#and their memories are represented by a stained glass window with a figure in their precure color and the face is that teams logo

[monstergraffiti]

i'm watching the hugtto/futari wa movie and there's a green stained glass with the doki precure symbol on it but. there's no green doki cure. do they??? consider rosetta to be a green cure??

[skele-bunny]

*angsts your Special and Cowbell*

You did this to yourself 🫵 (I cried a lil writing this sjdjdj) also ignore the timeline fuckery, I wanted to have his family involved.

In Memory of Our Beloved. (CW)

CW - Death, medium/heavy description of demise

Tags: Heavy angst/light comfort, funeral setting, loss of a family member

Characters: Special, Cowbell, Doves, Sister Imperator, Papas, Misc.

(Divider by @ wrathofrats )

Sunday, May 14th, 2022.

The abbey felt dark. Like they forgot to pay the electric bill, and the company had placed a heavy sheet over the buildings. Over the sun. Clouds threatened rain for the melancholy feeling. Not only that, but it was quiet in the den. The sound of a vinyl playing was gone, no checklist being read aloud, and no one dared to speak. Not even Cowbell, who's eyes laid dark, lost in dissociation as Iris carefully brushed his hair to fix with his suit. Even the Doves had changed to their formal wear of robes decorated in medals and religious pins.

He felt Iris pull his curling locks into a small ponytail, resting against his neck, collar being adjusted. He wasn't focused in on his mate as Iris move around and knelt down to begin placing pins on Bell's tux, adjusting his flower in the breast pocket.

They were precise, careful at each movement. They needed to look their best. After all, they had Phil's funeral to attend.

No words were spoken between the two once Iris finished, gently pressing a kiss to his mate's cheek and standing up to finish helping the others. Bell kept staring out the window as very slowly, rain droplets began to hit the stained glass.

"Hey, Bell." Phil whispered, holding his brother tightly as they stared outside the window.

The tween looked over, their tails intertwined. "Hmm?"

"Do you think it rains for the entire world at the same time, or on certain days?"

Bluebell thought harder, her brows creasing as she tried to figure out the question. "I think... All over the world!"

"Ohh," Phil looked back outside. "I hope Canada isn't flooding. Mother has to fly there soon."

Cowbell felt his hand being squeezed, coming back to reality and noticing they were now outside, somehow he was walking. Black umbrellas and uniforms lined the outside, Bell looking around more and spotting his family ahead once they got inside again. Even they were dressed in their best, Papa Nihil and his brothers in their papal robes. Sister turned, her face puffy from crying and meeting Bell halfway, reaching up and hugging her other son tightly.

"My Bell... Oh, my sweet Bluebell." She cried, holding him even tighter.

He simply hugged back, remaining silent and squeezing. They stood for a moment before more arms joined, his brothers finding a strange comfort between one another. It was strange. They didn't like hugging each other, Sister especially despised hugs. Yet, here they were, huddled together with their Father to the side. Bell gently butted his horns against his mother, the woman stepping back and using her tissue to wipe her eyes, sniffling again.

"We have to start soon... Are you going to be okay?" Primo asked, his hand on Bell's back.

The ghoul simply nodded, fiddling with his fingers. There was no other discussion as they got in formation. Funerals weren't anything new to the ministry, but they were to Bell. The formation was meant to represent the ones left behind by the deceased, ranging from family first with parents in front, to lovers if unmarried. The Doves were married to Special, but opted staying in the back to let the family first.

Papa Nihil and Sister stood in front, Cowbell by himself in the middle, the three retired and one current Papas next, then the Doves.

There was one last whisper of confirmation before they began to walk, a duo of siblings opening the door for them to the chapel. As they arrived, those in the pews, loft, and altar stood to face them. Bell could feel himself choke, stumbling over his own legs that felt too awkward all of a sudden. There was... So many people. Ghouls and siblings he recognized, most he didn't, higher-ups and those from other ministries that came to pay respects. It was the moment he walked past the previous band packs that he really wished he turned his hearing aids off.

The second era was never kind, that was a fact. They despised the Null's once they retired. Yet, Bell couldn't ignore their heavy demeanors and sad eyes, bowing in sync to the family to show their respects. Mist never cried. Yet, there she stood in the arms of Delta sobbing uncontrollably, Zephyr still sat in the aisle with xer chair, unable to control themselves as well. The next forward pews were worse. The current band ghouls were all full of wet eyes and sobs, Dewdrop breaking regulation as he couldn't even look up, face hidden in Aether's chest while his mate did his best to comfort the fire ghoul.

Turning away, Bell couldn't bare to look at anyone else but his view was met with a clear casket. The sides full of floral arrangements and religious items. Candles lined at the floor and curled around the altar, with a few photo stands of the departed in various situations. A single portrait that the entire Emeritus' family had gotten done, one of childhood of Phil's first Halloween, even his wedding photo tossing a bouquet over his head. Each one he was smiling.

It looked off to see his body without one.

Sister and Nihil moved to the alter, while Bell turned off to sit in the very first, empty pew. His brothers followed to the alter as well, Doves sitting next to him. The sound of the organ playing tried to drown out the cries, Bell's eyes locked onto his brother's body.

Repetitive tapping against skin made the eldest groan, sitting up and pushing up his eye mask. He tiredly eyed Cowbell standing hesitantly at his bedside, eyes glancing to the alarm clock that read 4 a.m. He didn't yell, nor give any sign he was angry at the disruption. Instead, he opened his blanket, Bell slowly climbing in. Phil yawned and placed his chin between Bell's horns as he got comfortable again, holding each other close. Bluebell let out a purr, exhaling as he could practically feel his anxiety melt away as he knew he was safe.

Phil looked like he was sleeping.

"Members of the clergy, siblings, ghouls, and those alike. Today, we both honor and remember one of our own for his life and sacrifice. Phil "Special" Emeritus." Papa Nihil spoke, his voice wavering some as he spoke into the small microphone. "Many of you knew him, some even getting the joys to be permanent parts of his life. I, am one of those."

Cowbell tilted his head as he kept staring at the casket, trying to understand how exactly it was put together. Was it placed over Phil? Did the top open? The sides?

"Phil was the first ghoul to be summoned under the ministry here. Many seen him as a standing beacon, a trusted friend, a doctor, or simply family." Nihil looked down at his open book, sniffling just a tiny bit. "Death is something we are not to be afraid of. Rather, welcomed as our unholy father brings us into his arms for eternal rest. He, our savior, can abruptly take those from us. Their lives completed, fulfilled, and task entrusted to them finished—Shall return to our father when he's ready to take them back. Phil has done just that."

Moving his view, Bell noticed a few archbishops, cardinals, and other priests across the row. Did they always wear those silly hats everywhere? His eyes turned further, making eventual eye contact with Sunshine who sadly blew a kiss towards him. He just turned back around after that.

Bluebell slowly began to sway his hooves, looking down at the marble floor as he could see his toes and sole's reflection. His nose wiggled as a clawed hand carefully rested on his knee, looking up at Sarra who was seated next to him. His masked face stayed forwards, but Bell could see the tears in his eyes. Sarra didn't like showing his 'weaker' emotions, but it seemed even he couldn't control himself. Bell watched as Sarra and the others bowed their head, acknowledging his father praying for the mass. The null simply kept his head up.

There was a choir of 'nema', and Papa Nihil had stepped back. Their mother stood forwards. Her eyes were red, and surely must've startled a few of the onlookers. Sister Imperator was a show of strength and determination, never showing any signs of weakness. She was power. To see such a strong woman a bit disheveled was unheard of.

"When I was entrusted with Papa Nihil to summon the clergy's first ghoul of this region, I was over the moon. I hadn't expected what lied ahead of me, however. Years of laughter as I raised a kit. My child. Phil was summoned mistakenly. But he never truly was a mistake to me, or many others. To me, he was my son who had this high pitch laugh that could make your own smile appear. He was a boy who had so much interest in the world, and how his eyes would sparkle learning more and more every day. He was a boy who had terrible acne for his first school dance." She laughed a bit, a small wave of chuckles from the crowd as well.

She continued, "Phil was an older brother who adored his siblings more than anything in this world, he was a son that cared so deeply for his parents, and a husband who loved his spouses with his whole heart."

Was that Agni who sobbed? Bell didn't know.

"He loved everyone in his own unique way. He loved so much, he chose to sacrifice himself in the moment of danger to save the abbey from an attack."

To be truthful, Cowbell didn't know how Special died, yet at the same time he did. He watched it. Papa Copia and a few of them were summoned by a higher-up to attempt a new type of summoning ritual. Special was always included in these things as the eldest and most knowledgeable. Bell had simply stood in the back, still unsure why he was there in the first place.

As the portal engulfed in flames and began to pull, something came out that shouldn't have. There were only two Doves who accompanied, watching as an abomination crawled out with such unearthly screams. Bell remembered fear soaring through his body, grabbing Copia's arm as the wind picked up. The gust had forced the summoning book away, Phil chasing after it while the Doves attempted to either subdue the monster that threatened them.

The abomination had turned, swiping the Doves off their feet. It was just a split second—it felt like—as Special dived for the book, shouting the Latin words to begin closing it. The abomination thrashing harder as it was slowly sucked back in, arm reaching out. It's claws swiped directly for Sarra, and then it made impact with something else.

Bell wanted to think he couldn't remember anything after that. But he could.

The portal closed, the clawed hand severed and was left in a pile of blood. It was quiet as everyone tried to get their bearings, Bluebell watching as Phil laid limp against the portal. Sarra noticed and quickly scrambled over, turning his mate over. He expected sighs of relief. But there was distressed screaming, panic set through instead.

It wasn't painful. Multiple, deep wounds to the carotid and jugular was quick when you accounted for an almost severed head.

But, Bell didn't know that. That's what he wanted to think, wasn't it?

"I'll allow this time for those who wish to speak on the departed for memoriam."

Sister stepped away from the podium, but quickly replaced by Papa Terzo. He didn't even bother hiding his tears, wiping his eyes frantically as he tried to regain himself.

After that, Primo, then Secondo. Even the Doves. Some that worked in the infirmary. Old and current band ghouls, reminiscing when Phil traveled with them and the pure delight they all had. Some he didn't even know.

All but Cowbell.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, looking over to see Sarra giving him a gentle look. "Do you want to go up?" He whispered. "You don't have to."

The null turned to see a Sister of Sin stepping down, guilt flooding his mind and uncertainty. Bell was terrible at public speaking. But he had turned back, looking at his own mate.

"Go with me?"

So, he did. Cowbell held tightly onto Sarra's hand, minding each step as they approached the podium. Licking his lips, Bell kept his eyes down at the wood and closed bible. He couldn't look up. There was just silence before Sarra moved to rub his back encouragingly.

"Hello..." Bell spoke softly, clearing his throat and trying to understand what else to do.

"I'm... Cowbell, or Bluebell to my family." Obviously. "I—"

His tail began to flick erratically, looking at Sarra for guidance. He felt a calm wave of quintessence take over him, Sarra leaning down to whisper.

"Take your time. Everyone understands."

Did they, though?

Sucking in a breath, Bell nodded, turning back. His eyes caught the casket below, Phil's resting face bringing him a bit more comfort despite the situation.

"Just look at me when you do your presentation!" Phil smiled as they walked to class, respectively holding their projects. "That way, you don't have to worry about anyone else. It'll be just me and you!"

Bell kept his eyes locked onto his brother. "Special was older than me by just a few months, but sometimes it felt like a few years. He always carried himself so nicely, was responsible, and succeeded so much... But he was a dummy, too."

Laughter started somewhat. "Our mother never knew this, neither did our father, but we used to sneak out so much to join sibling parties. Hehe, and one time Phil stole Father's car and hit a mailbox with it. We ended up telling him that the dent had always been there, and he somehow believed us!"

Laughter from behind came, Bell turning with a smile to see Nihil laughing, his younger brothers following. His eyes went back to Special's casket.

"He had such a strong love for the music we grew up with. I'm sure the team in the OR know just how much that was. Always having a vinyl on and maybe dancing a bit while he was in the middle of a surgery... Sometimes in the den, he'd just put a record on and pull the nearest person up to dance with."

The tail that had curled up between his legs had begun to wag, smile never leaving. "Oh, Satanas, don't get me started about our childhood. We loved following fashion trends. He had a mullet one time, never again." Bell laughed, shaking his head. "Worst decision."

And he rambled. He rambled on, and on, and on. No one minded. No one interrupted. Bell picked at his own nail as he calmed down his laughter from telling the story of when Special quite literally slipped on a banana peel from Sarra and broke his wing. Even Sarra was laughing.

He calmed down, eyes going soft. "I love my brother... He was—He is the best thing that's ever happened to me... Part of me doesn't want to accept he's gone. That when we get back to the den, The Temptations will be on the record player, and he'll be singing while reading. But the other part of me likes to think he's in paradise, with his wings full and the biggest horns, just sleeping in Greece like he always dreamt about."

"Then there's the tiniest part, where I think he's still here in his own way." He continued, looking at Sarra's hand, rubbing over the wedding ring the dove shared with Phil. "That he's still wandering the halls, still watching over my shoulder, and keeping me safe like he always used to do."

For the first time since five days ago, Bell had started to cry. His ears drooped, shoulders shaking as his mind processed just what exactly the body in front of him meant.

"If he c-can hear me. I want him to know how much I love him. How much I'll miss him. And just... Thank you. For being my brother and my safe space for all these years." Bell stepped back a bit, turning to hide in Sarra's chest. He was held tightly, carefully led back down and sat between him and Aqua that hugged him.

"Do you think we're brothers in every universe?" Bell mumbled, laying against the abbeys roof next to Special.

"I'd like to think so." Phil turned to smile. "Life would be pretty boring without you."

He cried as the ceremony finished.

Phil sang loudly, Bell following, to Dancing Queen as they rolled down the corridor. Phil wearing his roller skates, dragging Bell on his sitting scooter. Was this allowed? Absolutely not.

He cried against Secondo's shoulder as he watched the Doves be pallbearers, leading the mass outside.

When they were kits, Sister and Nihil were uncertain how they'd react to one another. Carefully, they had been laid next to each other on the bed, watching as the two infants whined and wiggled at the new scent of the other. Bluebell squirmed, hand touching Phil's cheek and almost immediately, their little tails linked together and they began to purr. Phil managed to roll to his side, pushing his face against Bluebell's cheek, silently chirping even though Bell couldn't hear him.

He cried as his legs gave out while Special was placed beneath the abbeys only Willow tree that he helped plant.

Sitting at the kitchen table coloring, Phil put down his crayon. "We would make a promise!"

Bluebell held so tightly onto his mother as he hunched over, pressed against her neck and soaking her shirt.

"What kinda promise?" Bell never looked up from her page of strawberry shortcake that he was making green.

"You're okay, you're okay..." She desperately whispered, her nails raking through his hair. "I'm right here."

"Promise that if we ever get split up, like a big tornado! Just boom!" Phil slid his book and crayon two separate ways. "We're apart!" He couldn't stop giggling. "That we'll always find each other again."

More bodies pressed close, Bell opening his eyes a little to stare at the birthmark he and Special shared. In honesty, it was a scar from their summoning. But, they liked it as their birthmark instead.

Bluebell just giggled too, finally looking up from her book to nod. "Okay! I like that. How will we find each other?"

Primo grabbed his hand, squeezing tight and gently kissing his knuckle.

"Oh... Uhm..." Phil thought for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing. He stuck his tongue out as he thought harder before gasping. "We can play mommy's record!"

"The music?"

"Yeah! The music!"

Bell clung to Agni as he was lifted bridal style, hiding his face into his mate's neck. He was up high enough to see the willow tree becoming farther and farther away, whimpering and clinging tighter to the robes he was pressed against.

"We'll put the music on high and just carry it around! So we can hear each other's song and find each other again!"

Bell giggled at the thought again, nodding. "Okay! We'll have to tell mommy to get another one."

"We'll tell her it's for safety!! So we never get separated!"

As they entered the den, Agni carefully placed Bell down into his bed, whispering promises to be right back as he left to get water and comfortable clothes for the null.

Bell sniffed hard, wiping his dirty face on his sleeve. He looked around before getting up, his legs rejecting the activity but he pushed. He opened the record player top, then crouched down to the shelf, flicking through the multiple collections they had grown over the years. His hand stopped on a tricolored case, pulling the vinyl out and delicately placing it down. He turned the player on and sat the needle down as Chet Baker began to play.

He moved and opened the window, facing the record player towards it, and simply stood. His ear flicked expectantly, hands gripping the shelf as he waited for an echo in the distance that would never come.

The identical, second vinyl stayed in the shelf. Untouched. Unopened.

[herdreamywasteland]

Abandonment: Part 2

Warnings: angst

Word count: 817

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Prompt: None

Requests: Open!

@vicmc624, this one's for you!

Curling up on your lonely, depressing couch, you hold onto the memories of the countless traditions you and Bucky had. You let your mind drift to the way he’d pull you onto his lap, kissing your neck till you laughed. The way he’d slip his freezing hands up your shirt, simply to see you gasp. The way he’d lean forward when the two of you kissed, dipping until your hair brushed the floor. 

Distracted, you notice how the rain batters the window behind your dim television screen. The laugh track from the sitcom you’re watching - or rather looking at while absorbing nothing - startles you back to the real world. The rain outside is pouring down, white lighting up the sky before a loud crack of thunder rattles the glass. 

You feel as though the Blip has happened, all over again. 

Your choking devastation, your burning anger, your crushing disappointment, the inability to hope, to see any sort of future, and the raw, burning pain that clawed at your skin, begging to be let out. All this and more seems to be represented in how the rain rushes down. In the way the ground lets itself be pummeled by the water, no longer soaking up the liquid, just letting the puddles grow, layer by wet layer. 

The curled-up parchments burn against your palm. You open your palm and watch the curled, tear-stained papers sit on your skin. You will them to incinerate themselves. Nothing happens, the papers merely sitting against your flesh, mocking you in their wholeness. 

You no longer have your power, your fiery spirit, and your subsequent abilities. No, ever since you made the life-changing decision to remove your pyrokinesis, you can’t produce so much as a spark. You thought your choice would allow you to have a mundane life with Bucky. 

It’s what he deserves. 

When the parchment doesn’t flare to life, turning to dust in hot flames, you reluctantly open the paper. There lay the words you wrote every night, ever since Bucky and half the universe left you behind.

To Bucky,

Please come back. I need you. I can’t sleep without you here. 

To Bucky,

Freight car. Seventeen. Winter.

I forgot the rest.

Come back to me even in the form of Winter Soldier. I’ll flare to life, just like I did the first time. I’ll make you remember me. I’ll show you again, how we are the same, just two people with a life of adversity thrust upon us by some cruel, uncaring being. 

James,

Please. I just want you. 

I need you.

I love you.

I don’t want anything else. I’ll do anything to get you back.

Dear James,

Why did you have to leave? What happened out there? 

I miss you.

To Barnes,

come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back

bucky,

please

i’ll do anything

You crumple the papers again, clenching them in your fists until your nails tattoo red crescent moons on your skin. These were only six out of thousands more. A paper for every night for five consecutive years - how long you waited for him, fought for him, killed for him. Five years you fought to find a cure, a remedy, anything. Five years, trying to figure out how to live.

After Bucky and the rest of the world blipped back, after the sacrifice of Stark, after Steve left, you hid the papers intending to burn them before Bucky found out.

He never stayed long enough to find them.

Now, they’re anchors to your sanity. You have to bring at least one, every time you leave the apartment or when you miss him - which is almost every damn day. You leave them in every pocket, in every jacket, shirt, and pair of pants you own. It’s become an unconscious habit.

Before you can bury your head in your arms, letting your tears fall, the door echoes with repeated knocks. At first, you think it’s thunder, but the knocking becomes more and more insistent. You glance around, checking your phone to see if anyone asked to come over. No notifications. 

Fear spikes in your chest. Uninvited visitors are never a good sign, especially when they show up at the home of a retired Avenger. 

Creeping toward the door, you unsheathe the silver dagger you keep strapped to your thigh. Call you paranoid, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you head towards the door. 

You slip your dominant hand behind your back, concealing the dagger. Then, you swiftly open the door, before you lose your nerve. 

The face on the other side is the face of the devil himself, wet and panting.

"Bucky?"

He stands there, wet, panting, face creased with regret, your washed-up denim jacket slung over his arm. Beautiful.

"Can I come in?"

[9jahitbase]

Stained glass window shows Jesus Christ with dark skin, stirring questions about race in New England

WARREN, R.I. (AP) — A nearly 150-year-old stained-glass church window that depicts a dark-skinned Jesus Christ interacting with women in New Testament scenes has stirred up questions about race, Rhode Island's role in the slave trade and the place of women in 19th century New England society.The window installed at the long-closed St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Warren in 1878 is the oldest known public example of stained glass on which Christ is depicted as a person of color that one expert has seen.“This window is unique and highly unusual,” said Virginia Raguin, a professor of humanities emerita at the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Massachusetts, and an expert on the history of stained-glass art. “I have never seen this iconography for that time.”The 12-foot tall, 5-foot wide (3.7 meters by 1.5 meters) window depicts two biblical passages in which women, also painted with dark skin, appear as equals to Christ. One shows Christ in conversation with Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus, from the Gospel of Luke. The other shows Christ speaking to the Samaritan woman at the well from the Gospel of John.The window made by the Henry E. Sharp studio in New York had largely been forgotten until a few years ago when Hadley Arnold and her family bought the 4,000-square-foot (371-square-meter) Greek Revival church building, which opened in 1830 and closed in 2010, to convert into their home.When four stained-glass windows were removed in 2020 to be replaced with clear glass, Arnold took a closer look. It was a cold winter's day with the sunlight shining at just the right angle and she was stunned by what she saw in one of them: The human figures had dark skin.“The skin tones were nothing like the white Christ you usually see,” said Arnold, who teaches architectural design in California after growing up in Rhode Island and earning an art history degree from Harvard University.The window has now been scrutinized by scholars, historians and experts trying to determine the motivations of the artist, the church and the woman who commissioned the window in memory of her two aunts, both of whom married into families that had been involved in the slave trade.Story continues“Is this repudiation? Is this congratulations? Is this a secret sign?” said Arnold.Raguin and other experts confirmed that the skin tones — in black and brown paint on milky white glass that was fired in an oven to set the image — were original and deliberate. The piece shows some signs of aging but remains in very good condition, she said.But does it depict a Black Jesus? Arnold doesn't feel comfortable using that term, preferring to say it depicts Christ as a person of color, probably Middle Eastern, which she says would make sense, given where the Galilean Jewish preacher was from.Others think it's open to interpretation.“To me, being of African American and Native American heritage, I think that it could represent both people," said Linda A’Vant-Deishinni, the former executive director of the Rhode Island Black Heritage Society. She now runs the Roman Catholic Diocese of Providence’s St. Martin de Porres Center, which provides services to older residents.“The first time I saw it, it just kind of just blew me away,” A’Vant-Deishinni said.Victoria Johnson, a retired educator who was the first Black woman named principal of a Rhode Island high school, thinks the figures in the glass are most certainly Black.“When I see it, I see Black," she said. “It was created in an era when at a white church in the North, the only people of color they knew were Black.”Warren’s economy had been based on the building and outfitting of ships, some used in the slave trade, according to the town history. And although there are records of enslaved people in town before the Civil War, the racial makeup of St. Mark’s was likely mostly if not all white.The window was commissioned by a Mary P. Carr in honor of two women, apparently her late aunts, whose names appear on the glass, Arnold said. Mrs. H. Gibbs and Mrs. R. B. DeWolf were sisters, and both married into families involved in the slave trade. The DeWolf family made a fortune as one of the nation's leading slave-trading families; Gibbs married a sea captain who worked for the DeWolfs.Both women had been listed as donors to the American Colonization Society, founded to support the migration of freed slaves to Liberia in Africa. The controversial effort was overwhelmingly rejected by Black people in America, leading many former supporters to become abolitionists instead. DeWolf also left money in her will to found another church in accord with egalitarian principles, according to the research.Another clue is the timing, Arnold said. The window was commissioned at a critical juncture of U.S. history when supporters of Republican Rutherford B. Hayes and their Southern Democrat opponents agreed to settle the 1876 presidential election with what is known as the Compromise of 1877, which essentially ended Reconstruction-era efforts to grant and protect the legal rights of formerly enslaved Black people.What was Carr trying to say about Gibbs' and DeWolf's links to slavery?“We don’t know, but it would appear that she is honoring people of conscience however imperfect their actions or their effectiveness may have been,” Arnold said. “I don't think it would be there otherwise."The window also is remarkable because it shows Christ interacting with woman as equals, Raguin said: “Both stories were selected to profile equality."For now, the window remains propped upright in a wooden frame where pews once stood. College classes have come to see it, and on one recent spring afternoon there was a visit from a diverse group of eighth graders from The Nativity School in Worcester, a Jesuit boys' school.The boys learned about the window's history and significance from Raguin.“When I first brought this up to them in religion class, it was the first time the kids had ever heard of something like this and they were genuinely curious as to what that was all about, why it mattered, why it existed,” religion teacher Bryan Montenegro said. “I thought that it would be very valuable to come and see it, and be so close to it, and really feel the diversity and inclusion that was so different for that time.”Arnold hopes to find a museum, college or other institution that can preserve and display the window for academic study and public appreciation.“I think this belongs in the public trust," she said. "I don’t believe that it was ever intended to be a privately owned object.” Source link Read the full article

[smallish-viking]

Hiccup the Third, King of the Wilderwest - a HTTYD book fanfic

A year after the war, Hiccup struggles with the pressures of kingship.

3000 ish words

Hiccup struggled to focus on the pages in front of him, eyes growing weary of letters, maps. Forcing himself to conjure solutions to problems as old and complicate as the Archipelago itself.

‘Hiccup?’

Camicazi peered around the door of the hut, flooding the room with the golden pink of dusk, her hair illuminated like a halo.

‘You spend so long in here we are beginning to forget what you look like.’

Hiccup looked at her, everything in him was aching to step out those doors and into the light of the evening, but his work tugged at the edges of his mind.

‘The Meathead land claims will be there in the morning. Come on, Hiccup’.

She was right, Hiccup thought. What use was a King who couldn’t think straight? He reached his aching, ink stained hands to his head and carefully lifted the crown and placed it on the table. Despite its weight, the crown fit him better than ever.

Camicazi grinned as he followed her out into the summer evening.

The golden light hit Hiccup like a physical blow. He stretched out his arms like a bird before flight, feeling the sea air flow between his fingers and blow back his hair. He breathed it in, almost desperately, and closed his eyes, relishing this feeling of weightlessness.

On the clifftop sat a small collection of huts, nicknamed ‘King’s Corner’, built flat and squat to survive coastal storms. Some were lined with books for reading or study. Others were used as meeting chambers where the Council of the Wilderwest gathered for discussion and meetings were held with representatives of the tribes. Hiccup had his back to them as he looked out to the sea. The last of the fishing boats were returning now, and their long shadows were etched into the dazzling blue and golden water. It was low tide and a few small figures could be seen setting out nets on the wet sand among the waders and gulls. Some dragons flew overhead with the cormorants, heading home to roost. There were other dragons, too, who scampered through tall grasses which were ablaze with the day’s final effort of sunlight.

