, and how she reacts to Rika ultimately rejecting the world she tried to make for her.

-A fourth and final arc which is basically just Nekodamashi + Kagurashi, where she just totally snaps and tries to just torture Rika into never wanting to leave the village again, and eventually Satoko gets exposed and they have their direct confrontation with each other.

With that sorta story structure, you’d keep all the relevant bits of Gou/Sotsu as it is now, while being more focused on Rika and Satoko instead of doing kinda half-assed reruns of the Rena and Shion arcs. It’d also push the big cliffhanger between them until near the end of the show, while still revealing to the audience relatively early on that Satoko’s the culprit.

I’d also like them to do more with Satoshi and Shion, so maybe like with how Teppei gets redeemed and Satoko almost gets to have a happy life with him in Tatariakashi, the central question arc of this hypothetical story could also involve Satoko making sure that Satoshi wakes up from his coma, and Shion also gets to have a good relationship with all of them. You could probably do something interesting with the idea of Satoshi and Shion being in the camp of not trusting Teppei and his whole redemption arc.

Honestly I could spend a long time talking about how I would have done things differently, lol. For one thing, I think the Akashi arcs would have been much better if they just changed it so that Satoko used psychological tactics to make people paranoid, and we completely cut out the whole syringe plot device. I get how it fits with Satoko’s whole certainty gimmick, but it made those arcs way too predictable. Even if we knew the outcome, it’d at least be entertaining to see exactly how Satoko might go out of her way to set up the different tragedies. We kinda got glimpses of that sorta plot point in Wataakashi when things seemed to go outside of her control, but they didn’t really do much with it.

Anyway, this is a whole lot of words to say that I think that in spite of the serious structural issues going on, I think Gou/Sotsu as a whole is fine, and was at least working with a lot of perfectly good ideas that could have been executed much better.

Also, on a side note, that one scene during their fist-fight at the start where the art-style changes a bit was kinda weird, but I really liked how it looked, and part of me almost wishes the whole show looked like that, lol. I like Akio Watanabe’s character designs, but I feel like that sort of stylized, almost TWEWY-ish art style would have been really fitting for this series, especially in the horror/action parts.

Oh, and the new rendition of You was so good it almost felt emotionally manipulative, lol.

[blitzturtles]

Title: It Starts Like This, Ch. 7

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): BruAbba

Summary: Trish freezes in the doorway, mid-stride, but she doesn’t turn around. Her shoulders are tense, and she looks prepared to bolt at the slightest hint of trouble. It adds weight to his ongoing theory that she’s been steering clear of him, and now it’s time to confirm whether or not he knows why.

Notes: Turns out being dead has a bit of a long term effect. Who would have thought?

This fic got away from me, so I'm breaking it down by character interaction (sort of). This is Trish's chapter, which should be the second to last! I'll still write in this universe in the future, though they'll likely be one-shots going forward.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

-

Bucciarati steps into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. As far as he knew, the only three people at home were Narancia, Leone, and himself. The former is busy doing his homework in the library, while Bruno’s just left Leone’s presence to explore the contents of the pantry. Alone. Or so he’d thought.

A blur of pink nearly startles Bucciarati as badly as he must scare Trish, considering the way she nearly jumps out of her seat at the dining room table. Rather than sit back down, she’s scrambling up to weave past him. “Oh! Bucciarati! I’m sorry, I can- I can go,” she says, moving almost too quickly for Bucciarati to recover in time to catch her, much less speak.

“Wait, Trish.”

Trish freezes in the doorway, mid-stride, but she doesn’t turn around. Her shoulders are tense, and she looks prepared to bolt at the slightest hint of trouble. It adds weight to his ongoing theory that she’s been steering clear of him, and now it’s time to confirm whether or not he knows why.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bucciarati says, speaking the words slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t want to chase her off before they have a chance to talk.

Trish sucks in a breath, but she doesn’t find the right words to reply despite the frantic look in her eyes.

Bucciarati decides that’s his cue to continue. “Since the day in Giorno’s office, you won’t stay in any room that I am in alone.” He picks his words as carefully as he can. He’s not offended, but he doesn’t know how to emphasize that to her while still getting down to the root of the problem. “Something’s bothering you.”

“I’ve just been busy,” Trish manages to squeak out.

Bucciarati doesn’t need to brush up on his interrogation skills to know that she’s lying. She isn’t particularly good at it, either. At least not when she’s trying to lie to him. Someone else, maybe, but he sees right through the brave face she attempts.

“Trish.”

“It’s nothing! Really!” She grabs the doorframe, as if he might drag her back into the kitchen when she makes a run for it.

“If I may be so bold,” Bucciarati starts, still careful, “You’re feeling guilty. You have been for a while.” He doesn’t need all of his life experience to know that. The look on her face screams it.

Trish wavers in place. Her hand drops from the doorframe, but only so she can wrap her arms around her middle. She hugs herself tightly, as if she can ward away the onslaught of reality. It makes Bucciarati feel guilt of his own for pushing the subject. Maybe she isn’t ready, but he doesn’t want her pain to continue over this. He thinks she’s done more than enough self-loathing, and the punishment is unjust. She’s committed no crime.

Blood once meant everything to Bucciarati. He killed for his blood, traded his life away to the mafia for a few short and illness-riddled years for his blood, but he would never assign the sins of the father to that of the child. Trish is not-- and never has been-- her father. She isn’t capable of doing half of the things Diavolo did in his life.

Trish’s breathing hitches, and it’s all the encouragement that Bucciarati needs. He carefully moves toward her, stepping around her turned back so that they’re facing one another. He brushes his fingers through her hair and tucks some of it away from her face. The first tear falls then, and it breaks his heart.

“Trish,” he repeats, hoping she’ll look at him, but he knows she won’t. All she does is tuck her chin into her shoulder in shame. If she can’t run, then she might as well try hiding. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I know,” she says. Lies.

Bucciarati sighs, though immediately regrets it when Trish flinches away from him. For lack of a better idea, he pulls Trish against his chest and smooths a hand over her hair. “You didn’t do this.”

“But you did it for me!”

Ah. There it is.

“And I would do it again,” Bucciarati reassures. “I didn’t expect our path to involve you, but Giorno and I had intended on taking down your father before we met you. You didn’t change that.” Though she had given him a renewed purpose. A reason to fight even beyond death.

“It doesn’t matter,” Trish insists with a voice that breaks halfway through.

Bucciarati can feel the wetness of her tears against his-- or, rather, Abbacchio’s-- shirt beginning to build as more fall. He continues to brush his fingers through her mass of pink curls. “You didn’t hurt me, Trish.”

“But he did, and he did it because you were trying to protect me!”

“Losing you wasn’t an option,” Bucciarati answers with a gentle squeeze. He lets his chin rest on top of her head and takes a moment to calm his own thoughts.

“Why?” She asks when the silence stretches on between them.

Bucciarati doesn’t think that’s the question that she really wants to ask. And he knows that she doesn’t want-- and won’t accept-- the answer, anyway. Because you deserve to live, he would tell her, if it would mean anything to her right now. He knows what she’ll say in response. Knows she’ll tell him the same, and that his life wasn’t worth her’s.

“You didn’t choose this life,” it’s a gentle reminder, but one that she apparently needs. Her situation is a result of her birth. There’s nothing she did to warrant any of this. “None of this is your fault.”

“Like you did?” Trish snaps the words at him, all sharp edges and surprisingly painful. “Why do you think you deserve this?” She’s demanding now, despite the snuffle in her voice. She’s more anger than unending melancholy, and it’s throwing him off, but not as much the words himself. He doesn’t have an answer to give. Not this time.

She deflates after a moment of receiving no reply and tries to pull away, but he won’t let her. He knows she regrets the words, but he understands why they hang in the air. Why she had to say them. It’s not as if she’s wrong, but that doesn’t mean he knows what to do with them.

“You save everyone around you, and- and for what?” Her hand slams against his chest, open palmed and far from painful. “Was it really worth it?” Her voice is no more than a whisper now.

“Yes,” Bucciarati answers; this time without hesitation, because this is an answer that he does have. A truth that he knows with absolute certainty.

Trish chokes on a sob, and Bucciarati pulls her against him once more.

“Why?” She repeats her earlier question.

Grief is a miserable thing, and he finds that question at the center of it so often. He remembers asking himself that on a loop for years on end without ever finding an answer that satisfied him after all the suffering.

Silence stretches over them once more, and he lets Trish cry with the question hanging between them. It doesn’t matter anymore. The important part is that he’s pushed past the worst of it. He’s confident now that she won’t continue to avoid him. At least not to the same degree. The healing will take time, but he hopes that she’ll allow him to take part in it. That’s all he could truly ask of her anyway. He wants to be there for the people he cares about when they need it, regardless of whatever’s happening in his own head.

“I’m sorry,” Trish says when her sobs slow, and she’s hiccupping more than gasping. She tries to wipe at the tears with frantic hands, but he interrupts her to offer the handkerchief from his pocket.

“Don’t be.”

After taking a moment to wipe at her face, she looks at him again and her expression shifts to mild horror as she takes in the mixture of snot and tears staining the front of his shirt. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

Bucciarati can’t help barking out a short laugh. He squeezes her shoulder gently. “Ah, no harm done. It’s one of Leone’s, anyway.” The dismissiveness is only a joke. He’ll replace the shirt before Leone notices it’s gone, but he gets his intended effect when she lets out a startled laugh that has him smiling warmly at her in response.

“Oh, you were coming in here. Are you hungry?” Trish asks, suddenly remembering how their entire conversation started. She shifts her eyes to the table, clearly not ready to part ways now that they’ve worked through some of what’s been bothering her.

Bucciarati is more than happy to take the invitation. He goes a step further and turns it around on her, “Actually, I was thinking about having some gelato. Care to join me?”

“Depends,” Trish says with false hesitance. She’s teasing him now, and it makes him smile even wider in response, “What kind?”

“Stracciatella?”

Trish tries not to beam, and Bucciarati bites back an endeared laugh. She seems lighter now. Less restrained. She’s not trying to hide from him or avoid letting him see her emotions. There’s a weight off of her shoulders, and he’s glad that he could alleviate some of her misplaced blame.

“Can we eat in the living room?”

“I don’t see why not,” Bucciarati says with a shrug. It’s not as though they haven’t all broken that rule time and time again.

“You’re the best!” Trish calls as she bounces out of the room, presumably to find something for them to watch.

Bucciarati takes a moment to compose a text to Leone. A quick, barely legible update to the ‘Trish situation’, as they’d affectionately been calling it. Leone sends his response before Bucciarati’s phone touches the counter, and he bites back a fond smile, knowing that Leone must have been waiting for an update after so long. He’s doing his best to avoid being overbearing, but it’s not always easy.

Trish pokes her head back through the doorway before Bucciarati can set his phone back down, though she doesn’t give it a second glance before asking, “Are cartoons okay?”

“Depends,” Bucciarati says, reaching for the bowls. “Are they the ones Mista likes?”

“God no.”

“Then yes.”

[aalissy]

Stay

Andddd this is the end!! This is the last chapter for Adrienette April <3. I certainly hope you guys enjoyed reading it bc I had a great time writing it. It DOES contain Gang of Secrets spoilers so don’t read this if you haven’t seen that episode :). Lemme know what you think of this chapter or what you thought of the whole month tho hahah <3. I’ll see you all in my Marichat May drabbles :) 

AO3

Marinette sniffled, gazing down at her bedroom floor that she had collapsed on. Everything had just been so much lately. Being both Ladybug and the guardian was almost impossible. Her phone buzzed incessantly on her desk but she ignored it, drowning in both stress and guilt. The kwamis snuggled around her, whispering reassurances in her ears but she huddled in on herself, laying down on the cold tiles. She didn’t even hear the knock on her trapdoor, only snapping back into awareness when the kwamis jolted away from her, phasing back into where she hid the Miracle Box.

Quickly, Marinette sat back up when the hatch opened, trying to scrub any remaining tear tracks from her eyes. She heard a voice call out her name hesitantly before she saw Adrien’s head pop up, “Marinette?”

She grimaced, swiping the heel of her hand against her smeared mascara. What was he even doing here? Adrien rarely stopped by the bakery, let alone her bedroom. Reaching for her phone, she winced at the number of text messages that greeted her.

“Oh my god, Marinette...” Adrien gasped before collapsing next to her. “Are you alright?! What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” She swallowed the harsh lump in her throat to give him a weak smile. “What are you doing here?”

He frowned at her, looking over her concernedly. “Alya asked me to come check on you. She said you weren’t answering your phone and I was the closest one to the bakery.”

“Of course she did,” she murmured, glancing down at her phone with a small smile. She could always count on her best friend to find a way to bring her back. She had done an even better job after Marinette told her she was Ladybug. She then gave herself a mental reminder to call Alya back as soon as she was able to.

She blinked up with some shock and slight panic as Adrien stood up. His frown had deepened further and he opened his mouth to say something when she quickly reached out. Marinette clutched his wrist rather desperately, nibbling on her lower lip. Slowly, she moved her hand down to hold his tightly, murmuring, “Stay, please. Don’t go.”

Adrien lowered himself back down to crouch beside her, squeezing her hand in his. “I wasn’t going to, Marinette. I promise.”

She gave him a watery smile, sniffling quietly. She scooted closer to him, whispering a quiet, “Thank you.”

Instead of responding, Adrien simply opened his arms to her and she immediately dove into his embrace. Marinette clenched her eyes shut tight, savoring the warmth and safety she felt as he held her to him. She nuzzled her head closer to him, letting out a quiet, happy sigh. Slowly, the pain and guilt from before ebbed away and she could finally relax.

She stayed like that for a few more minutes, content to stay exactly where she was for the rest of her life. Adrien gave some of the best hugs ever. Second only to Chat Noir. Slowly, Marinette pulled back, blinking away any last remaining tears. She gave him another wobbly smile before she worried at her lower lip. “I’m sorry about that. I had a long day today and I didn’t mean to drag you into it.”

