#call this fic a tree how it’s full of SAP

[thissortofsorcery]

Steve is woken up by his own sharp intake of breath, choked halfway down his throat. Something’s— wrong, he knows. Something’s wrong. He was just running. Isn’t he supposed to be running? He flails a hand to his left, looking for something. There’s something there, something safe, he remembers, and his hand closes around— Billy. Billy’s wrist.

He’s in bed. He was asleep.

A second passes and it’s like his body thaws, all muscles relaxing at once, oxygen finally flowing into his lungs. He’s in bed. He was asleep. Billy’s right there.

“‘tevie?” A mumbled groan comes from his left, and Steve realizes he’s still holding tightly to Billy’s wrist. Billy’s waking up.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” He whispers, and lets go, running careful fingers where he was squeezing before. Billy’s skin is sleep-warm and soft, delicate on the inside of the wrist. Steve presses a kiss there. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep.”

Billy’s pushing himself up on his elbows from where he was lying on his belly, hair rumpled and curls thrown everywhere over his face, eyes squinting at Steve like a cat.

“Why’re you up?”

“It’s nothing.”

Billy squints harder. “You had a nightmare.”

Steve doesn’t answer, and Billy’s already turning over, sitting halfway up.

“I’m up. I’m up,” He runs a broad hand down his face, rubs his eyes. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing, seriously—” Steve tries to say, but Billy shoots him a look. “It’s the same shit as always,” he sighs.

“The running?” Billy asks. He doesn’t need to be more specific than that. Steve dreams about that often enough.

When Steve wakes up the feeling lingers. Twitching feet and bouncing knees, nervous energy directed nowhere in a comfortable bed with cozy blankets with a cozy boyfriend, when a blink ago he was being chased to exhaustion. He can’t go back to sleep when he’s supposed to be running.

“Yeah,” Steve says, not looking at Billy. He does hate that he woke him up. “I feel like I’m gonna vibrate out of my skin.”

Billy’s fingers find his on top of the blanket, threading them together. “C’mere,” he pulls on them gently, “c’mon.”

Billy tugs and pulls, rearranging both of them on the bed until Steve’s tucked into Billy’s chest, feeling his weight warm his back and anchor him down. Steve lets the air out of his lungs with a steady, deliberate breath, sinking into it with his eyes closed, like one sinks into a warm bath.

That’s one thing that Billy is, always. The ground under his feet. Steady. Present.

There’s a thick bicep under his head, an arm around his waist, kisses pressed into his shoulder over his shirt until they cross the barrier of the collar and reach the skin of his neck. A big toe strokes the outside of his calf, scratching at his leg hair, making his skin tingle.

“Feels good,” Steve mumbles, face mashed into Billy’s arm, and he presses his lips to the skin there. Billy smells clean, a little like the citrus soap he likes, a little like his deodorant, and like their bed, like their sheets.

With his eyes closed, Steve can hear every breath Billy puffs against his ear, ever smack of his lips against his skin, feels the tingle that travels up his neck and down his spine. Billy’s feet find Steve’s, and he rubs his soles along the top of them, toes making grabby motions at Steve’s toes that he playfully dodges from, until they’re caught and pleasantly cracked.

It gives Steve something else to focus on, something else to twitch towards, makes the shivers that feel like they come from inside his bones fade into the pleasant scratch of nails on his skin. It makes him huff a laugh at three in the morning where once he would’ve relocated to the couch and stared at the tv without seeing it.

And Billy just knows. Knows he’s awake, knows he had a nightmare, knows how to make it better. Knows Steve.

“I love you,” Steve’s voice is rough, both from being relaxed and from emotion, and he twists his head back, searching.

Billy’s right there, nose to nose, lips on his cheek then meeting his mouth. A simple press of lips that grows, languid and sweet, until Steve’s turned around in Billy’s arms and they’re lying face to face.

“I love you,” Steve says again, stroking Billy’s cheek with a thumb.