Hiccup and Camicazi began to walk along the clifftop together. Wordlessly, Camicazi handed Hiccup his helmet. It was bashed and scratched thing, scarred by a lifetime of adventure. Unlike the Crown it was weightless as it sat upon his red hair. She reached up and adjusted it on Hiccup’s head, moving aside a lock of hair so the Dragon Mark was visible.

‘That’s better.’

‘Thank you, Camicazi,’ said Hiccup, his voice hoarse from hours of silence.

She flashed him a smile. ‘No problem’. Her eyes met his. There was a fierce warmth in her gaze, like a bonfire in winter, but, too soon, it was gone. She ran ahead of him and swiftly performed a few cartwheels on the grass.

‘So’, Hiccup ran up to her, ‘what have I missed?’.

‘Well,’ Camicazi breathed as she sprung upright again. ‘Tuffnut Junior won a friendly axe fight with Dogsbreath the Duhbrain.’

‘Uh huh’.

‘Gobber beat Baggybum in an arm wrestle. So Baggybum stole his trousers and they called it quits’.

‘Right.’

‘And my mother and your father had a bet on who could rustle the most sheep.’

‘And who won?’

‘My mother of course, she’s the undefeated champion! Better luck next time, Hiccup my boy!’

They had reached the tavern. The familiar sounds reached Hiccup from within, the ambient noise of scraping chairs and chinking glass, of dragon shrieks, laughter and fights about to break out. Camicazi went in first, peering around the corner as she did. She held the heavy oak door open for Hiccup and he stepped in. The shutters were open, so the dying light of the day cast golden beams over the Vikings eating and drinking at the tables and illuminated those who talked and swayed at the sides. Hiccup lingered at the back with Camicazi as he watched them.

Even though the tavern was bustling, Stoick looked up when the door opened, face lifting at the sight of his son. With a single motion of his head, he beckoned Hiccup and Camicazi to join them. Stoick the Vast sat among many of the old warriors of the tribes; Valhallarama of the White Arms and Chunky Thighs, Gobber the Belch, Big Boobied Bertha and several others. Hiccup slid down next to Stoick as Camicazi went to join her mother. The impressive stature of his father loomed beside him. Hiccup nestled into his shadow, a wave of comfort coming over him as he slipped into the role of his father’s son, a boy again.

‘How’s it going, Hiccup?’ said Stoick as he clapped Hiccup on the back.

Hiccup let out a heavy sigh. ‘Tiring’.

‘You’re doing a fine job son. A fine job.’

A large tankard of mead slid down the table and came to a stop by Hiccup’s hands, its contents spilling over onto the oak wood table. Gobber flashed a wink in his direction as Hiccup glanced upwards, and he raised the tankard in thanks. The drink was sickly and burned as Hiccup swallowed it but he welcomed the way that it warmed his insides.

Raising a little on the bench, Hiccup peered over the head of his father to scan the faces of those gathered in the tavern. He was looking for someone; a mop of curly chestnut hair, a pair of glasses beside a placid vegetarian dragon. He found him. Fishlegs was sitting in a secluded corner of the tavern, head bowed in conversation with Barbara the Barbarian. Old Wrinkly’s new allergy remedy must be working as Barbara's cat was prowling along his shoulders and, if anything, it looked like Fishlegs was enjoying it as he ran his long musicians fingers through its black fur.

Hiccup smiled to himself and slid back down into his seat. He was there for a while, basking in the conversation of the old warriors. They spoke of old battles won, and lands lost to fire and time. Some were old stories that Hiccup remembered being told when he was a child. They seemed strange to be spoken here, they belonged to a different age, Hiccup thought, the boy he was when he first heard them seemed so far from him now. He felt like an outsider among his company. Marked somehow. Their faces were all brandished with the Dragonmark, scarred and aged by war. They laughed together but there was a shadow of grief in their eyes; everyone had lost something to the dragon flames.

‘Excuse me, King –.’

Hiccup was pulled from his thoughts as a voice from behind him cut through the others. The bench squeaked as he wearily pushed back from the table and stood to face Baggybum.

‘I’ve been talking to Thuggery, fine lad, who says that the Meathead islands to the East that were destroyed last year need to be rebuilt so that they can move back there. I was thinking that we could take some supplies, wood and iron and such, over there on a few ships and help them out. The tricky thing is the lands lie just south of the Winter Wind of Woden -’

A sudden weight dropped in Hiccup’s stomach. A tangled memory arose that was too sharp to touch. He took in a long breath and stared intensely at his uncle, trying to prize himself away from the fogged window to the past. Baggybum had a scar that stretched over his left brow. Hiccup knew it. The Battle of Flashburn’s School of Sword Fighting, the first of many dreadful days.

‘– you see, and Mogadon wanted the village to be positioned on the West side of the island. That way the harbour will -’

The scar was little more than memory, a shallow wound compared to the tear in Baggybum’s heart, the absence where his son had been torn away, first by betrayal, healed, then broken again by flaming arrows and deep water. The hero that never was.

‘- four Hooligan ships should be enough, I think, but we might be able to borrow some Peaceable supplies along the way - ’

The eyes of Baggybum were the same as his son’s. The stormy blues that Hiccup grew up dreading the sight of, and the inevitable onslaught that soon followed. There it was again. The sudden assault of guilt, a raw wound reopened.

‘What do you think, Hiccup?’

He forced his mind to resurface, to the present, to the words of his beloved uncle. What was he saying? Hiccup felt sick.

‘I, um…’

Words clogged in his mouth.

Useless.

His thoughts weighed like rock.

Hiccup the Useless.

Stop it, please.

You aren’t the King that we wanted, but maybe you are the king that we need.

Snotlout appeared in Hiccup’s mind. Not ghostly, through the fog of memory and heartache, but clear, as if he was standing in front of him. Bruised and tear stained, the Black Star glistening on his chest.

‘Don’t you dare lose it. That Star is very important to me.’

There was a hand on his shoulder. Comforting, gentle. Hiccup obeyed its pressure without really thinking about it. Only as he walked blindly through the crowd did he realise that it was his Grandfather who was leading back outside.

The sharp sea wind collided with Hiccup’s body. The tavern doors swung shut. He walked back along the clifftop, followed Old Wrinkly until they came under the shelter of one of the few trees that were scattered among the heath.

‘It’s ok, Hiccup. Breathe. Just breathe.’

Hiccup hadn’t noticed his rugged shallow breaths. His shoulders tense and jaw set. Away from Old Wrinkly, he withdrew, throat and eyes stinging.

‘I – ’

He tried to speak, but the words got caught in his throat. Old Wrinkly reached out, his withered hands held Hiccup’s face, and when Hiccup met his gaze, he saw the pride that glimmered in his tired, bright eyes.

‘Oh Hiccup, my dear boy.’

They drew their arms around each other. It was not a gentle thing, that embrace, Hiccup held onto his grandfather as if he were the only stone structure in a violent storm.

‘This is the hard way,’ said Old Wrinkly after a while, ‘to become a King.’

They broke apart and his hands clasped Hiccup’s arms.

‘You’ve already done what the sagas will sing of. You’ve defeated a great enemy and saved the Barbaric Archipelago.’ Hiccup noticed that in the fading light, Old Wrinkly seemed to blend into the silvery wisps of cloud that blew towards the ocean. ‘Now comes the hard bit. Kings are remembered for the glory of battle, the might of the sword but great leaders, Hiccup, the leaders that are truly revered, are known for the love and devotion that their people show them and the better world that they work together to create.’

‘But that’s exactly it!’ replied Hiccup, ‘everyone is looking at me to be this perfect leader.’ He threw his arms into the air. ‘Not long ago I was Hiccup The Useless, the bottom in every class. Let’s face it I was a rubbish Viking, and now I expected to be this great King. Wherever I turn there are people there expecting me to do the perfect thing. To live up to their hopes.’ His arms came to rest on his head then he dragged them down over his face. ‘We all lost so much in that war, so much, and I’m expected to put it all back the way it was.’

‘The truth is, Hiccup,’ Old Wrinkly took out his pipe and begun to fill it. ‘The world will never be as it was. It grows and evolves like a living thing.’ He lit the pipe and drew in a long breath. ‘It’s your job to be like a father to it, to guide the world, to care for it, and set it off in the right direction.’ And then he smiled. ‘Just like training a dragon. You’ve ventured to the perilous Wild Dragon Cliff and you now have a wriggling and smoking basket under your bed, and the adventure has just begun.’

‘And maybe you can train a dragon better by talking to it then yelling at it,’ followed Hiccup, ‘yes, I remember.’ He laughed wearily. ‘Well, that’s certainly easier said than done. Sometimes yelling does seem to be the only language this lot understand.’

Old Wrinkly let out a smoke filled chuckle. ‘Yes, it has always been the way.’

They stayed there in silence for a while. Old Wrinkly smoked his pipe and Hiccup watched the dragons that scuttled and squabbled along the shoreline.

‘Hiccup!’ There was a shout from behind. Fishlegs and Camicazi were coming towards him, Camicazi struggling to keep up with Fishlegs’ long strides without breaking into a run.

‘That’s where you are!’

Old Wrinkly gave Hiccup a knowing look and patted him on the shoulder before turning and heading back towards the village. He raised his pipe in greeting to the others.

‘I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Fishlegs.’

‘Yeah, see you then.’

‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ asked Camicazi.

‘Old Wrinkly has been teaching me how to be a healer.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I reckon it’s a pretty useful skill to have. It’s been days since I’ve seen you Hiccup

Before Hiccup could reply, Camicazi cut in, ‘that’s because you spend all your time with Barbara the Barbarian.’

Fishlegs blushed a deep crimson.

‘I really think she likes me you know.’

‘I think she does, too,’ said Hiccup. ‘But more importantly I know her father likes you as well, he seemed genuinely impressed with that letter you wrote to her.’

‘Really? How do you know?’

‘I was in a meeting with him last week and he mentioned it. He was saying how he wanted to get rid of the “old fashioned notion” of parents dictating their daughters marriages. He was certainly hairy, but not as scary as I previously thought.’

‘Wow’ Fishlegs swung his arm around Hiccup, then the other around Camicazi as he faced the sea wind. ‘Love. You just can’t beat it.’

Camicazi wriggled out from underneath him. ‘Fishlegs, have you been at Tuffnut Senior’s home brew?’

‘No,’ said Fishlegs indignantly, ‘well, maybe a little, but the point still stands.’

Hiccup laughed and put his arm around Fishlegs. ‘Are you alright, though, Hiccup?’ Fishlegs said as he searched his friend’s face.

‘Yeah, its just this King business.’ He sighed. ‘It really weighs me down sometimes.’ Hiccup was feeling a lot better after his chat with Old Wrinkly. Mad as he is, he is certainly good at giving advice.

‘Hmm... I know what you need.’ Said Camicazi. And then she cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, sharp and piercing. ‘SHADOW!!’

A few moments later, as if Thor himself had chiselled out a part of the sky, the enormous Deadly Shadow dragon burst through the air, turning visible just as they touched onto land. Hiccup and Fishlegs stumbled backwards, but Camicazi, defiant as ever, stood firmly as she stared with glee at the beautiful dragon.

‘Hello there, Shadow,’ said Fishlegs as Innocence went to nuzzle his shoulder. He put his cheek to the side of Innocence’s head and stroked down his neck, now the green of the heathland.

Hiccup’s awe of the Deadly Shadow had never faded, and as he walked around them a swelling of immense gratitude rose within him for this beautiful creature, and for the dragons who flew in flocks overhead, for Stormfly, Wodensfang, The Windwalker and little Toothless. Camicazi reached out her hand for him, he took it and hauled himself onto Shadow’s back.

‘Where to?’ asked Patience.

Hiccup smiled. ‘Upwards.’

Shadow extended their enormous wings, which turned a dusky grey in anticipation for the awaiting sky. Hiccup braced himself and with a jolt, Shadow was off. Up, up, up they soared, wind rushed through his hair and he spread out his arms, tilted up his head, and gazed at the clouds which neared ever closer. Camicazi whooped and punched the air and soon, she too was reaching upwards to catch the clouds above their heads. Fishlegs had his arms around the neck of Patience and was peering round him, looking towards the ground that was disappearing rapidly beneath them.

For how long they remained there, Hiccup could not tell. He forgot all else. His world narrowed to this friends who sat in front of him, the gentle beats of Shadow’s wings, the sea below and the sky above. The air was sweet as he breathed it in. Very sweet. Hang on, is that drinking chocolate? Hiccup spun to look behind him and there, gliding along in the slipstream behind the Deadly Shadow, was the Windwalker!

‘Hello Windwalker!’ Hiccup called, beaming.

The Windwalker loop the looped in excitement and glided to position himself as close as he could to the enormous, sky coloured dragon. With the ease from a childhood on dragon back, Hiccup slid from the Deadly Shadow and onto the back of the Windwalker. And off he flew. Hiccup looked behind him to the others, a shadow of grey was rising in the east as night was beginning to reclaim the earth. Camicazi had positioned herself on Shadow so she was lying on their back, gazing at the sky above and Fishlegs was talking to Arrogance, but Hiccup couldn’t make out the words. He waved to them and they smiled and waved back at him, before the Windwalker climbed further upwards.

There is a moment, when a dragon ascends and soars upwards. When the land falls away and the world stretches wide, nothing but sky and cloud and freedom. It was Hiccup’s favourite time, when anything could happen and nothing yet had. He sat on the back of the Windwalker, and the wild night opened its arms. Tomorrow can wait.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Michelangelo’s The Risen Christ: Discovering the sacred in the profane.

The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.

- Michelangelo Buonarroti

While a visit to Rome’s grand squares like Piazza Navona is at the top of everyone’s list, there is much more to the Eternal City. The Piazza della Minerva, is one of Rome’s more peculiar squares and is a must-see for lovers of Bernini’s work.

As one of the smaller squares in Rome, Piazza della Minerva holds some interesting sites. Built during Roman times, the square derives its name from the Goddess, Minerva, the Roman Goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare. During the 13th Century, the decision was made to build a Christian Church on top of what was once a square dedicated to a pagan Goddess – and so the church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva was born, a beautiful example of Gothic architecture and Rome’s only Gothic church.

In fact this is the only Gothic church in Rome. It resembles the famous Church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence. There are three aisles inside the church. The soaring arches and the ceiling in blue are outstanding. The deep blue colours dominate the structure while the golden touches promote the intricate design. There are paintings of gold stars and saints. The stained glass windows are beautiful too.

In the centre of the Piazza is an elephant with an Egyptian obelisk on its back, one of Bernini’s last sculptures erected by Bernini for Pope Alexander VII and possibly one of the most unusual sculptures in Rome. There are several theories which aim to decipher Bernini’s inspiration for the sculpture, some of which point to Bernini’s study of the first elephant to visit Rome, while others point to a more satirical combination of a pagan stone with a baroque elephant in front of a Christian church.

Tourists flock to see the elephant but more often than not they miss out visiting an almost forgotten marble masterpeiece by Michelangelo himself inside the church. This controversial statue has resided in the Santa Maria sopra Minerva Church in Rome for almost five hundred years. Indeed The Risen Christ by Michelangelo is one of the artist's least admired works. While modern observers frequently have found fault with the statue, it satisfied its patrons enormously and was widely admired by contemporaries. Not least, the sculpture has suffered from the manner in which it is presently displayed and from biased photographic reproduction that emphasises unfavorable and inappropriate views of Christ.

Around 2017 I was fortunate on a visit back to London to see once again Michelangelo’s marble masterpiece, The Risen Christ, which was being displayed in all its naked glory at an exhibition at the National Gallery.

This was another version of this great sculpture that no one has got round to covering up. It has just come to Britain. Michelangelo’s first version has been lent to the National Gallery, in London, for its exhibition Michelangelo and Sebastiano del Piombo in 2017. It came from San Vincenzo Monastery in Bassano Romano, where it languished in obscurity until it was recognised as Michelangelo’s lost work in 1997.

I found it profoundly moving then as I had seen the other partially clothed one on several visits to the church in Rome. It has always perplexed me why this beautiful work of art has been either shunned to the side with hidden shame or embarrassment when it holds up such profound sacred truth for both art lover or a Christian believer (or both as I am).

Michelangelo made a contract in June 1514 AD that he would make a sculpture of a standing, naked figure of Christ holding a cross, and that the sculpture would be completed within four years of the contract. Michelangelo had a problem because the marble he started carving was defective and had a black streak in the area of the face. His patrons, Bernardo Cencio, Mario Scapucci, and Metello Vari de' Pocari, were wondering what happened when they hadn't heard for a while from Michelangelo. Michelangelo had stopped work on The Risen Christ due to the blemish in the marble, and he was working on another project, the San Lorenzo facade. Michelangelo felt grief because this project of The Risen Christ was delayed. Michelangelo ordered a new marble block from Pisa which was to arrive on the first boat. When The Risen Christ was finally finished in March 1521 AD Michelangelo was only 46 years old.

It was transported to Rome and this 80.75 inches tall marble statue was installed at the left pillar of the choir in the church Santa Maria sopra Minerva, by Pietro Urbano, Michelangelo's assistant (Hughes, 1999). It turns out that Urbano did a finish to the feet, hands, nostrils, and beard of Christ, that many friends of Michelangelo described as disastrous). Furthermore, later-on in history, nail-holes were pierced in Christ's hands, and Christ's genitalia were hidden behind a bronze loincloth.

Because people have changed this sculpture over time; many are disappointed with this work of art because it is presently different than the original work that Michelangelo made. The Risen Christ had no title during Michelangelo's lifetime. This sculpture was given the name it has now, because Christ is standing like the traditional resurrected saviour, as seen in other similar works of art.

It was in discussion with an art historian friend of mine currently teaching I was surprised through her to discover the sculpture’s uncomfortably controversial history. There is no doubt Michelangelo’s marvellous marble creation has  raised robust debates about where beauty as an aesthetic sits between the sacred and the profane. And nothing exemplifies that better than the phallus on Michelangelo’s The Risen Christ.

For the majority of its time there, however, the phallus has been carefully draped with a bronze loincloth - incongruous at best, and prudish at worst, but either way a less than subtle display of the historic Church’s discomfort with the full physicality of Christ.

Indeed, it is worth noting that this attitude prevails, at least in some sense, into the twentieth-century: the version of the statue in Rome remains covered to this day, and much of the critical attention the sculpture has received after Michelangelo’s death has been grating. Romain Rolland, an early biographer, described it as ‘the coldest and dullest thing he ever did’, whilst Linda Murray bluntly dubbed the work ‘Michelangelo’s chief and perhaps only total failure’. But Michelangelo himself saw no such mistake. The censored statue seen in Santa Maria sopra Minerva is what we might call his second draft.

It’s interesting to note that when artist was originally commissioned to sculpt a risen Christ in 1514, he had all but completed it before realising that a vein of black marble ran across Jesus’ face, marring the image of classical perfection which he so wished to emulate. It had nothing to do with the phallus. Furious, Michelangelo abandoned this Christ - the one I saw at the National Gallery - and began again. Even given a fresh chance, he chose to retain Christ’s complete nudity.

Why was this of such importance to Michelangelo? Why did he so strongly wish to craft the literal manhood of Christ, as never depicted before? Part of the answer may lie in his historical context: the Renaissance in Italy was driven in the part by the remains of Roman antiquity discovered there; study of the classics became commonplace, and scholars tended to consider the Graeco-Roman world as a cultural ideal, with ancient art in particular being emblematic of a lost Golden Age. Famously, classical sculpture was almost always nude.

In his interview with The Telegraph in 2015, Ian Jenkins, curator of the British Museum exhibition “Defining Beauty: The Body in Ancient Greek Art”, attempted to explain this tradition. ‘The Greeks … didn’t walk down the High Street in Athens naked … But to the Greeks [nudity] was the mark of a hero. It was not about representing the literal world, but a world which was mythologised.’

We see evidence for this trend in Greek literature as well as sculpture: Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, considered by some to be the earliest known works of Western literature, were likely written between the 8th and 7th centuries BC, but their setting is in Mycenaean Greece in the 12th century. The Greeks believed that this earlier Bronze Age was an epoch of heroism, wherein gods walked the earth alongside mortals and the human experience was generally more sublime. In setting the texts at this earlier stage in Greece’s history, Homer echoes the belief held within his contemporary society that mankind had been better before (what we might now call nostalgia, or, more colloquially, “The Good Old Days syndrome”). There is a real feeling of delight present in the distance Homer creates between his actual, flawed society, and the idealised past.

Indeed, it calls to mind a line I once read in an introduction to L.P. Hartley’s The Go-Between, by Douglas Brookes-Davies: ‘Memory idealises the past’. Though modernist texts such as The Go-Between problematise this, in antiquity it was not only commonplace but celebrated to look back to a more perfect existence and relive it through art. The very fact that Michelangelo abandoned his sculpture after years of work on account of a barely noticeable flaw in the marble is evidence that he, too, was striving towards the classical ideal of perfection. ‘Unfortunately,’ Hazel Stanier has commented, ‘this has resulted in unintentionally making Christ appear like a pagan god.’

This opens up another question – why does such a rift exist between the way ancient cultures envisaged their divinity and our own conceptions of a Christian God? Why are we not allowed to anthropomorphise the deus of the Bible in the same way that the Roman gods were?

Christ, of course, makes this somewhat confusing, given that he is described in the Bible as ‘the Word made flesh’, a physical and very human incarnation of the spiritual being that we call God. Theology tells us that he is fully human and fully divine, and yet the Church have excluded him from many aspects of life that a majority of us see as typifying a human being. Christ has no apparent sexual desires or romantic relationships, and though not exempt from suffering, he does not play any part in sin (which, as the saying goes, is ‘only human’). I think that the enormous controversy caused by films such as The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), which explore the possibility of Jesus having a sex life, is reflective of the possibility that - though in theory the Christian messiah is fully human - we feel significant discomfort at the notion that he may have explored particular aspects of the human experience.

Purists and the prude and liberals rush to opposite sides of the debate. If purists run one way to completely deny Christ had any sexual desires or even inclinations as all humans are want to do, liberals commit the sin of rushing to the other extreme end and presuppose that Jesus did act on sexual impulses simply because it was inevitable of his human nature.

I think the truth lies somewhere between but what that truth might actually be is simply speculation on my part. It doesn’t detract for me the life and saving mission of redemption that Jesus was on - to suffer and die for our sins as well as the Godhead reconciling itself to sacrificing the Son for Man’s sins and just punishment.  

Of course, it is well-known that the classical gods had no qualms about sexual activity. It is difficult to make retrospective judgements about citizens’ opinions on this but, as it was the norm, we might assume that they felt it was rather a non-issue. I can empathise with some critics who reason that the Christian God is not entitled to sexual expression is because of the traditional Christian idea that sex is inherently sinful – that original sin is passed on seminally and so by having sex we continue to spread darkness and provoke further transgression. It is from this early idea that theological issues such as the need for Mary to have been immaculately conceived (she was not created out of a sexual union, much like her son) have stemmed. But here - the immaculate conception - the critics are profoundly wrong in their theological understanding of why God had to enter the world as Immanuel in this miraculous way.

Some Christian critics - and I would agree with them - assert that the vision of a naked Christ might make a powerful theological point in a world where sex still carries these connotations. They rightly point out that clothing - and I might extend this to mean the covering-up of the sexual parts of our body - was only adopted by humankind after the Fall, the nudity of Christ is making a statement about his unfallen nature as the second Adam. In other words, Christ has no shame, because he is sinless and has no need for shame. Perhaps what Michelangelo intended was actually to disentangle nudity from its sexual, sinful associations, instead presenting us with a pre-lapsarian image of purity taking the form of the classical Bronze Age hero.

There is another, less theological explanation for the sculptor’s obvious use of the classical form. It reminds us of a time when gods walked the earth alongside us, when they were fully human – us, only immortal. Maybe he wanted to emphasise that fully human aspect of Christ’s being. Questionable as much of their behaviour was, the classical gods were certainly easy to identify with. For Michelangelo, this may have been his own way of embodying John 1:14 in marble: ‘The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us’.

It is here critics may have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick with The Risen Christ when they point out the odd proportions of the figure: that it has a weighty torso, or the broad hips atop a pair of tapered and rather spindly legs, or even a side or rear view of the figure that show Christ’s buttocks.

For a start, this ungainly rear view was not supposed to be seen. The statue was meant to go in a wall niche, so that the back of the statue was hidden. Michelangelo of course knew this, and shaped the statue so that it would appear well proportioned from the front. If we view the sculpture from the front left, perhaps its best side, then Christ is no longer a thickset figure. Rather, his body merges with the cross in a graceful and harmonious composition.

The turn of Christ’s body and his averted face suggest something like the shunning of physical contact that is central to another post-Resurrection subject, the Noli me tangere (“Touch Me Not”). The turned head is a poignant way of making Christ seem inaccessible even as the reality of his living flesh is manifest.

We are encouraged to look at not Christ’s face, but the instruments of his Passion. Our attention is directed to the cross by the effortless cross-body gesture of the left arm and the entwining movement of the right leg. With his powerful but graceful hands, Christ cradles the cross, and the separated index fingers direct us first to the cross and then heavenward. Christ presents us with the symbols of his Passion – the tangible recollection of his earthly suffering. Behind Christ and barely visible between his legs we see the cloth in which Christ was wrapped when he was in the tomb. He has just shed the earthly shroud; it is in the midst of slipping to earth. In this suspended instant, Christ is completely and properly nude.

We must imagine how the figure must have appeared in its original setting, within the darkened confines of an elevated niche. Christ steps forth, as though from the tomb and the shadow of death. Foremost are the symbols of the Passion, which Christ will leave behind when he ascends to heaven.

Why was Michelangelo compelled to portray Christ completely naked in a way that was bound to trouble some Christians? It was not out of a desire to blaspheme. On the contrary, this genius – poet, architect and painter as well as the greatest sculptor who has ever lived – was not only a faithful Christian but someone who thought deeply about theology. You can bet he had good religious reasons to depict Christ in full nudity.

But it would be complacent to think there was no tension in showing Christ nude. The fact that The Risen Christ in Santa Maria still has its covering proves how real those tensions are. The fundamental reason Michelangelo could get away with it was that he was Michelangelo. By the time he created this statue, he had the Sistine Chapel ceiling (with all its male nudes) under his belt and was the most famous artist in the world.

For centuries, the faithful have kissed the advanced foot of Christ, for like Mary Magdalene and doubting Thomas, they wish for some sort of physical contact with the Risen Christ. To carve a life-size marble statue of a naked Christ certainly was audacious, but it is also theologically appropriate. Michelangelo’s contemporaries recognised, more easily than modern viewers, that the Risen Christ was a moving and profoundly beautiful sculpture that was true to the sacred story.

[certifiedskywalker]

Still Dancing - Luke Skywalker

It is the birthday of the New Republic and, to celebrate, the freshly appointed Senators have thrown a gala that spans across all of the Core Worlds. Nearly the entire galaxy! By Leia Organa’s invitation, you find yourself lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces. You are, it seems, a wallflower, shy and unmoved by the rejoice in the air. Or maybe it’s the dancing that puts you off. Either way, Luke Skywalker is ready to sweep you off your feet.

AN: Gender neutral for the most part! Enjoy!

“You sure look happy to be here.”

“I could say the same for you,” Han fired back before he took a sip of whatever cocktail Leia had ordered for him. His face screwed up at the taste and he all too-quickly placed the glass of bright green liquid down on the table.

“Sour?”

Han answered with a glare. 

“Could be worse,” you pointed out.

“Really? How?”