Adrien’s look softened as he shook his head. “You never have to apologize, Marinette. I’m just glad you’re okay. Can you tell me what happened? I’d love to try and fix it for you if I can!”

His face was so eager to help and to please that she realized exactly why she fell in love with him once again. He was amazing. Marinette’s smile froze, however, when she realized that there wasn’t anything she could tell him. All of her problems were due to being both Ladybug and the guardian. She couldn’t risk her secret identity again. Especially not when she already knew the repercussions of Adrien knowing. Shuddering at the thought of Chat Blanc, she slowly shook her head. “I-I can’t tell you, Adrien. I’m sorry.”

“Oh?” He frowned at her in confusion as his head tilted adorably. “Why not?”

Marinette sighed quietly, tapping her two index fingers together as her gaze darted around. She couldn’t exactly explain that she had a secret identity that she had to protect. It was too risky with just Alya knowing. Nor could she tell him that she was Ladybug and the recent akuma attacks had left her without any free time to work on schoolwork or spend time with her friends.

She ran a hand through her hair as she blew out a harsh breath. Deciding to skirt around the problem, she murmured, “I’ve just been really stressed lately, Adrien. I haven’t had much free time to finish my homework or even go to the movies with any of my friends.”

Adrien nodded understandingly, “I get it, Marinette. Having a full schedule can be impossible. I’m sorry that you have to go through that.”

A look of realization and admiration lit across her face. Of course he gets it. Maybe not to the extent of having a double life to hide from everyone... but Adrien has certainly had to deal with a full plate before. Marinette gave him another shaky smile before throwing herself into his arms. This was exactly what she needed. Someone who understands and knows what she’s dealing with.

Quietly, she murmured, “Thank you, Adrien. You have no idea how much that means to me. S-so, how do you do it? How do you handle dealing with almost no free time?”

One of his hands came up to rub her back gently. Marinette’s eyes shut tight as her smile grew wider. If she hadn’t already been in love with him, she would have definitely fallen right there and then. How could one boy be so perfect for her and yet be so out of her league? It just wasn’t fair.

Adrien’s breath brushed against her ear as she shivered lightly. Softly, he whispered to her, “I focus on the things that are most important to me. I suffer through my responsibilities for a chance to finally be able to hang out with my friends and do the things that make me the happiest. You need to really relax and let loose in the free time you do have. And I also keep in mind that I have people who love and care about me and will always be there no matter what. Just like you, Marinette. Don’t forget that.”

Her lower lip wobbled as she tried to suppress the tears that were threatening to spill from the corners of her shut eyes. He always knew just what to say. She gave Adrien one last, tight squeeze before pulling back, looking at him rather adoringly. Swiping any stray tears away, she gave him a bright smile. “I won’t. I promise.”

She stood up slowly before leaning down to offer him a hand up. Her heart fluttered as he gave her a crooked grin back. She really had to give Alya that call thanking her because this was the best thing she could have done. Nibbling on her lower lip, Marinette said, “Thank you for staying, Adrien. You really turned a bad day into a perfect one.”

He gave her a soft look, patting her on the shoulder. “Of course, Marinette. I’m always here, whenever you need me. I’ll always just be a phone call away.”

Biting harshly on her lower lip, she ached to tell him her actual secret. How could this boy have ever told someone about her secret identity? He was just so sweet. Eventually, Marinette simply breathed in deeply, deciding that she’d tell him as soon as Hawkmoth was defeated. Peering up at him from beneath her lashes, she murmured, “I’ll be sure to remember that. I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, though.”

Adrien’s brow furrowed at that. “You don’t need to apologize for that, Marinette. I like spending time with you. Especially if I can help you feel better.”

She glanced down, her cheeks dusted a light pink. “D-do you have time to play a game of Ultimate Mecha Strike III, or do you need to go?”

“I think I have time for one game. As long as you’re prepared to lose. I’ve been practicing.” He gave her a smug smirk.

Marinette’s eyes narrowed playfully as she said, “You’re on!”

With that, they both slid into the desk chairs and booted up the game. Her fingers slid across the controls with practiced ease as she and Adrien fought. Once she had a comfortable lead, her eyes slid over to him. One thing was for absolute certainty after today. She would never truly be over Adrien Agreste. A part of her would always love him. As she defeated him and he screamed for a rematch, Marinette slowly relaxed. He was right. It was time for her to learn to calm down and enjoy her free time before the next mission. Giving him a smug smirk, she set them up for the rematch, certain that she’d beat him once again.

[sideofmango]

You Have My Heart...

Word Count: 2.14 k Pronouns: feminine (she/her) Pairings: K. Bakugou x reader Warnings: gore, dark fic ahead, violence, cursing, death

Thanks Marie ( @dailydoseofscenarios​) for letting me be part of the server event! I had a lot of fun writing this, and as you can tell, I took the prompt kinda literally...anyways....I hope you like it! Don’t forget to check out all of the other fics in this event under the server event hashtag!

The ash blonde sat in the oversized red leather arm chair that faced the large window overlooking her garden. He let out a soft sigh, readjusting his position to get more comfortable as he leaned his chin in the palm of his hand. 

“What am I supposed to get her, that she doesn’t already have?” He questioned aloud, his crimson eyes shifting to the side as the large dog beside the chair let out a sigh himself moving into a laying down position, as if to say, I don’t know why you’re asking me. 

“You aren’t very helpful, Khan.” Katsuki muttered, as his eyes focused back on the window, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips at the sight of his beloved wife in the garden below. Khan let out a whine in protest, as a close lipped smile grew on his owner’s face a moment later. “I’ll ask Shitty Hair.” Katsuki stood to his full height, the large black dog standing as well, prepared to follow him.

The ash blonde and his loyal dog walked down the long expanses of hallway, ornately decorated with golden accents, on the way to his private quarters. “Good day, Master Bakugou. Please give my best to the Mistress.” A few servants said as he passed them in the hallway, simply nodding in acknowledgement before he closed the heavy wooden doors to his study.

“Khan get me the ink.” Bakugou stated without looking up from where he was writing, the quill held firmly in his left hand, an almost empty ink well beside the letter he was in the process of writing to his best friend. “Good boy.” He threw the dog a treat as a reward before going back to writing, Khan settling at Bakugou’s feet once more in content silence.

“Dear Shitty Hair, Help me or else. What do I get Big Hair for Valentine’s Day? Come over and help me now. I won’t help you next time with Raccoon Eyes if you don’t help me. Signed, K. Bakugou.” The explosive man read aloud, nodding once before shoving it roughly into an envelope. He scribbled the information down before sealing the expensive stationary with golden wax, pressing the Bakugou Family Crest into the warm wax to leave an imprint.

“You!” Bakugou’s loud voice startled the butler walking past him in the hallway, the man blinking up at his employer nervously. 

“Master Bakugou?”

“I don’t care how you get this to Kirishima, just do it. And get it there by this afternoon.” Bakugou told him before walking away. He didn’t have to tell anyone anything twice, and he liked that.

A number of hours later, one of the servants announced that Kirishima had arrived, while Mina went to the garden to spend time with (y/n). 

“So is there a reason a winded man servant showed up at my door some time ago? You aren’t a father yet...are you?”

The ash blonde scoffed, quickly dismissing the idea with a roll of his eyes. “Fuck no.”

“Well, you aren’t getting any younger...”

“Well, I’m not getting any older either...”

“Don’t counter my point with another point.” Kirishima argued back as Bakugou rolled his eyes and flipped the redhead off with a small smirk.

“Whatever.” Bakugou stated as they both sat down in a chair. “I can’t think of anything to get (y/n) for Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s your anniversary, too right?” Bakugou nodded. “How many years?”

“183.” Bakugou said after a moment in thought. Kirishima stayed quiet as he thought.

“Do you remember how we all met each other?”

“You mean on our wedding night?” The blonde snorted as Kirishima rolled his eyes.

“Well, I guess...but you remember the first time you saw her right?”

“Well yeah, but she was just an extra then...I didn’t even know she was the woman I was going to marry.”

“What did you do? You weren’t an asshole to her, were you?” Bakugou simply glared at Kirishima. “Damn, you were.” Kirishima frowned.

“That’s a lie, Shitty Hair!”

“Whatever, just give her something super unconventional. Mina loves those types of gifts.” 

“Like what?”

“Well, you remember those super exclusive auction seats that we scored a few decades back?”

“Which ones? The Body is Art ones?”

“Yeah...well, I contacted Pierre and he lined up this whole private show and he let me harvest the different pieces...anyways, Mina loved it....We ended up keeping a few things.” Kirishima shrugged.

“How did you contact Pierre? Didn’t he say he hated technology?”

“That just what he tells everyone. He owed me a favor from a while ago. Anyways, the man loves you, I’m sure he’d do it for you in a heartbeat.”

“Whatever.” Katsuki shrugged dismissing the idea, but he would definitely look into it later. “Are you staying for dinner or not?”

“Are you asking?”

“Answer the question, Shitty Hair.”

“Sure!” Kirishima smiled widely, showing off his sharp teeth before the pair of friends decided to join their partners outside in the garden.

“Hey Mina?” (Y/n) questioned, looking over at the pink skinned girl who had her back against a tree. Mina’s eyes focused on her, a kind smile on her face.

“I’ve been thinking of what to get Katsuki for Valentine’s Day...and I want your opinion on it...” (y/n) trailed off, growing slightly nervous that Mina would think the gift was weird or stupid.

“If you wanted to model lingerie for me, you could’ve just said that...though Bakugou wouldn’t care if you were in a sack or lace...have you seen the way he looks at you? How do you not have gremlins...I mean children yet?”

“Mina! Get your head out of the gutter! I’m not modeling lingerie for you...right now at least...and we’re too young for children...”

“You’re 200 years old, but keep lying to yourself.” Mina teased as (y/n) rolled her eyes at one of her best friends, her face still slightly hot from what Mina had said earlier.

“What’s the surprise then? If it isn’t you in new lingerie or a child?”

“So...I thought it would be fun to recreate the night we first met?”

“But you literally just said you weren’t giving him lingerie.”

“Mina! The actual first night we met! Not our wedding day!” (Y/n) laughed, throwing her hands up in mock exasperation.

“Oh...the hunt? Ohhhh, the hunt.” Mina’s smile grew wider the longer she thought about it.

“That’s perfect! But the lingerie thing would’ve been nice too.”

“Mina! If you wanna see me in lingerie, then you should’ve just said that.” (Y/n) giggled before further explaining her plans for Valentine’s Day. 

It was the only plan she could think of for the man she had loved for almost all of her life...a man that seemed to have everything he could ever want.

ON VALENTINE’S DAY...

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just hired more people to help.” Mina complained while straightening a string of lights. 

“It’s more fun, and besides, all of the girls are back together!” (y/n) commented, gesturing towards all of the girls that were gathered around the room, each hanging different decorations.

“How long has it been since we’ve all been in the same place?” Ururaka questioned with a wistful sigh.

“At least 30 years.” Momo chimed in. “We really do need to see each other more.”

“Then we should have more balls, like we used to.”

“This isn’t a ball, Tsu.” Mina pointed out. “It’s the hunt. You know, like we used to have way back when.”

“Wait a second...where are we getting the prey from?”

“Aren’t you vegetarian?”

“No, Iida and I gave that up like 5 years ago.” Midoriya laughed. “Iida just likes sustainably sourced and organic.”

“Oh come on, you haven’t ever just gone to a night club to pick up a few?” Mina teased as the girls, Midoriya, and Denki laughed. 

“No, that’s so 1960s, Mina.”

“No, that’s date night.” Mina corrects as (y/n)’s face heats up slightly as she laughs.

“We’ve done it a few times...not recently though, we’ve been pretty busy...one of our neighbors called the cops because she thought she saw us doing something suspicious.”

“What were you doing?”

“Well we may have been hiding a body, but that’s besides the point. That old lady should’ve minded her own business. It’d be a shame if she were to suddenly...go missing.” (Y/n) mumbled with a roll of her eyes as they all laughed.

“Alright, everyone go change! We’ll be starting in three hours!” Jirou announced, ushering everyone to different parts of the large castle to change into their special outfits. 

It only took everyone an hour and a half to two hours to get ready, the last hour was spent doing finishing touches and everyone calling their partners to come as a surprise.

“Oi Shitty Girl! What’s the problem? You aren’t hurt are you?” The aggressive blonde questioned quickly, his red eyes gliding over (y/n)’s body as if checking she was ok for himself. 

“Then what’s the problem?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow at her as she placed a blindfold over his eyes. “Shitty Girl, what are you doing?”

“Be patient, Katsuki. You’ll like the surprise.” (y/n) said in a teasing voice as she led him into the large ballroom. The sun had just sat and the night sky was dark and littered with stars that could be seen from the windows.

“What’s all of this?” Katsuki questioned, finally removing the black blindfold as he scanned the room, surprised to see all of his friends equally surprised from where they stood with their partners. 

“Surprise! I thought it would be fun to recreate the party that happened the first time we met each other. Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“We’re going on a hunt?” Denki questioned excitedly, practically bouncing up and down as Jirou just smiled lightly at his antics.

“Duh.” Jirou mumbled from beside him with a quick roll of her eyes as everyone made their way outside. 

“Ok here’s the rules...and it’s the Valentine’s Day edition! So there’s 20, whichever couple can get the most hearts wins.” Midoriya announced with a large smile on his face. “(y/n) release them, and we’ll give them a minute long head start.”

(y/n) walked over to the where the 20 individuals were lined up single file, metal cuffs around their wrists and longer ones around their ankles. Each one wore a black leather collar with a number from 1 to 20 on it. “You evil bitch! Let me go!”