You tipped your head towards the table set next to the one you shared with the smuggler-turned-war hero. “Could be like him.”

Han glanced over and saw the same, overweight Twi’lek man whose head, heavy with his lekku and drink, was pressed against the table. Residue of all colors, including the bright green of Han’s drink stained the fabric cloth of the senatorial place settings. Drool dribbled out of the man’s partially open mouth alongside snores that were drowned out by the political chatter. Han turned in his seat to face you again and shook his head.

“I’d rather be where he is.”

You shrugged. “At least you can still dance away from your problems, Solo.”

“Ha, yeah. Sure.” Han looked back at the passed out Twi’lek and asked, “isn’t this the Ryloth representative?”

“He’s your wife’s co-worker,” you confirmed with hints of a smile played on your lips. Han let out a heavy sigh.

“At least I don’t have to worry about competition.”

“You? No,” you teased and waved a dismissive hand. “You’re a fine Coreillian wine he is to...well...whatever it is that you’re drinking.”

Han frowned but, based on his quietness, your analogy sated him. Both of you, resigned to your spot at the distant, corner table and your respective drinks, stared out into the crowd. Senators, representatives, and business people were dressed in their finest for this long awaited evening: the first annual New Republic Celebration. You, on the other hand, had dreaded your attendance. Though, Leia had stressed to that your presence at the gala was not mandatory. 

“I, personally, want you to be there. At best, you meet someone. At worst, you commiserate with Han,” she had said. 

That agreement, your promise to attend, was made weeks ago. If you had known it was going to be this stuffy, you would have stayed in your apartments. At least there you knew what you were drinking. There was the added bonus of not being surrounded by strangers, drunk strangers that, lured to their feet by the classical, live music, felt the horrible urge to dance.

Pairs of all sorts and shapes waltzed along the shining, Jelucani fogstone floor. If you dared to watch too long, you grew dizzy and forced your eyes to the stagnant ceiling of dangling, crystal light features. White, amber, and gold reflected beams and refracted waves in a dazzling show that impress you more than the swaying politicians. Much to your surprise, Han seemed more intrigued by the guests.

“Who’s that?” His sudden question coaxed your eyes from the ceiling and in the general direction of his gesture. A lithe figure with powder pink hair was in deep conversation with Leia.

“Amilyn Holdo. Senator from Gatalenta. I met her when Leia took me clothes shopping.”

“I hope she didn’t pay for her dress,” Han jeered. You rolled your eyes and studied Holdo’s holographic dress for a moment. Slips of pink fabric slid around her waist like an in-sown sash, the pastel tone creating a sharp contrast with the rest of the metallic skirt and bodice. Her apparel was not the worst by far. Though, stood next to Leia, whose hair had been done up special for the gala and wore a sleek, white and grey gown, anyone looked gaudy.

With a hard swallow, you let your gaze fall into your lap. Rested there, your hands brushed over the soft material of your outfit. Leia had had more of a say in your look for the evening than yourself. Not that you minded; she had great taste. However, despite your friends’ knack at putting together an outfit, you felt lost in your clothes.

The light blue color of long shawl and matching, flowing trousers reminded you of tundra-covered your home world, Hynestia. When you told Leia just that whole shopping, she had stuck with the color and got to work coordinating accessories and layers. Earlier, you caught your reflection and marveled at your appearance. After working with the Rebellion for so long, you never thought you could look so clean or so poised. Perhaps that was why you slunk to the back of the gala, the ballroom it was held in, and turned your feeling of being out of place into a reality. You didn’t belong here, you yearned for the field, the excitement, and, as grateful as you were for the rest, you longed for the danger too.

Dancing certainly was neither a substitute nor did it appeal to you. Though, the smiles on the faces of those on the dance floor did spark an itch somewhere in your soul. An itch you knew that you would never be able to scratch. Not until you were out of these clothes and back in a shuttle destined to an Outer Rim planet.

“That can’t be...is that…” Han’s voice, once more, broke through your thoughts. When you looked over at him, he wore a wide grin; but it was not directed at you or his wife a few paces away. “I thought you were stranded in Nar Shaddaa!”

“I was, but I couldn’t miss this. Leia would have had my throat!”

That voice! Quickly you traced Han’s eyeline and found its familiar, friendly owner. There he was, Luke Skywalker, dressed in pressed black and a smile that shown like the stars. His blue eyes finally landed on you and, instantaneously, your face warmed.

“Hey,” Luke raised a hand and waved at you as he approached. 

“Hi,” you said and returned the wave but smaller, more timid.

“You couldn’t Jedi your way outta this?” Han raised a hand and gestured to the ballroom.

“That’s not how the Force works.” 

As he explained, Luke moved and took the seat at the table next to you. Fuel, smoke, and warming spices filled your nose when he leaned in towards you. You looked at him, wondered what he was going to say or do when you saw his hand close around Han’s abandoned glass. He brought the bright green liquid to his nose and sniffed. Immediately, he cringed, face screwed up with disgust, and set the glass back down.

A laugh slipped up your throat and out your lips. The sound captured Luke’s attention and brought eyes up to meet yours. You clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle yourself. Luke chuckled at your reaction and reached over to grab your wrist. Gently, he pulled your hand from your face and set it back in your lap.

“I like your laugh,” he said softly. Heat washed over you, numbed you with the affection in his voice. When you found your voice, you were stopped by a scoff from Han.

“Haven’t heard Y/N laugh all night.”

“Well, we can’t have that!” Luke looked back at you, “tonight we’re meant to celebrate!”

“Galas aren’t quite my...my thing.” Thing? You couldn’t find a better, more descriptive word? Luke cocked his head at you and you sighed. “This is my first time at an event like this.”

“No, it’s just like the celebration on Endor,” Luke gave you a smile and you were thrusted back into the memory of that night, the excitement had been heavy in the air. “Here, it’s just people with fancier jobs and fancier clothes.”

“Less bugs and stinking, furry gremlins,” Han added with a grimace. 

You frowned at him before you looked back at Luke. His blue eyes were fixed on you, just as they had been on Endor the night the Empire fell. Tension fell over you that night, made you nervous to be around him; but the good kind of nervous. The kind that let the butterflies in your stomach go wild and your heart threaten to leap out of your chest.

“I...I don’t know,” you murmured. To escape embarrassment, you forced your eyes away from his and out to the dance floor. 

“I do,” Luke said and he stood up from his seat suddenly. You peered up at him and watched when he extended his hand down to you. “Let’s dance.”

“Luke, I don’t-” Luke leaned down towards you before you could finish. The proximity shocked you into silence, the quietest you had been all evening.

“I wanted to dance with you, that night, on Endor. You declined every pilot that asked. But will you reject a Jedi?” Teasing and low, Luke’s tone sent a shiver down your spine. You impressed yourself as you held his gaze and took his extended hand. 

Easily, Luke lifted you from your seat. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of Han’s expression. His eyes were wide at Luke led you out from behind the table, mouth slightly open. Though, you were so enraptured by the warmth and softness of Luke’s hand in yours. So much so that you almost didn’t notice how Luke had started to lead you in the opposite direction of the dance floor. Almost.

“Um, it’s the other way?” You glanced over your shoulder, towards the crowd of politicians still waltzing around the ballroom. 

Luke didn’t respond. Instead, he guided you out of the heart of the gala and down ornately decorated hallways. Hologram images of new New Republican officials littered each walkway but did nothing to distract you. When Luke finally stopped, you were in a small viewing room with walls made mostly of windows that gave you a perfect snapshot of the glowing city of Hosnian Prime. As you looked out across the twinkling lights, distant, soft classical music filtered down the hall from the ballroom. For the first time that night, you found that you could take an easy breath.

“Thanks,” you said when you met Luke’s eyes again. “I needed to get out of there.”

“Sure,” Luke smiled, “but I hope you know that we’re still dancing.”

On cue, he lifted your joined hands and turned his body to front against yours. You couldn’t help the grin that spread along your lips and you played along. Mirroring the movements of the politicians you saw on the dancefloor, you rested your hand on Luke’s shoulder. However, when his free hand found your waist, your breath caught. Luke’s face fell at the sound of your stifled breathing.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah,” you swallowed hard and held Luke’s eyes. “So, we’re dancing?”

“We’re dancing,” Luke echoed as he began to move. 

Work with the Rebellion had demanded that you be somewhat agile and coordinated. Dancing, waltzing, whatever it was Luke was leading you to do, was not something your revolutionary duties had not required. However, as you moved, you felt as if you were doing it right. Graceful and practiced, Luke moved with purpose and you followed. 

The two of you twirled about the small, hidden room in total sync. While dulled by the distance, the music from the ballroom provided that perfect beat for your feet to follow. Though, that didn’t stop you as you glanced down to make sure you weren’t stepping on Luke’s toes.

“You look beautiful.” Luke’s soft tone coaxed your eyes up to meet his. “You always do, but...especially tonight.” Warmth licked at your skin along with the compliment.

“You look quite handsome yourself,” you replied. 

In step, you and Luke continued to move. Stride after stride, you moved together. Your fingertips, desperate for you to get closer, pressed tenderly into Luke’s shoulder. He took the hint and brought his body closer to yours, nearly pressed you together using the hand that rested on your back. Your stomach twirled in tuned with you at the touch.

A few minutes passed, with you and Luke focused entirely on each other, before you realized the music had fallen into silence. 

“Luke,” you whispered, “the music. It’s stopped.”

“And we’re still dancing,” he said with a smile. “Unless you want to stop?”

You returned his smile and shook your head. At best, you meet someone, Leia had said; and you were tired of commiserating with Han. “No. I don’t.”

Wordlessly, Luke brought your hand, the one joined with his, to his lips. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the skin atop your hand as you both swayed in the quiet. The touch lifted you up, suspended you like the crystal that hung from the ballroom ceiling. You imagined, if you were to step outside of yourself and watch you and Luke dance, you would find that both you would glimmer too.

[moonyandsaturn]

this love

What if Sirius escaped from Azkaban sooner... you can also read this oneshot here

Remus could remember it clearly. It wasn’t all that long ago. A year or 2, maybe? It’s hard to keep track.

James and Lily died and Sirius went to Azkaban. Peter was dead too, but he could care less.

It had been darkening skies for what seemed like eternity. Not just for himself, Remus was sure of it, everyone could feel it. The war was just simmering down, but could that really be the end of it? Trust was a fickle thing. You can’t bet your life on it, or anyone else's. Truth was in the same boat. Lies were a swirl of black and white with no signals to guide you.

But the truth, the truest of truths, was that the feeling never dimmed. And it was as heartbreaking as it was fulfilling. Did he believe that Sirius killed them? No, but everyone else did. And Remus would be just as doomed to express that.

--

“Moony, look,” Sirius had nudged him slightly. The two were splayed on the grass, under the shade of a kindred oak tree. The Summer holidays were coming up and Spring was livid.

“Hm?” He bent his next up sleepily to see what it was. A little butterfly was perched upon Sirius’ knee where he sat. Remus smiled. “I think it likes you.”

It was his turn to smile now. Sirius hummed in agreement. “Did you know,” he started and Remus sat up next to him. “That butterflies represent hope?”

“No, where’d you get that?” He aimlessly picked at the grass in front of him as Sirius continued.

“A book?”

“A book?”

“Yes, I’m sure you know what that is, Moony.” He smirked.

“Ha, Ha,” he deadpanned. “What a load of useless knowledge you are.” Remus leaned to the side so that he was leaning on Sirius’ side with his shoulder to rest his own head on.

“Useless! I’ll have you know this might come in handy!”

“And when could that be?” He laughed.

“I don't know,” Sirius admitted. “Sometime.”

“Sometime?”

“Yeah.”

“You aren’t very convincing.” Remus teased.

“Sirius grinned. “You still love me though.”

He pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Yeah, but that didn’t take any convincing.”

“No hope either?”

He laughed. “Unless you’re talking about my mum then no, I don't think so, love.”

“Maybe some other time then.” Sirius leaned his head on top of his.

“If you say so,” Remus smiled. He looked back ahead and the butterfly was gone.

--

Remus tried to convince Dumbledore into letting him take care of Harry. It didn’t work, obviously. His condition wasn’t suitable for raising a child. He couldn’t disagree. But, Harry was now stuck with some of Lily’s muggle relatives. The Dursleys if he remembered right. Not that Remus had anything against muggles. His mum was one so how could he? But for Harry to grow up without knowing anything about James and Lily? Well, that was the problem. Dumbledore seemed not to care. Perhaps he had other things to do rather than taking care of the next generation of wizards.

He visited them once, the Dursleys. Petunia was a thin little woman with pouty lips. There weren’t many similarities to Lily in her, but Remus could recognize one: her eyes. They were the very same as Lilys, and the very same as Harry’s. She wouldn’t let him in to see Harry. He didn’t even see a peek into the house to look at any other people living there. Petunia claimed to know him from “The Pictures”.

It was well known that Lily loved to take photos. She had an old polaroid camera, the muggle kind. It would print out photos right as you’re taking them. James, Peter and Sirius were obviously very fascinated. She took it everywhere. It hung from a strap around her neck. Remus could recall a few of the photos she took.

There was one of all of them sleeping on the Common Room couch after falling asleep while trying to study. Another Lily charmed to move like the painting they had in the castle. It was one of James and Lily dancing. James had just proposed as Lily, of course, said yes. Remus, Sirius, and Peter were hidden by a nearby tree to watch the outcome. Lily loved dancing. It was quite honestly, the perfect moment. Remus never figured out where that photograph went.

He had the teary-eyed job of cleaning their home after the Potter’s death. But he could never figure out where the specific photo disappeared to.

--

“Wait, wait hold on!” Remus could see Lily grinning as she released herself from James’ embrace. They didn’t know him, Peter, and Sirius were standing behind three separate trees watching them. James finally got the courage to ask Lily to marry him. He bought the ring 3 months prior but was much too nervous. In these times, he wanted to make sure to keep time precious. Who knew how long they had left? So, he decided he wanted to spend however long they had left with Lily. And they were destined to be together anyway, it didn’t even feel rushed.

“What are you doing?” James let go and watched her. Lily took her camera from the strap around her neck and placed it on top of the dull brick wall to their right. It was this small alcove area near Hogwarts. James thought it to be sentimental to propose where they met so many years ago. Remus thought it was sweet.

She scrambled to get her wand out of her back pocket and casted a quick charm on the top of the camera. They couldn't hear the murmur that escaped her lips as she did it. She walked back toward James with a smile on her face.

“So, what was that?” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek.

“When I press the button to snap a photo on that,” she pointed to the camera. “It should come out like one of those live photos they have in Hogwarts. Even though it’s muggle made.”

James laughed. Like, really laughed.

“What?” She hit him lightly with her wand.

“I just proposed to you but It looks like I’m marrying you and you’re captured memories.” He smiled softly down at her.

Lily reached up and adjusted his glasses to sit right on his nose. “You certainly are.”

They started swinging in tune to an imaginary song together and the wind hummed the melody. James spun her around, under his arm before continuing the dance. Lily quickly reached her hand out to press record.

The two danced and held each other softly.

Remus turned his head when he heard a sigh. He looked to his right to see Sirius looking at him.

“I forgot the cloak, how do we get out of her without them seeing?” He whispered.

Remus shrugged. “Run for it?” He moved his head back to see Peter two trees away and he nodded in agreement.

Sirius made a look that said ‘if you say so’ and motioned for Remus to come over quickly.

“What if we just waited for them to leave? James is gonna freak when he sees us here after telling us not to follow him.” Peter said, closer to the two of them now.

“Um, I don't think waiting here with them slobbering over each other is going to be very fun for us.”

All three of them looked over at the couple. Who was now simply talking to each other.

“Ew, heteros,” Sirius grimaced. Remus laughed quietly.

“Okay,”Peter started. “Count of three we go east, toward the lake, and then, hope James doesn't catch us.”

Sounded like a good plan.

“Right then, One, two, and three!”

Sirius, being as forgetful as he is, might have mixed up easts and wests. Luckily there were more trees scattered to hide where he was. Unfortunately, there was not enough sound to cover Peter’s yells.

“YOUR OTHER EAST, PADS!” He yelled at him, hands cupping his lips.

“Peter, shut up! They’re gonna hear us.” Remus scolded.

“We already did!” Lily replied coolly and out of vision. Peter and himself poked their head out from behind the tree.

“OH FUCK, YOU SAID EAST NOT WEST DIDN’T YOU?” Another yell came from a few yards away.

Remus held in a muffled laugh but relaxed when he heard James and Lily.

They walked over.

“You know I literally saw you all follow me, right?” James said, leaning against the wall.

“Obviously not,” Remus replied.

“Oooo, group picture!” Lily grinned and turned around to prop up that stupid camera once again.

The last thing Remus could remember laughing at was when Sirius came running back saing, “GET MY GOOD SIDE!”

--

Remus got in bed late into the night. He stumbled around the nearly pitch-black room and crawled into the warmth of countless quilts and pillows. The dreams he silently screamed in the night were the most comforting that he’s felt in a while. It was still hard to sleep alone. Or with anyone else for that matter, but that didn’t happen often.

He once dreamt that these past few years had just been a sinking ship. Some people caught in a rainstorm. A curse planted by thieves. He woke up thinking that it had all been imaginary. That it was in his head. Remus could basically hear Sirius' voice in his ear. “Don't worry, Moony. It’ll turn out alright. We’ve swam together and we’ll sink together, right?” What a surprise it was when he was wrong.

Most people would be wishing for it to all be a joke. For everything to go back to normal. Remus was much too realistic to think that way. He had to keep in mind his condition. Maybe it was for the best. He knew he’d be the first to die if it were by natural causes. The moons weaken his body month by month. It’s a wonder he hadn’t passed already. And for someone to be bitten at such a young age? Unthinkable that they’d live past 30. He was to be 24 in March, time drew faster than he could keep up with.

He’s been able to stay in his and Sirius’ old muggle flat. Sirius paid it off before going to Azkaban and it was similar to staying there. Not that he wanted to. Every corner had some sort of sentiment tied to it. Yet Remus could never bear to take anything down. For the past 2 years the same photos have been getting dusty, the magnets on the fridge have been losing grip, the couch had some new found stains, and the coffee table had prints of mugs scattered like freckles.

It was the ground floor which was unfortunate. The upstairs neighbor didn’t enjoy being quiet. Plus, it felt more invading. All the people on the street could simply just look through the window or put their ear against the wall and hear whatever was going on. Not much, usually. Remus didn’t have a lot of people over. Just himself. He didn’t want to go back to any wizarding towns. No, that was too disgraceful.

There were always two responses when people saw him. It’s one or the other, neither being very pleasant to hear. The first was sympathy: “Oh, you were the one whose friends died. I’m so sorry, dear. Oh and one was sent to Azkaban for the murder of them! My, how horrible. I’m very sorry for your loss.” The second was worse: “So where were you when the Potter’s died? Did you not try to protect them? What about that other one, who gave up his inheritance for a sinful life? Oh, he’s gone to Azkaban. Hmm, I’m glad you were the one who got away…Somehow… ”

And so he gave up going out to places with people he knew. Loneliness was better than being ridiculed.

Sleep was a tedious project that crept up when unwanted and hid itself when needed. Remus pulled the covers tighter and over his ears.

A warm light flickered outside. A fire?

Muggles normally didn’t use candles or anything while walking down a street. That's what the sidewalk lamps were for.

The light burned and flickered.

He saw someone walking on the sidewalk. Young, he thought, maybe in use of a good washing, though.

Remus thought nothing of it.

When morning came a note could be found on his doorstep, not even in his mailbox. Which was weird because there was a code to get into the apartment building.

Harry’s alright, I hope you are too.

At the bottom of the torn letter was a familiar paw print of a love he once knew.

[seijch]

futakuchi kenji + gender neutral!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

superhero au, action/fluff with a bit of angst

content warning !! (nongraphic) descriptions of violence, mention of alcohol

14.2k

recommended listening

BY DAY, you attend classes and sling drinks at the campus cafe. By night, you’re known as the Harbinger, an individual with the Gift of shadow and darkness. Your two jobs have never had any reason to collide...not until the appearance of a fellow Gifted by the name of Ace, anyway.

"Your next job is an assassination," says the informant. He's tall, with blond hair going a little unruly in the wind. The real attention grabber, though, is the unblinking third eye that rests on his forehead. You feel his fingers probing at your brain, prying it open to tell you everything you need to know about your next target. This was a commonplace interaction between you; there were eyes and ears everywhere. The landscape of your mind was the safest place for secrets and information.

This time, it's some bigshot CEO allied with the Seijoh Conglomerate. He's trying to curry favor with the much smaller Johzenji Incorporated.

Negotiations are on Saturday, Three-Eyes (you'd never learned his name, not even his alias, and he'd never provided one) tells you. I've given you the location. You should know how to get there.

"Got it," you reply as his grip on your brain recedes. "Anything else?" The young man shrugs.

"The usual. Fly high. Don't fuck up. It'll look bad on all of Karasuno if you did." With that, his figure goes blurry and blips out of sight. Left standing alone at the rendezvous point, you sigh and slip into the darkness, riding the shadows all the way home.

 "Let me guess," Futakuchi says, shifting his gaze from his notepad to you, "a carbonara, extra cheese?"

"You know it." Say what you will about the simple dish, but it's been your favorite ever since the restaurant opened down the street before your first semester of university two years ago. Your eyes trace the brick walls of the small establishment, flit over Futakuchi's back as he enters the kitchen.

Due to its proximity to campus (and more recently, your apartment), you've been a regular patron since its opening. Despite this, though, it was your friendship with Futakuchi (and his employee discount) that kept a broke college student like you coming back for more.

(It started with an economics class you'd both taken in your first semester to raise your respective GPAs. You knew vaguely of each other, never having any reason to interact.

It continued the next semester with a group project for your communications class, once again shared with one Futakuchi Kenji. "Do you want to work together?" had spilled from your lips before you could think it through. You weren't friends. You were barely acquaintances. He was just the only one in the class you felt familiar enough with to ask.

"Sure," he responded. "Let's meet at the cafe close to the quad.")

"Here you go," Futakuchi says, taking you back to the present. "Without you, I'm sure this old place would've gone under months ago," he chuckles, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. He's thanking you, in his own roundabout way.

As always, you play along. "Aw, you'd miss me if I stopped showing up, wouldn't you?" He narrows his eyes at the grin you throw his way. You're sure he's about to hurl some sort of curse your way when an elderly couple walks past.

Schooling his features into something more refined, he gives you (and them) the smile of a saint. "Oh, please," he grits under his breath, "I give you three days tops before you come running back." You're left gaping at him like a fish, scrambling for a response, but nothing comes. His grin widens: he's won this one.

(After weeks' worth of research and countless cups of coffee consumed between you, the project was complete. You'd learned a lot about him — he was an electrical engineering major, played volleyball in high school, thought that Disney's Tangled was nothing short of a cinematic masterpiece — and the easy camaraderie you two had fallen into made your heart skip a beat.

Not that you'd ever admit it to him. He didn't need his ego to grow even bigger, lest his head get too swollen to keep upright. Whenever he walked into the cafe, the very same one you had your first meeting as partners at, to order his stupid chai tea latte, you would be forced to give it to him with a bright smile and held tongue.

You might've swallowed your feelings, but they've always been there, like a flower that had not yet met the right conditions to bloom.)

Saturday comes quickly. The venue is the most opulent hotel in the city, the crown jewel of the entertainment district. The whole place reeks of cigarette smoke, a result of the casino located on the first floor. You wrinkle your nose at the smell, darting between shadows to reach the room you're looking for.

Three-Eyes needs to work on his navigational skills, you think. The penthouse suite could've been better reached by taking to the skies and landing on the roof. (Plus, you've always liked the feeling of twisting the thin, watery darkness into wings with which to take flight.) You chalk it up to needing to exercise the utmost caution, and for good reason: there are two armed guards stationed at the door. No way around it.

From around the corner, you send your shadow to strangle one of the guards, sinking incorporeal fingers into his throat. He gargles as his body falls, and you curse as it thuds on the marble floor. The other guard's on full alert now, his gun locked and loaded. He tries to move, to look for the assailant, but he can't: you've pinned his shadow where it stands.

Inky black tendrils make their way to the guard, his eyes widening. You wonder, dimly, what he must think. The thoughts people have before their lives end at your hands has always been a point of speculation for you.

Not that you ever give them much time to think; it's a small mercy, to kill someone swiftly. You may be a criminal, but you’re far from a sadist.

You crack the door open, catch a glimpse of the scene inside.

The target's running his mouth, his glass of red wine coming close to spilling with each flourish of his hands. They're decorated with gaudy rings, each outfitted with a flashy gem. A small staffing of guards watches the scene, all stone-faced and no doubt better trained than the goons you took out less than two minutes ago.

The room's nice, furnishing sleek and minimalist. It's also well-lit, bringing a frown to your face. You were at your most effective when it was dark as pitch, but the cogs turn in your head as you formulate a plan.

What intrigues you the most, however, is the young man standing behind your target. His mask covers his eyes, as though he were attending a masquerade ball and not overseeing a critical business deal. It's outfitted with...card suits. One side the spade, the other the heart, with the club and diamond in the middle. His stance is relaxed, bored, even. You're not sure who he is; Three-Eyes didn't tell you about this. He must be a new addition, you think. He's not armed. Is he Gifted, like you?

Doesn't matter. The modern chandelier above does well to light the room, but you find purchase in the shadow of a stool on the kitchen island. You leap into it, molding yourself to the darkness as you lie in wait.

"Those are the terms and conditions of our deal," the CEO from Seijoh finishes, lacing his fingers together as he leans back in his chair. "Do you have any questions?" The Johzenji representative opens his mouth, but you're only half aware of his response.

Fact: When you're assuming the form of another shadow, you can't send your own to do your bidding.

Fact: Making this quick and easy isn't possible.

Fact: Confrontation is inevitable.

Fact: You have a bad feeling about the man in the mask.

That being said, you wouldn't have gotten this far in Karasuno if you were afraid to get your hands dirty, whether you liked it or not.

In a single instant, you emerge from hiding and trap the masked man's shadow before he can spring into action. All eyes are on you, but before the CEO can sputter commands, you send an appendage of darkness to pierce his chest. He gurgles, blood spilling from his mouth, before he slumps into the chair. The red wine spills all over the plush carpet, seeping in to stain.

The guards launch into action, forming a protective circle around the Johzenji representative. They're all aiming for you.

Perfect.

Before they open fire, you lock yourself in a barrier. The shots, as you predicted, ricochet and knock out some of the lights from the chandelier. Once the roar of gunfire ceases, you force the barrier outward to skewer your attackers.

They choke, last cries strained as their bodies fall to the ground. You scan the room, all shattered glass and bleeding bodies. Well. I should clean this up a little before I leave. You don’t dwell on the thought for too long, though; there’s still one person left on the floor.

The masked man's stayed perfectly still and silent throughout this whole encounter. (Of course he would; he wouldn't be able to move, even if he tried.) "You're good," he remarks as you close in on him. "It's just a shame," he tuts, sidestepping—sidestepping?—your attack, "that I'm better." He's broken from your hold, somehow, and is out the window (when did it open?) before you can get a hold of him.

"Don't take it personally," he calls after you. "You were just unlucky." You curse under your breath; Three-Eyes is not gonna like this. You shackle the Johzenji representative to the ground, looking down at him as he quivers in fear.