“Where are your manners, Thomas? You were so good up until now...I wouldn’t want to have to make an example out of you.” (y/n)’s voice was kind and soft, but the look in her eyes was anything but that. 

“Why are you doing this?” Thomas questioned, his blonde hair falling into his light eyes as she stared in fear at the group around him before meeting (y/n)’s eyes once more.

“It’s fun, Thomas.” (y/n) told him, patting him on the head before releasing everyone’s cuffs. “Go ahead...you’re free now.” (y/n) urged as they all just stood there with blank stares. They continued to stand there, looking at each other. “I said go!” (y/n) repeated, her eyes practically glowing in the light of the full moon. The soft light shining against the sharp points of her canine teeth. 

The group of 20 broke off into a sprint, disappearing into the tree line as Iida looked down at his watch. “Is it time yet?” Denki questioned, obviously ready to begin.

“Almost.” Iida replied shortly, a smile growing on his own face as the seconds counted down to zero. “Now!”

Everyone ran after that, disappearing into blurs with the speed they were moving. (y/n) ran with a long spear, the silver tip shining in the moonlight as she jumped forward, releasing the spear into the unsuspecting number 13. 

13 fell to the ground after looking down at the sharp spear poking through his chest. No sound leaving his lips since it had all happened too quickly. “One down!” (y/n) called out, seeing the recognizable flash of blonde that belonged to her husband. 

Katsuki came to a stop beside her, his hands stained red along with his lips. He smiled at her. “Two, actually.” He told her, showing her the heart in one of his hands. “Happy Valentine’s Day...I’ve already given you my heart figuratively, so now I’m giving it to you physically.”

“Aw, that was cute.” (y/n) laughed before accepting the gesture. “You can have mine too.” She added after her laughter died down, picking up the bloody organ from number 13 before holding it out to Bakugou.

Tags:

[radabadabing-bing]

Wager of Weights

So embarrassing story, I wrote the bulk of this in 2019 and apparently had it like, almost complete?? I don’t know why I didn’t finish it then, but I cleaned it up and got it all ready to go because, while perhaps not totally reflective of my current work, there’s no point in tossing it down the drain. I will also say it’s not totally what I usually write, and my first time writing a lot of the content present in it, so it may also not be the best? But I’m a harsh judge of my own work haha. To clarify, this was (and still is) a gift for @pangtasias-atelier all the way when they were still Kink of the Emblem. And really I have to give him a lot of thanks for helping me grow this blog in the first place, so thanks for that. If you are somehow following me but not him, do that because he makes some good stuff (and comms good stuff too). And if you’re reading this right now- You’re awesome dude, love your work, and I hope you enjoy it!

It was no secret that the Summoner played favorites, and those favorites were Grima and Tibarn. One or the other was usually found by his side, and at times even both. But the problem had laid in the fact that there were two favorites...and one summoner. Tibarn didn’t seem to mind too much about this. So, perhaps more accurately, the problem laid with Grima.

Grima was a controversial figure among the heroes themselves- something of the territory coming with being an ancient dragon with little to no regard for human life. The Summoner had pacified Grima into being passive-aggressive to most of the others...Though Tibarn usually faced the aggressive half. 

Grima had been feeling particularly vitriolic on this day. The Summoner had gone out on patrol without either him or Tibarn, leaving the two in awkward coexistence. “You know, if this vessel had the muscle your body had, I’m almost certain the summoner would enjoy my company much more. Enough to leave you behind.” “Really now?” As said, Tibarn didn’t mind the venomous words. He viewed the fell dragon as a bit of a blowhard, never really giving it too much thought. The guy thought he was on top of the world, and as a nigh impotent god he sort of was. 

“Almost certainly.” Grima retorted, unaware of what he was starting here.

“Hmm...Well, why not a competition?” A good challenge had presented itself to Tibarn, he wasn’t about to miss the chance. “Me and you- We work ourselves harder than ever. We both commit ourselves to getting stronger and stronger, and see if your little theory there holds up.” “Deal.” Not a moment of hesitation from Grima. “I’ll come out on top- just you watch.” The King of Phoenicis grinned at this. It would be an interesting challenge at the least.

Tibarn only needed to ramp up his standard workout. A little more weight. A little more time spent doing it. The rewards of this weren’t immediately noticeable, but as the days rolled on his pecs seemed to bulge ever slightly more, abs right along with them. His thighs and calves refined to a great extent, looking in shape enough to crack stone. Biceps nearly tearing apart his sleeves, Tibarn finding himself needing more bandage to cover his arm to his liking.

Even his silhouette- already intimidating from a good height and wingspan, seemed to grow ever further. A few inches on both his height and wings. His clothes constrained ever so slightly more to contain his greater apex form.

Grima had a more interesting growth period. The vessel he inhabited needed no sustenance as long as he controlled it, and similarly had a nigh boundless energy pool, meaning that it was simply what effort he was willing to put into the competition. To self improve took valuable time away from being at the Summoner’s side, but not doing it would give the hawk a free victory, and Grima hated that even more.

The growth he had was more dramatic than Tibarn’s, but ultimately he could only just catch up. Just a few inches under the laguz, just able to lift a bit less than what Tibarn could, and most frustratingly seeing that the Summoner hadn’t actually changed who they spent the most time with. Proving Grima’s theory wrong. This had frustrated the dragon to no end, how could he possibly be wrong?

But during a session, where he attempted to still catch up to Tibarn, it dawned on him. He didn’t necessarily need to beat the hawk king, no. It was futile at this point, not without submitting himself further to this...mortal regimen. No, all Grima needed to do was drag Tibarn behind! And drag him very, very far behind.

Tibarn already ate quite a bit, and having a rigorous training session now only seemed to increase his appetite. Which made it exceptionally easy to slip in a curse or two on some meat. But Grima wasn’t about to make it obvious. This would be a slow burn.

At first, Tibarn’s gains seemed to stagnate. Simply stopped growing. At a glance, someone would think that he had hit the apex. He just couldn’t improve anymore. Though once a slight layer of pudge formed near his waistline, it was clear he hadn’t only stopped his growths- he was degrading.

Each passing day, Tibarn seemed to be gaining more and more weight. Getting wider rather than taller, his clothes ill-fitting not because of burgeoning muscle, but fat. With the greater weight, his workouts had become too laborious to follow up on, which certainly didn’t help the sudden expansion. Soon constrained to the ground, too heavy to even be lifted by his wings the slightest bit.

All the while Grima watched with sadistic satisfaction. Tibarn’s body swelled by the day, the laguz undoubtedly having lost at this point. Grima’s vessel had grown significantly- past Tibarn’s form before he had laid the curse. His shirt hardly fit, more akin to a crop top, and the cloak that had once only been an inch or two from the ground was now hovering near a foot. If Grima’s simple status as the fell dragon hadn’t kept people away before, his pinnacle form sure had now. His mere presence exuded a terrifying aura, though this once again didn’t keep away the summoner.

By chance, Grima had encountered Tibarn one day. Whom was waddling now, something that Grima took some amusement in. “I...I don’t know what happened.” He admitted, a slight jiggle to his two chins. “It would appear I’ve surpassed you.” Grima said with a smug cadence. “And indeed, the Summoner spends more time at my side.”

“Right…” Tibarn wasn’t exactly sure how true that was, but he couldn’t argue that Grima had indeed beaten him at this point.

A few more moons, and the hawk could no longer be found waddling through the halls. Apparently he had grown too large to even move. Music to Grima’s ears.

Until he noticed something. The summoner had started to periodically disappear throughout the day- not off to battle clearly, not with the food he was carrying. With Grima’s interest piqued, he tailed the Summoner, managing to not be noticed even with his larger size. Not the first thing on his mind, as he was far more frustrated with the destination. Tibarn’s dwelling.

It was back to the drawing board for Grima once more. He simply did not understand. He had undermined Tibarn to immobility...Exceeded his body. What was he getting wrong? There was a piece of the puzzle missing...and it dawned on him once more.

The Summoner hadn’t gone out of his way to see Tibarn before the laguz had been grounded.

Grima had been trying too hard all along. And in doing this, had let Tibarn win the adoration of the Summoner, though it was still soon enough to steal this victory back. For every curse the dragon had laid, he always had a solution. 

Night had fallen, and Grima’s final plot was being enacted. With no pesky heroes to gawk at him or see where he was going at this hour, nor the summoner’s watchful eye, the path to where Tibarn’s massive form slept was simple to traverse.

Grima would admit, he never got a good look at the hawk king after that last brief conversation. So seeing Tibarn now was something of a shock. His body had overtaken the bed, though calling it a “bed” was a bit of an overstatement. More like mattresses to keep something between the floor and the laguz. It took Grima a moment to make out limbs and a head.

It would’ve been amusing, if it wasn’t so effective at getting the summoner’s attention. But that privilege would not be Tibarn’s for much longer. A glow to his eyes and hands, he began to cast the spell. The giant tanned mass seemed to rumble, beginning a transformation, or rather, a reversion. Though this didn’t rouse the still slumbering Tibarn. Meanwhile, Grima’s form began to change- his set of washboard muscles beginning to disappear, as a gut formed in its place.

With the counter curse successfully placed, Grima could leave the room satisfied. As the hawk shrunk like a deflating balloon, the dragon’s vessel did the opposite- body expanding every which way as he returned to his own chambers. Thighs now beginning to chafe, clothes straining to contain the stolen fat. Seams popping and tearing, a smug grin on his plump face.

In the morning, Tibarn awoke, like a weight was lifted off of him. Quite literally: He could move once more. And not just move at a waddle- His adonis form had been completely returned to him. How, Tibarn wasn’t sure. But his inner laguz instincts were happy about it, ready to return to the battlefield that very day.

Though one hero was not very ready to join Tibarn out in the battlefield, which was Grima. His body anchored firmly down within his dwelling, only able to make the slightest movements as he looked down upon the summoner. Just as immobile as Tibarn had been a few hours prior.

“Summoner, it’s quite terrible!” He said in a casual, almost mocking tone. “I simply woke up like this. I certainly can’t go out to fight in this state...or leave this chamber at all.”

That wasn’t Grima’s concern. Sure, he had certainly lost the wager he had made with Tibarn, but that was all worthless in retrospect. No, the look of awe on the Summoner’s face- That was all Grima needed to know he had won.

[rpbetter]

I'm so tired of roleplaying with people who don't put half the commitment I do into our threads and muses. I'm so tired of feeling like I'm a weirdo or like I don't belong for that. Any other hobby and people wouldn't care if I took it seriously. Why is roleplaying different? How can I keep going like this if I'm getting rudeness from all sides? I can't even go outside my already tiny bubble and find more partners, because I always see people putting roleplayers like me down and it's exhausting.

"Why is roleplaying different?"

Well, Anon, I know that was a rhetorical question, but I have some thoughts on that. To the surprise of no one!

I strongly believe that this is an issue with how fandom has come to dominate roleplaying. As I've said before, it really wasn't always like that. Of course, you always had canon characters and almost all RPers were invested in a fandom or two. The difference was that online RP was once viewed much more like tabletop RPGs are.

When the RPC became a near-total offshoot of Fandom, a lot of shit changed and very rapidly...and within Fandom, a lot of shit was changing very rapidly as well at that time.

RP has always been something looked down on (though, at least no one ever accused written RP online of being literally demonic like they did DnD, or made correlations to murder sprees like they did LARPing, so there's that) as strange, not the good, understandable sort of dorky.

Part of that is almost certainly because of the difference in the way society views writing vs the way it views hobbies like gaming - writing is seen as an intellectual pursuit and a job, gaming, even at its most negative points of view in wider society, has been seen traditionally as a downtime activity only.

But. RP was not looked down upon from within Fandom or in roleplay communities themselves like it is now.

When the whole experience of fandoms themselves became extremely mainstream and open, it welcomed in a ton of shit ideas and behaviors that were not previously prevalent. It changed RP, too, along many of those same lines.

When your hobby is considered objectionably weird by people within the fandoms you love and RP in and that makes you a sort of lowest-tier fan, the viewpoint of RP to RPers becomes something lesser than a valid hobby. When RPers are the same people who engage with Fandom monetarily, anything not monetized is passively consumable content, including RP. And RPers are trying to both deflect shame and struggling with wider society's mixed messages, that now hit them everywhere online as well. Shit like, "you don't have to monetize your hobby, it's okay to just make really good cross stitches of memes for yourself" and "if you're not paying me, you have no control over me."

We seriously do not view RP as a proper hobby anymore, that's why. There are many factors to that, those are just few, but that's the ultimate answer. It's not seen that way because it's not valued in the same way.

I think much of the problem with muns losing their entire shit over anyone else approaching the hobby differently, dare I say...more seriously, is related to a lot of complex psychology about self-esteem, control, and anxiety. So many people here struggle with serious self-worth and confidence issues, and I think to many of them, whether they realize it or not, when they see serious RPers, they feel like that's an inherent judgment and a danger to their own enjoyment. Because RP, as writing, is a skilled hobby - the more you practice it, the more skilled you become with it. Meaning that someone who approaches the writing seriously is going to be at a higher skill level.

Enter the way we're training to think about writing again - when they see someone who is very practiced, skilled, and confident with their writing, the learned idea is that they're somehow superior in a nasty, personal way.

I most certainly do not think that makes it alright, it isn't, and I'm not very tolerant of it.

It's absolutely alright to engage with RP in any way you see fit. If that's extremely casual, it's a minor hobby for you, that's great! I'm so happy you're enjoying yourself, and I mean that in no facetious way. But not when that is the only form of it respected and accepted. It's just as alright to have RP as your primary, serious hobby!