"Well then," you sigh, cutting your losses, "why don't you tell me all about this deal Johzenji is making with Seijoh, hm?"

There was a young man with the Seijoh CEO, you tell Three-Eyes, though you know he's long since sifted through your memories of last night to know. I don't know if he was Gifted or not.

We have no record of him. When we meet tomorrow, I'll give you a supplement that will let you temporarily see who around you is Gifted. Take it before your next mission.

You make the mistake of letting your mind wander, and curse his stupid psychic Gift when he adds, tone bone-dry, No, not a suppository. Supplements are taken orally. He releases his hold on you and you swear you see him shake his head at your train of thought.

(Really, it's not your fault the two words were so closely related; as much as you've given to this second job of yours, you weren't ready to insert anything odd into your most personal crevices.)

"Meet in the usual place tomorrow. I'll also be giving you the details of your next mission." That's all he says before teleporting away. You glance at your phone, color rushing out of your face in record time.

"Fuck!" You fling open the service door of the campus cafe, retying your apron as you rush in. Cramming the cash from Three-Eyes into your bag, you rejoin your boss on the floor. He's chewing you out, and just as well: you've extended your fifteen-minute break to something akin to a twenty-five.

You're only half listening. Instead, you're replaying the events of last night, the man in the mask the only thing on your mind.

No one’s ever broken free before. You’re staring at your hands, clenching and unclenching them in the motion to trap a shadow. How did he do it?

"You in for a long night?" you ask Futakuchi, setting his chai latte on the table. He's come during dinner hours, rendering the cafe mostly empty.

"Yeah. The professors in my department have been working us to the bone." He stops to take a sip, nodding in appreciation. "I mean, I get it. Top five engineering school and all. But shit," he huffs as you wipe down a nearby table, "I feel like I can't catch my breath." You clean the store as he rolls his shoulders, a brief break before his fingers fly over the keys of his laptop. It's companionable, the lo-fi tunes from the speakers the only real sound.

(You were no stranger to all-nighters with Futakuchi by your side. In fact, that was the only way your project could have ever reached completion.

"College is not what I expected it to be," he'd groaned one night, the two of you holed up in a corner of the library. It was getting late: you're sure the staff was going to kick you out any second now. You looked up from your laptop to see him with his head in his hands, tablet pen still between his fingers.

In truth, you'd also been hoping for more of an opportunity to let loose. This was supposed to be the time of your life, the transitory period between what remained of your youth and true adulthood. Instead, you'd spent all your time at work, in lecture, or working with Futakuchi on this damn presentation.

None of those things were inherently bad, but they certainly weren't in line with the more...entertaining college lifestyle you'd envisioned yourself leading. To sympathize, you'd told him as much, garnering a laugh as he agreed with you.

"Well,“ he’d looked at you then, eyes hooded with drowsiness, “at least we're in it together."

Your heart leaped to your throat, and you fumbled over your reply. "Who said I was going to stick around?" It sounded less like a verbal jab and more of a stab in the dark.

"And here I thought you enjoyed the mutually beneficial relationship we had," he lamented, a hand on his chest in mock hurt. "Never again will I let you use my employee discount." You'd kicked his shin under the table and told him to get back to work.

When you'd gotten home that night, those seven words had kept you awake, tossing and turning. You were brought together out of necessity, after all; who's to say that he'd stick around once the shackles of obligation were broken?)

The amount of light pollution in the city has never done your powers good, rendering the sky almost starless, but you'll be damned if it doesn't look amazing from above. You land at the top of the old clock tower, the building standing only because of its history. It's a relic in a city bustling with modernity, and you find solace in the low ticks and tocks as the seconds pass into minutes. 

You watch cars race by, blips of color moving in the cityscape. You'd met with Three-Eyes earlier to receive the supplement (he'd reminded you once more to take it orally) and the location of your next mission. Your head still buzzes when you shake it, his influence not so easily forgotten.

Your wings drip with liquid shadow; when you'd first come into your Gift, you had been surprised at the almost milky texture of the dark. You're stretching them out, practicing your control, when you're interrupted.

"Huh," he says. "I wasn't expecting to see you here." Before he finishes his sentence, you've bound him from the neck down in an uncomfortable sort of straitjacket. You tighten your hold; he's not getting away this time.

"Good evening to you too," he grins. "How rude of myself to not even properly introduce myself," he barrels on before you can get a word in edgewise. "They call me Ace." His voice is casual, like he's meeting with a friend and not tied up in front of someone who wants to kill him.

You've turned the wings at your back into razor-sharp edges that itch to skewer his poor body. One of them grazes his Adam's apple, and he tilts his head up in defiance, looking down on you. "So you're Gifted?" It's barely a question, but one you figure you should ask regardless. As much as you’d love to skip to the part where he lies motionless on the floor, the idea of never scratching that itch, never getting the answers you’ve been wanting since you first met leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

"What do you think?" he asks, placid smile pasted on his lips. In the blink of an eye, he's wriggled out of your binding—how? "Pretty good, if I do say so myself," he preens at his accomplishment. You make to end him once and for all, answers be damned, but he dodges every spike that comes his way. He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth in disapproval, leaping out of the way of a particularly nasty advance that pierces the floor. "I introduce myself, act nothing but cordial, and this is the thanks I get?" He lets loose a long-suffering sigh that only pisses you off.

"Not like it matters. I already know who you are." You try to close the distance, but he's quick to widen the gap. "The Harbinger...did you come up with that one yourself? It's a nice name, for sure. A bit vague, if anything, but oh so frightening." He's overcome with fake emotion, the end of his sentence condescending. He has the nerve to talk down to you, and you return it by pinning his shadow before he can run away again.

You're almost there. He's within reach, but your foot gets stuck in the hole you'd made trying to get to him. You curse, the sound guttural as it comes from the back of your throat. "Darn," he simpers, throwing in a pitying snap as you yank your foot out. "You almost got me there too. Unfortunately for you," he shrugs, once again free from your grip on his shadow, "I'm getting bored. Do better.” If being such an insufferable asshole was a real Gift, you’re sure Ace would be among the first to manifest it.

"Well,” he says, voice closing the door on the interaction, “'til next time, Harbinger." Before you can even try to get to him again, he's gotten a running start. Your eyes widen as he jumps from what must be a terminal height to the nearest building—and lands it.

Ace? Three-Eyes asks, once again in your head. Do you know what his Gift is? He's rewatching your encounter with him, and you ignore his snide comments about how easily he managed to wipe the floor with you.

No clue. He didn't attack me. The admission causes Three-Eyes' eyebrows to raise as he plays the encounter over again, looking at it through a new lens. Frankly, you're getting tired of seeing your ass get kicked. Definitely a slippery bastard. He's probably working for Seijoh.

We'll send an agent to do recon on their Gifted. This could just be an independent. Seijoh was fond of attracting Gifted to their cause, promising wealth in exchange for power. Three-Eyes seems satisfied with what he's seen, and you shiver as he returns your mind to you. No matter how many times he does it, you don't think you'll ever get used to the feeling.

"At any rate," he throws over his shoulder, "don't fuck up tonight."

Seijoh is awfully fond of glitz and glamor, and it shows: the charity banquet is decorated to the nines. A part of you longs to participate, but you're here to gather information, to play the part of the fly on the wall. The waitstaff glides across the floor in a dance of service, offering champagne and hors d'oeurves alike to the chattering elite.

Take the tablet thirty minutes before you enter, Three-Eyes had told you. Once it kicks in, any Gifted should glow orange at the edges. A memory through the eyes of a stranger had entered your mind then, and in it you saw Three-Eyes outlined in neon orange, the edges softly blurred.

Sneaking in is much easier this time, a shadow creeping far enough past the door that you can slip in without a hitch. You're prepared to assess whatever shady deals Seijoh is setting up this time, but you see a man near the door stiffen. He's glowing orange at the edges, and you swallow. The man is big, with a shock of white hair. Leaning against the wall next to him is Ace, the orange outline bleeding in the space between the two Gifted.

"Harbinger," the unfamiliar face says, voice deep. You blanch, holding your breath as he turns to face you. He's fast for his size, head whipping in the direction you move to, taking the form of a different shadow. The guard detail tonight, armed to the teeth, focuses their aim where you hide.

This is bad. Gunfire claws against your ears, and you leap out of the shadow to put up a barrier before they tear you apart. Glass shatters. A lightbulb goes off in your head, feeling deja vu tug at the corners of your brain. You break into a sprint.

The security detail picks up on your plan, aiming one step ahead of you as you run to the now broken window. From the corner of your eye, you see one such bullet speeding towards you.

It feels like the world around you slows down, like you can see each detail of the dusky yellow metal as it hurtles to the point of impact. 

This is it, isn’t it?

The bullet will lodge itself (or worse, pass through) your midsection. This opulent room will be where you meet your end. They’ll clean up your body, mop up the blood. The cleaning staff is going to have their work cut out for them, you think.

You wonder if time slows for each of your victims before you take them out. You regret not being quicker about it; you thought you were doing them a service, but this? This is nothing but agony.

All you can do is keep moving. Your feet are heavy as one moves in front of the other.

The world returns to its normal pace.

Your momentum carries you forward. The bullet is off by what must be millimetres, grazing your back. You leap out of the window.

The last thing you see as you fly away is Ace's eyes on yours, heart hammering against your ribcage.

Three-Eyes has never been the most expressive nor the most emotional, so to feel the fury rolling off him in waves stuns you silent. "You failed the mission?" he asks. It's a rhetorical question, of course; he's seen your memories. Multiple times. "You had a job to do, and you...what?" His voice stays even, but the eye that rests at the center of his forehead trembles slightly.

He exhales. His third eye stills once again.

"Look," he reasons. "I know you're pretty new around here, but the higher-ups demand results. You cannot fail. Keep that in mind next time we meet."

Your informant leaves after that, phasing out of your sight. Your failure probably reflects poorly on him, too; you've never met the higher-ups, the head honchos of Karasuno, but you figure they must be forces of nature. Shame washes over you as you return home.

For the first time since you joined Karasuno, you don't return home with an envelope of cash.

“I feel like I’m seeing more of you these days.” Futakuchi sighs when you call him out, raising his hands in surrender.

“There’s a paper due at the end of the month. My GPA can’t take it if I fall behind, so I asked them to cut my hours at the restaurant.” He’s had impeccable grades since the day you met, but you figure they weren’t entirely borne of natural aptitude. You, on the other hand, have been taking on more shifts in an attempt to offset the cost of failing your last mission.

One paycheck from Karasuno was almost twice as much as you made at your day job. You close your eyes, see rent’s due date glaring at you. Three-Eyes was right. There can’t be any more fuck ups; you literally cannot afford it.

“Well,” you hand him his latte (he’d only admitted it once, but you were the one who made his order the best), “you’ve come to the right place.”

It's been getting colder recently. The chilly night air nips at your skin, sends goosebumps up your arms.

"I get it, this is a nice lookout spot," Ace says, jolting you out of your reverie. "But really? Once was bad enough. Imagine if I found you here while I was on the clock." You don't immediately move to kill him, so he stands a respectable distance away.

"On the clock? For Seijoh?"

"Who's to say?" he deflects.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It can mean whatever you want it to. Just because I'm seen with Seijoh doesn't have to mean I'm working with them." He says that, but his presence alongside some of Seijoh's bigwigs begs to differ. "At the end of the day, I'm just some guy with a mask on, right?"

"No."

He laughs, incredulous. "No? Are you denying it?" He taps his mask, the ornamentation of the spade shifting beneath his touch. "The evidence is right there, isn't it?"

"I meant that you're not just some guy." When you swallow, it's heavy. You've started having nightmares about that day, ones where you don't make it out alive. You were so sure the bullet would connect...until it didn't hit at all.

More than anything, you remember the look he gave you as you ran away. It's that gaze that makes an appearance behind your eyelids every night. You've given up on trying to piece it together by now.

"Aww." Ace tilts his head, pursing his lips in sarcastic affection. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?" You (once again) start to wish you'd killed him where he stood.

Instead, you say, "What did you do?" He gives you yet another look you can't decipher, another thing to mull over alone in your room under cover of darkness.

"Who knows?" he shrugs, avoiding a straight answer once again. "Maybe you just got lucky. Why do you assume I had something to do with it?"

(He has a point; all you have to go off of is a look and a feeling. You hate that he's right.)

The only noise at this point is the steady tick-tock of the clock tower and the breeze passing by, a gentle tap on your shoulder, a kiss on your cheek. You don't respond, soaking in his words. He could be lying. He could also be telling the truth.

You're not sure which you'd like to hear more.

"You said you were off the clock," you say after the silence has set in long enough to change the topic. He nods, gaze focused on the few cars on the road below. "I take it whatever...arrangement you have with Seijoh isn't permanent."

"Is work all you talk about? Man, I hope you're not this much of a stick in the mud behind the mask."

That hits a nerve. "I'll have you know I am very pleasant beneath the mask," you defend. He smirks, casting a sideways glance in your direction.

"I'll believe it when I see it, Harbinger."

“Okay, be honest,” you begin, shutting the menu with a snap (as if you even read it). “Am I...uptight?”

Kenji inhales sharply, taking your menu with careful fingers. You’re well aware you’ve just dropped him in a minefield, but you watch him squirm with serious eyes. Ace’s words from the night before ring in your ears, and you’re itching to prove him wrong.

Poorly equipped to answer the question at hand, Kenji instead asks, “...You sure you want me to be honest?” He yelps when you aim to whack him with a roll of complimentary bread. “You were the one who asked!”

“You’re supposed to be a good friend!” you hiss between bites of another dinner roll.

“You asked me to be honest! What was I supposed to do?” he sputters. “Lie?” Kenji confiscates the roll of bread, uttering a mocking hum when you whine.

“Yes!” He doesn’t bother replying, muttering under his breath as he takes your order—and your makeshift weapon—to the kitchen.

You'd think that a business conglomerate with its fingers deep in the city's underbelly would do a better job at hiding confidential files. You guess Seijoh's got bigger fish to fry. Not that you're complaining, of course; this only makes your job easier.

(We've done extensive recon on this location, Three-Eyes had informed you. He was still tense with the knowledge of your last fuck-up, but you were given a mission regardless. It's where they keep their records of the Gifted in their system, hired or not.)

The job, for once, is simple. Get in. Collect the files Three-Eyes had drilled into your brain. Get the fuck out.

(Just watch out. They have this guy running point on their security. In your memory was the image of a man, hair dyed blond save for the twin black stripes running parallel lines around his head.

He...kinda looks like a bumblebee, you'd thought, hoping to draw a laugh from your informant. It didn't work. His jaw had hardened, and his eyes—unfortunately, not the third one—had rolled.

They call him the Mad Dog. If you see him, do not engage. His Gift—if you can call it that—is the ability to break bones and pop blood vessels with a single touch. Okay, yikes. You'd breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of examples Three-Eyes had given; he was often very thorough, but you were grateful he'd refrained from providing a visual this time.)

To his credit, Three-Eyes' navigation skills are getting better. Getting to the archives poses no problem, the office completely dark. If you got into a fight, you were almost certain you’d come out on top.

The only catch is the dozens of the drawers you'll have to open to find the files you're looking for. With a sigh, you fish out the small flashlight given to you by Three-Eyes the last time you were tasked with recon.

(I should also warn you, Three-Eyes said, that you might be terminated if you fail this mission. We won't kill you or anything like that, he'd assured you when you'd flinched. At least, I don't think so. But your memories of this time will be erased entirely from your mind.

His gaze was devoid of any levity, any mercy. I can put things in your head no problem, but I make no promises to be gentle if I have to take them away.)

You're thumbing through the files of the independents Seijoh has hired when you see not one, but two faces you recognize.

The first is the large man with the white hair that had managed to sniff you out from the shadows. His real name is redacted, the same as every other report, but you catch a glimpse of his designation. Bloodhound Unit 1-A. Fitting. You'd already collected the files of other members of Seijoh's bloodhounds; this was the last one on your list.

They all possessed similar enough Gifts, in the end: the ability to locate Gifted whenever they used their powers.

The second file you recognize is Ace, pictured in all his masked glory with a shit-eating grin. You stop to read this one; it’s not every day you learn the ins and outs of the biggest pain in your ass to date.

Gifted #1110 has the ability to manipulate the probability of events (moderate effect), the classification reads. This makes him uniquely suited to an escort position for negotiations with other companies.

That explains why you've only seen him around officials. You trace your encounters back to the beginning, to all his comments about luck. He'd escaped you because he'd willed it, forced the hands of fate in his favor.

This casts the events of your last mission under a different light: he let you live.

Why?

You take both reports, the last two files needed, and make your escape.

It’s midnight. The clock tower rings out behind you to welcome the new hour, but you’re not paying much attention. Bouncing around in your mind like an old computer’s screensaver is the project due at the end of the month and the need to confront Ace about what exactly happened the night of your last mission.

You're about to call it a night and leave the clock tower when he appears. "Why is it that every time I come here to think, you show up?"

"I wasn't aware you were capable of cognizant thought," you fire back.

"Wow. Okay. Low blow." You manage an indignant laugh from him. "And especially rich, might I add, considering I'm the one who's come out on top every time we've crossed paths."

You don’t bother beating around the bush; you’ve waited too long to engage in his verbal sparring matches. "You really are a lucky bastard, aren't you?" It's not a question. He grins in response, as if you’ve passed a test.

"Took you long enough to notice. I was beginning to worry I'd have to spell it out for you."

Your meetings at the clock tower become routine. Ace shows up at midnight, you notice, fond of startling you as the tower rings.

("Are you stalking me or something?" you'd asked at the start. "Is your friend with the white hair sniffing me out so you can work up the courage to ask me out on a proper date?"

He laughed at that longer than was really appropriate, long enough for you to wonder what could possibly be so bad about posing yourself as a dating prospect. Second occupation aside, you were a catch and a half, and you were about to let him know when he caught his breath enough to reply. "Don't flatter yourself, Harbinger," he wheezed. "If anything," he'd sniffed, now nonchalant, "I should be asking you that question."

"What was it you just said?" You tapped your chin, coming to a realization, "Oh. Don't flatter yourself," you replied flatly. At this point, he was standing next to you. You'd turned to look at him, then. Not to look in the way you'd done several times before, but to really look at your...enemy?

You didn't know what to call him. Live saver might have been accurate, but you would rather have taken the bullet than call him that to his face. You weren't friends, nor were you enemies—not right now, anyway.

You didn't know what to make of this in-between you've found yourselves in, this space between hate and friendship.)

To throw a wrench into things even further, you find that he looks...handsome in the low light. You add the thought to the growing list of things you'd be quicker to take to your grave than admit to him.

(There was truth to the statement, though. You couldn't make out all of his face, of course, but the slicked back hair paired with a strong jaw looked promising enough. It's not like he was spindly either, body all lean muscle. You'd been staring for much longer than was considered socially acceptable, and he'd noticed. "Like what you see?"

"Not at all," you'd lied.

The worst part had been the fact that checking Ace out—sizing him up—wasn't on your list of regrets. What it was on was your laundry list of things regarding Ace that you couldn't wrap your head around.)

You learn things about him, things you'd sooner learn about a normal person instead of someone you seek to kill half the time.

He likes dogs.

(“I had one back in junior high. When I move out of the city and into a real house, I think I’ll adopt one of the same breed.” He’d shuddered before continuing. “I could never get one of those small dogs, though. All bark and no bite.”

“I think they’re a perfect fit for you,” you told him.

“Oh, ha ha. Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one on a losing streak.”)

He spends an inordinate amount of money on candy.

("You should see my pantry," he laughed. "I used to really like those like…” he was talking with his hands, gesturing in the air, “sour gummy worms back in high school. I guess the habit of buying them never wore off."

"I’m surprised you don’t have cavities."

"Please. My dentist loves me.")

He refuses to admit to crying when Mufasa died in The Lion King.

("So what if I was five?" he'd huffed, crossing his arms. "That's no excuse.")

It's humanizing.

It's concerning.

Now, when you look at Ace, you no longer see an unexpected roadblock, the joker being put into play. You begin to agree with what he told you weeks ago: he really was just some guy in a mask.

You begin to wonder when you became so quick to agree with him.

Your fork twirls around the pasta, you and Kenji sitting cross-legged on your carpet as a Marvel movie plays.

You'd been the one to suggest a celebration, having made it out of midterms alive. He'd agreed, bringing over some of your favorites from the restaurant after his shift.

The movie is good (though Kenji's uncanny ability to chime in during emotional scenes makes your eye twitch, just a little), the food even better. Before you know it, both of you are blinking bleary eyes awake in the morning light.

"What time is it?" you mutter, hand slapping the surface of the coffee table you'd fallen asleep on in an attempt to find your phone. Kenji rolls his head around in a circle, trying to ease the crick in his neck.

"Too early. Maybe around eight," he yawns, trying to once again make himself comfortable on the couch and go back to sleep.

You, on the other hand, have never been more awake in your life. When you find your phone, you find that he's right—it's almost eight. Your shift starts at nine. At this time of day, it takes half an hour to get to work.

"Shit," you curse, forcing your half-asleep body to move and do as much damage control as you can manage. "I have work in an hour. You can leave now if you want, but you gotta be out when I am."

"Nah, I'll give you a ride. My place is in that direction anyway." There's something about the way he says it, his voice a touch deeper with the morning and the way it rolls off his tongue like he's said it a million times, that makes your heart clench. There's not enough time to dwell on it, so you let him stay while you get ready for the day.

(Somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, that same seed of infatuation you'd swallowed months ago threatens to sprout.)

The name Ace, as it turns out, is one he came up with himself.

"You really couldn't have come up with anything better?" you ask. "It's a nice name. A bit vague, sure," you parrot the words from your first meeting as Ace narrows his eyes at you, unimpressed, "but oh so frightening." Emboldened by his confession and greedy in the light of your victory, you tilt his chin to meet your gaze head on.

The touch is electrifying, like a spark igniting for the first time in a brilliant flame. You force it to fizzle out as quick as it came, hand drawing back in shock.

These midnight meetings have changed your dynamic with Ace. It's delicate, like a house of cards that stacks higher and higher with each encounter. You worry that the slightest deviation from what's been established might send the whole thing crashing down.

"The people at Karasuno were the ones who named me," you fumble, trying to defuse the tension. "They saw me flying when I was still learning what I was and offered to take me in."

Almost a year ago, you'd been discovered by two boys. It was embarrassing, in hindsight: you crashed into the taller one, leading to the other doubled over in laughter.

You learned that their names were Kageyama and Hinata, and they were pretty new to this whole Gifted thing, too. You haven’t seen much of them recently; once you three “graduated,” for lack of a better term, into full-time operatives, you often found yourself flying solo.

"So what?" Ace asks. "You just joined a criminal organization?"

"I didn't know it was Karasuno at first," you snap. "Not until it was too late. But I'm here now. Money is money."

"You could've just..." he lets the words hang in the air, trying to find the best response. "I don't know." Instead, he asks a different question: "Would you have joined Seijoh or done something else if not for Karasuno?"

"What difference does it make?" you ask. "When you break it down, we're the same. Our Gift manifested, so we joined the first organization willing to pay us enough in exchange for being the ones to do their dirty work. Besides," you huff, head tilted to try and find any hint of starlight in the night sky, "I'd be doing exactly what I do now if I was with Seijoh."

"...You don't sound very pleased about that."

"Yeah?" Your laugh is humorless as you chew on your bottom lip. "I wouldn't be doing this at all if I could afford it. This all started because I wanted to get in touch with my Gift and learn more about it." You bring up a web of darkness, warping it into different shapes in a show of control. "Just so happens they help me with my rent enough that I don't have to live paycheck to paycheck."

He's pensive, nodding along with your words. "You know, we should bring drinks up here sometime. I think we both need a break. You from your rent, me from my tuition deadlines. How 'bout it?"

Despite yourself, you reply, "Yeah. I'd like that." 

(Even worse is the fact that you don't think you want this to be an empty promise.)

You're at the clock tower again. The routine's stabilized into a weekly affair; it's unspoken between you two to meet on Friday nights, right as the day rolls over into Saturday morning. "Do you remember our last conversation?" Ace asks.

"About how you still owe me drinks?" Your legs are dangling over the edge of the tower, knocking against Ace's feet as the world whizzes below you.

"I thought it would be a potluck-style affair. We did establish that we're both broke, right? Why are you making me buy everything?"

"Wasn't my idea to get drunk with someone I've tried to kill," you offer. "Multiple times. I figured Seijoh's dirty money would be more than enough to afford a pack of shitty beer."

"If I'm going to drink with someone that's tried to kill me," for your benefit, he tacks on, "multiple times, I'm going to make it good. But that wasn't the part of the conversation I was talking about."

"Then what was?"

His shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly. You wouldn't catch it if you weren't sitting next to him. "Do you ever wonder..." He's reticent with his next words, as though they're better unspoken, "what would've happened if we worked together?"

"If this is some ploy to get me to join your so-called good side," you drawl, throwing up some jazz hands, "I'm afraid it won't work. We've been over this: it wouldn't make any difference."

"No," he says. He's not looking at you, but rather at the full moon that smiles at you from above. "I mean like...a world where it's always like this." He bumps his shoulder against yours, and you become hyperaware of the lack of space between you.

(When did it lessen? You could layer your hand over his, if you so pleased. Are his fingers calloused, are they warm?)

You force the thoughts back into the dark corner of your mind from which they came. "Don't go falling for me," you warn. (You're not sure who you're warning, exactly, but it's a warning nonetheless.) "You should know by now I won't be around to catch you."

His gaze is somewhere far away when he says, "I know."

There's a warm mug in your hands and a show you're barely watching on TV. You're alone, bundled in your comfiest blankets. You and Kenji had scheduled a movie night, but you had cancelled on him, citing your neverending pile of assignments as an excuse.

Somehow, seeing him hours after being with Ace feels wrong.

You take the day to unpack everything about Ace you normally save for the wee hours of the night, when your heart still races as you return home from the clock tower. Your eyes are glazed over as you analyze his every word, every action, try your best to read between the lines.

Then it hits you.

Why bother reading so much into it? Why expend so much energy into trying to figure him out?

It's not like—

Oh.

The realization of your feelings for your sort-of enemy isn't a loud affair, not at all like glass shattering or the freefall felt after leaping out of broken windows. It's quiet, almost unnervingly so.

Taking a sip of your drink, you step into this newfound truth as though it were your favorite pair of pants.

Here's the problem with this new truth: you're pretty sure that being in love with a member of Seijoh is off-limits.

"You'd think that in a city this big, we wouldn't be seeing so much of each other," he quips. Why is he always where you want to be? It had been annoying (until it wasn't), but on this fine Wednesday night, you’d wanted anything but to see him. 

"And here I was, trying to find someplace new." Instead of the clock tower you'd both made your unspoken rendezvous point, you've come across Ace atop a skyscraper.

"Aww, I thought we were friends." Is that what he thinks? You're not sure if that's a testament to the change in your relationship or a confession just shy of what you really want.

(But is this what you want? A life of secrecy and hidden eyes?)

Ace pats the space next to him, motioning for you to come sit. You don't move. You worry that if you do, all the things you’re keeping hidden will come tumbling out unbidden.

(Would it be so bad if it did?)

"I'm fine here," you squeak. Your voice is meek, only serving to raise suspicion.

"...Are you okay?"