The only way we can all enjoy a hobby with such great variance within it is by respecting each other's variables, not by vilifying them. It's recognizing that, no matter how much you enjoy the mun and/or muse, they're not engaging with the hobby in the way you are, it's not a good fit to write together. (Please, begging y'all to be friends with those who are different, not enemies, shit's sake. You've not got to write together to be friends!) Instead of labeling them and being hateful. Different =/= a threat.

And, to go off a bit lol y'all demonizing serious RPers really don't get that there are some intense tones of ableism and more going on in that narrative of yours, huh?

Not that anyone requires a reason to be serious about any hobby, but when people pick a hobby like RP as their primary one...you should probably have the maturity to consider why that is. Could it be that they focus on a hobby they can do from their homes and that requires low physical involvement, and has a degree of separation from direct socializing, for a reason?

Serious RPers tend to be limited in their ability to pursue other hobbies. Mental and physical health, region, finances, and ability to spend time outside of the home are all very common limits for those who "take RP too seriously/are addicted to RP."

Maybe take five seconds away from your own issues to consider that the person you're shitting on for something so minor as a difference of importance of a hobby might be the full-time caretaker of a special needs child, having to remain home and on a very small income. They might be chronically ill or suffer from agoraphobia. They might live in an area with no hobbies of interest, affordability, or at all...or they might live somewhere that is incredibly dangerous for them.

I honestly do not know where these people have been that they've been aggressed at by serious RPers, but that's usually the excuse. (I'm not saying it has never happened or does not happen, before anyone goes there.) The idea that serious RPers are extreme elitists who are demanding that other muns do what they do, how they do it. That they expect other muns to be online and RPing all the time, that they be "available for entertainment at all times" at the cost of real-life matters. Having the expectation that threads not be dropped constantly or that a writing partner not leave for months with no contact is neither of those things.

In over two decades of RPing across almost every platform type that has existed, I have literally never seen that be either a singular RPer-type problem or one that serious RPers are even more likely to deal in. I've seen the opposite, actually. Which is not a condemnation or a statement that all casual RPers do this, just what my experience has been. And one that actually stands to reason based on the way they view and engage with RP - quick replies, quick entertainment, and very low commitment to threads, muses, or other muns. Of course, it's annoying to them when a more serious RPer is unwilling to do rapid-fire style quick, short threads from an ask with them, but is writing the lengthy replies they already owed instead.

That's probably a factor as well, in here among a plethora of misunderstanding/unawareness of differences - for many serious RPers, it's not easier and more fun to write short, quick threads. So, what a casual RPer is seeing is that they're willing to put all this extraordinary effort into a massive reply to someone else while their easy, fun, quickly done thread is waiting in line.

Misunderstandings and unawareness breed hostility, period. And there is a hell of a lot of those things in the RPC.

What serious RPers are expressing are either boundaries/expectations or frustration. Not a demand that you be around all the time, but an expectation that you leave them alone if you're not also a serious RPer who will be committed to threads and muses. Not hostility and elitism, the frustration that it's already difficult to find muns who will work out before you add in the majority rule of casual RPers.

It's incredibly disheartening, frustrating, and honestly, a bit anxiety-inducing to constantly be the weird one, always have few choices, and to be at risk of being Problematic purely because you take the hobby seriously. You can't vent without someone jumping on your ass to remind you (even if you said numerous times that "real life comes first" and "people can do what they want") that omg, people have lives, people can do what makes them happy, it's just RP.

It's so upsetting when you think you might have found a good writing partner, then, you see a PSA they've reblogged about how it's a "hobby, not a jobby," and "no one owes anyone anything, ever." Excuse me, as that last one is a direct quote, let me redo it so it is verbatim: "no one owes anyone here anything - EVER !!!"

I said I wasn't very tolerant :)

But seriously, exactly what you've expressed is why I'm not...it's another form of controlling others instead of trying your best to control your own experience, and it's often extremely hateful. I'm not tolerant of anything like that, it's no longer supporting preferences at that point. When your preference is the only one that will be tolerated in the community, it's not a preference anymore.

It's something that makes others feel isolated, afraid of harassment, and depressed. It is a hobby and it isn't supposed to make you feel like that!

And, no, absolutely the fuck not lol the "answer" to this isn't that you're taking it too seriously and need to take a break. I'm so tired of seeing that shit tacked onto RPH responses and vents and PSAs. You're not saying that RP is making you feel this way, "just take a break and come back when you agree with everyone else" isn't a solution.

Of course, if you do feel like your time here has become so upsetting? Yeah, obviously, you should try to find some other things to supplement your downtime that make you feel happier again. Engage in some other forms of writing just meant for yourself, or that can be published as fics. Spend some more time on a game you enjoy for a while, or get invested in a new one. Learn to shape bonsai or make no-knead rolls. Whatever would make you happy as a hobby when you're not here.

Other than that, however, well...we're not going to be implying on this blog that you're too serious and need to take a hiatus until you have no emotional investment in your hobby. That's insane. I'd not say it about hiking, martial arts, dog obedience competitions, hobby farming, or painting either.

I wish I could think of some solutions as to where you could look that wasn't like this, but it's definitely the majority of the RPC. It doesn't help that, due to this, serious RPers have a tendency to quietly stick together and not venture out into the RPC. They're just not incredibly easy to find.

I will say that they tend to be:

novella - if you're not here for serious RP and sticking around for a while, you're not going to invest the time and energy into particularly lengthy writing

older RPers - I would say that twenty-five is probably the youngest, with early thirties to late forties being the majority

in fandoms with a large adult base of fans - even if it's a franchise friendly to, or even meant for, younger fans, if it has a particularly active adult fanbase, it's a better chance of finding serious RPers in it

as above, old fandoms - fandoms that have been around for a long time tend to have more serious RPers in them

fandomless OCs - tend to have a higher chance of being written by serious RPers than canons or heavily fandom-involved OCs

RPers who do not do a ton of advertising for their muse(s), but when they do, they don't advertise them based on activism points or trends

slightly more likely to not have an emphasis on highly aesthetic blogs, graphics, icons etc. - they use a modified basic tumblr theme, low on graphics, their aesthetics are not on-trend, for example

anti-content policing/"write what you want" style muns

muns with more extensive rules pages - they plan to be here for a while, they take writing, RP, and their muse(s) seriously, so, it's a bit more important to them to head off problems before they start

those with older characters/FCs - be that literally in age or the character being one that has existed for a long time

"stay in your lane" style muns - if they're opining on fandom or the RPC, they must really be angry about something

those with numerous and detailed headcanons - for example, their response to a HC meme ask like, "what's your muse's favorite ice cream flavor?" is going to be treated seriously, not simply answered with "mint chocolate chip because my bby is gross"

As usual, not a complete or perfect list. I don't fit some of the things on there! It could give you some things to look for when trying to find other serious RPers, though. It's based on observances from someone who was never a casual RPer, even as a minor (me, obviously), and maybe it could at least keep you from continuously running into hostility about your approach to RP.

I've honestly considered making a list of some sort expressly for RPers who are on the more serious end of the spectrum, but...in a RPC back when things were dominated by serious RPers, I did that sort of thing with a RPH I had, and it still got labeled as being a list for and by Elitists. I don't know that anyone would want to put themselves out there for potential harassment on tumblr, you know? It was a joke then, just having a group of RPers label you as an Elitist. Here, you get told to kill yourself, and none of us need more of that shit, right?

Try to hang in there, Anon, I know it's upsetting, and I'm so sorry that something fun has gotten to be like this.

Try to understand that these people are coming from a place of irrational defensiveness, often in response to bullying themselves at some point or feeling bad about themselves. That doesn't make it right, but it does make it easier to not take to heart.

And keep at it! In my experience here, once you find a group of people you fit into, it really is...A Group. Especially among RPers who are ostracized, they stick together, they promote each other, and they're very happy for their mutuals to become your mutuals. Once you find them, it unlocks so many opportunities for the interactions and type of RP you've been missing!

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.” 

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better. 

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock​ for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield​ ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow. 

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax. 

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone. 

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning. 

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.” 

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts. 

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same. 

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that. 

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything. 

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right? 

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start. 

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting. 

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name. 

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door. 

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon. 

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful. 

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth. 

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life. 

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room. 

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him. 

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about. 

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago. 

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind. 

“I get it,” Jody finally says. 

Dean glances sharply at her. 

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told... 

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee. 

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long. 

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up. 

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders). 

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood. 

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed. 

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

“That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against. 

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood. 

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities. 

Probably. 

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this. 

 The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas. 

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off. 

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly. 

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.” 

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?” 

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger. 

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?” 

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar. 

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—” 

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods. 

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water. 

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air. 

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair. 

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected. 

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth. 

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—” 

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on. 

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead. 

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it. 

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain  what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?” 

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own. 

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him. 

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough. 

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair. 

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really. 

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago. 

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.  

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again. 

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him. 

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this. 

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat. 

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is. 

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step. 

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas. 

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both. 

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists. 

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize. 

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars. 

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic. 

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza. 

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room. 

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up. 

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much. 

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want. 

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face. 

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

[heavenly-roman]

how sweet it is (to be loved by you)

Plot: Prince Virgil makes a new friend.

Warnings: mentions of a dead parent, kissing

Pairing(s): anxceit

Word Count: 2899

for my lovely boyfriend @figurative-siren-song as part of the @sanderssidesgiftxchange !! happy holidays cas, i love you ❤️ (also!! a big thank you to @ratherstarryeyed for acting as a beta!! ur a simp and i appreciate u!!)

chapter one - chapter two

+++

The carriage shakes as the horses trot onto the gravel, Virgil holding his head up with his fist.

“Virgil, please, could you look at least a little interested?” His mother isn’t quite scolding, her tone just edging on exasperated.

“You always told me not to lie, though,” grumbles Virgil. The Queen fixes him with a glare, and he sighs, forcefully smiling. “Better?”

���Much,” she replies teasingly. The carriage comes to a stop, and she turns her full attention to her son. “Please try to be respectful.”

“When have you known me to be disrespectful?” Virgil’s mischievous grin causes his mother to crack a smile.

“Behave, Virgil,” she tells him fondly. The door opens, and the driver helps his mother out of the carriage. He then moves to Virgil’s side, and the Prince grumbles again, something about being able to help himself, thank you very much.

Standing outside of the foreign palace is the royal family, the king and queen—whose names Virgil forgot to remind himself of before they arrived—and their son, Prince Janus. Their guards surround them, and Virgil finds himself counting the amount of men during the small talk.

“A pleasure to see you again, Your Majesties,” Virgil’s mother greets the family, bowing. She flicks Virgil on the back of the head, and he bows as well.

“The pleasure is ours,” replies the King. He faces Virgil and bows, who scrambles to bow again. “Good evening, Your Highness. I believe you’ve yet to meet our son, Prince Janus, who will be your tour guide for this visit. I’m sure you two will get on well.”

Prince Janus bows, and Virgil is getting real sick of bowing already. He holds his gloved hand out, beckoning Virgil. “Our parents have much to discuss, please follow me to your chambers.”

Hesitantly, Virgil takes his hand, letting the Prince lead him to who knows where. Janus doesn’t speak, and Virgil is not about to start a conversation with a near stranger, so the walk is silent.

“Here,” says Janus, stopping abruptly, and Virgil catches himself just in time to not crash into him. “This is your room.”

“You’re a lot less polite than before,” Virgil thinks aloud.

“Congratulations, Einstein, I had no clue,” Janus snarks. “No royal obligation to be polite without my parents around.”

“So no tour?” Virgil asks.

“Not unless you pay me, Prince Purple.” Janus scoffs. “I only willingly spend time with people I like.”

“How do you know you don’t like me if you haven’t spent time with me?”

“Are you royal?”

Bewildered, Virgil gestures to himself. “Clearly.”

“Then I don’t like you,” Janus deadpans.

Before Virgil can defend himself, Janus turns, walking away from the most baffling conversation Virgil has ever had.

+++

“So, Prince Virgil,” the Queen addresses him. “Did Janus give you a satisfactory tour of the palace?”

Janus glares at him from above his wine glass, and Virgil swallows hard.

“Uh, Yes, it was… good,” he says lamely, cringing at his very eloquent word choice.

“Wonderful!” She smiles. “So you’ll have no problem finding your way around for the next few months.”

“Months?” Both Virgil and Janus exclaim, twin expressions of shock on both their faces.

“Yes, well…” Virgil’s mother starts. “We believe the best way to continue the peace between our kingdom would be… a marriage.”

“I don’t have a sister, Mother,” Virgil says, though he’s sure he knows where this is going.

“I do know how many children I have, Virgil,” she says, nearly rolling her eyes. “Dear, do you remember what you told me last month? About your… preferences?”

“Are you saying that we have to get married?” Janus interrupts, his expression a mix of fear and mild disgust.

“Janus, don’t be rude!” his father admonishes. “This is the most sound way to keep the peace.”

“Well,” Virgil shrugs, knowing this is an argument he can’t win. He glances at Janus. “Looks like you’re going to be finding out if you like me.”

+++

Janus, to his credit, does decide to take Virgil on a tour after dinner.

“And here is the library,” Janus says, the same bored tone he’s carried throughout the whole night.

Virgil moves away from Janus’, wandering through the hundreds of bookshelves, awestruck. He plucks book after book, scanning the contents and putting them back.

“What, don’t have a library back home?” Janus snarks, just a hint of fondness in his voice that he will deny if brought up.

“Not as big as this, no,” says Virgil, still starstruck. “I think we have a third of your collection.”

“My father loves reading,” Janus shrugs. “He used to read to me when I was a child.”

“He doesn’t read as much anymore?” Virgil asks absently as he continues flipping through random books he finds.

“No time,” Janus sighs. “Too much responsibility now, being the King and all. Did you ever read with your dad?”

Janus knows he said the wrong thing as he watches Virgil’s shoulders tense and his hands pause.

“No,” he says, his voice tight. “I didn’t get to read with my father.”

“Virgil—“

“Drop it.” He forces a teasing smile. “You may be my fiancé, but save the personal questions for after the wedding.”

Janus lets the silence drag on, watching Virgil once again become mesmerized by the array of novels.

“Virgil?” Janus calls, tentative. His head shoots up, and Janus clears his throat. “We had a nook. Would you like to see it?”

The other prince nods, and Janus grabs his hand—so he doesn’t get lost, shut up—and leads him to a dark corner of the library.

A worn down chair sits there, as well as another, much smaller bean bag chair. There’s a table as well, holding up a desk lamp and a few books, all collecting dust.

“I guess that one was the Kings?” Virgil says, pointing to the bean bag. Janus snorts, shaking his head fondly.

“You’re a handful, Prince Virgil.”

“So I’ve been told, Prince Janus.”

+++

When he’s not being dragged around the palace by his fiancé, Virgil chooses to spend most of his time in his room, overthinking.

The hand holding. The snarky comments laced with fondness. The scooching chairs to sit closer. The flushed cheeks when Janus innocently compliments him—

Fuck.

Virgil has a crush.

Virgil has a crush on someone who he barely even knows.

It’s not like he can help it, with the way Janus smiles at him, and the way his eyes twinkle with mischief before he does something that’s bound to get the two into trouble.

“Virgil?” A knock startles him out of his thoughts, Janus peeking his head in and smiling when his eyes meet Virgil’s. “You okay?”

“Of course!” Virgil says, trying to keep his recent realization to himself. He smiles tightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I knocked on your door about four times before you answered?” Janus raises his eyebrow. He shuts the door and sits opposite of Virgil on the bed. “You’re hiding something.”

“Just lost in thought, I suppose,” Virgil shrugs. At Janus’ skeptical look, he sighs. “Seriously, Jan, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Janus says after a minute or so. “I trust you to tell me if something is wrong, so I believe you.”

“Wow, thanks,” Virgil’s sarcasm seeps into his words. “So kind of you to trust me after continuous convincing.”

Janus grabs Virgil’s hands, and Virgil’s cheeks do not heat up, thank you very much. “You know I really do trust you, right? You’re one of the few.”

“Of course I do, Jay,” Virgil squeezes his hands. He chuckles. “Gotta trust your fiancé.”

Janus pulls his hands away with a fond head shake, and Virgil resists the urge to pout. “Nope, that’s it, you ruined the moment, we’re getting a divorce.”

“We’re not married yet, you idiot,” Virgil says between laughs.

“You’re right,” Janus ponders. He drops to one knee, miming opening a ring box. “Prince Virgil, will you marry me?”

Virgil gasps, holding an exaggeratedly shocked hand to his chest. “Of course I’ll marry you, Prince Janus!”

“Perfect,” Janus nods. “I want a divorce.”

“You love me too much to divorce me,” Virgil says before he can think about it.

“Gross Virgil, that’s gay,” he scoffs, before leaning in to clarify, “not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. In fact, my own fiancé is gay.”

Virgil is laughing too hard to respond, and Janus joins in, both laughing until their stomachs hurt.

Janus forgets why he came to visit Virgil in the first place.

+++

“Are you even gay?” Virgil blurts one day.

Janus sputters, almost choking on his wine. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you like men?” Virgil asks, clearly not backing down. He doesn’t hope for a certain answer, absolutely not.

“I…” Janus swallows hard. “I thought we were saving personal questions for after the wedding?”

“Janus.”

“I don’t want to discuss this, Virgil—”

“My father died when I was young.”

“Virgil, you don’t have to—”

“I never read with him because he was gone by the time I knew how. My mother doesn’t like to talk about him, and I don’t remember much about him, so…” Virgil shrugs. “I avoid talking about him.”

“I… Vee, I’m so sorry,” Janus frowns. “I couldn’t imagine my life without my father.”

“I can’t imagine my life with mine,” Virgil sighs. “So, I answered your personal question. You can answer mine.”

“Virgil.” Janus fixes him with an incredulous look. “Did you tell me about your father because you’re nosy?”

“I’m not nosy,” Virgil huffs. “I just want to know if my fiancé is attracted to me.”

Janus smirks, leaning impossibly close to Virgil. “Why do you want to know? Does someone have a little crush?”

“What? No!” Virgil flushes, and hides his hands in his sleeves.

“No need to be embarrassed, dear,” drawls Janus. His smirk grows wider. “It’s cute.”

Virgil pushes Janus’ chest away from him as the latter laughs. “You’re a jerk, Jay.”

“That’s no way to speak to your fiancé, Prince Virgil,” Janus gasps, an offended hand placed on his chest.

“It is when your fiancé is a jerk,” reasons Virgil.

Janus’ offence doesn’t lessen, and the two playfully argue for the next two hours.

Not that either of them are counting.

+++

[musicallisto]

Hello love,

Congratulations for the 800 followers! You absolutely deserve this and so much more! I'm happy to see how your blog grows and that you're still providing all of us with wonderful content. You're one of the first blogs that I've started to follow here on Tumblr and I'm so lucky to have found your blog ♡

As for your celebration event, could I please request a 🍨 vanilla milkshake with a male Peaky Blinders Character?

I'm more on the curvy side (and insecure about it) and I'm ALWAYS wearing black (which I love, no matter what others say or even more if they object). As for my personality, I'm a highly complex, paradox and complicated individium. I'm unbelievable patient, timid, awkward, kind, forgiving, open-minded, compassionate, thruthful, gentle and calm and I've been told that I have a calming effect on others, that I can easily ground anyone and anything, no matter how troubled their mind is. I prefer vintage over modern things. I think rather deep which often leads me to overthinking everything, which in turn leads me to doubting (very much) myself. You would be surprised how timid and reserved I am, I'm sure you wouln't notice me in a room full of people if it wouldn't be for my different appearance (but I like it this way). I'm always well-meaning, yet often misunderstood (maybe because it's hard for me to articulate myself). I can be incredible lazy, clumsy and forgetful. I've always felt like I don't really belong anywhere, so I've started to distance myself from others a while ago. I'm a outsider, weird, a dork, not normal, a loner and I fucking love it, because I like to be different, I would hate to fit into just one box and to be like everyone else. And I like people who are not ashamed to be their 100% true self, no matter how different that is from the mainstream. I'm the most loyal person you'll ever find, once you earn my trust, I'll always be on/by your side, no matter what. That says a lot, because I'm hard to scare away. Sometimes I feel alienated from the people and things surrounding me and I'm sure that I annoy and bore them. I'm very nervous and insecure around others, which is why I try to avoid people and why I'm not talking all that much around them (though, I'm a really good listener). I'm easily overwhelmed by large crowds and much light/noise, that's why I don't like to go outside, I prefer to cozy up at home. I would never intentionally hurt a animal and I'm not eating any meat, which is very important to me. I believe that there isn't a ounce of cruelty inside me. I'm unassuming and understanding, I only believe what I've witnessed on my own and I have endless acceptance for almost everything. Due to my Insomnia, I'm a night owl. I have strong personal values, am very opinionated and I'm really in-touch with myself and even though I'm extremly insecure, I would never reduce or change myself and views/opinions for someone and I neither have a problem to challenge authority and advocating for my beliefs. I'm a perfectionist and sometimes I really hate it. And, as you can see, I'm unable to be brief. My favourite colours are dark green, black, gold and dark purple. My greatest passion is music, even if I can't sing or play an instrument.(I prefer rock/punk/pop/80s/90s) It's the most calming and therapeutic thing when it comes to my anxiety and depression and I could never live a day without it. You will never see me in the street without headphones in my ears and even when I'm at home there's music playing almost all the time. I could talk for hours about music and what it means to me. And otherwise I love to watch films and series (I like fantasy, horror, psychological thriller, science fiction and psychological drama and almost anything from the 70s, 80s and 90s). I love rainy days and to go outside while it's pouring big, fat drops. What I love the most is to drive around without a destination, while talking and listening to music. And I love to spend time with my cat, if I could, I would have endless animals who live peacefully and loved with me. I enjoy to have deep talks and to be challenged to think. I love to take late-night-strolls, while gazing into the sky and watching the stars/moon. I have a fascination for dark and macabre things.

I really hope that's not too much? But thank you anyway ♡

Have a good day!

thank you so much for your kind words, you have no idea how much it means to me to know that I was one of the first blogs you followed ;; here’s your vanilla milkshake - and it’s also my first time writing for peaky blinders, but I hope it’s alright; and I hope finn shelby will find the portrait I paint of him accurate enough...

Birmingham was a drab and disheartening place enough without the war adding to its joylessness; but somehow the streets are even worse to bear deserted than when they’re bustling and fetid. Especially for a ten year old boy who wants nothing but to play with someone, to talk to someone, to see someone.

With his brothers off fighting somewhere in France and his aunt too busy with her businesses (adult stuff that Finn has absolutey no interest in attempting to understand), the youngest Shelby has been fighting off an affliction worse than consumption and measles, because much more insidious for a boy his age; boredom

and he’s so sad, so irrevocably sad, with no one to bruise his knees with and throw mud at, that he just aimlessly wanders the empty streets whenever aunt Polly isn’t looking, to find a semblance of stimulation

(he used to enjoy the solitude, it gave him time to imagine delirious stories in fantastical worlds and read the most enthralling of novels, but not anymore. four years of reclusion is an awfully long time for a little boy.)

and it’s during one of his escapades that he first meets you

you’re a little girl his age, dressed in a pretty dress, wearing pretty booties and holding a pretty little woven basket, but your face is stuck on the most grouchy frown he’s ever seen on a little girl, and you don’t walk, you stomp down the wet pavement like a wrathful titan

And it’s probably the first time in four years that he’s been this close to making a new friend, so he walks up to you, despite how rusty his communication skills have become

“Girls don’t frown. It’s unbecoming.”

(Yes, pretty rusty indeed; but in his defense, he’s ten, he’s bored, he’s lonely, and he’s only ever heard Ada say it, and Ada is the most level-headed of his siblings, so anything she says must be true, right?)

“Shut up.”

(Well, if it was unbecoming of you to frown, it’s even more to rebuff someone so rudely. You don’t even spare a glance and continue walking; he has to hurry to catch up to you.)

“You can’t say that. It’s a bad word.”

“How do you know that?”

“My family says it all the time, but they told me I can’t say it.”

“Well, my family is not your family. And I hate my family!”

You’ve yelled the last words at the sky, so loud that the crows on the neighboring roofs have taken off in a startled flight.

“They want to wear this stupid dress to go to the stupid market to buy stupid meat. I don’t even want to eat meat, that’s cruel! And I don’t even want to wear a frilly dress! I want to wear black!”

And in saying so you tugged at the pink and white ribbons that encircled your waist.

And Finn couldn’t help being extremely intrigued at this little girl who said bad words and refused to eat meet and wanted to wear black. It was the most exciting thing to ever happen in all the duration of the war.

“You want to wear a black dress?”

“Yes, but my mama won’t let me. She says it’s too sad because of the war. But black isn’t sad! Black is beautiful!”

“Maybe I could find you a black dress. I’m sure my sister must have one. Where do you live?”

And, loyal to his promise, the following morning he had run to your doorstep and snuck into your house - a proper Shelby talent, to be able to go unnoticed or make a ruckus depending on the occasion - with an old, crinkled mourning dress of Ada’s, that had probably belonged to his mother and had been mended several times

And it was obviously five sizes too big for you and you looked more like a ghost from one of Finn’s horror novels, your arms floating in the sleeves and the hem of the skirt pooling at your feet, but your smile was the brightest light he’d ever seen in this whole damn town.

“Do you like it?”

(He didn’t really know why he sounds so nervous. Maybe it was having a friend, a real friend, and doing something personal for them... or maybe it had to do with how fast his heart beat, watching you in that gigantic, shapeless dress)

“I love it! Thank you so much, Finn!”

From then on started one of the most wonderful friendships Finn would ever have, and what would bring a ray of light to the grim existence of a little boy in the midst of a global war

Despite the ration cards, despite the loneliness, despite the worry that tugged at his stoic aunt’s eyes for her son and nephews across the Channel... he found an unspeakable solace in your friendship

And one day, without a trace, you were gone

He knocked on your door; gone. He asked all the neighbors what had happened to the family that lived there; gone. He wrote you letters and sent them to the confines of England; gone. He got scolded by Polly for marking numbers at random on Tommy’s state-of-the-art telephone; gone.

Suddenly he was back to the bleak existence he had battled with before meeting you, and the hollow inside his chest only grew wider as the days went on, because he had no explanation as to what had happened to you, and worried every single day

Thankfully, the war ended not long after, and his brothers came back home, all alive and unscathed - well, for the most part

Fast forward more or less ten years, and much has changed in Finn Shelby’s life and in old Birmingham, but the memory of you still stugs at his heartstrings

One evening, he’s tasked by Arthur to run some errands, send a few messages, scout a few places; the most dangerous thing his older brothers will ever let him do

His task leads him to a bar in the center of town, one that pours its joyous light and music into the street outside; he’s there to meet with a client, arrange a meeting; nothing he’s hasn’t done already

But the evening takes a turn for the unexpected when he recognizes the girl sat alone at a table, enjoying the musicians’ jazz with an air of pure bliss on her face

It’s been ten years, of course, but... it’s unmistakable. That face, that silhouette, and the black ensemble from head to toe... and he’s always had a knack for remembering faces, especially those that mark him deeply

Suddenly he’s frozen on the spot, and he has forgotten why he came to the bar in the first place, what his target looks like - all he knows is you, and how beautiful you look in the dim light of the bar, and the undisclosed and unknown feelings he had for you at the time come flooding back.

Except this time, he understands, and he fears them, because he doesn’t have time for any of this, and it’s way too dangerous for you and him

But he can’t just pass you by and not say a word?