(What are you supposed to say to that? That you think you're in love with him when you barely know him, don't even know what he looks like? Are you supposed to tell him that even though you're on opposing sides, his eyes are the ones that haunt your dreams? How do you convey that all you could ever want is for things to stay like this, the city cloaked in perpetual night with Ace at your side and in your heart?)

There aren't any words in the English language that could get the point across.

He draws closer, as if magnetized to you. If words can't do it, maybe actions can.

You don’t think. You don’t speak.

All you do is yank the collar of his shirt towards you, crashing your lips against his. The house of cards you two had so delicately put together is lit aflame, but in this single selfish moment, you have no regrets.

You pour gasoline all over everything you know, tilting your head to take as much of Ace as he's willing to give.

(He pulls you flush against him, and later on you'll try to puzzle out how much of his reaction was instinct and how much of him was wanting for this, for you. For now, you're more than content to burn against him, with him. You take his bottom lip between your teeth and pull.)

“I think I did something stupid,” you groan, head in your hands as Kenji scrawls your order onto his notepad. You’re his last customer, but he doesn’t bother pulling out his finest Food Service Voice for you, not when you’re like this.

“What happened this time?” His question only elicits another drawn-out groan as you drag your hands down the sides of your face. “Yikes. That bad?” Returning to his notepad, he mumbles, “Extra cheese,” adding it to your order.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Kenji, to his credit, doesn’t push the issue.

The food is good, as always. It distracts you a bit from the crippling weight of what you’d done not even twenty-four hours ago. You even find it in yourself to give a heftier tip than usual.

And somehow, that’s enough.

For now.

Your next meeting with Ace is awkward, to say the least. 

The haze of desire that plagued your mind that night has cleared, and you're left to face the consequences of your actions. The stars above twinkle and titter in equal parts at your embarrassment.

He's waiting for you at the clock tower. A change of pace, considering midnight is a ways off.

"Fancy seeing you here." You're trying for normalcy, but it comes out forced.

"What can I say?" There's no wind tonight, and that only serves to charge the energy between you further. "I guess we're just drawn to each other." The accuracy of that statement sinks in, and you gnaw at the inside of your cheek as you roll it around in your head.

"About last night—" comes out of your mouth at the same time as "Listen, what happened—" comes out of his.

Nobody speaks. You're reminded of one of the first nights you spent with him here, the silence almost companionable. Tonight, it's oppressive, suffocating you with its iron grip.

"So...are you okay?"

"Am I?"

"I mean, I guess not. You didn't answer the question last time."

"I did answer it," you defend hotly, stiffening as the words spill from your mouth. Way to go, you grimace. You've done a bang-up job bringing up the one thing you were trying to avoid. Ace shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Do we...wanna talk about it?" he asks, giving a tentative poke at the elephant in the room.

"Good question." You're looking at the ground, eyes catching against the hole from your very first meeting here. "You seem to be full of those lately."

"Thank you," he replies, on autopilot. For a moment, it's like nothing's changed, the house of cards still standing. "I try my best." There’s another lull in the conversation. You’re not even looking at him anymore, instead finding much to observe about the hole you’d made a month ago.

Fuck it. You've already dug yourself six feet under—you might as well force yourself all the way to rock bottom. "You know that this," you gesture between you, "can't happen, right? You don't even know who I am."

"You seem to neglect the fact that I might want to." Not for the first time, you curse his ability to parry even your worst remarks. Right. Your heart flutters, a betrayal of the highest order.

"You seem to neglect the fact that when you're on the clock, we're at each other's throats."

He grins. "Maybe."

"Are you always this irritating underneath the mask?"

At some point in the conversation, he's come to stand one breath away. "Why don't you find out?" he whispers against your lips as he closes the distance once more.

You're seething, knuckles gone white as you clench your fists at your sides. You're not the only one pissed: Three-Eyes is about to pop a blood vessel, a vein bulging on his forehead. Whatever you think you're doing needs to stop. He plays your exchanges with Ace over, sneers when he sees you kiss like it were gum caught beneath his shoe. There are more important things than...this. 

You might have the worst informant in all of Karasuno, forced to watch as he skims through the month of private memories you'd tried to keep under lock and key. This was supposed to be a quick meeting to receive the details of your next job, but it seems he had caught wind of what you had been so eager to hide.

What you're doing endangers not only Karasuno, but you especially. There are fates worse than termination and much worse than death, he reminds you. There’s an undercurrent to his words, both a warning and a threat. See to it that you change your behavior before your next job.

"For the record," he says, quick to leave your mind, disgusted by what he's seen, "I kinda liked you. Shame you won't remember that if I have to wipe your memory clean."

He's gone before you can respond.

"You look like you just got broken up with," Kenji remarks as you shovel pasta in your mouth. When your only response is a withering glare, his voice softens. "Alright, what's going on? 

"It's nothing," you lie. You're at the restaurant to eat your sorrows away, but the reason why is a can of worms you can't exactly afford to be forthcoming about. Explaining exactly what mess landed you halfway to sobbing with each bite you take to Kenji of all people would only end with you behind bars for all you've done. "I'll be okay, I just...really needed some pasta."

He doesn't look like he buys it, but he backs off. It's a half victory you're more than willing to take. "If you do need help, you know who to call." You nod, unable to respond with your mouth full.

When it's time for you to pay, Kenji emerges from the kitchen to tell you that just this once, your meal is on him.

Kenji's taking his break, sitting right across from you as if he hadn't been waiting your table less than five minutes ago. (His manager had shouted for him to take his break in the back, but Kenji, it seems, has long since mastered the art of selective hearing.) He doesn't say much, scrolling through his Instagram feed while you eat. You continue in relative silence, the only real noise being the sound of your fork against your plate. 

You're more than halfway done with your meal when he pipes up. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

He rolls his eyes at you, locking his phone and putting it down. "Ha ha. Very funny. I'll be in the front row of all your stand-up comedy shows," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Thank you," you reply with a smile. "Anything for my number one fan." He pulls a face. "What did you want to talk about?"

Despite being the one to start the conversation, he's clamming up. "Forget it," he says, eyes focused on the people passing by outside rather than on you. "It's not important, anyway. Just some relationship troubles," he lets slip.

"Oh?" you ask. You're in much of the same boat, though you suspect that Kenji, at least, has met someone that he can reasonably be with. "What's wrong?"

"I'm with someone right now," he blurts before he can think it through. "Or I mean...sorta with someone."

"What does 'sorta with someone' mean?"

"I mean...we see each other every now and again, but our relationship's never been clearly defined. I know the feeling is mutual, but there are some," he gestures with his hands, "obstacles stopping us from being together."

"Like?" Kenji's never come to you with anything like this before, but he's being rather secretive about this whole affair.

"We're not...meant to be together?" He doesn't sound sure of that answer himself, considering his wince. "That's not right. There are just...a lot of factors stopping us from being together, that's all."

You twist your straw between your fingers before you take a sip. "Sometimes, timing is a big factor," you tell him. "Maybe you're not meant to be together right now? In that case, it might be better to end things before they go too far." Kenji nods, soaking your words in. 

"At the end of the day, Romeo,” you remind, "the only person you have to please is yourself. What do you want?"

"The only person you have to please is yourself," he repeats. Louder, he says, "I know what I want. Don’t really know what I’m gonna do about it, but..." he rises, his break over, "you know. Thanks, I guess.”

You do, in fact, know. "Anytime."

Pocketing his phone, Kenji whisks away your empty dishes and returns to the kitchen.

Solving his relationship problems had been so easy. You only wish untangling the mess that was your own was that simple.

>> (11:08 AM) kenji: are you free after your shift today

>> (11:13 AM) you: yeah

>> (11:13 AM) you: why?

>> (11:14 AM) kenji: no reason 

Sure enough, when the bell fixed to the door signals a customer's entrance towards the end of your shift, it's Kenji you come face to face with. "The usual."

"No please?" you ask, typing in his final total.

"Sorry, we haven't reached that level of friendship yet.” He pays with his phone, the screen displaying a blue check before he pockets it. "Ask me again in a few months."

"My bad. I seem to have mistaken our months of companionship and movie nights for something other than close friendship," you say, scribbling the name Coochie-kins on the side of his cup. "How will I ever make it up to you?" Your voice is monotone as you pass his order to your coworker. A quick glance to your watch tells you that Kenji is your last customer. Untying your apron with practiced ease, you clock out.

When you emerge from the back, now dressed in casual clothes, you approach Kenji. "Well? Not studying today?"

"Nah. I needed a break. Mind joining me?"

Before you know it, you're at an arcade. It's one of those modern ones, revamped for all ages and teeming with all sorts of bells and whistles. You stop at the entrance, peering into the glass where a large stuffed turtle calls to you. "You want it?" Kenji asks.

Right now, you're not sure if you've ever wanted anything more. After a quick stop to load up a card with enough credits to make your wallet ache, you return to the crane game. "Hit me," you tell him, and he swipes the card for you, looking amused.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You're a fucking supervilain working for one of the most prolific criminal organizations in the city. This stupid crane game doesn't stand a chance.

...is what you told yourself three attempts ago. The turtle slides out of the crane's grip once more, taunting you. You resist the primal urge to bash your head against the glass, instead opting for a drawn-out groan. "Is it even worth it?" you mumble.

"Let me try," Kenji says, hip bumping against yours as he nudges you to the side. "Watch and learn." He cracks his knuckles as he grips the joystick, fingers feather-light as they rest on the buttons to engage the crane. The setup looks exactly the same as your previous tries, and you scoff as he presses the button.

The turtle goes up. Big deal, you think. It'll come down before it goes through the chute. The game is rigged, anyway.

Or not.

The turtle lands neatly in the pickup zone.

"What'd I tell you?" he asks, like it was nothing. "Sometimes it just needs that magic touch." He wiggles his fingers for good measure.

"Wh-" you sputter. "How?"

"It's like that episode of Spongebob," he explains, handing you the turtle. "Be the crane."

You resolve to beat him at something, the competitive side of you flaring up.

(It's the start of a losing battle. Kenji hands your ass to you in every game, be it skeeball or basketball or even those awful ones that demand a button pressed at just the right time. The arcade staff double, triple check the amount of points your card's accumulated.

It's kind of ridiculous, really, but you leave with a Nintendo Switch you claim joint custody over, so it's not like you're complaining.)

"Why did you call me out, anyway?" you ask, the turtle you've named Chichi (after the Dragon Ball character and not Kenji, thank you very much) in your lap. He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"I said it earlier, didn’t I? We needed a break. I also wanted to thank you for last time." It’s been a couple of weeks since that day; you don’t think you would’ve remembered if not for how out of the blue it’d been. You’re kind of surprised he’d been thinking about it, really.

"What did you do about it?"

"Turns out, I didn't have to do anything," he exhales. His voice is bitter when he says, "I got ghosted."

You wince, sucking in a sharp breath through your mouth. "Ouch. Sorry to hear that.”

"Don't worry," he says. "Not like you had anything to do with it."

Your next job goes off without issue 

You don't see Ace at all.

It's been almost a month since that night. Does he still shows up at the old clock tower at midnight in search of your silhouette? You would’ve done more, would’ve said a proper goodbye, but you’ve got bills to pay. Drawing Three-Eyes’ ire is the last thing on your to-do list.

You count the cash given to you by Three-Eyes, toss it onto your nightstand. Unfortunately, this isn’t some fairy tale where you can have your cake and eat it too.

(But was it so bad to long for that bit of fantasy?)

You trade your view of the city at the dead of night for pasta and movie nights on Mondays.

Weeks bleed into months, and you draw closer and closer to Kenji. When he asks if he can kiss you, fumbles with the words a bit before you leave his car, you let him.

He leans over the center console, one breath away, giving you one last out if you need it. You let him close the gap.

You like Kenji, you do. 

But when your lips meet his for the first time, it's not the same. Ace might not be dead, but you're chasing after his ghost all the same, seeking him out in everything and everyone. What was once explosive, electrifying, even, barely manages to simmer in the pit of your stomach. It's not enough to boil over.

You'll take it.

(With your eyes closed and fingers tangled in his hair, you can almost taste the night winds on your tongue, hear the clock tower tick with each passing second. You tell yourself that maybe this is good for you, that the day will come where you see Kenji instead of longing for Ace.)

In the end, being with Kenji isn't at all what you expected. It's not at all what you wanted, either.

It's like coming home and finding out the hard way that all the furniture's moved three inches to the left: not immediately apparent...until you stop to wonder why you keep stubbing your toe on the coffee table.

"Kenji," you pant, pulling away. This is how your movie nights tend to end as of late, your hands in his hair and you situated on his lap. "What-" He's not in the mood to talk tonight, it seems, instead peppering kisses along the junction between your shoulder and collarbone. "What are we doing?”

For a minute, you think he hasn't heard you. "What do you want it to be?" He's leaning back on your shitty couch, eyes hooded and hazy. His face is framed by the low light of the action movie behind you, his chest rising and falling. You know that if you pull him back in now, you can safely bury the topic, cover it completely with your lips on his. 

They say ignorance is bliss, after all.

But your toe's been stubbed to the point of bleeding; there's no ignoring that.

You've spent countless nights examining your feelings. You've held them up to the light, ghosted your fingers along the hairline cracks that run down the sides. And despite all your introspection, the best you can come up with is "I don't know." Even as the words come out of your mouth, they feel like the wrong answer.

The three words hang in the air between you, cruel fingers of guilt and indecision digging into your skin, kissing invisible bruises that bloom purple. For once, Kenji is at a loss for words. The clarity's returning to him, you think, bloodflow returning to his brain. He goes through several emotions you can't place nor process in a matter of seconds.

It's then that you ask yourself the question: What is this to him? Some part, selfish as selfish can be, hopes that you're just as much of a distraction to him as he is to you. It's much better than the alternative; better to set each other alight instead of stoking a fire for someone else.

"Right." The word comes out in a single, stunned breath. "Well," he says, moving enough to force you onto the couch, "call me when you think you've figured it out."

You don't get a chance to reply before he's out the door. The movie you hadn't been watching seems louder now, brought to the foreground of your misery.

You tune it out.

If Three-Eyes is put off by the look in your eyes, the anger that's taken root, he doesn't show it. A tactful move on his part, really; you're just about ready to tear someone's head off if they so much as breathe the wrong way 

He has no reason to stick around. "You know what to do. Good luck." he says, waving a hand around in noncommittance before vanishing.

He's here. Of course he'd be; Three-Eyes had told you as much. Under the darkness of the new moon, you set out to strike a decisive blow to Seijoh's throat.

Tonight, you're aiming for Seijoh's headquarters, where their current leader—a man known only as the Grand King—happens to be holding a very important meeting.

Security here is no joke, and you find yourself creeping around above the shadows rather than within them. The Grand King's spared no expense, his bloodhounds roaming the halls. If you slip up, even a little, you're sure to meet your untimely demise.

The Grand King himself is younger than you expected. He's maybe a year or two older than you; much too young to be running a business conglomerate rife with seedy dealings and the law enforcement on its payroll. (He's also kind of cute, but this is neither the time nor place to dwell on that thought. You shiver when you remember Three-Eyes will no doubt catch this remark when he reviews your performance.)

Standing to his right is another man you've only heard about: the Grand King's most faithful Knight, at his side at all times. Nobody that's ever learned his power has come out alive. Not even Three-Eyes had any clue. His file wasn't with the others when you'd been sent to their archives, leaving you completely in the dark.

To the Grand King's left is Ace; you guess even the mightiest king needs a trick or two up his sleeve. You’re slinking at the doorway, body pressed against the wall, when a voice calls out.

"Welcome, Harbinger," the Grand King greets, a cheerful smile on his face. "We've been expecting you."

Shit. How did he know? You're about to make a break for it, to cut your losses, when strong arms hold yours in place. When you wriggle around enough to see who's got you pinned, you see the same bloodhound from last time, white hair and all.

"You're here to kill me, aren't you?" the Grand King asks, though there's no question about it. You grit your teeth, reach out for his shadow with your own. Your shadow wraps its fingers around his throat without remorse.

Then the Grand King snaps his fingers, and you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut.

It's bright, like he's turned the intensity of the sun itself on you and then some. You barely have anything to work with, light at all angles doing well to chase away the darkness. The Grand King walks toward you, and your mouth curls in a snarl.

He takes two fingers and tips your chin up to meet his gaze. "You're all they sent?" His brow furrows. "I was expecting more of a fight." Whatever he sees in your eyes causes him to lose interest rather quickly, his fingers dropping. He wipes them on the fabric of his pants as though you were a speck of dirt. "You're just a rookie. I was hoping Karasuno would send their biggest and baddest after me," he sighs, palm pressed to his forehead in woe. 

The Grand King has mastered the art of dramatic timing, whether he knows it or not.

There's a deafening boom that rattles your being at an atomic level. It's from the ground floor, but you can feel it shake the furniture at the penthouse all the same. You exhale, shaky and suppressing a grin.

The plan is going off without a hitch.

You've never worked with the other Gifted in Karasuno, so when Three-Eyes told you you'd be joined by two familiar faces, you knew you couldn't pass up the opportunity.

Hinata bounds in, a smile on his face. Between the taller, more intimidating men in the room, he doesn't look like much—until he bends the white-haired bloodhound to his will. The larger man's grip loosens until he lets you go, eyes unable to leave Hinata's.

The temperature drops, goosebumps snaking up your skin. Not far behind Hinata is Kageyama, eyes dark with purpose as he walks towards the Grand King. A swirling storm of snow and hail orbits him, and you feel your fingers go numb when he passes you by.

"Oikawa," he says. The Grand King's Knight moves to stop the Karasuno operative, but Oikawa holds up a hand, orders him to stand down. Despite the fact that the Grand King isn't much taller than Kageyama, he manages to look down on him nonetheless.

"Tobio." Wait, what? 

You don't get to see what happens next, your attention stolen away by Ace right as Kageyama attacks. His hailstorm takes out much of the lights with it, giving you the opening you need.

"Remember me?" he asks, smile mirthless. "I was wondering where you went. So much for getting drinks together, huh?" His jaw is clenched as he dodges the spears of shadow you fling his way. You try to catch him, to lock him in place, but he evades you every time.

"Bastard," you spit, growing more frenzied with each second that passes.

“Oh, I just got lucky," he says with a thin smile, taking off. You know he's trying to distract you, to stop you from joining the fray. You know that he knows you're drawn to him, even now.

He's running out onto the roof of the building, but you finally get a hold of his shadow. Yanking it harshly in your direction, you force him to the ground.

Your feet hit the concrete, each step inching closer and closer to the decisive ending. Ace has done nothing but hopelessly entangle you in an impossible knot; the only way out, you think, elongating your fingers into sharp points, is to cut through.

Fact: When Ace makes contact with the ground, his mask clatters, having fallen from his face.

Fact: Your eyes are wide, so wide they feel like they might fall out of their sockets.

"Well?" Ace asks, only it's not Ace.

Fact: Ace is Kenji.

It's Kenji, and he's spitting blood, rubbing the spot where his jaw connected with the floor.

It's Kenji, with nothing but malice in his glare.

"What are you waiting for, Harbinger?"

It would be so easy. One move, performed with surgical precision. You've done it countless times before. You know how to make it quick. You know how to make it painless.

But Kenji is the one behind the mask. And slowly, all the pieces begin to fall into place.

("Read it and weep," he teased, showing off his grades. "How does it feel, knowing that you're talking to the future Albert Einstein?" You knew he was baiting you into either a battle you wouldn’t win or compliments he’d refuse to let you live down. You played into it all the same.

"What the fuck," you exhaled. "Have you ever gotten a borderline grade?"

"Nope." He pops the p sound, grin on his face growing wider. "Guess I'm just that lucky.")

("Tell me about yourself," you told him, yawning with the late hour. Classes had been taking their toll on you, so you’d flown up to the clock tower to take a break. What you hadn’t expected was to see Ace there, wind displacing his hair ever so slightly. 

"What, so you can rat me out to your murder of crows? No, thank you."

"What's your favorite color?" you asked, as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He’d given you a look, but responded anyway, seeing no harm in such an innocent question. At the time, you hadn’t, either. "...Believe it or not, it's actually pine green.”

"Really?" You turned your head to look at him. You were expecting maybe black or navy blue, but green? "Why?"

"I don't know. They were my high school's colors. I guess I saw enough of it around and on me all the time that I ended up liking it.")

(Sometimes, in the right light, you always thought Kenji looked like Ace. You dismissed it whenever it came up. You thought you just had a type. In a way, you suppose you do.)

You swallow in a poor attempt to rid yourself of the lump in your throat. Your mouth opens to respond, but no words come out. What is there to say? There's no way you can unmask yourself right now, reveal to him that his enemy and almost-lover (two different times, to boot) are one and the same.

So you don't.

Your mouth closes, sets itself into a hard line.

And you run.

Your hold on his shadow fades before vanishing entirely once you get far enough, but you don't care. You take a leap of faith off the roof, relying on your wings to come together before you hit the ground.

You're at the clock tower for the first time in what feels like forever. It hasn't changed. You’d flown here on instinct after fleeing Seijoh’s HQ. That’s not surprising, of course; you’ve been longing to feel the wind from up here for almost two months now.

"Why did you let me go?" Ace—Kenji—asks. You don't turn around, and you don't run away. In retrospect, you're not surprised to see him here, either. He must have known that this would be the first place you'd go. "You've never been the type to hold back. Why now?" You turn your head just enough to see his folded arms, his sharp glare.

"I'm just returning the favor from last time. We're even now."

"Last time, I wasn't the one trying to kill you."

"Does it matter?" You can't do this right now. Knowing who's behind the mask is too much for you to take, and you haven't even thought about the implications yet. "Leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" Kenji's raising his voice, but you can't look at him. You watch the hands of the clock above move instead, counting the seconds in your head. "Like you left me alone the second things got too real for you? Was this all just some twisted game you tried to play to get in my head?" He's accusatory, poison dripping from each word. Beneath it, the question he's too scared to ask: You threw me away so easily. Did I mean nothing to you?

"I did what I had to do." He's about to lash out with some scathing retort, but you cut him off. "It wasn't my choice.

"Oh, like Karasuno wasn't your choice? It's always about what you have to do," he growls, coming so close that you berate yourself for never knowing that Kenji and Ace were one and the same. "Maybe you should start living based on what you want instead." It’s a cruel echo of the advice you’d given to Kenji, your own words twisted and thrown back into your face.

But that's the thing, isn't it? "I don't know what I want." You’re lying.

You’re lying, and he knows it.

He's reaching out for you, meaning to come closer as you aim to pull away, his hand colliding with the edge of your mask. The momentum of two opposing forces end with your mask caught between his fingers as it lifts off your face.

(You know what they say: an eye for an eye makes the world go blind.)

Kenji—Ace—goes still. His shoulders slump, anger leaving him instantly. Behind you, the clock ticks and tocks, steady despite the metaphorical rug being pulled from underneath you both. He's incredulous, whispering your name as he struggles to process the same realization you'd only come to hours before.

The fire in his eyes has gone ice cold. You barely catch your mask when he tosses it to you.

And then he's gone.

>> (12:08 AM) you: kenji i'm sorry

>> (12:08 AM) you: ididn't know i swear

>> (12:11 AM) you: can we please talk about this

>> (12:12 AM) you: please say something

>> (1:29 AM) you: i'll be here

>> (2:17 AM) you: good night

The next few nights are sleepless. You've (once again) done a bang-up job cutting both (can you call it that?) Ace and Kenji from your life. The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is roll over, unlock your phone in the hopes that the ache that's settled in your chest can find relief.

It never does. What greets you each morning, after each good night sent, is a one-sided conversation with two little words tucked at the bottom: Read yesterday.

After almost a full week of this, of mornings on your phone and midnights hanging around the tower, your phone vibrates.

>> (2:32 PM) kenji: meet me at the clock tower tonight

He's already there when you touch down, wings disappearing as soon as your feet kiss solid ground. He's staring up at the clock: ten minutes til midnight. "How long did you know? 

"I didn't. Not until your mask came off."

"I see." Then: "Did you like Ace more?"

"No." He scoffs, but you barrel on. You might as well show your hand, lay the cards on the table. "You remember back in our second semester, when we had that project? Believe it or not, I..." It’s hard to admit, even if it had been years ago. “I liked you, back then. Kenji you, not-” you’re fumbling with your words, but he gets the hint. The truth of it is enough to bring him to face you.

This isn’t a conversation between Ace and the Harbinger, this is a conversation between you and Kenji, masks nowhere in sight. The sight of Kenji set against the clock tower makes your stomach flip, his eyes boring into your own.

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Took me a while to get over it. But then Ace came, and I liked him too. I guess I have a type." You're trying for humor, a shot in the dark. To your surprise, it works, drawing a chuckle from him. "And uh," you add, "sorry for...ghosting you." Kenji quirks an eyebrow. "They threatened to wipe my memories if I didn't stop. Maybe worse. I didn't wanna find out. Sorry," you tack on.

"Yeah. I get it. You did what you have to do," he says, and this time, there is no malice to be found.

There's one thing left to apologize for, but your attempts at it layer over each other.

"What are you apologizing for?" you ask.

"What are you apologizing for?" he fires back.

"I, uh." You're at your most eloquent tonight, it seems. "About the past couple of months..."

"Yeah. I have to ask...were you using me to get over," he pauses, realizes how absurd the question sounds, "me?"

"Will you be mad if I say yes?"

"No. I was," he gestures with both palms, "doing the same thing. Trying to get over getting ghosted...with the person who dropped me in the first place. Just my luck, huh?" You snort. 

"Sounds like the plot of a bad romcom."

It all connects then, ridiculousness and all. When two sets of unhidden eyes meet, they crinkle into crescents, you and Kenji breaking into laughter. When your stomach hurts and you wipe tears from your eyes, you ask, "Do you...want to start over?" It's hesitant. You two aren't perfect. There's a good chance you're going to fuck up somehow.

But you know what you want, and it's Kenji—with the mask and without.

Kenji holds out his hand. "Hi. I'm Kenji. When I need to pay for tuition, I'm Ace. What's your name?"

The clock chimes then, twelve times with the coming of midnight. You take his hand.

The nights are better with Kenji at your side, leaned against his shoulder. The clock tower's pleasant as always, city alight below. It's been a long time since you've felt the need to wear a mask up here. You find that you see more of the view nowadays, anyway. "Whatever happened to getting drinks and coming up here?"

"We're both still broke," Kenji replies. "We could go and get some, but..." he wraps an arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer, "I'm not in the mood to move."

"You and me both."

"Next time?"

"Next time."

("I hate to say it," you mused, "but I guess you can be kinda charming when you want to be." Before his ego got too swollen, you added, "Sometimes."

"You're not so bad yourself," he murmured. There was a smile playing at your lips as you drew closer and closer to him, now a breath away. "Tell me, Harbinger," and this time, when your name came from his lips, there was no trace of anger or pain underneath, "am I going to get lucky tonight?"

"Why don't we find out?")

Three-Eyes stops your memory of that night rather early, and you're not sure if you're imagining it, but the tips of his ears are distinctly red. "All's well that ends well, right?" you ask with a cheerful clap of your hands. The corners of your mouth are curved in a smirk that your informant only responds to with a stern glare.

"I'll let it slide, but in the future, I'd recommend not...fraternizing with the enemy." His tone is clipped, which only serves to widen your grin.

"Oh, but he's not the enemy anymore, is he?"

Your informant—you've since learned that his name is Tsukishima, but you’ve grown fond of the moniker—can only sigh. "I guess not."