He swallows, hard.

And walks up to you.

“Y/N?”

You open your eyes, and your face flashes with recognition, and a little bit of pain as well. Even if you fled without a word, and left him hanging all these years, he’s incapable of rancor

“Finn... wow, you’ve changed so much.”

“You haven’t.”

He gestures at your face, your clothes, how you savor the music like the finest drink in the world, and you laugh and blush, sending his heart into overdrive

“Where were you all this time?”

“I’m so sorry, Finn... my brother died in the war, and... my mom sent me to live with my grandparents in Scotland. We were all destroyed by grief... I needed to get away.”

“Without explanation? Not even a word?”

“I wanted to write to you, so bad, but... I couldn’t remember your address. I couldn’t remember anything about Birmingham at all...”

He nods, slowly, in understanding.

The war opens wounds that never heal, even after all the most beautiful friendships and love stories in the world.

“But I’m really glad I found you.”

His heart is pounding in his throat. Maybe it’s a sign of destiny that he found you here, tonight, alone, and ready to welcome him back. Maybe it’s a word from fate, that you can never truly be apart.

So he takes the seat in front of you, and you smile, that shy but bright smile of yours, and he forgets all about his mission, his client, and his brothers.

They’ll have to understand.

800 follower sleepover

[thatfanficstuff]

Need You - Geralt of Rivia

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Warnings: just canon typical monster fights and stuff

A/N: I don’t know what this is. Enjoy!

***

You stepped into the Rotten Pig and ran your gaze over the patrons. It was a horrible name for a pub but setting eyes on the cliental told you how they may have arrived upon it. No witcher. Damn it. You’d been trying to find Geralt for weeks. Every time you thought you’d caught up to him, you’d discover he’d left days before.

A familiar tune caught your ear and you followed it across the room. You grinned when Jaskier came into view behind a rather rowdy group. If anyone knew where Geralt was, it would be the bard. You leaned against a pole, arms crossed over your chest as you listened to him perform.

“Nicely done, bard,” you called as he finished.

He turned with wide eyes and grinned when he saw it was you. A moment later he was in front of you shaking your hand enthusiastically. “Y/N! I haven’t seen you in an age. How are you? Any tales you’d care to share with your favorite bard?”

“What do you need my tales for? Geralt is far more interesting than me.”

Jaskier’s smile fell into a sour look. “Yes, well Geralt doesn’t appreciate me like you do.”

You huffed and sat at a nearby table. He took the seat across from you. “He likes you. He’s just grumpy.”

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. He’s worse since you left. Downright miserable he is.”

Part of you was happy to hear it. After all, Geralt had been the one to declare that he didn’t need your help after you saved him from a particularly nasty clawing. You weren’t about to stick around where you weren’t wanted. Even if you did make more money with him at your side. For some reason people hesitated to hire a lone female to rid them of their monster problem. It didn’t help that your gear had you looking like anything but a witch.

“Where is he, Jaskier?”

“In the swamp. Bloedzuiger keeps attacking people traveling on the road.”

You curled your lip. Bloedzuigers were basically giant leeches that spat acid. “Well, that won’t make a very pretty ballad will it?”

The bard tilted his head from side to side as if he was considering it. Before he could say anything, the door slammed open. Geralt filled the opening. He was dirty and bloody but appeared mostly unharmed. Your gaze trailed him as he walked over to the man sitting at the end of the bar. A merchant if you’d tagged him right. A merchant who suddenly looked very nervous.

“Bloedzuiger’s dead. So are the drowners. I’ll take the rest of my pay now.” Geralt’s deep, rough voice sent a chill through you. Gods, you’d missed that voice.

“I paid you up front, Witcher. Even made a point of telling people that I’d done so. You aren’t getting more out of me now.” Sweat beaded on the lying man’s brow as his gaze darted around the room. Probably looking for someone to back him up.

Geralt hummed. “I wouldn’t kill a ghoul for what you gave me up front.”

“That’s not my problem. I paid and you did the work. It’s not like you can bring the creature back to life.” The merchant seemed very proud of himself. As if he’d pulled some great trick on the witcher.

You sighed and stood. Geralt didn’t need your help. He had his own ways to get his payment, but none of them would endear him to the townspeople. “He might not be able to, but I can.” You couldn’t actually, but they didn’t know that.

Geralt turned with a lifted brow. He ran his eyes over your length and back up. The corner of his mouth kicked up ever so slightly. “Y/N.”

“Geralt,” you responded with your own twitch of the lips. Your gaze shifted back to the man at his side. “Now, about that payment.”

“You’re Y/N? The mistress of night and slayer of injustice?”

What fresh misery was this? You turned your head to look at Jaskier who gave you a sheepish smile and a little wave. Damn bard. Geralt’s smile grew a bit wider.

“Yes, that’s me apparently. Money? Or would you prefer to be in a ballad yourself? Strictly in a slain enemy capacity of course.”

He tossed a bag of coins on the bar. “I don’t want no trouble. Times is tough, that’s all. You can’t blame me for trying to save some coin.”

Geralt hummed again and snatched the bag from the counter. As he ambled to the table, you motioned the barkeep for food and drink for the three of you. The witcher sat beside Jaskier and you took the spot directly across from him. Neither of you spoke as you just looked each other over.

When your ales were placed on the table, Geralt broke the silence. “It’s been awhile. You look…good.”

“You look filthy. How was the swamp?”

“Damp.”

“Of course, it was.” You rolled your eyes at his simple answer. Jaskier’s gaze kept darting between the two of you as if waiting for something monumental to happen.

Three bowls of stew were placed on the table and Geralt lost his patience with you. “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

You arched a brow as you took a bite of your food. “Maybe I was just passing through.”

The look he gave you said he didn’t believe that for a moment.

“Fine. I need a favor.”

He paused with the spoon partway to his mouth. “What sort of favor?”

“Striga.”

He grunted. “That’s not a favor. That’s a job. A big one.”

You grimaced. “For what they’re paying, it’s definitely more like a favor.”

His amber eyes studied you. “Then the answer’s no. Besides, I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’re still looking for Yennefer.” Your heart twinged as you said the name. No matter how many times you warmed Geralt’s bed he always went back to Yen. And it hurt every single time.

The silence stretched. Finally, Geralt tore his gaze from you. “I haven’t found her yet.”

You pushed yourself to your feet. “Well then, I guess there’s no reason for me stay. Jaskier, good to see you again.”

Geralt grabbed your wrist as you passed him. “Sit. Down.”

With a sigh you took the seat beside him. “What?”

His gaze locked on yours again and his grip didn’t loosen. “You won’t go after the striga on your own. Promise me.”

When you didn’t answer, his hold tightened. “Swear it.”

“You won’t hear a word about me fighting a striga. I promise.”

He held you a moment longer, his thumb running along your pulse point. “Be careful.”

***

The thing about strigas is they were fueled by a need to feed. They didn’t care who they killed only that they got to eat. They were also strong and vicious. This particular beast was tormenting a poor village. The money they’d managed to get together wasn’t much, but it was everything they had. You needed to kill the beast to spare them any further suffering.

You checked the potions on your belt and your weapons one last time. The men standing in front of you shuffled their feet nervously. “Remember, no one goes out tonight. No matter what you hear. And if anyone asks—”

“Your name is Yvetta of Nilfgaard,” recited one of the men.

“Very good. Now go.” You watched them hurry off to lock themselves in their homes. You had promised Geralt he wouldn’t hear word of you hunting the striga. Yvetta was another matter entirely.

The cemetery that spawned the creature sat at the foot of some nearby ruins. As far as you’d been able to tell, that was where the striga stayed when she wasn’t hunting. As the sun dropped to the horizon you opened the jar of pig’s blood you’d brought with you and splashed it around one section of the ruins. This was the area you had prepared earlier. An intricate trap ready to be sprung with a touch and the whisper of a word.

A scrambling of claws came with full dark and you drew your dagger. Taking a vial from your waist, you dumped the contents on your blade all the while hoping the creature wouldn’t get close enough for you to have to use it. After all, you were no witcher, just a witch that tried to right some of the wrongs in your world.

You strained your ears, but the sounds seemed to have stopped as suddenly as they started. You sucked in a breath and pushed all your senses to their limit trying to locate the creature. The searing pain at your back came with an unearthly shriek. It had snuck up behind you. There was nothing worse than a smart monster. Thankfully, your armor had blocked most of the impact. You’d be bruised for sure, but that was better than dead.

You fell forward and scrambled away before turning over. The circle was a short distance away waiting for you to finish the spell and you backed toward it as quickly as you could. The striga tilted her head as she looked you over and you got the feeling she was trying to figure out what you were up to. Your hands slid in the dirt and you curled your lip. Fantastic.

Finally, the power in your circle buzzed along your skin. You slapped your palm down and recited your word of power. A blue glow surrounded the area you were in and the striga immediately howled in panic. She lunged for the nearest opening in the wall and was bounced back. You kept your eyes on her while you withdrew another vial. If you timed things right you could take her down without her getting near you again.

Another word and a toss of the vial had a burst of flame shooting up from the floor and burning the beast. It screamed in outrage and pain. And then it turned those angry, beady eyes on you. Well, fuck. You tried to get to your feet, but the striga was too fast. She lunged, pinning you to the ground. You plunged your dagger into her side and she lifted her arm as she screamed. One swipe of those claws across your throat and you were done.

You grasped desperately at your waist trying to draw another vial but the beast was too heavy and had you pinned too thoroughly. You closed your eyes and braced for the impact. Instead, warm liquid covered you followed by another screech from the striga.

The weight was suddenly gone and you opened your eyes. Realizing you were covered in blood that was not your own, you wiped a hand down your face and pushed yourself up. There, at the other end of the small room you’d blocked off was Geralt fighting the striga who was now missing part of her arm. It laid a short distance away from you where he must have severed it to keep her from clawing you.

You got to your feet quickly, weaving slightly from the pain in your back. Geralt fought the beast, his eyes black from some potion he’d consumed before the battle. Your fingers found the vial you’d been searching for earlier and you launched it at creature. It exploded across the striga’s back and you yelled the elder word for stop. The creature immediately froze and Geralt took full advantage to end the beast. The striga was no more.

You looked between it and Geralt who stood over it panting. You wondered briefly if you could sneak away without him noticing. He was going to be pissed. After a moment, he put his sword away and turned to face you. You expected him to yell at you. To tell you that you were an idiot and he was never helping you again.

What you did not expect was for him to eat the ground up between you with several long strides. Before you could even think of reacting, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you forward. His lips slammed into yours and tension flowed from your body as your hands found his chest. The kiss was long and needy. When he finally pulled back, his jaw was still tight. 

“You lied.” His already deep voice had dropped even lower. Yeah, he was pissed.

“Technically, I said you wouldn’t hear about me fighting a striga. I’m fairly certain you didn’t, so no lie.”

“Y/N.” That was nothing more than a growl. He released you and paced away from you. “Why would you go after the striga alone? You know how dangerous they are. Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Geralt, these people have nothing. Less than nothing. Do you really expect me to stand aside and let them lose their lives as well? I had to try.”

He spun to face you, hands clenched at his sides. “And if you failed?”

“Well, then they at least would know someone cared enough about their fate to try to change it.” This all seemed perfectly reasonable to you, but every word you spoke seemed to make Geralt angrier.

“And what was I to do if you died?”

You sighed. “You would find another witch, Geralt. As memory serves you were on your way to find one the last time I saw you, so why are you here?”

He licked his lips. “Because I need you.”

You lifted your brows but said nothing. He didn’t need you. He needed Yennefer. You were just a convenient substitute for when she wasn’t around.

He sighed and tore his gaze from yours. “Yennefer hasn’t been in my bed since White Hall. No one has other than you.”

That was the first time the two of you slept together. “Don’t lie to me, Geralt. It doesn’t suit you.” It would take both hands for you to count the number of times he’d left you somewhere to run after Yennefer.

“I never lie.”

It was true that you’d never known him to lie before but if what he said was true, you’d suffered so much heartbreak for nothing. You shook your head, not even wanting to discuss this right then. “Let’s go back to the village. I need to get cleaned up.”

He grasped your arm and turned you back to face him. His hand cradled the side of your face. “Why are you crying?”

“Am I?” You moved to wipe the tears away, but he beat you to it. You licked your lips. “I’m not a fool, Geralt. I know where I stand in importance to you. And I tried to be okay with it because I love you. But I can’t do this anymore.” You took a step back. “So, thank you for your help and maybe I’ll see you around someday.”

“No,” he growled as he grabbed you and pulled you back to him. “You are not saying goodbye.” His lips slammed into yours and you couldn’t resist kissing him back. He tangled his fingers in your hair and held you in place as he pulled away and pressed his forehead to yours. “I don’t deserve you. I told myself to keep my distance, but fuck it. I don’t care anymore. I need you, Y/N. No one else just you.”

“What about me?” came from the darkness, startling a laugh out of you.

Geralt growled. “Jaskier, if this ends up in one of your songs you’ll wish that drowner had eaten you.”

“But what an epic tale it would be. The white wolf and the mistress of night.”

You shook your head and looped your arms around your witcher’s neck. “No. This one’s about Geralt and Y/N.” And his lips found yours again.

[murasaki-murasame]

Thoughts on Higurashi Sotsu Ep13

The true mystery of this show is trying to figure out how to even talk about each episode without just repeating myself or talking about other parts of the franchise, lmao.

Anyway, thoughts under the cut. Plus probably spoilers for both Umineko and Ciconia.

I’m not even sure where to begin talking about the fundamental issues this show has at this point, lol. It’s easy to just say that Sotsu on it’s own is bad, but I feel like it’s highlighting the fact that right from day one there were problems with the show’s structure and it’s intentions that have just become more and more of an issue as time’s gone on.