(After you'd left to pursue Ace, you'd only narrowly managed to avoid the wrath of Tsukishima and Karasuno's admins. Kageyama and Hinata had done such a good job without you that it didn't even matter, and for that you were grateful, even if it had meant acting as a decoy. With Oikawa under Karasuno's thumb, Kenji had come to work under Karasuno, drawn to the money—and you.

And so, you'd gained a partner—in both senses of the word—in Kenji. The once treacherous seed of infatuation had been nurtured with the soil of communication, watered with care until it blossomed into what you might even be ready to call love.)

Kenji’s waiting for you, hands in his pockets and a look that mirrors your own in his eyes. “Did he get mad again?”

“No,” you reply, holding your hand out until he interlaces his fingers with yours, “just embarrassed. It’s kinda cute.”

“First, you try to kill me, and now you’re calling other guys cute?” he asks, shaking his head. “I think it’s high time I get back on Tinder.” Your shadow, lingering behind you both, yanks at the collar of Kenji’s button-up. He chokes, a strangled noise as you grip his hand a bit tighter in response. “And you’re trying to kill me again.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Your question is answered as you trip over your own feet, almost landing face first on the pavement. When you right your balance, Kenji is laughing openly. It’s contagious, pure joy blooming in your chest.

(Out of a million outcomes, you've found yourself in one of the best ones; maybe, you think, this is what they call the luck of the draw.)

dedicated, ultimately, to @wackatoshi​: winter, i know at the time this goes up, you’re currently ia but it was your kenji fics that really kickstarted the love i have for him........

[sanders-sides-fic]

Up there, too far away to hold me

I got inspired to write this by this post by @creepichan. I know it isn’t the intended purpose of that room, but, well… I hope this is still alright.

Careful, though. This is angsty. Like, really, really, really, really angsty. Now that we’ve established that, on we go:

His steps were purposeful, he wished to believe. But they were definitely hesitant, as much as he’d like to deny that one. But the matter of the fact was that he felt awkward to be here. He didn’t really feel as though this was a place he was welcome at, and he knew the reason for that far too well. So one might say his steps were cautious, but he would much rather call them meticulous.

It was early. Too early for anyone else being here. And, while that calmed him a little bit as he knew no one would see him here, that just worsened the feeling of intruding inside his gut.

He didn’t want to feel like that. He didn’t deserve to feel like that. They had done this to him, they were the ones to blame. He hadn’t deserved what they’d done to him! He should be angry, he had every right to come here and trash the place and vandalize and scream at them and demand to righten this injustice - but he actually only felt like crying. Maybe he would do the screaming bit.

He would admit, there had been a time when he’d felt angry. Furious, even. He’d used what little power their treacherous act had left him with to spite them in every way he could think of, made a point of letting them know just how much he despised them. But that had worn off quickly. Way too quickly. Not even an entire century later he’d been left with nothing but the grief.

His steps came to a halt at the end of the room, where the ridiculously long aisle opened up into a half circle on either side. In front of him was the altar, but he made a point of avoiding looking there. Too much was this like that room back home, where everything had crashed that day. The only reminder of where he was was that there was, in fact, an altar there. If only there would have been Roman’s throne. Heavens, how he longed to see Roman’s throne again.

So his eyes skipped the altar, focusing on the way the light filtered through the stained glass. The windows were just above his shoulders, forcing him to look up if he wished to see the faces of the people who had damned him like this, cast him out and chased him from his home. And why would he want to see them again? He hated them for what they’d done, just as much as they hated him.

Neither of the four figures had faces in their glass-walled mosaic portraits, he noticed. None of them. But Roman still had his crown. A golden, pointy thing amidst all the fiery red the god of passion, creativity, dreams, romance and arts was represented by. It was almost as much as he really did surround himself with, that thick-headed Roman, that rambling man with sparkling eyes. So obviously on the edge of braking into tiny pieces of self-doubt, so happy about every little compliment, so over the top in his vows of protection he’d never actually need to provide, or want to, apparently. The god may have been easy to flirt with and an endless source of friendly banter and long rants about future glory and happiness… But he was still so taken with his color. Like, seriously? Was that the only thing the god identified himself with, even over that typically fanciful symbol? Oh, he’d always scorned the overly dramatic display with that overly aggressive color.

On the left side, light up by the raising sun as well, the god of family, love, morals, and empathy was represented in his soft blue and beige hues. Ha! As if love or “family” had meant a lot to Patton that day. As if any empathy had been shown that moment when the god had stabbed him in the back. As if it was morally justifiable what he’d suggested that day. Gone where the war hugs and the easy, stupid jokes he’d cracked out of the blue. Forgotten all the warm evenings in the coldest winters. No more overly sweet chocolate chip cookies or hot chocolate or even just empty promises of forever. Not that he’d want any of that anymore, and it wasn’t as though he’d ever believed those promises were real anyways. Out of all of them, he may very well resented Patton the most.

He turned on his heels, almost thinking about leaving. But really he just wanted to see the other two windows. The two he could still see in the morning, but that weren’t light up form the outside yet, patterns made visible rather by the candles surrounding him in this room. Opposite of Patton was the god of logic, wisdom, knowledge, debate, intelligence, calmness. He didn’t officially represent all of that, but looking at the dark blue and black glass shreds that made him, as the picture held a book in such an unmistakable manor, that was what came to mind. Endless debates, the only clam voice in an outrage of different emotions, the smartest person he knew, the capability to logic his way out of any and all things thrown his way, facts delivered with such certainty no one would dare to question them. And those memories had no right to be so vivid in his head right now. Much rather he would focus on the icy look on the god’s face when he’d almost begged them to reconsider.

And Virgil. Right opposite to Roman was Virgil. God of fear, of fight, of protection, and storms. They’d always had a funny relationship, the two of them. Protection and self-preservation went hand-in-hand, after all. Lies and fear, however, not so much. Still, long nights and exasperation about the other’s cluelessness had bound them together. Sweet lies calming the god had brought them together. Days of fighting what couldn’t be denied anymore had brought them together. Centuries after centuries of being outcasts because of their jobs had bound them together. There hadn’t been trust that could have been broken that day. There had, though, been a fragile kind of love. The kind of love that was like a bridge made of ice, too thin to walk on confidently. The kind of love you would do anything to preserve because you knew you’d loose it for good if you didn’t. The kind of love that, in that moment it shattered, had turned into a thousand sharp edges pricing through his heart and tearing apart his soul, never melting completely in the cold their absence had left in him and therefor never letting the wounds heal. And he was proud to say that every bit of mistrusting hatred the god had shown him in just one sneer was absolutely mutual.

It was a warm day today. Disgustingly warm for his taste. He didn’t like the cold much, but such a warm day in February was just uncalled for, especially since it was only the third. And with the cold feelings bubbling inside his chest, he really, really didn’t want the day to be warm. It just felt so wrong. Why could Virgil just give him that at least?

He took a deep, shaky breath. “Hi.”, he said, ignoring the way his voice echoed through the empty chapel. He glanced over to where Roman’s and Virgil’s mosaics were, no Remus between them. So the god of chaos, destruction, creativity and… was it nightmares or death? He could never really remember which one was the job and which the hobby. Well, Remus had been canceled out of this little gathering as well, huh? He hated how relieved he felt at that. “I see you still don’t like you brother, Roman. What, still so insecure about that little black-and-white world of yours?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, before turning to the pictures of Virgil and Logan. That was his place. Right in between them. Right there. Or, it had been, all that time ago. He should have gotten used to it by now. He really, really should have. It still felt like a slap to the face to see the empty space, though. “Well, I suppose it does make this more symmetrical, doesn’t it?” A dark chuckle escaped him, and it might just have been a suppressed sob in reality. He wasn’t even sure anymore. “You don’t seem to regret the decision, seeing as you never even bothered to call out to me.”

Silence. There was just silence again. He had learned to hate silence in the years apart from their obnoxiously loud banter.

And, oh. Oh! Just when had he started to cry? Such an unseemly display on his part. He quickly whipped away the evidence, but it was no use. His tears came too quickly, and his sobs were too violent to hold back any longer. And, really, what was he trying to protect anymore? They’d striped him of his dignity when they’d decided to throw them out of the heavens and down to earth, and he’d let go of the rest when he begged them in vain not to. So what if he broke down after years and years and endless years of the only family he’d ever known abandoning him and pretending he didn’t exist at all? So what if he fell to the ground screaming, surrounded by colorful glass illuminated by an early sun, when he’d held himself together once he’d realized the humans among him had just eliminated him from their books, like a stain in midst all those other oh-so perfect gods?

Maybe, he thought, just maybe seeing him like this gave them satisfaction. They had, after all, not cared about what he had to say when they’d thrown him out of the gates and taken away the source of his power. So why would they now? And, well, that would mean at least someone would be happy today, right?

Or perhaps this made them feel guilty for what they’d done to him, for what they’d let become of him. If that was the case, well, good. They should be. He didn’t want to cary that burden alone anymore.

“Why?”, he asked after a while, when his tears weren’t dried but at least the pathetic sobs and wails of agony had stoped. He didn’t move from where he’d crumbled, not even an inch. His voice betrayed the fragile state he was in, though, and he hated the way it cracked and sounded so horse. “Do you even remember why you did this to me? Because I don’t. What did I… It’s been so long. Have you just suddenly become incapable of forgiveness or was what I did really so horrible? What did I do? Why did you do this to me? Why can’t I remember? Why? Just… Just tell me why. Please!”

But he was only meet with silence. And for some reason that made him angry. Almost as angry as he’d been right after it had happened. Blinded by rage for just a moment he stood up, took the nearest candle and threw it across the room. The impact put it out, but the yellow wax still spilled onto the stone floor that resembled home too much to take.

“I know you can hear me, damn it! You did this! At least have the decency to answer me!”, he yelled. But he knew that if they hadn’t responded to his broken plea, they surely wouldn’t respond to his angry outburst. Virgil was to anxious to confront someone in rage, Roman was too proud to admit he’d been listening in, Logan didn’t engage with “tantrum-throwers”, as he called it, Patton would disagree with the outburst too much and Remus, well, Remus wasn’t even worshiped in this chapel, so he doubted that the green god would hear him at all.

Still, he didn’t stop there.

“You know what? Fine! Be like that. See if I care. I hate you too, you know? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” With every time he said it it sounded less broken and more angry to his ears, so he repeated the sentence a few more times for good measure. Because maybe that would mean he’d believe in it at last. Because maybe the sorrow would be less present if only he was able to hate them for it. Maybe missing them wouldn’t be as bad if he could believe that he didn’t love them more than anything else after all. Maybe. But he would never actually believe those words, not really.

His eyes fixed on the spilled wax. Yellow. His color. And a sudden urge welled up inside him, a stupid urge, a Remus-ish urge to cover the entire chapel in yellow wax. He just wanted to see his color amongst theirs again. He just wanted to feel like he belonged again. He just wanted to… He wanted…

What did he even want anymore? To go back in time? To right whatever wrong had been done? To fall asleep dreaming of the old days and never wake up? Ridiculous. He’d never get any of those, it was sheer impossible. And what would he even say if they’d show up? What would he even do? Beg them to take him back? Ask for another chance they had clearly denied him multiple times before? And even if they would finally give in, what would he do then? As if they could ever move past this. As if he’d ever be able to talk to them normally if they took him back, not paranoid and scared about every move, hoping against hope to not lose them again.

No. No, it was hopeless. He didn’t want it to be, heavens, he really didn’t want it to be. But it was, wasn’t it? It was time to accept that it was over. This wasn’t just a phase. This was what they wanted. This was a forever thing.

It was that moment when two humans came in. He quickly straightened up, drying the last tears with his sleeve. Falling apart in front of the family he didn’t have anymore was one thing, but falling apart in front of humans? Never. They wouldn’t take that away from him, too.

The humans didn’t even spare him a second glance, though. Of cause not. Gods like him were hard to perceive to humans when they didn’t want you to. Of cause they didn’t notice him as he stood there, not wanting to be seen in such a state. Of cause not. Silly him.

And then something in their prayer made his heart clench painfully and his breath hitch. “The five immortal deities” Five, not six. Right. Right, there was no god of deception anymore. No god of lies, no god of self-preservation, no god of denial. He didn’t even exist anymore. That was what his family had essentially done to him, wasn’t it? Maybe not with that particular goal in mind, but surely Logan had known about the chance, Virgil thought of it as a possible outcome.

They had scratched his face and name out of their books, denying he even existed. And in doing so, they had scratched his very existence from the human’s minds and history books as well. They had taken his staff, the source of his godly powers, weakening him and leaving him with no way back on his own. They had killed him off, as good as you could kill a god, by extinguishing every memory of his existence, and they had captured him in a place where he was damned to witness his own death for all of eternity.

As tears welled up in his eyes again, he quickly turned around, hood of his black cloak pulled into his face with one of two gloved hands - because the other four had disappeared together with most of his powers as he’d been seperated from his staff - and hurried out of that damned chapel that looked too much like the damned throne room those damn gods has made that damned decision in. He suddenly only had one wish, and that was to be as far away from there as he could. He didn’t even turn around to look at the closest view he’d get to home ever again.

It was a pity he didn’t, really. If he had, perhaps he would have noticed four mirages of gods standing where he’d been yelling at them just before. Perhaps he would have even heard the hushed conversation the winds carried far away, unbeknownst to any humans:

“I hate to see him like that. I’m so sorry…”

“I know, padre. I miss him too.”

“Yes. We did, however, do everything we could. The humans do not remember him, therefor we have no means of bringing him back.”

“Emo? What…”

“I’m sorry. I guess we were just too late. See you next year, Janus.”

“I don’t believe he heard you.”

“I know.”

Taglist: @gattonero17 

I also wrote a second part to this. It’s basically everything that happened before this scene from the perspective of the others. You can find it here

[paulfwesley]

A Split Second (Part Four) [Bryce Lahela x f!MC]

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x f!MC (Dr. Claire King).

Chapter Rating: T.

Word Count: 3.3K.

Description: She might not know what her faith is, but someone reminds her how to hold on to it. TW: guns, violence, blood. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. 

Disclaimer: Characters, storyline, and parts of the dialogue are taken from Pixelberry’s Choices’ Open Heart. They fully own the characters, dialogue, backgrounds, etc. MC Claire King’s background is my own creation, based off of MC in-game’s personality.

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this took so long!! And I’m also sorry because there is one more part after this XD But that will be the last part, I promise!! This chapter took on a life of its own. Bryce isn’t in it, but it’s definitely something that I realized Claire needed in the development of this story. If you’d like to be tagged please let me know! I don’t count people liking the actual post because I don’t know if that’s you wanting to be tagged XD so be sure to comment and tell me!

Tagging: @commander-rahrah @jaydito-tjjd @anotherbeingsworld @shakespeareanwannabe @bitchloveskcbaseball @wisegirl9 @rookie-ramsey @mrsdrakewalkerblog @omgjasminesimone @frenchieswiftie @jamespotterthefirst @elladines @thanialis @lucy-268 @sherrylove @bloomingsivan @lahellacute @araihc-ce @ltimeisanillusionl 

Enjoy! 

Claire’s favourite time of the year was Christmas. She loved decorating her home, she loved watching Christmas movies, she loved giving gifts, really loved getting gifts. But despite her favourite holiday centering around the birth of the figure of the religion, she didn’t know if she could call herself a Christian. 

But that didn’t stop her from sitting in the back pew of the hospital’s multi faith room. It was a small place, roughly the size of the diagnostic team’s room, with three pews on either side of the room. She had expected for there to be a giant figure of Jesus painted in stained glass on the window, but because of the place being a multi faith room, they couldn’t. A tall podium sat at the front of the room, probably for when leaders of the faith came to speak to the people desperately seeking any kind of reprieve from the worry that plagued their every waking moment. 

Admittedly there were a lot of places Claire could have gone. The cafeteria, where she could have stress ate until Bryce’s surgery was over, but with G.S.Ws there was always the chance that complications could arise, and she wasn’t sure how much her poor stomach could handle, especially when she thought about eating anything her stomach clenched. 

She briefly considered a supply closet, but she could still remember the burning shame she felt when June found her there crying her eyes out at the news of Kyra’s relapse. It was too risky, especially because of the coming and going that arose with the need for supplies in there.

Then she thought about waiting it out in the resident lounge, but there she’d be surrounded by her friends. She’d have to talk with them, listen to them give reassurances that nothing would happen to Bryce, but Claire didn’t want to listen to empty promises. Her friends had seen her in bad states before: blood soaking her scrubs, exhaustion draining her face, the occasional stench that emitted off of her when she was so caught up in a case she forgot to shower. But she didn’t want them to see her like this: eyes bloodshot, nose red, tissue tucked into her sleeve for easy access when a rack of sobs hit her like a freight train. She just wanted to be somewhere she could shut her brain off. 

That was when her mind flashed to the multi faith room. It was always quiet in here, save for the odd sniffle or sob that came out of a person while they prayed for their husband to make it through the night, their sister to make it through her surgery, their grandfather’s diagnosis to be anything but what they feared the most. Otherwise, it was a place where people came to find some shred of peace. The silence was comfortable; it was a recognition that everyone in the small room was suffering somehow, but who found companionship with each other in the sense that they all sent their pleas to a guy sitting on a cloud in the sky. 

Tonight, though, the multi faith room was surprisingly empty. Someone had to have been in there earlier, because the collection of candles that sat on the table in front of the podium were lit, the flames of each individual candle small but creating a larger, stable symbol of hope. Each candle represented an unknown person, a life no one knew, a story untold, but every tiny wick created a sense of solidarity, the knowledge that someone was thinking of you, that this point in time, there was a place in the darkness where all hope was extinguished, but burning on as a deliberate point to prove that your life mattered, that it was being prayed for, that you were being fought for. An ember to glow with the reminder that someone wanted, needed you to stay.  

All the same, she chose the pew in the very back. She huddled against the armrest, tucking her knees under her and curling into the side as much as she could. She rested her joined hands under her head in the hopes that she would be less tempted to check the watch on her wrist and despair at how long the surgery was taking. She made Dr. Emery promise that she’d page her as soon as the surgery was over, but she didn’t know how long that would take, so Claire settled in for what could possibly be the longest night of her life. 

Her eyes hurt, her head aching with exhaustion now that all the adrenaline had flushed out of her system. She was still in the blood soaked clothes she had been in when she tried to cover Bryce’s wound, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up and change out of them. Instead she lay there, the high air conditioning blasting through her clothes and stiffening the material, chafing against her chest. Still she didn’t move. Her memories of Bryce paralyzed her. 

She relieved every single moment backwards right from the moment he had been whisked into the O.R. room all the way back to the first time she had seen him in the changing room on her first day in Edenbrook, when she had no idea who he’d become to her. Back then, he was just a meat headed jockey; someone fun to hook up with, but who Claire thought was the ‘no strings attached’ type, which was fine with her, because as each day passed she found herself more and more enamored with Ethan. But then Ethan left, and Bryce stepped up to help, and she finally started to see him in a new light. No, he wasn’t the type to buy you a drink at the bar, flirt with you just the right amount, laugh when he knew you wanted him to, knew just what to say to reel you in, and then go with you back to your place and then be gone without a word before you even woke up the next morning.

No. Bryce Lahela was the type to make terrible jokes. He talked during movies. He bought shots for his friends because he had heard they were going to compete against each other. He laughed at everything you said: your good jokes, your bad jokes, especially your terrible jokes, the ones you made because you knew only he would laugh at them. He’d bring you back to his place, lavish you, make you feel warm and loved and safe, and then the next morning he’d bring you breakfast in bed to share, even if it was just toaster waffles and he ate all of the strawberries even though you pleaded for him to spare you at least one. Bryce was safe. Bryce was loving. Bryce was home. 

And she didn’t know if he’d die not knowing how much she loved him. 

The idea twinged her chest, slowly spreading through her like a parasite, devouring all threads of hope and spitting out something that was ruined and beyond repair. She squeezed her eyes shut when she felt tears brimming, and she curled herself into a smaller ball, if that was even possible. It was as if she was hoping that the more she compressed herself, the more she’d be able to crush the pain that snaked her muscles. 

She faintly heard the doors to the chapel opening. The thought of sitting up crossed her mind, because she was technically in a place of worship and she really shouldn’t have her feet up in a pew, but then she thought that this was a place people came when they were desperate, when medicine and hopeful statistics and the comforting words of doctors weren’t enough for them. Those people who were in no place to judge how she dealt with her emotions. So she kept her eyes shut, drinking in a shuddery breath through her mouth. 

Movement in the chapel, footsteps echoing softly on the carpeted floor. The footsteps grew louder, and suddenly the seat next to her dipped with a weight of someone sitting down, the body heat of their dress pants brushing against her feet. She still kept her eyes shut, though. If someone needed her presence just to feel like they weren’t alone, so be it. 

“I’ve known you for a little over a year, yet I never knew you were religious,” the agonizingly familiar voice said and Claire’s eyes immediately snapped open. She dropped her feet to the ground and sat up, turning her head so her eyes met his soft blue ones. Ethan gave her an easy smile, the look you’d give a child to reassure them that a needle was nothing to be scared of. “You didn’t peg me for the type to be singing Christmas carols about Jesus.”

Claire sniffled, blinking heavily before finally turning to face the front. “I mean, I decorate a Christmas tree and I paint Easter eggs, but I don’t know about church every Sunday or not mixing certain types of cloth.” She tilted her head back, letting her neck rest on the back of the seat. “But when I needed a place to be by myself, to be quiet, to feel some sort of peace… this is where I ended up.”

Ethan stared at her. At the wrinkles around her eyes. The dryness of her nose that came with the repeated rubbing of tissues. The redness in her swollen cheeks. “Lahela’s still in surgery.” 

Her chest dipped. When she didn’t respond, Ethan continued. “That was the last update I could get from Harper. She’s the best. She’ll do what she can for Lahela. She--”

“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know, Ethan,” she cut in dryly. The words came out harsher than she intended. She always spoke cordially with Ethan, professionally, nicely even, considering that their split hadn’t really been… amicable. But now, tonight, she didn’t have the room to decipher the lingering tightness in her chest whenever she looked at him. Any emotions she felt tonight were for Bryce, the man she had only become certain of when she was on the verge of losing him. 

Ethan went silent. “Then what do you need?”

“Just distract me.” She turned her eyes to him without lifting her head. “How did you find me here?”

“Aurora Emery saw you in here,” he responded. “She didn’t want to disturb you, though. But when I ran into her and asked if she’d seen you, she told me.”

She wasn’t sure if she should murder Aurora or thank her. She didn’t necessarily want to see Ethan but… but even after all this time, she still associated him with comfort, especially when he wasn’t open about it, which wasn’t what she wanted. 

His leg bounced, his foot tapping against the floor. “The cops were looking for you. They wanted a statement.”

She cocked a brow. “And?”

“And I told them I didn’t know where you were,” Ethan answered. He gave her a once-over, taking in her frazzled appearance. “I figured after what happened, you wouldn’t be in the mood to really talk to anyone. Besides, Sienna had already filled us in on what had happened, but they wanted an eyewitness report.”

The corner of her lips turned up slightly. “Thanks for that.”

“I know this is probably a stupid question,” he started. “But are you okay?”

“Someone pointed a gun in my face today,” she hummed. She lifted her head and gave Ethan an incredulous look. “Would you be okay?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’m honestly surprised you’re as calm as you are.”

The anger she thought she had suppressed, that she hadn’t felt in months, flashed through her. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”

“Right,” he acknowledged, the word lingering in the awkward air she had created. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her arms over her chest, sinking back into the weathered cushion while ignoring the discomfort of the wooden top. 

After a few more silent seconds, Ethan finally said, “So… Lahela, huh?”

She didn’t even bother opening her eyes. A snort escaped her lips before she could stop it. “It’s a little late to play the jealous ex, don’t you think?” 

“No, I know,” Ethan quickly backtracked, his tone filled with alarm, but with a forlorn undertone that Claire only recognized because she was well versed in the language of Ethan Ramsey. “I just meant… he’s a good guy, if you had to pick someone.”

Claire couldn’t help but wonder if Ethan was trying to imply that he wasn’t a good guy, but she didn’t have the strength or energy to launch into that discussion. Instead, she said, “He is a good guy. The best, really. It just took me a while to see it.” Her shoulders deflated. “Too long, if I’m going to be honest.”

“I’m no stranger to feeling like you’ve waited too long,” Ethan said quietly. The words cut through Claire, though only deep enough to leave a superficial wound. “But I’m sure Lahela knows how you feel.”

“He doesn’t,” she retorted. She opened her eyes to see Ethan staring at her, confusion raising his brows. Claire pushed herself up so she sat properly. “He thought all he was to me was just a rebound. But he’s not. He’s everything to me. He makes me happy, feel warm, feel safe…” To her horror tears blurred her vision. She didn’t want to be the type of person that cried to her ex about her current boyfriend (though Claire wasn’t even sure that was who Bryce was to her) but here she was. Yet instead of making her feel awkward, Ethan just waited patiently, his face neutral, his eyes betraying none of the emotions she wondered he felt hearing her talk about someone else to him. He dipped his chin for her to continue, and encouraged, she did. She bit her lip to keep it from wobbling and sobbed, “But I couldn’t do the same for him. He got shot because of me.” 

Ethan put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Rookie, pull yourself together.”

That nickname. One she hadn’t heard since her final day as an intern, when he had accidentally let it slip before correcting himself with the reminder that she was no longer an intern. It was a nickname she had loathed when he gave it to her; it made her feel impossibly small and feeling like she had to live up to it. But over time she began to associate the challenge that came with the word rookie, the drive that made her want to work harder, the validation when she realized that at some point, the word had turned from a nickname that Ethan had given her because he hadn’t known her name to a name that she had built a positive reputation around. Claire King: the Rookie of the intern year of 2019. The best of the best, the woman who refused to let herself be broken. And now, with Ethan using it just now, those feelings came rushing back to her. 

She straightened her back and instinctively raised her chin, like she was poised to report a diagnosis or defend her actions. Ethan gave her an approving smile. “Bryce didn’t get shot because of you. If he did, it was because he loved you, and he would rather it be him in pain than you.”

“But I didn’t ask him to do that!” Claire sobbed, unable to contain the despair slugging through her veins. 

“You didn’t have to,” he pointed out. “The moment Bryce had seen that gun pointing at you, he had made up his mind.”

She gave him a look. “And how do you know that?” 

“Because if it were me, I would have made the same decision,” he revealed, 

The tension was so thick in the air around them it could have been cut clean through with a knife. “Ethan…” she breathed.

“I know,” he said, whispered. The words were so simple. Short, one syllable each. Yet they were heavy, wistful, filled with the joyous memories of a life that had been, haunted by the possibilities of a future that might have been. If she wasn’t Claire King, junior fellow on the diagnostic’s team. If he wasn’t Ethan Ramsey, the country’s best diagnostician, and the leader of the diagnostic’s team. It was a truth that went unsaid, the mournful melodies hidden by the words of a promising love song. Their love was one that was fleeting, never meant to thrive, never meant to see the light of day, never meant to go beyond the secret wishes that things were different. 

She darted her gaze away from him, focusing on the stain on the patch of carpet that she was praying was coffee. Ethan cleared his throat. “You can’t blame yourself for Bryce’s choices, or even for the gunman’s choices. All you can do is have faith that Harper is amazing at her job and that Lahela is strong enough to make it through the other side.”