At the very least, I think that it was a huge mistake for them to have the gun cliffhanger happen midway through Gou, and to then spend so much time on backstory stuff and answer arcs. That just cast a negative shadow over all of those arcs because everyone was just impatient to get back to the cliffhanger. At this point I think they shouldn’t have even had Nekodamashi be in Gou to begin with. If they transitioned straight from Tataridamashi to Satokowashi then you could keep the general cliffhanger of revealing that Satoko’s the culprit without making people so impatient to go back to it and see what happens afterward.

But there’s also the issues like how Satokowashi revealed everything we needed to know about the howdunnit of the mystery, or how the whole gimmick of reusing the same scenarios as the VN in order to play both sides and make it technically accessible to new fans really wrote them into a corner and forced them to spend more time on the answer arcs than they needed to.

If we at least assume that the whole story ends in this arc, I think you easily could have condensed it all into one 2-cour season if they’d just committed to aiming this at old fans.

I guess there’s still a chance we’ll get some sort of continuation, but at this point I feel like the only way to get that much more content is if it ends up mostly retreading Satokowashi from a different perspective, which might actually drive me insane, lol.

In general it just feels like we’re already at the climax of the story one way or another, and there’s not many ways to keep it going for much longer without it seeming super forced. Like, Eua and Hanyuu are having their big confrontation with each other, and now Rika and Satoko are both on the same page, so they’re going to basically be stuck in a stalemate until one of them gives up. There isn’t really any mystery left to answer aside from giving more info about what’s going on between Eua and Hanyuu, so I’d rather they just cut to the chase and not drag this out.

We also know from TV listings that a different show is going to taking over Sotsu’s time slot next season, so unless it changes time slot for some reason, we’d probably have to wait until at least January to get a continuation, and I just dunno if that’d even be worth it.

I’ve already gone over my general ideas for how I think this will end, but I still think it’s entirely possible to wrap things up in just two more episodes. At the very least, if we get another full cour out of this then that’d probably just end up only having a few more episodes of actually new content, so my point still stands, lol.

I don’t think this episode did much to change my mind about where this is going, but it did at least clarify a couple of things. Like how Eua explicitly calls Hanyuu a ‘part of her’, which means that I’m probably right about my interpretation of them being two halves of the same being. There’s still a lot of different ways they could explain it, but at this point it’d basically still just boil down to the same idea of them being two parts of the same person.

It’s also more clear now that Rika more or less didn’t really know about Satoko being the culprit until the last minute, and was starting to get flashbacks to the end of Tataridamashi. I’m not entirely sure how to feel about that. It’s kinda hard to believe that Rika wasn’t at least suspecting Satoko by that point, but I do like the implication that Rika wasn’t fully dead when Satoko arrived, since that at least feels like pay-off for Satoko being so cocky and openly monologuing about how evil she is when she thinks Rika’s dead and can’t hear her.

I guess this episode also shows that there wasn’t anything particularly special going on with how Takano decided to confess to Rika in this one specific loop, which is also kinda underwhelming. Basically it seems like it just boils down to her feeling guilty about all of the stuff she remembers doing, but it’s still kinda weird that she didn’t confess to her in any previous loops. One of the weird issues with Gou/Sotsu’s storytelling is that Rika seemingly put no real effort into trying to investigate Takano even though she remembered her being the culprit, and I think that could have been really easily resolved if there was a scene like this in Onidamashi where Takano confesses her sins to Rika and leaves the village, since that would at least give a reason for her to not try and investigate them, and to assume that somebody else is behind these new loops. They could have even just had that happen off-screen and only be shown in Oniakashi if they didn’t want to spoil new fans. It just seems like a really easy change to make that would have made Rika’s passivity and hopelessness in this series way more understandable.

I think we’re also meant to assume that Satoko reacting to the box in this episode was just her faking it, since there’s no real indication that her conscience has returned or anything. But I’m not really sure why Satoko would go out of her way to fake that, when the trap box hadn’t even come up in that timeline. Maybe it would have made more sense if we saw her inner thoughts in that scene, but it kinda feels like they had to come up with some sort of scenario where Satoko would accidentally display knowledge that only a looper would know. Compared to how she’s been almost overpowered and hyper-competent in this series compared to Rika, it has a weird vibe of her being stupid because the plot demands it, lol. Either way it just seems kinda weird and contrived.

We also ended this episode on the gun cliffhanger again, which I saw coming, but it still kinda stings, lol. Hopefully the payoff is worth it. Realistically I think Satoko will just immediately shoot Rika, and we’ll cut to them having a proper confrontation in the meta world. With how they compared it to the ‘miracle’ scene with Takano in Matsuribayashi, it’s possible that they’ll somehow stop Satoko from shooting her, but I dunno. The stuff Hanyuu said about how this ‘isn’t the world that Rika fought for’ makes me think we’re probably not gonna stick with this loop for very long anyway, so I’d rather they just cut to the chase and get to the part where the two of them fight it out in the fragment world once and for all. Which at least seems to be what that one part of the OP is teasing at.

On that note, the only other mysterious part of the OP [and the key visual] left is the older club members in new outfits, which still feels like a bit of a loose thread, but it’s entirely possible that it doesn’t really mean much. For one thing, it could be as simple as it being related to an epilogue scene back in the Matsuribayashi timeline where they’re in different outfits to the ones we saw them wear last time we saw them. Either way I don’t really think the other club members are going to be super relevant to how this all ends, so one way or another whatever that stuff is related to could still just come up in the next two episodes.

Basically the question is just how exactly the big conflicts are gonna get resolved, and what note we’ll end things on. Which also ties into the larger question of whether or not this is genuinely meant to tie into Umineko [and maybe Ciconia] like they’re indicating, or if that’s some kind of elaborate troll.

I know i’m biased, but I think all the Umineko and Ciconia stuff is totally sincere, and Ryukishi really is using this as a way to start tying the wider WTC-verse together in a more concrete way, so that’s what I’m basing my theories off of.

With that in mind, I still think this will end with Rika and Satoko officially abandoning their humanity and becoming witches together, with the sword maybe being an in-universe plot device to depict that process. And with the reveal that Eua and Hanyuu are for all intents and purposes two parts of the same person, I feel like their side of things will probably end with them merging together in a way that creates Featherine, which would at least explain why Featherine’s personality is more mild than Eua’s, and also why Bernkastel is her miko, and why Featherine’s whole name is a giant pun about Hanyuu. It’d also fit with the whole religious motif that Hanyuu has going on if she basically ‘sacrifices’ herself to neutralize Eua. It’s at least the closest I think we’ll get to seeing Eua be ‘defeated’.

And on that note, I don’t really think this will end with anyone like Eua or Satoko being used as a villain who everyone else defeats so they can go back to their happy ending, since that’s the exact sort of thing that Ryuukishi regrets doing originally, and is why we’ve gotten so many redemption arcs for people in Gou/Sotsu. So I think at most we’ll see Eua get turned into Featherine so she’s less actively hostile towards everyone else, but I think this will ultimately end with Rika and Satoko reconciling and mending their relationship.

Over on the Matsuribayashi timeline side of things, I feel like this is gonna end up paralleling Nekodamashi a bit, and we’ll find out that Satoko ended up planning to kill herself in the Saiguden, but Rika and the club will show up at the last minute and she’ll choose not to. Then we’ll probably see her and Rika talk things out properly, and maybe Satoko will find out that Satoshi woke up from his coma or whatever, and that way they’ll all still get their happy ending, while also simultaneously we can still have Rika and Satoko split off their witch selves into separate entities that become the Bern and Lambda we know in Umineko.

It’s possible they’ll do something with the idea of Satoko losing her game and being sent to a world without Rika, but that also might just not happen at all. So who knows.

If they really lean into the idea of this directly setting up for Umineko, then it’d be neat if we also see Satoko and Rika meet Ikuko in the future of the Matsuribayashi timeline.

There’s also the Ciconia teases to think about, but they seem to be going in the direction of Ciconia taking place before all this even happened, so I think that’ll be kept kinda nebulous and unexplored until Ciconia itself finishes. Ryukishi might announce a release date for phase 2 after Sotsu ends, but I think it’s way too early for anything like an anime adaptation of it. I’d rather they wait until at least after it’s finished before they do something like that.

On the other hand, Umineko’s been over for like ten years, so it’d be much easier to do something like a remake for it after this. I have a lot of thoughts about how that might go if they do that, but I’m gonna wait until Sotsu ends and then make a separate post about it.

Anyway I guess now I just have to wait and see what happens next week, lol.

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

achilles come down

A/N: this started out as “thomas come down” and then turned into an angsty self-indulgent mess. i’m so sorry. the title, of course, is from the song by gang of youths, which inspired this fic. the song is long but it’s very good, and I imagine it addressing thomas’ reckless behavior: the first two verses being the merry thieves, then perhaps lucie, third verse is himself, then alastair for verse four.

content warnings(!!! PLEASE READ !!!): this is a fic literally about alastair talking thomas off of a bridge, so do with that what you will. mention or instance of: suicide, suicidal ideation, alcoholism, grief, loss of a family member, implied homophobia

You can also read it on AO3

Sona Carstairs was in the Silent City. There’d been some emergent complications with her pregnancy, and it was likely that she would need to deliver now. Elias was nowhere to be found, unsurprisingly. Cordelia had accompanied their mother to the City of Bones while Alastair agreed to search for Elias. I’d go, but- she’d said, but he cut her off. It was dangerous for her to walk the city at night, especially alone, and one of them needed to stay with their mother. 

Off he’d gone into the night, but he quickly realized that he wasn’t searching for his father at all. He was just walking.

He understood that most people thought it odd - Cordelia certainly did - but there were few things on this Earth that could calm him the way a long walk could. The problem, however, being that the solace would end as soon as he stopped walking. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out when he finally saw him. An hour, maybe two, all he knew was that he was far, far from the London Institute. But there he was.

Thomas Lightwood. 

Stumbling on the ledge of a bridge, bottle in hand. 

He recalled a conversation with his sister a few days prior. She’d seemed off, bothered by something. It’s Thomas, she’d finally confessed. He keeps doing increasingly reckless things, and, I don’t know, everyone is worried. We’re Shadowhunters, we do dangerous things all the time, but it’s different. Lucie was just beside herself earlier. She tried to talk to him, but he just won’t listen. The other boys have tried, too, I think, but they won’t talk about it. I’m just worried that he’ll do something that can’t be undone. 

His heart beginning to race, he climbed onto the bridge. Thomas was sitting now, at least, and the ledge was a bit wider than it had appeared from the road, but he was careful to not look down as he made his way to Thomas. 

He turned his head, finally noticing the other boy’s presence. “Alastair? What- How- How did you find me? Who told you to come here?” 

“I was just going for a walk,” he lied.

“Kensington is across the city.” 

“I came from the Institute, actually. Which is still across the city, but I’ve been walking for a while.” 

“Well, you can keep walking, then. I believe I’ve made it quite clear that I don’t wish to speak with you.” 

Alastair hoped that Thomas could not see the way he was trembling. “I know, and I don’t intend to disrespect your wishes. If you still wish to throw me in the Thames, you may. I believe I’ve made it quite easy for you. I just need you to hear me out for a moment. Thomas, put down the bottle, come down from here. Please.” 

“Why would I ever listen to you,” he spat. 

He made his way closer to Thomas, closer than he should have, dangerously close. “Because I know where you’re sitting,” he said in a low voice. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” he scoffed. 

Alastair sat down next to him and just thought. Minutes passed, and he had not responded, but he was terrified of saying the wrong things. There were a million things he’d wished to tell Thomas Lightwood. “I… was seeing someone, you know,” he said finally. “For almost two years, on and off. It was incredible at first - I felt so sophisticated and the secrecy of it all was exhilarating. Then, something changed, or maybe it didn’t, that’s just who he was all along, and I just didn’t realize. I don’t know, but eventually, I was tearing myself apart so that I could be whoever he needed me to be without ever receiving the same in return. I suppose… I suppose I thought that that’s what love was supposed to be. I’ve certainly never known it to be anything else. Perhaps that’s just what happens when one spends more nights in his adolescence dragging his father home from bars than actually sleeping.” 

Alastair exhaled slowly before continuing. “I spent so much time and energy trying to be whoever everyone else wanted me to be - whoever he wanted, whoever my father wanted, whoever the boys at the Academy wanted, whoever England wanted. Whoever I convinced myself that I needed to be to survive. This… This is so stupid, but the time I spent with you, in Paris and then that day in lab, it was the first time in so long that I’d felt free and safe to be myself in the company of another person. Sitting with you, I realized how tired I was of all of the pretending.

“Perhaps you’re right, Thomas, perhaps I don’t actually know anything about you. Perhaps you are not who I think you are. I don’t know what the voices in your head are telling you, but this is who I know you to be: you are safety, and you are kindness, and you are selfless in a way that is careful to never burden another. You are someone who loves endlessly, unconditionally, and there are countless people in this city alone who love you endlessly, and you deserve all of it. You see the best in people, even when they see no good in themselves. You are brilliant, observant, attentive, and I’ve never met an Englishman who can speak Persian as well as you do. You are much more than I could enumerate to you in one night, and you are certainly more than whoever you see yourself to be in wake of your pain.” 

He paused once more, waiting to see if Thomas had anything to say, before continuing. “I know that you hate me and that you shouldn’t listen to a thing I say, but if you would oblige me just this one time, listen to this: please come down. Please stop torturing yourself this way. Quit holding your pain in so tightly. You’re allowed to grieve, Thomas. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to feel whatever it is you’re feeling. If you keep burying it inside you, it will destroy you from the inside out, and it will destroy everyone around you. Believe me, I’ve been on both ends. We aren’t meant to do this alone.” 

There was silence once more until Thomas finally spoke, his voice quiet. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.” 

“Well, you could have fooled me,” Alastair replied, cocking his head sideways in a sly manner.

“I was certain you’d hate me, after all that I’ve said.” 

“That seems like it would be a bit hypocritical. Besides, you had plenty of cause to say the things you have.” 

“Not all of them. I was just angry… and confused.” 

“That’s just as much cause as anything. I’m happy to put in the past if you are.” 

He only nodded slowly in response. 

“Did you hear anything else I said, though?” Alastair asked semi-jokingly. “I’m out here dramatically monologuing on the edge of a bridge past midnight, Thomas. Lucie would lose her mind if she knew.” 

Thomas bit back a smile. “Yeah, I… I know that you’re right. It’s just… I miss her so much, and it feels like I need to do anything just to get the hurting to stop for a moment. Sometimes I even forget, just for a second, or I wake up in the morning and think that she’s just down the hall, but then I remember and it’s like… it’s like I’m being told all over again. I know that I’m driving my parents mad and I know how much I’m hurting them, and they’ve already hurt so much. I feel like I’m just making all of this worse. Sometimes, it just seems like it would be better to just… end it all now. Less painful in the long-run.” 

Alastair thought for a moment. “Your sister… If you had to go through the pain of losing her all over again, from the beginning, just to spend one more day with her, would you do it?” 

He didn’t even need to think about it. “Of course.” 

“Love is painful, Thomas. Sometimes more than is fair. Love is… deadly, dangerous, the most dangerous thing in the world, even. More dangerous than sitting on the edge of a bridge, certainly. That is just the price we pay because without it, where would we be? Who would we be? What would the world become without it? There’d be no art or architecture, no beauty at all. It would be every man for himself. It would be empty. This hurt may be the cost of loving you right now, but I can promise you that they’d pay it a thousand times because you’re worth more to them than all of it. You don’t need to go through this alone, Thomas. You can let them in.” 

Thomas didn’t respond for a few minutes. “When did you become so wise?” 

Alastair sighed. “I have been reading a lot of Rumi lately.” 

Thomas let out a bit of a chuckle. “Really?” 

“Yeah, well… It reminded me of you, if I’m being honest. I know you prefer the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, it’s oddly popular in England, but I don’t know… I could find a dozen men right now without even trying who would wax poetic about the simple pleasures in life if I asked. Not that you shouldn’t enjoy it, but it’s not what I prefer to read.” 

“This really is quite peculiar,” Thomas observed, staring at him. “Have you ever even spoken this much before? At least without my consistent and careful pestering, that is.” 

Alastair bit his lip. “Maybe not to anyone who was actually listening.” He could recall rambling to Charles on several occasions, but he never cared much for what he had to say. It was odd, Thomas was correct, that he was being so open and honest so easily. He thought about a line he’d read earlier: you have to keep breaking your heart until it opens. Perhaps seeing Thomas up on this bridge, knowing what may happen, was enough to finally break his heart wide open. Or perhaps it was just fluke, he was delirious with exhaustion from the day he’d had, and he was desperate to say anything that would stop Thomas from doing something foolish, and the moment they’d step down from the bridge, the fortress he’d built around himself would return. Perhaps it was both.

“I’d listen to you all night.” 

“You just might, if we don’t get down from here. What do you say? Allow me to walk you home?” 

Thomas exhaled. “Fine, but not home. I haven’t been home in days; my parents will be furious.” 

“No time like the present then.” 

“Alastair-” 

“I won’t force you into anything, but I’m certain that they must be worried about you. If you must endure their anger, so be it. You should be with your family right now, Thomas. It will ease all of your minds.” 

He thought for a moment. “Fine, I’ll go.” 

Thomas began to stand up, and Alastair felt the sparks of anxiety he’d felt climbing onto the bridge light up once again, urging him to be careful. 

Thomas paused and narrowed his eyes. “Alastair, are you afraid of heights?” 

If he could blush, Alastair would have. “What? No! Don’t be daft! I’m… I’m afraid of falling… from heights. It’s a perfectly rational fear.” 

Thomas gave him a look that he couldn’t quite identify. “Right.” He climbed back onto the bridge, and then helped Alastair. “See? Not so bad.” 

He rolled his eyes. “My hero,” he deadpanned. 

“You must have lost your mind when Cordelia came home after getting knocked off of the bridge during that fight with the Mandikhor.” 

“What!?” Alastair squeaked. He cleared throat and tried again. “Sorry, I mean, what!?” He could recall the night he came home to Cordelia and James in the parlor, soaked to the bone, but he’d been so riled up about Charles that he nearly fought James, and his confession about their father soon after precluded any questioning into what happened that night. 

Thomas threw his hands up in defense. “I can see I’ve said too much already.” 

“You twat, let’s get you home.” 

The walk to Thomas’ home was shorter than he’d expected, but it was quiet the whole way there. Thomas wasn’t much in the mood for talking, which, while atypical, was understandable. 

He stopped in the street when they arrived, bidding Thomas a good night. “I’ll need to bring you one of my copies of Rumi sometime. It might be a bit difficult because it’s all in Persian, but… Well, I could help you, if you wanted.” He stopped for a moment and quickly supplied, “if you needed, I mean.” 

“I’d like that,” he replied quietly. “Thank you… For talking to me and for walking me home.” 

“Anytime, Thomas. Although, I must admit that I might prefer it under slightly different circumstances.” 

Thomas nodded. “Get home safe, Alastair.” 

Alastair watched Thomas as he walked up to his front door. Before he’d even reached it, the door flung open, his mother standing there, waiting for him. She threw his arms around him, holding him tightly. He then noticed his father standing behind her. It was difficult to see much in the dark, but they shared a brief moment as their eyes met, and Alastair turned quickly to begin the walk home. 

* * *

When Alastair found his father in the parlour room, most of the way through a bottle of brandy, he remembered what he was meant to be doing the whole night. He couldn’t suppress his scoff when he saw him. He wasn’t even trying to pretend like he was better anymore.

“Mâmân is in the Silent City, you know. She’ll soon give birth, if she hasn’t already, to your child, but you couldn’t be further from her side, could you? It’s not like you could even go there now, not in this state.” 

“Alastair. I will not tolerate such insolence in my house. Speak not of things you do not understand.”

“It’s hardly your house, though, is it? You’ve lived here but a few days.” 

Elias threw his glass against the wood floor and Alastair did his best to suppress his flinch as it shattered across the ground. “Silence, child.” His father had never resorted to physical violence, but he was not below quieting him in other ways when he was drunk. 

“I am not a child anymore.” Truly, it was unusual for him to defy his father in this way, even this past couple of weeks that he has been in London. When he was younger, he only wished for it all to be over as quickly and quietly as possible, and those old habits still lingered. 

“You are certainly behaving like one.” 

“Better a child, then, than the sorry excuse for a man you are. Why did you even come here? You could have stayed in France or wherever it was you’d abandoned us for, and we would have all been better off. I know not much can make it through your thick skull, but understand this. You have hurt my family and I for too long, and I will not allow it any longer. You must choose, Elias. Us or the bottle. This is your final chance. I will not allow you to treat this baby the way you have treated Cordelia and I, never certain of where we were going or how long we were staying or if our father would even come home that night.” 

“Oh, really? You think you’re better than me, stronger than me, more powerful? I’ve seen the way people in this city speak of you, and you certainly are your father’s son. Tell me, Alastair, what is it you plan to do?” 

Alastair often did worry about how much like Elias he was, how he could seemingly turn off his emotions with no effort, despite it occasionally happening when he wished it would not. He pushed those fears aside, though, knowing that his father was just trying to get under his skin. “I care not what the sleazy bums you call people say about me, especially given the type of company you keep. In case you’ve forgotten, Cordelia knows the truth about you now, the truth about our childhood, and she’s married into one of the most powerful families in London. I-” He thought of Charles, and then of Thomas. Perhaps he was not as diplomatic as his younger sister. “Cordelia and I have both made our own connections here, and I believe you will find yourself quickly disappointed should you try to sway us. 

“Perhaps you believe that Mâmân will choose you over us, and perhaps she will. But is that a risk you’re willing to take? Do you truly trust that she would choose you over us? That she would side with her drunken husband over her own children, when we are the ones who have stood by her and cared for her over the past months while you gave her only heartache? Do you think she wants to again be forced to allow her child to pick up after your drunken messes? If you truly cared for us at all, you’d give up the bottle for good or you’d leave before you can cause us any more pain. I care not anymore if you choose to destroy yourself, but I will not allow you to destroy my family any longer.” 

Elias was silent for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Ironic that you mention the kind of company I keep, given yours. Do you truly believe that your mother would side with you if she knew the truth?” 

Alastair curled his lips into a smile and let out an airy laugh. “You fool,” he said patronizingly. “She already knows.” 

It was a lie, of course, a quick and careful deception, but Elias tended to bring out the worst in him. He couldn’t look back on all of the things his father had said and done and say that he felt particularly guilty about it. If he truly planned to expose Alastair’s secret to Sona, he would have regardless. If that were to come to pass, he would manage it as it came, deny it, or, perhaps, confess it, and hope that his mother loves him enough to support him anyways. 

With that, he turned to leave the parlor room. “It’s your choice, Elias. Stay or go. Make it by morning.” 

He retreated into his bedroom, thinking about how he should make his way to the Silent City himself, now that Elias was fully informed. He would only need to calm down, and then he could be on his way. As he attempted to relax, however, he fell into a trance of fitful sleeping, awakening several hours later to the early-morning sun streaming in through his window. 

He shot out of bed, glancing into his mirror to straighten out any sign of all the things that had transpired the night before, and hurried down the stairs. The house was silent and empty. Perhaps his father had already left for the Silent City, he thought, but then he recalled their last conversation. He made his way trepidatiously back to the parlour room. The shards of glass from the night before were still scattered across the floor. On the end table beside where his father had sat was a note. 

He raced up the stairs to his parents’ bedroom, scanning his eyes across the room for any sign of his father. The bag that he’d brought with him from France was nowhere to be found. He tore into the closet, but there was nothing. He was gone. 

Alastair sunk to the floor. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. “What have I done,” he whispered. 

He took a breath and returned to the parlour room with a broom and a dustpan. He’d need to tell Risa about it later, so they could make sure that there were no remnants left anywhere when the baby eventually began to crawl, but he needed to to at least clean up what he could before anyone returned to the house. He thought with a sick knot twisting in his stomach that this could be the final time he swept his father’s glass off of the floor. 

When the parlour room was clean enough, he took a moment to compose himself and grabbed his father’s note. On his way out the door, he paused at one of the bookshelves, pulling from it one of the titles he knew would be there: Divan-i Shams-i Tabrizi, the “great work” of Rumi, so-to-speak. He doubted that he would run into Thomas, or if he would even recommend he start with such a deeply metaphorical text, but he suspected he may need a distraction at some point in the day before him. 

He caught a hansom cab to the Institute and tried his best to remain calm during the trip. When he arrived, he entered cautiously, many thoughts racing through his mind. What if something happened? He was only supposed to go searching for Elias, he wasn’t meant to be gone all night. What if someone asked where he’d been? What if something happened while he was gone? 

He found Cordelia first, thankfully, and she lit up when she saw him. He felt guilty being unable to return her excitement. “Alastair! There you are. Where’ve you been?” 

“What happened? Is Mâmân alright?” 

She nodded quickly. “Everything’s fine, Alastair. The baby was born a couple of hours ago. Everything went smoother than expected, they’re both doing wonderfully. They should be released from the Silent City later today. But- Alastair, did you not find Baba?” Her face contorted with worry. 

He looked down, careful to conceal any emotion from his face. He lifted his head slowly, extending the note Elias had left. He said nothing. 

Cordelia gasped. “No, no, this isn’t possible. This doesn’t make any sense,” she cried, her voice rising. To the side, he could see Will Herondale through the door to the kitchen, conversing with someone. 

“Cordelia-” he said in a low voice, attempting to tell her to be a bit quieter. 

“No!” She shouted. “No, this doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do this? Why now? You said something, didn’t you? You must have! What did you say? You must fix this.” 

He steeled against her accusations, even if they were true. “He made his choice, Cordelia. That’s all.” 

“No,” she said coldly. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For him to leave us? What did you do!” she shouted, getting in his face. 

He gritted his teeth and grabbed her wrists. “You think this is what I wanted? You don’t think that there’s still some stupid, foolish part of me who genuinely believed that he would finally choose us, even though he never has before? He’s made his choice, Cordelia, again. You’ve no need to worry, dear sister, seeing as he did not leave you. You’re married, remember? You don’t live with us. We’ll be fine, Cordelia.”

He released her, and she stepped back in shock. “Alastair-” 

“I should make my way to the Silent City. I should be the one to tell her, seeing as, as you said, this was my doing.” He took the note back from her and left before she could respond. 

He cursed silently to himself, knowing that the exit nearest to Highgate Cemetery would be through the kitchen. They quieted as he walked through, and he was careful not to make eye contact. 

“Alastair-” Someone started. He turned to see Gideon Lightwood. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing Thomas home last night.” 

“It was nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. 

“It wasn’t nothing. Thank you.” 

He nodded his head quickly and continued out of the Institute. He took a deep, gasping breath of grassy air, not realizing that he’d even been holding it as he walked out. He thought of Thomas, sleeping soundly under his mother’s watchful eyes, and of Cordelia, still standing in the foyer, tears running down her cheeks, and of his mother, resting peacefully, oblivious to the news he was about to bring her. 

His mind ran through the past eight hours, considering all of the wrong things he might have done. All of the missteps he must have made. 

Whatever his mistakes, though, his mother and the baby were safe and healthy. Thomas was safe. His family was safe. For now, that needed to be enough. He needed to believe that they could heal from all that had happened in the past months, that they could overcome and grow from it. It might not be easy, it might be difficult and slow and painful, but it would happen. It would have to. 

With that, he continued on his way to the Silent City.