She chuckled humourlessly, giving the empty space around her a long look. “Ethan Ramsey, I had no idea you were such a poet.”

Ethan snorted, and that launched the both of them into a fit of laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks and clutching their aching sides. They would finally sober up, but then one of them would break again, and then that would make them lose it again. 

The door to the chapels opened, and a short old lady took one step in and turned to find the source of laughter. When her disapproving gaze landed on Ethan and Claire, they both stopped laughing. Instead of stepping inside, the woman clicked her tongue in disbelief and shook her head in disgust before stepping out. Ethan and Claire looked at each other again before dissolving into another round of laughter. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Claire’s laughs ceased. She wiped at the corner of her eyes. “Thank you, Ethan,” she said. “I needed that.”

“Hey, I’m a doctor,” he offered, a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “It’s my job to make people feel better.”

A smile graced her face, while the ghost of one tugged on Ethan’s lips. It was a gesture of understanding between two people who had loved and lost, and who recognized that while ending things had been the right decision, they would always need each other in their lives. It was in that moment that Claire realized that she and Ethan had needed each other, but were never meant to end up together. In Ethan, Claire had found a mentor, someone who understood her passion and who recognized her talent, who could push her to be the best she could be. In Claire, Ethan had found someone he had been wandering for years without-- a true friend. Someone who listened without judgment, who offered solutions, who reminded you of what mattered in life, someone who was just there when they needed you to be. 

And in Bryce, Claire thought, she had found a true partner. In Bryce, she had found the person she was meant to end up with, who would swing their joined hands obnoxiously while they walked down the street while she apologized to passerbys but who did it because it brought a smile to her face. In Bryce, she found someone she knew she could count on to never run away. In Bryce, she had found her soulmate. 

Her pager buzzed. The vibration froze her, rendering her unable to move. With an encouraging nod from Ethan, Claire sucked in a steadying breath. She was ready. 

She pulled her pager out of her pocket. Looked down at the words that, regardless of what they were, would change her life forever. 

He made it.

[speedygal]

Cope

A/N this deals with the aftermath of January 6th, 2021. If you do not want to read anything regarding those events, please skip this post.

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

“Mr Harker, you said that your friend would be here, yes?”

“I did.” Jonathan replied.

“Where is he?”

Jonathan weighed his reply, the count had been silent, too silent, apart from unexpected weeping in the basement.

“Hmm, he isn’t in a very good mood right now.” Jonathan replied. “Perhaps in the morning.”

“I look forward to meeting him.”

“So do I.” Jonathan said with a nod.

Jonathan closed the door to the bedroom their guest was in with a smile then turned away. His current guest was the person that he decided would make a great meal after having escaped the hands of justice with a very talented lawyer that got under his skin.

It was more than satisfying knowing day by day the criminal was going to die and not be able to do a thing about it because his house was current unable to house him. Jonathan turned away from the door reflecting over the demise that he had planned out for the one who almost got away when he arrived to the diner room and spotted a familiar figure seated in a chair in front of the fire place

There was a empty glass -- stained lightly by left over blood on the rims -- on the table alongside the chair. The count was facing the direction of the fire place thinking something over with his painting hanging from across him on the wall of better times and the mood in the room was different compared to how it had been for the last several weeks since the count’s strange behavior started. Jonathan looked at the count with great concern as the fire cackled then approached the chair.

"Count Dracula, you haven't been drinking for twenty-two days."

Jonathan had a hand on the arm rest of the chair that Dracula was seated in. 

"I am happy to see that you have stopped wailing in the basement at ungodly hours.  . . but this silence is bothering me."

The count made his reply.

"Jonathan, please be seated over there."

Dracula's voice was hoarse, his once black hair was white even with a mess of long curls that were thick resting on his shoulders not even set up in the same hairdress that Dracula had welcomed him into his life century ago, and looked as though he were in a period of mourning dressed from black from top to bottom with little display of colorful clothing that Jonathan had known the older vampire for.

"Twenty-two days ago there was a event in America. It was all over national television. Couldn't look away from it. That was the only thing on social media. The only thing."

Jonathan searched his memory.

"I have been busy on several court cases."

"Thankfully. You recall that I had been knocking on wood all day on the fifth."

"Yes."

"Well, the results came in right at the same time as that event occurred."

"What is this event?"

"I can't speak of it."

"It is bothering you."

"My dear Jonathan, the man we shall not speak of in this castle or outside of this castle for the remainder of our lives incited a insurrection against Democracy when his Vice President who enabled him for four long years said no to him."

"He said no?" Jonathan asked, surprised.

Dracula nodded.

"To overturning the election, as did his DOJ, his CIA, but the Republicans were willing to."

"You're joking."

"He told his army that he loved him, told them that they were very special people, and to go home."

Johnathan's jaw slightly fell.

"He did not send in the national guard."

If Jonathan could puke, he would have.

"His people in the pentagon refused the DC capitol police's requests for help."

Jonathan was silenced.

"One man saved democracy that night; Eugene Goodman, a black man, used the color of his skin to draw the mad mob seeking for blood away from the senate chamber into the waiting arms of his companions and the door was closed after they were drawn away."

Dracula sighed.

"The Republican Party did not ask for who shall not be named resignation, begin impeachment proceedings, ask for the 25th amendment to be invoked; instead, they asked for the white house staff to remain just for one night."

he held up a finger.

"One more night.” He lowered his finger, slowly. “And we all know what one more night leads to.” the count shook his head. “Just one more day and they're through just one more day and they're through just one more day and they're through--” he picked up the glass then smashed it to the ground with a loud clash. -”AND HE GETS AWAY WITH IT. ONE LAST TIME!"

Dracula got up to his feet then approached the window with a grip on his golden walking stick then paused in front of it as he were paused with rage.

"The Republican Party has been stabbed in the chest and died, grizzly, in the eyes of the very public with common sense."

The count lowered his head.

"It's a terrorist party. The values it once represented is no more." Dracula's features darkened, solemnly. "Instead, it accepts Trumpisim.”

Dracula paced back and forth, slowly, but elegantly.

”It has become emboldened by it after nothing was done and only four hundred some people are being investigated.” Dracula’s shoulders loosened with both of his hands guided on his stick. “You understand how this encourages domestic terrorists to come out of the shadows and show themselves."

Jonathan nodded in understanding.

"So I take it that your rocket didn't launch.” Jonathan noted, earning Dracula’s attention and the visible once prominent eyebrows raising. “You would be in a far better mood to be seen in the way for your continued existence having proved it can fly and land.”

A tiny smirk grew on Dracula’s face looking upon Jonathan but became tinged by fact.

"I think it is not launching any time this month.” Dracula’s voice fell even softer as his words came out softer and kinder losing the volume that he had spoken about the subject. “The FAA is a dinosaur and it were fighting with that very passionate space oriented man to get it to launch today.”

Jonathan combed the back of his head.

"I find it hard to believe that a vampire would be bothered by this."

"Mr Harker, America is that little dog that randomly appears in your life that you kick away and it keeps nipping at you until one day, it doesn't and it concerns you instead of delights you."

"It's always been there and always will be there." Jonathan said, cutting Dracula off.

Jonathan didn't want to hear what he thought what the count was going to say and if he said what Jonathan felt that he were going to say, it was going to be surreal having it not there for the first time in his century long existence.

"Two months ago, I would have agreed with you."

"I have faith in the American people in that." Dracula was quiet listening to the younger vampire. "They elected a woman and a man into the White House.”

Dracula nodded in agreement before replying.

"This time, it has been infested and goes over to a tree and slowly dies by the inside without any help."

Dracula's voice grew sadder.

"I thought it were set to die over the course of my lifetime while sailing the ocean of time for Elisabeta. Civilizations come and go, but this one wants to stay and get rid of the waste that tried to kill it. "

The comment brought certain relief for Jonathan regarding America. 

"It appears history must repeat itself in the way that the Federalist Party had after proposing a New England Confederacy within the United States."

"After the Hartford convention, they were no more just as the Republican Party after the DC insurrection. Imagine, Jonathan, watching your party die before your eyes and having to leave it because it is a party of treason.”

“I can imagine." Jonathan said. "Mine didn’t die, it just evolved. I can try but I can't imagine it happening."

Dracula had a small nod in response,

"And the Republican Party is quickly heading toward the state of being dissolved and replaced by yet another party, The Patriot Party, The New Patriot party The Trump Conservative party, or . . . .” the count turned to face the younger vampire. “if we're lucky it could just be the Independents."

“And what about Georgia?” Jonathan asked.

Dracula sat back down into the chair then poured a glass for himself and sipped from it. 

“Oh, we won that.” Dracula replied.

Jonathan raised his brows.

“We?” Jonathan asked. “What party are you part of?”

Dracula laughed then looked inside the bottle and frowned, disappointed, then shifted his attention toward Jonathan.

“I call myself one of the good guys as not posing a insurrection.”

“You would have it as a revolution,”

“With the American Vampires.”

“And gotten them all killed.”

Dracula had a short laugh, his cup held between two fingers by the lower handle, his blue eyes on him.

“We can debate about some other time.”

Jonathan nodded in agreement.

“Speaking of tomorrow, I brought over fast food.” Jonathan straightened up in his chair. “You look very thirsty.” Dracula gazed over toward Jonathan. “One day express, he’s a anti-vaxxer and doesn’t have anything on his schedule.”

“Sounds delicious, how thoughtful of you.”

“You will feel better.” Jonathan patted on Dracula’s forearm.

“Is my meal drunk?” Dracula asked.

Jonathan at first seemed surprised then it faded observing the curiosity on Dracula’s face.

“Very drunk."

Dracula smiled then with his free hand held his fingers beneath Jonathan’s chin.

“You just know how to please me, my dear companion.”

Dracula got up to his feet with a smile then went up the stairs with the walking stick as his support. Jonathan went over to the table then looked beneath it and slid out a additional bottle and grinned, “At least, he didn’t find this blood bottle.” then went over to the fire pit, took out his own glass, and poured some blood into the cup as the door to the soon to be victim opened.

Dracula was incredibly thirsty as he approached the bed then carefully closed the door behind him. He set his walking stick alongside the edge of the frame, bore his fangs, then carefully bit into the side of the victim’s neck and drank from him measuring how much blood were sucked out for his thirst. He withdrew from the victim and licked some blood off with some youth returning to his features and his hair regaining some color. Dracula departed, well again.

[hiro-gari]

[Part 1] If you like emotional idea for oneshot, I have one about Wings AU for Metal Bat: What if blackened feathers on the wings representing bottled-up emotions? Despite his hot-headed and outspoken personality, Badd still has alot of black feathers on his white wings because of the burden as a hero, a big brother, and a single guardian for Zenko, especially after the death of their parents. Garou on the opposite has none of it because he let his emotions out and has kinda 'idgaf' personality.

[Part 2] After they're together and getting comfortable with eachother, Badd's wings little-by-little become pure white again like him in the past as he slowly but surely opened up about himself to Garou.. 💖 You can make it as emotional as possible, hurt/comfort is OK too! 😉👌✨ I apologized if it's not so good and for making it Batarou-hinted again I'm so sorry 😅💦 Thank you for always listening to my random asks, hope you have lots of good days in new year! 😊👍💕💖💝🌸🌻

I’m soso sorry I have no excuse for taking so long to write this 😅 I hope it is worth the wait

Understandings

Garou/Metal Bat Wings! AU oneshot

Hurt/comfort, angst to fluff, violence, death mentions

Badd’s eyes snapped open as the hush of the train was interrupted by a voice resounding from the intercom, declaring their upcoming stop.

Gazing out the window, he barely caught sight of a decorative sign as it flashed by-

WELCOME TO K CITY

The other passengers started to stir as well, some glancing in his direction. A young boy stared at him fixedly. Badd tried to smile genuinely and gave him a small wave. The kid’s eyes widened and he nudged the woman in the seat beside him and pointed towards Badd. She turned in his direction, her brow furrowing when she caught sight of him.

He slowly slumped further into his seat and looked back out the window, regretting his decision to take public transit.

The Hero Association had not-so-subtly requested that heroes “refrain from excessive public interaction unrelated to your heroic duties” in the weeks following the defeat of the Monster Association. Though they were victorious, the media was still a storm of mixed views on the integrity and commitment of heroes after the blow they had been dealt. 

Badd rubbed his temple absently, trying to ignore the ache in his head that had been spreading since morning. Months ago, I’d have assumed that kid was a fan, probably would’ve offered to pose for a photo... He clicked on his phone to make himself look busy and stared at his lockscreen. It was an old picture of a much younger Zenko beaming, her ivory wings spread wide with glee as she cradled a scraggly tabby.

His phone screen went black again, and he sighed defeatedly at the sight of his own dejected reflection. The train slowed to a halt as it pulled into the station, and one by one everyone filed into the aisle. He tried not to notice the pure white wings on the backs of the passengers lined up in front of him as they walked out into the city.

Doesn’t mean shit. Anyone can go to a cosmetics store and get those white dyes. Even still, he glanced over his shoulder, anxiously checking to be sure he had every inch of jet black covered.

Nearly a year ago, the first gray patches had appeared.

Though the initial blow of his parents death was unbearable, he forced himself to find the strength to smile, excel at his hero duties, and maintain his cocky attitude.

But as the months went by, it seemed the more effort he gave into being a hero and a caretaker for Zenko, the more the dark stains would spread.

His phone chimed, and he pulled it from his pocket, slinging his bat over his shoulder casually. He froze as Zenko’s name above the all caps message sent a flash of anxiety through him, but it was quickly washed away by the picture she had attached. It was a rather blurred selfie, but she was smiling, posing with a slick brown creature pawing the glass behind her.

OTTERS ARE SO CUTE! I WANT ONE! she wrote.

Of course. Her class had taken a trip to the zoo for the day, and he’d seen her off with them before departing on his own. Badd had wanted to accompany her as a chaperone, but previous experience had taught him that his old school teachers had never quite forgiven him for being such a problematic student. He continued on, making his way in the direction of the dense forest, which framed the city’s entire eastern edge. The buildings and streets ended abruptly as he reached a wooden arch. The faded gray letters etched into the timber read

K CITY NATURE PARK

Beyond it was a stony path, forking in one direction toward an open area dotted with benches and gazebos, the other leading to a formidable wooden staircase. The top was barely visible from where Badd stood, and the wood creaked as he took the first step. He twirled his bat absently as he ascended, taking in the sounds and the overwhelming green that was notably absent for miles surrounding his home. When was the last time I’ve been to a place like this? Maybe I should bring Zenko sometime... The smell brought memories buried deep in his mind to the surface. He recalled how he’d raced up and down the steps, showing off for his parents as they made the climb with him.

“I don’t care about the way it looks! But keeping all those bad feelings hidden away, it’ll wear you down, big bro...”

Even though he tried to never let Zenko see his current state, it was impossible to completely keep it from her. He hated the idea of covering his wings, but her concern about him had become unbearably overwhelming. He just needed more time to fix things...

He turned back toward the path, which lead into an aged stone temple on the shore of a shimmering lake.

Badd was so overcome by the nostalgia of the view, he nearly overlooked the crouched figure on the roof, completely still, save for the ruffling of his feathers in the gaining wind.

He was crouched low, his snowy wings half unfolded defensively. 

His golden eyes narrowed as Badd instinctively gripped his bat in both hands, twisting his face in anger. The man rose slowly, never taking his eyes off him, and stepped over the ledge. His outstretched wings caught the wind and he landed silently.

The sound of the first, sparse droplets of rain hitting stone filled the stillness between them.

“You…” Badd growled through gritted teeth

“Metal Bat…”

His scowl gave way to a slight smirk, and he closed the distance between them in one fluid movement. He stopped just short of Badd’s reach, unflinching as Badd raised his bat menacingly.

“You look like shit.”

“Garou!” Badd yelled as he unleashed a fury of blows, hitting only raindrops as his opponent nimbly evaded each strike.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Badd hissed, reeling as Garou leapt behind him.

“You’re supposed to be back in that cesspool you patrol,” He lunged, catching the full force of Badd’s swing in his hand, stopping it midair. “I’ll do whatever I like.” Badd lost his footing as Garou effectively disarmed him. He was sent crashing to the ground before he could recover.

The sky seemed to open at once, releasing an unrelenting torrent of rain. Badd lifted himself, brushing aside the dark strands of hair that clung to his face, squinting through the storm. Garou’s taunting grin had vanished, replaced with a look of disbelief.

“Where’s that Fightin’ Spirit you got?” Garou tossed the bat aside with a clang. He arched a brow as he stepped closer, nearly towering over Badd. “What the hell is wrong with you,” he said darkly, lowering himself until his face was mere inches away from Badd’s.

“Damn you,” Badd cursed, pushing him back to an arm’s length. He unfolded his wet, heavy wings slowly. The downpour had washed away the white he’d covered them with, revealing the dense, black feathers that threatened to overtake him entirely. “Can't you see?”

Without hesitation, Garou half dragged him across the muddy pathway. He roughly shoved him into the dimly lit temple, staying forebodingly quiet. Badd thudded up against the dry stone wall, visibly shaking with chills. Even as his sight adjusted, Garou was hardly recognizable as he practically blended into the shadows of the temple. His eyes seemed to glow as he gave him an accusatory stare.

“You’re a hell of a mess.”

“No shit.”

Garou only scoffed in response.

“Shut up,” Badd said as he hung his head, his disheveled hair hanging low over his face, “you’re the last person I would want to see me like this.”

“But I do see. I see people like this every damn day, but never someone like you.” He paused, but Badd gave no reply.

Someone like me? he questioned silently.

“‘Spose that’s why you’re hiding it then…”

“Damn right that’s why,” Badd glared up at him, “Not ‘cause I give a shit what people think. Because a hero’s gotta be more than just physically strong. I’ve gotta be unwavering, someone that people can believe in…” Badd’s words trailed off quietly.

“God, you’re spouting nonsense too.” Despite his harsh words, the usual malice in his tone had faded. Garou took a step closer, but kept his distance. “Clearly you do give a shit what people think then-”

“I’m just doing what I have to!” Badd shouted over him, “So that I can be Metal Bat. So that I can be a hero Zenko can look up to, and someone who would’ve made my parents proud-”

“It’s killing you.” Garou’s flat tone echoed in the hollow room. Outside, the wind rose to a howling rage.

Badd stared dumbfounded, unable to muster the wit to reply.

“I don’t care what kinda hero you’re trying to be, you’re all the same to me. But if you keep goin’ the way you are, the only hero you’ll be is a dead one. You can’t save anyone if you can’t save yourself.” Badd flinched as Garou crouched in front of him, casually touching his forehead with the back of his hand in an unexpectedly gentle way.

He made a soft tch, hinted with disapproval, and seated himself squarely across from Badd.

“You’re feverish, and you sure as hell didn’t come ready to fight, so why are you here?”

“I thought… It would make me happy,” Badd mumbled, almost incoherently as his eyelids flickered.

“Oi!” Garou caught Badd by the shoulders as he slumped forward. “You don’t get to tap out now!”

Badd gave him a weak grin.

“Like hell I would.”

——————————

Badd came to slowly, blinking in confusion as he woke to a room he didn’t recognize.

An orange hue shone across the bare, white walls, emitting from the single window opposite of where he laid. He was sprawled out on a faded, woven couch, which appeared to be the sole piece of furniture in the empty room.

How the hell’d I get here?

He jerked toward the sound of a doorknob turning, followed by the screech of old door hinges. Garou appeared, pulling back his hood as he entered, disheveling his silvery hair in the process. His face tightened as Badd sat himself upright cautiously.

“You?” 

Garou paused in the middle of removing his jacket, making eye contact briefly before quickly averting his gaze.

“‘Bout time you woke up.” He hung his jacket on the doorknob casually.

Badd glanced around the tiny apartment, realization finally hitting him.

“You… you’ve been living here this whole time?”

“Didn't realize you were lookin’ for me. Figured all  you heroes wanted me gone just as much as I wanted to get away from you.”

“I wasn’t looking for you! And don’t lump me in with everyone else like that.”

“Sorry.” The apology in Garou’s voice sounded irritatingly sincere to Badd. He was studying a loose white feather a little too intently, twisting it between his fingers. “Guess your fever broke overnight then, you should just go-”

“Overnight?!”

Badd reached for his phone in a panic, leaping to his feet. Two alerts appeared as he clicked it on, frowning at the newly cracked screen,

43 missed calls

128 text messages

“Fuck,” Badd hissed.

Garou gave him a slight, toothy grin, amused at his flustered reaction. 

“Duty calls?”

“Shut up,” Badd hastily found his shoes beside the couch, “I was never here, got it?” He added sternly.

“Fine with me…” Badd noted the hint of distraction in his voice.

Garou’s gaze followed him closely as he crossed the room. His eyes widened slightly, as though fascinated.

Badd paused momentarily in the doorway, glancing backwards as if he was going to say something. Ultimately, he gave only a small wave before stepping out into the crisp air, leaving the door ajar in his haste.

Garou, without responding, watched Badd go. He stared in wonder at the receding, slate gray feathers that had replaced the jet black pattern marring his white wings.

After sitting in contemplative silence for a time, he turned and reached out to close the door. A bright flash of sunlight on metal caught his eye.

Leaning against the side of the building was Metal Bat’s signature, bright silver bat that he’d gone to retrieve that morning.

Garou smiled to himself.

“See you again soon, Badd.”

[lobster-tales]

Falling Back in Love With You

Chapter 3 Summary:  Link and Mipha travel to Rito House, intending to pick up their representative from the archery club. Revali, however, proves to be a problem.

This work is available here on AO3. Chapter 1  Chapter 2 

Link switched on the radio, not to disrupt the comfortable silence between Mipha and him, but to enhance it. Rhoam always left a blues album in the CD player. The van rolled past empty halls and dormitories, vacant fields and courts. Very few students stayed at the university through the weekend.

When they reached the edge of campus, Mipha asked, “Did you have fun last night?”

Link shrugged, casting her a clueless look.

“You don’t know?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t remember?”

He shook his head.

Concern entered Mipha’s voice. “I didn’t realize you drank that much… Do you even remember when I was there?”

Link pinched his fingers together, a small gap between.

“How much? Do you remember that game we played? With the cards?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember…” She let out a slight chuckle. “When we got the card where everyone has to drink while holding hands?”

Link smiled to himself, recalling the group’s laughter, someone spilling soda on their shirt.

“And… After everyone else put their hands down, you still held my hand?”

His blood froze. Link kept his eyes forward, tracing the details in his mind. He hoped to find something else, something easier to explain. Now that she mentioned it, though, he did remember. Mipha’s hands were small and cold, and he was warm from the punch.

She sensed the change and bit back her disappointment. Mipha gazed out the window instead, watching the neighborhood pass by. The van turned into Rito Street, and she knew she was running out of private time.

“I know… I’m not sure…” Mipha tried to put her feelings into words. “I just wanted you to know that I… I liked it. I liked holding your hand. Whatever it meant, or even if it meant nothing at all.”

Link tried not to react, but he knew his uncertainty was on full display.

Mipha steeled herself. “I guess… if it’s not too much, I wanted to ask you something?”

His curiosity got the better of him, and Link glanced her way.

“I’ve… wanted to ask you for a while now.”

The navigation app beeped on Link’s phone, alerting that they were at their destination. He pulled alongside a blue house, putting the van in park. The action startled Mipha.

“Oh, we’re here.” She straightened in her seat, reminded of the task at hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up now. I’ll wait until after the budget proposal.” Her thin red lips pulled into a smile. “Come on; let’s go find Revali.”

A broad-shouldered man perched on the front step of the blue house. His intimidating presence was offset by the accordion in his hands, his bright blue mohawk, and the easy look he gave the two of them. “Hey Link, hey Mipha,” he said, the instrument sighing between his fingers.

Before Link could wonder if this was Revali, Mipha said, “Good morning, Kass. How was your show last night?”

“It was great, thanks for asking. Blew the roof off of ole Rito House.” He indicated the blue building behind him.

Link felt memories flicker. He remembered how the building’s facade looked at night. The front door was opened only for performers, while the rest of the crowd gathered in the backyard.

Kass’s heavy eyeliner crinkled as he smiled. “What can I do for you?”.

“We’re looking for Revali,” Mipha said. “It’s a sports club thing.”

“On a Saturday?” Kass lifted his chin towards Link. “Aren’t you hungover?”

Link nodded bashfully, then pointed his index and middle fingers forward. He pivoted them up and down towards Kass.

“And you’re in a rush?” Kass shook his head. “What a day. Well, come on. I doubt he’s awake. Hang out while I check his room.”

Footprints from the night before were still visible on the ancient wooden floor, tacky where drinks had spilled. Link’s gaze traveled over the furniture, decorated by stains and red plastic cups.

“He’s not in his bed,” Kass said, reappearing at a hallway’s entrance.

“What?” Mipha asked, frowning. “Like he’s not here?”

“Well, not in the house,” said Kass, unbothered. He made for the back door, waving them through.

The backyard was similarly dirty. In one corner of the yard, an abandoned workshed sat with rusty tools inside. The other corner held an unused child’s playset, the wood just beginning to rot. The structure had a plastic yellow slide, two low swings, and a ladder that led to the covered platform in the center. Inside the playset, a body slept soundly, obscured from view by a pile of blankets.

“There he is!” Kass was the first to step forward, clearing his throat. “Revali?” He took hold of one of Revali’s legs, sticking out over the edge of the wood.

Like a snail, Revali withdrew the limb, curling into the fetal position as he growled, “Go away.”

Kass shook his head fondly. “Your friends are here to pick you up.”

Mipha asked, “Did you get Zelda’s texts?”

“Her what?” he grumbled, still hidden from view.

“We have to go to the school.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

“Yes, I know,” Mipha said patiently. “But Ganon changed the meeting. We have to go today.”

Revali rolled over to face them, his dramatic eyebrows and angular nose visible beneath the blanket. “And that’s my problem?”

At the sight of Revali’s features, memories flooded back to Link.

Link and Zelda joined the throng of students in the backyard of Rito House. They lingered on the outskirts of the group, apprehensive. Link’s mind was still fuzzy from the punch at the lifeguard apartment, and Zelda felt out of her comfort zone amongst the partygoers. A few people waved and some even approached her to talk. Link discovered that several were in the student council under Zelda’s leadership, and others knew her from classes or from the sports clubs.

“Princess, welcome!”

Zelda winced and turned to face a student wearing a light blue scarf, his navy hair wind blown on top and gathered into short braids at the nape of his neck. “Please don’t call me that, Revali,” she said.

Revali cocked an eyebrow. “My apologies, but you are the student council president, not to mention the daughter of the dean, therefore-”

“Ex-dean,” Zelda corrected sharply, her fists clenching.

Sensing he had gone too far, Revali backed off. “Very well, then I shall stick to ‘my lady’.” His green eyes settled on Link, mouth curling. “And I see you brought your bodyguard.”

“Link is my friend,” Zelda said. “You remember him from the fencing club?”

“Of course,” Revali said, circling them with one hand on his chin. “You know, some would argue that fencers are the natural rivals of archers such as myself.”

“What?” Zelda asked, exasperated. “Who would argue that?”

“Like I said, my lady,” Revali took his place in front of them, peering over his shoulder. He lifted his arms to each side, showing off his muscles beneath his sleeveless turtleneck. “Some.”

Zelda rolled her eyes. “We’re all part of the sports club program, Revali. None of us are rivals.”

“Indeed,” he sighed. “However, it’s no secret that anyone can swing a little sword around. But it takes true skill and precision to fire an arrow, to pierce a target directly in the center.”

Link huffed, insulted by Revali’s coarse description of fencing. Zelda saw his expression change and said, “Fencing takes skill and precision too.”

“Oh please,” Revali scoffed. “Fencing is a brutish and violent sport. All of their members just want an excuse to beat on each other with weapons for hours at a time.” He raised his head high. “But archery is only for those with a refined taste, my lady. In fact, I wouldn’t debase it so much as to call it a sport; it’s more of an art.” He smirked at Zelda. “You know, my lady, we could use an elegant palette such as yours among our ranks.”

Zelda’s annoyance melted away, and she smirked at Revali. “Actually, I’m already a member of a club.”

Revali froze, looking between the two of them. “Oh? Perhaps volleyball, with Lady Urbosa?”

“Nope.” Zelda crossed her arms, triumphant. “Something more brutish and violent.”

Link stifled a laugh, but Revali was unamused. He pursed his lips, bowing his head in surrender. “Well perhaps… not every fencer is…”

A voice interrupted from the back porch, saving Revali from further embarrassment. “Kass is on in five!”

Zelda took Link’s hand and led him towards the back door, calling back to Revali, “See you after the show!”

They entered the crowded living room, one side of which had been cleared out to make space for the stage. Once they had picked a spot along the wall, Zelda collapsed into giggles. “Oh, that was priceless! What a-” She stopped, and found more tactful words. “I mean… Don’t get me wrong, he can be cool, but he’s just so... eccentric.”

Link grinned. He knew her well enough to understand her real meaning, and he agreed. Zelda stifled another laugh and said, “I’m going to find a restroom. Wait here for me?”

He nodded, and she disappeared into the crowd. Link stood alone against the edge of the room, watching Kass tune his accordion through the wall of bodies.

A voice hissed in Link’s ear. “You think you’re so clever, swordsman.”

Link jolted and met Revali’s piercing gaze. The archer narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you strut about, acting like you’re better than me. You may have Lady Zelda fooled, but I see right through you.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “So, what do you say we settle this? Once and for all? I have a bottle of rum in the cabinet; I can secure us some shot glasses from the house owners.” Revali stuck out his hand. “How about it, swordsman? Do you accept my challenge?”

Link paused. He had never competed in a drinking contest before, and was unsure of how much alcohol he could handle. The other, and perhaps the most pressing concern, was how Zelda would react once she found out.

Revali sneered at his indecision. “Ah, so you are a coward. I figured as much.”

Then again, Revali had relentlessly insulted his passion, and Link found that he couldn’t turn down an opportunity to put him in his place. Just as Kass began the first song, Link grasped Revali’s hand.

“Yes, Revali, because it affects your club,” Mipha said.

Link blinked back the thoughts, focusing on their exchange.

“Just like it affects the fencing club,” she said, indicating Link. “And the swimming club,” she pointed to herself. “And all of us. If Zelda doesn’t have any sport club members there, then the budget proposal gets rejected. That means no new bows, arrows, gear, anything. The practice gyms-”

“The archery club doesn’t use the practice gyms,” Revali scoffed. “We have to go off campus. Our gear still works, and if anyone wants something new, they can buy it themselves.”

Mipha’s mouth curled into a rare sneer. “Revali, this is important. Just come with us.”

“Nope.” Revali rolled over once more, pulling the blanket tight around his body.

Link, Mipha, and Kass exchanged glances. Kass shrugged helplessly. “Maybe you can ask someone from a different club?”

“On such short notice?” Mipha’s shoulders lowered in defeat, and she pulled out her cellphone. “I could ask my friend from the sailing club… If she left now, then maybe she’d make it on time.”

Time. Link removed his own phone to check. 11:20.

Whoa. How did that happen? He glanced at Mipha, who was still scrolling through her contacts. We don’t have time for this.

Link examined the playset. He nudged Kass, pointing to the slide. A grin spread across Kass’s features and he nodded in approval. He moved into position as Link climbed onto the playset, standing over Revali.

Still wrapped in blankets, Revali glared up at Link. “What do you think you’re- Aahh!”

Link shoved Revali’s body through the opening that led to the slide. Unable to stop his descent, Revali fell into Kass’s arms. Kass hoisted him over his shoulder, shooting Link a thumbs up with his free hand.

Revali protested loudly and without dignity. Kass hauled him through the fence gate, then tossed him into the backseat of the van. Suppressing a chuckle, Kass winked at Link and Mipha. “Just bring him back here when you’re done. My kids are at a sleepover, so I’ll still be around.” He moved back to his position on the front porch step, picking up his accordion once more as he called, “Oh, and good luck!”

[coffecatsandbooks]

Die From A Broken Heart

In which Peter wonders if he’ll die from a broken heart and his Dad’s are there to help him get through it.

Warnings: Just a heart break.

Based off the song Die From A Broken Heart by Maddie & Tae

-

Hey mama how do you get a red wine stain out of your favorite dress? Black mascara off a pillow case, cure a one too many headache? Mama can I come and maybe stay a few days this weekend or next? And hey, how do you get a red wine stain out of your favorite dress?

Peter didn’t know how he’d ended up at the Tower with tears already threatening to spill. He knew his Dad and Pops would welcome him with open arms, but he was scared that if they did so, he would crack. Peter didn’t understand how it all happened. It was so fast, one minute they were just fine and the next they weren’t and Peter couldn’t pinpoint when it all actually went to shit. Maybe when they’d argued in the car over classes being missed or when he started to come home to the stench of alcohol. He didn’t get what had changed.

Whatever it was, it had a good grip on Wade, because now they were through. Oh God, they were through. Four years wasted. Peter’s heart felt as though it’d been stabbed and someone was twisting the blade to make it all the more painful.

“Are you okay Peter?” FRIDAY’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“What?” Peter didn’t even know he’d gotten into the elevator. His body felt as though it was on autopilot. “Yeah Fri, I’m okay. Just- I really want to talk to my Dad.” His voice cracked a bit and he swallowed back tears.

“He’s in the Penthouse Livingroom Peter, with your Pops. They are watching TV. Would you like me to announce that you are coming?” The AI system asked as the elevator slowly made it’s way up to the penthouse he called home. The Avengers Tower was his home. That made his lips curl up a bit. He was in one of the safest places on earth, no one would ever hurt him here and that thought calmed his mind out a bit. He knew that everyone here would die to protect him. Not just his fathers, but his aunts and uncles too. It made him warm inside.

“Yes Friday, you can tell them. It will be a surprise though, they don’t know I’m on my way up,” he explained. He hadn’t told them he was coming over and to be honest, he hadn’t even known he was. Peter had just started walking to clear his head, to get out of that apartment, his legs brought him here. Peter’s stomach churned at the thought of everything that happened just a few short hours ago.

When the elevator door dinged open, he walked inside. He didn’t have the faintest clue on what he was going to say to explain why he was here. He didn’t even know if he was ready to tell his parents that they were broken up. The wound was just a couple hours old and it burned him. It made his heart ache and limbs go numb and it made him cry until his ribs were sore. He didn’t know what to do.

“Hey Pete, what brings you here?” Tony asked, smiling, turning his head away from the TV to look at Peter. Steve turned his head to look at Peter too, smiling. Both fathers smiles faltered, however, when they saw the red around Peters eyes and the stained tear tracks down Peter’s face. His white shirt had a red blotch at the bottom left corner and his hair was a bit of everywhere. The boy looked like an absolute wreak.

Both fathers stood up and looked at Peter. “Are you okay Peter?” Steve asked first, a bit hesitantly.

Peter felt his throat close a bit and when he answered, his voice was strained. “How do you get a red wine stain out of your favorite shirt Dad?” He looked down at the ruined shirt and fiddled with the bottom of it.

“What?” Tony asked, confused. The boy was upset because of a red wine stain?

“H-how do you get a red wine stain out of your favorite shirt?” Peter asked again with tears building up in his eyes. A few slipped out and down his cheeks and soon, the whole damn broke. “How do you get old tear stains out of a pillow case? How do you cure one too many headaches?” Peter then fell to his knees and his body wracked sobs. It hurt so much, God it hurt so much. He gasped in breath in-between sobs. It felt as though he couldn’t bring in air and that only made him cry harder.

His fathers were by his side in an instant. Tony on the right and Steve on the left. Tony whispered soothing words while Steve rubbed his back, neither pushing Peter to explain why he was in the state he was in.

Peter didn’t know how long he was curled up, in the floor, crying, but it didn’t matter to his Dads. Both stayed by his side until, eventually, he could reign back in his emotions and his sobs had become small hiccups and sniffles. It was quite and he leaned into his Dad. “Can I stay here a few days?”

He felt his father nod. “Of course Petey. You can always stay here as long as you’d like.”

His Pops then spoke up, “your Dad and I would love the company too. We miss having you around.”

Peter nodded, looking down at the floor. “Wade left.”

Can you ask Daddy if he’s got time to come and look at my front door? It got slammed last night and now it don’t close right. And just promise that you won’t tell him everything to leave that pistol in the drawer and Mama please don’t say, I’m gonna laugh about this some day. You didn’t see the way he drove away. 

Not long after breaking the news that the love of his life just left him, his fathers swept him off his feet (quite literally, might Peter add, his Pops had carried him bridal shower) to his bedroom where he set him down on his old blue and red Captain America bed covers. (Laugh all you want, but his Pops was more than proud that Peter wanted covers that represented him and his shield). Steve and Tony turned, whispering in low voices and Peter just picked at the frayed edges of the comforter. Oh how he wished to be a child again. To not have any care in the world and not know what love was and how much it hurt when it broke. To be in this tower again, feeling like he do and be anything. He had been so tired.

Silent tears now streamed down the boys still dampened cheeks. End of the year exams were going to be here in just two short months and Peter had shut himself up to study in the library all hours of the night and then when he did come home, Wade was never there and if he was, he was being loud and drunk. Peter was spending more time in the lab these last few weeks, then he’d had the whole year. Between Wade’s loud drinking, the library, and the lab, he never got to see the bed. He also was out patrolling early every morning and some in the late afternoons, making sure the city was safe. He was so tired.

He was so tired in fact, that he didn’t even realize he was slowly drifting into unconsciousness.

The next morning, he awoke with the rush of memories from yesterday and a pounding headache. He groaned as light streamed in from the windows of his room.

“Now that’s not a way to great the sun,” a voice said and Peter jumped a bit, sitting up in bed. Across the room sat his Dad in a plush, black chair. He wore a gray robe and slippers accompanied by a pair of glasses and a book in his hand. 

“Have you been watching me sleep Dad?” His voice croaked out. “That’s weird.”

Tony gave him a soft smile. “Your Pops is on his morning run, he’s going to be a bit longer today, he’s blowing off a bit of steam.”

Peter’s heart sank. He knew what that meant. He was mad at Wade. “Oh Dad,” Peter brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. It was only then he realized that his stained shirt and his shoes had been removed. His jeans and socks from last night though, still remained on his body. He scrunched up his nose. He should probably take a shower soon.

“I don’t know what happened,” tears started to sting the back of his eyes. “One minute we were just fine and then the next... we just started hanging out less and staying out more, but it was for different reasons. I’ve been studying and patrolling and I’ve been in the lab working on some new webs and I’ve just been so out of here and Wade,” Peter sniffled, God he swears he could cry for hours upon hours over this. “Wade started staying out and drinking and I just thought that maybe-” Peter stopped looking at his Dad now, who had placed the book he was reading onto Peter’s old desk and taken a place at the foot of the bed. “Dad you can’t tell Pops everything, promise me! Tell him to keep that shield by his bedside drawers, it’s not needed, really Dad, please.”

Tony gave Peter a chuckle and grin. “I promise, but he only wants to protect you.”

Peter sighed. “I know, but he can get this silent mad and-”

Tony lifted up a hand and Peter stopped. “I know Pete, now continue.”

Peter looked down at his hands. “I just thought that he was doing it to take the edge off. School has been so stressful, so I didn’t pay it any mind until it started every night and soon, he started coming home, smelling of other people,” a fresh new set of tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks. “So I fixed him dinner and he didn’t come home until later. Dinner was cold and everything. I’d had some wine on me, so when he came in, I asked where he’d been. He wreaked of alcohol and sweat and cheap perfume,” Peter cried. “I just told him he couldn’t do it and he flipped out. Telling me that I was out too, but I was studying! Dad-” Peter leaped from the bed and onto the hardwood floor, now pacing. “he was cheating. He was drinking and when I confronted him, he went to wave a hand and the wine went all over me and the glass went onto the floor and shattered. He was so angry Dad, he just left. He told me he couldn’t do it and I can’t either Dad,” Peter’s voice broke and his next sentence came out a whimper. “I can’t and don’t say that I’ll laugh about this someday Dad, you didn’t see the way he left.”

Tony stood up and enveloped his son in a hug and Peter cried. He sounded so hurt like a wounded baby animal and Tony wanted nothing more than to kill Wade himself, but figured it not wise and it wouldn’t help Peter any.

Once the tears were replaced with sniffles, Peter asked, “Can Pops come and fix my door? It got slammed last night and now it won’t close right. It didn’t when I left.”

“Of course he can Peter,” Tony said softly and Peter smiled.

Can your knees give out from praying so hard? Can you go blind from crying in the dark? Was it ever really real, if he don’t feel like I feel. How does he sleep at night? Mama the nerve of this guy to leave me, so easy. Am I gonna be all right? How does he sleep at night? Mama the nerve of this guy, to leave me, so easy. Am I gonna be all right? I wanna kick myself for falling so hard, Mama can you die from a broken heart? 

Tony and Peter laid in Peter’s bed cuddling until Steve got home. When Steve got there they all decided that he and Peter would get a shower and Tony would order take out. They were going to have a movie day.

When Peter was young, if he was getting picked on too bad at school or if he was sad that his fathers had went away on a mission too long or if Peter was sick and stuck at home, they’d have movie days. It always cheered him up, just him and his dads with a bunch of cool and funny movies with take out food, lounging around in sweats. It was the days he’d live for when he was younger.

While Peter was in the shower, before Steve could hop in his, he looked at Tony. “Is he okay?”

Tony gave his husband a sad smile. “He will be. He’s just heartbroken at the moment. With time, it’ll heal.”

Steve gave Tony a hard look. “Wade?”

Tony stifled a laugh. “Keep your shield on you Cap.”

Steve nodded and headed towards the shower. Tony shook his head.

An hour or so later, they were all in sweats, cuddling on the couch with waffle house in their laps and a movie playing on the TV. It was some action movie with Dwayne Johnson and some female he couldn’t remember the name of and they had some love connection and it pissed Peter off a bit. Movies were so fake. When Mr. Johnson kissed the woman, Peter felt another piece of his heart crack, as if it weren’t cracked to bits anyway.

Peter looked down at the waffle in his lap. “Was it ever really real?” He asked and his Pops looked at him.

“Was what real?”

This had Tony’s attention. Peter rested his head against his Pops. “Was it ever really real, if he don’t feel like I feel? He’s probably out with-” again with the tears, Peter felt like screaming. The more his sadness peeled away, the more anger it was replaced with. He huffed. “How does he sleep at night? The nerve of him!” The tears that now stained his cheeks were born from rage. “To leave me, so easy. As if I wasn’t with him four years!” Peter’s voice started to become shrill and more tears fell. “I loved him so much. I loved him before I even got with him.” The heart that Peter had tried to keep together, shattered and he let out angry sobs. His fathers held him close to him, making it known that they were there and letting him cry out all his sorrows and woes. They knew he’d bounce back, it’d just take the boy time. “I wanna kick myself for falling so hard guys,” he looked at Tony and the boys broken look made Tony ache. “Dad, Pops- Am I gonna be alright?” He asked lowly, sobbing. “Can you die from a broken heart?”

Tony and Steve shared concerned glances.

“Hey bear,” Steve whispered and Peter sniffled. “You are so much better than him and one day you’re not even going to think about how sad and hurt you were because it’ll all be the past and you’ll have found someone to love you for you. This is hard now bear, but you can push through this.”

Peter curled into his fathers, “I just- the apartment-”

“You can come stay here for as long as you’d like. You don’t even have to go back if you don’t want too. We can clean it up and if Wade comes back-”

“We can hit him,” Steve said, interrupting Tony who scolded his husband.

“No, we can let him get his things and inform him of your move.” Tony finished, glaring playfully at Steve who just gave him a crooked grin.

Peter smiled a bit. “Really?” 

“Really, really,” Tony said, nodding. Steve too.

Peter sighed. He really did have the best family and he knew that if that’s what he wanted they’d do it. He had to say, it was an offer he didn’t want to refuse and in the end, didn’t. He nodded slowly. “Okay, so I can move back in?”

“Whenever you want Underoos,” Tony grinned, pleased that he had won his only son over to the idea of living with them again, at least until he finished college, that is.

“Tomorrow then, Today I wanna watch movies with the two fathers who are trying to fix a heart that they didn’t break,” Peter smiled and looked back to the movie.

He really would be okay and no. He would not die from a broken heart. His fathers would make sure of it.

Fin.

This was trash, thanks for reading! 

[madamhatter]

koagema inquired: here she is, miss gamer girl— all dolled up and practically floating in the hallway. heels clack on the floor, a sound one would rarely associate with her— then again, makeup is also rare to be appreciated upon her features, yet there it was, her cheeks tinted pink and lips redder than usual. even the fact she was wearing a dress instead of her usual cardigan-skirt combo seemed surprising, but... she felt like dressing up. and who else would she want to show off to aside from a certain hatter? UNPROMPTED ASKS | ALWAYS WELCOMED | @koagema​​ | continued from here.

Firm elbow on the edge of her shined and sanitized desk, an internal quarrel festers in Sophie’s mind. Her face doesn’t signal any form of struggle. Countless years spent in the grinds and gears of the higher class, a dirty business altogether, she was consistently exposed to the chatter and incessant noise of gossip and rumors from dirtied mouths of high society. The only few benefits of such early exposure were learning to contain and coordinate past such meddlesome and vile words.

Entangled in the back of her mind were those pestering utterances -- they knotted together and grew in size, a notable distraction and annoyance it was becoming now. With her right arm’s elbow perked on the table, she hides her disdain and tightened lips behind the palm of her right hand. Brows knitted, eyes refusing to leave the glass panes of the windows, Sophie hadn’t dared turned back to look across the classroom. She digs her molars into the rich pink gums of her cheeks. Rows of teeth repeatedly chew and grind, her brows lowering as her eyes look back on the top of the wooden desk. Any harder and she would’ve tasted iron.

While her mask was fixed to remain calm and almost empty of thought, the indignation already spilled out earlier. Timeliness for the Hatter was to be several hours ahead, she entered the classroom much in advance, even before the homeroom teacher (which led to them being scared nearly out of their wits). Whispers and chat from the birds -- also known as her classmates -- grew noisier as they gathered in their seats, all the more invested in talking about others, especially about the class representative next door. 

Surely, she should’ve ignored it. She should’ve minded and never read more into the situation. Her nails tapped against the desk, the longer she listened, expression distorting from perplexion to disbelief. Eyes squeeze shut, as does her fist, intaking her breaths slowly. 

"The class representative from 77-B is acting different..." "Eh?" "Didn’t you see Nanami-san dressed up like that? Do you think she has a boyfriend?" "Or maybe she’s trying to impress her crush..! I wonder if he’ll like it."

And there was an audible snap in the back of her mind.

At the memory, she cringes and closes her eyes. Several of her classmates had grown stiff and frail at the enunciation and power behind her voice-- not one expected out of a gray mouse. It was perhaps why they took the respectful step away and returned to their seats, having their ears talked off about ‘minding their business and not to perpetuate any ridiculous claims.’ 

What was this feeling, so sudden and new? Her brows furrow together, raising, and she opens her eyes again to make out the lines across her desk. All that jumbled mess that occupied her mind, it was a void that followed her throughout her childhood. At the one point in her life that she thought she had a confidant in her late father, his charm and wit all came to conclude with simple advice. 

‘Just like the metal tin where we keep all the needles (and lovely tomato cushion), thimbles, scissors, pins, buttons, and tools we use, we need to keep it stored if she wasn’t needing it. And just like those bad, dark things,’ he would muse with a spin of his finger, towering over his daughter as the sunrays dripped through his hair, revealing its rare red gold, ‘we keep them in there if we don’t need them.’ 

And so she tidied her thoughts, a mental sweep into the metal tin of her mind, storing it away for a rainy day. She had no purpose to feel this way -- how dug its claws inside her stomach, an uneasiness that left her foot rapidly tapping against the ground. How it, for some odd reason, tightened her chest and she felt smaller than ever...

It didn’t matter now, she concludes, it’s time to keep it all back there.

To loiter in the halls during the lunch period was an all familiar point of Sophie’s schedule. Instead of conversing and going through with the others in the main course, her mind was immediate to reroute her back to work. She dusts down the length of her uniform’s skirt, grumbling to herself at her own untidiness. First what happened this morning and now I look disgusting, she sighs to herself in disbelief. 

Prodding away at the folds of her skirt, Sophie was more than unaware of the world around her. Too many details to scrutinize under her eyes, it only fueled the distraction through her spiral into self-deprecation. The length of her scarred fingertips tug on the fabric, she mutters the type under her breath, reminding herself the appropriate detergents use to clean it -- even if there weren’t any stains 

Fumbling, tongue-tied unspeakable unnameable something was pitted in her stomach, distracting what little remains of her anchored logic. Her fingers return to the thick braid of deep copper and speckles of silver, picking now at the ends. Head bowed, eyes narrowed, she couldn’t help if the bottom of her feet and the joints in her fingers twitch. Though, it didn’t matter as she finally takes the first step.

Pacing, pacing, like a mouse trapped in a labyrinth, unable to make a choice at the fork. Nonsensical rambling underneath her breath, all only glimpses of self-deprecation and shattered confidence she held together with the tightest seams. It was only natural that with time, the strongest sutures should be removed after all the healing was done. Yet, it was a recurrence that all too much, hastier and impatient as ever, Sophie removed them too soon, prolonging the healing process.

For how long could she inspire this forged mask until it’d expire? Her body pauses, hands slowly rising to her face as she closes her eyes. Holding herself was the most typical comfort she found at home and here. It dissuaded her from being caught adrift in the vast truths and realities, all the thousands of thoughts that existed in her mind and overwhelmed her once she found calm. Never was there such a thing as rest for the eldest of three.

Her hands slowly trail behind her neck, slowly inhaling deeply, making out the pressures and tense muscles from her jaw to her shoulders. Rhythmic breathing mechanisms, slowly in and slowly out, tranquility wasn’t as easily found as she’d like it to be. 

Click, click, click -- Sharp, narrow heels meet the polished floors of the academy halls. A snap to reality, Sophie feels fear strike up her spinal cord, her hands dropping down as if she hadn’t been dancing with despair. A forced gulp, only considering as to who it could’ve been and if she knew them, she grimaced reality. It made it worse if it had been one of her peers that she starkly admonished over...

She shakes her head, refusing to remember. 

Yet, the young woman turns...Eyes widening, lips slightly parted, and the entirety of the cacophony in her mind goes silent.

The brisk rush of jubilance and childish glee, that’s all that the 77-A student feels the moment her lingering gaze returns to the silhouette of the 77-B class representative. Impulsion to pick, tear and claw at her own being numbs in a moment, just like how her lungs ease to breathe in the air as if it wasn’t hurting her chest. All the wider her eyes grow, her body relaxing, and it was almost as if she felt herself getting lighter and lighter. Almost as if her boots couldn’t keep her grounded any longer.

“Miss Nanami.” She clears her throat, straightening her posture and promptly bowing her head softly forward. “Good afternoon, it’s wonderful to see you.” Though, as much as she boasted to hold eye contact and hold herself well in conversation, her eyes dart away.

Never had Sophie encountered or needed overdramatizing and oversaturated language in compiling her internal workings.  Yet, something swelled in her throat as she felt urged to speak -- whatever that she thought of coated honey and sweets on her tongue and palate.  Figure shrinks at the trouble of speech -- words cannot contribute to the collateral of her body being stuck in place.

It isn’t as if seeing Chiaki wasn’t ever such a blossoming of euphoria, a sensation that didn’t now flee her. Settling her mind was a waning and unfamiliar feeling, almost craving for it, something that couldn’t be named --- because she was quite terrified to know what it was. 

“Miss Nanami, you look wonderful..as you usually do too. That is such a wonderful cut for you -- and, where did you get that shade? It suits you so marvelously.”

Alas, a linger gaze could only do so much for her when she groped onto reality. Struck by the unnameable, unspeakable something, her hands slowly to her front, aimlessly folding her hands, but her eyes envisioned much more. Rosied tint glossed her lips, rouge powdered her cheeks, curves of light pink curls framing her face--- But, all this did was accentuate the matter of how much Chiaki could stunt her to such tranquil silence. 

Not needing to speak, not needing to act, all she... No, shouldn’t say it... All she ...... to do was spend it in her presence. No matter what she did, Sophie ...... all the time. All the time she could have to spare, all the time she ......to give. 

The mass in her throat, she couldn’t feel it anymore.

Glancing down for a moment, her brows quirk. Tear-shaped petals dripped from her lips, thinner than the circumference of her little finger, and a familiar shade of powdered pink that overwhelmed her mind. Another blink, they were gone. Another blink, the petals were scattered on the ground by the hundreds, petals surrounding her worn boots. 

Not a second longer, the word finally came to her: peonies.

Placidity still forms her face, eyes roaming back to Chiaki. The gardener herself, a cynical half of Sophie’s mused. The one who’d gotten and now has linked me to this unpredictability I feel.  Another half, chirpier, sharper, and rougher, retorts. It isn’t her fault for the problem I created for myself. I’m are the one who allowed the seeds to be planted, I nurtured and grown whatever this is.

For all the weightlessness Chiaki inspired, an invisible deadlock wrapped around Sophie’s shoulders. An uncomfortable weight against her back, leisurely hanging on her with chest pressed to her, and its whispers flooding her mind. Disappointment extraordinaire, Sophie Hatter recognizes reality was forcing itself unto her. Say it already, say it. You know it’s true. 

Want. She forced herself to spit it out. It was a dangerous word. Want, want, want. A selfish impulse to impose herself to be worth anything and forcing herself to a position of desiring that couldn’t be. Couldn’t be, mustn’t be, shouldn’t be.

Laying by Chiaki whenever the two were meant napping, half of the time exchanging tired dialogue and giggles, eyes unable to move from the other, in spite of the messy hair and unkempt appearances. Midnight proposals conducted by the restless, if not unhealthily attuned, students who kept within close proximity, always chattering away and roaming between the library and greenhouse, or even hiding underneath piles of blankets. Seating aside another during their lunch period, cozily listening to the fountain behind them, exchanging tales from their classrooms, pointing out if any spare crumbs gotten on their mouths or clothes...

All the thoughts swirled in her mind, all leading back to a now smiling Chiaki before her. The hatter, eyes wide and blood cold, holds her head once more in Chiaki’s direction, watching her draw closer. The racket in her chest couldn’t be endured as her heart bruised her ribcage and rushed the blood flow, breaking the paralysis. 

She takes one unsteady breath, a forceful swallow, as she is finally pushed past the brink of denial. 

Oh.

Oh shit. 

“....We should get to the cafeteria,” she timidly murmurs, attempting to hold herself together by the loosening seams.