Billy’s looking at him with half-lidded eyes and a little smile, his private, sleepy one that’s a little smooshed on one cheek.

Steve can’t understand it sometimes, how he got here. How he got Billy.

“Love you too,” Billy says, and Steve’s heart skips a beat. Still. Always. “You feel any better?”

Steve sighs, stretches, wiggles in place. He feels more settled now, body heavy and sinking into the bed, into Billy’s chest.

“A lot,” Steve says, with a lazy smile. “You always make it better.”

Billy hides his face in the pillow, but his lips are twitching. He mumbles a half-hearted shut up that goes ignored.

“I always feel safe with you," Steve says, thumb traveling down Billy's cheek to his chin. Billy won't meet his eyes, and his cheeks are turning pink. "Feel grounded. Feel good."

Billy's hand finds its way under his tshirt, spreads over the width of his lower back, and he scratches his nails lightly over Steve's side. His eyes finally meet Steve's. "Don't get used to it," He grumbles, voice barely above a croak.

Steve huffs a laugh, kisses him on the nose, on the mouth, and settles his head beside Billy's on the pillow so they can stare at each other like two idiots.

"I'm already used to it, dumbass," He says. He makes sure Billy's eyes are still on his. He needs Billy to hear it, to understand. "You're an amazing boyfriend, you know. I'm lucky to have you."

And Billy's giving him that wide-eyed, mouth parted look, the one he gets when he's been knocked over the head with a good thing he didn't expect. Steve can only lean over and kiss it off his face, hope his lips can seal the sentiment in his brain and he'll take it in once and for all. Steve loves him. Has for a long time, now.

every time anti bullshit shows up on my dash, I write Steve loving on Billy | IV

[ginwhitlock]

summary: JASPER/ BELLA. Isabella Marie Swan does not believe in monsters. Only angels

.i.e. the four times Jasper visits Bella as she grows up, before the Cullens every set a foot back down in Forks

fic type: oneshot, no explicit scenes

warnings: implied minor sexual abuse (not detailed or described. blink and you miss it). renee bashing. 

Isabella Marie Swan doesn’t believe in monsters.

Forks, Washington is freezing in November. The wind was a frozen backhand to the ripening cheek of a four year-old girl dressed only in woolen tights and a polyester puffy coat. There had to have been a tulle skirt or a pair of cotton shorts at one point, but between the missed calls pinging back to the landline and the steam rising off her father’s newly appointed khaki vest, the poor things had been discarded. She had a sticky strand of dirty brown hair by the cut of her lip glossed mouth, a candy necklace filling the gap where her front teeth should’ve been.

She had never been happier.

Daddy hadn’t been twisted into Charlie yet, the sway of his uncut hair was loose and playful in front of his eyes, the buzzed sides creating an unfortunate mullet just behind his ears. There was a bounce to his unsure step. He smiled like he was dying, all teeth and tongue. He smelled like peppermint. Gun oil. Cotton candy. A short mule of a woman left him warm potato casseroles for him at the station every Thursday night to share with Isabella without refusal. His mustache was just barely growing in. Her grubby little hands tugged at any chance she could. When her mother let her.

Renee hadn’t picked up the phone since last Wednesday, or maybe the week before that or maybe, he hadn’t even tried to dial her number before the ring went silent in his dogged ear. Maybe he threw the receiver hard enough against the ugly green linoleum so it could never make noise again. Maybe he was done begging.

But, that wouldn’t have been good for his-- their baby. So of course, all Deputy Charlie Swan did was shoot off his last salt rounds into the sunken forest behind the home that used to be his father’s. Felt the cool metal of a sawed off in his left hand. Muffled Isabella’s ears with plastic sponges. Pretended it was a game between the two of them, how many trees can daddy hit before the snow fills up your yellow rain boots. How many times can the mother of your child pretend she isn’t a mother at all.

She was supposed to be coloring at the dining room table. He had laid out the crayons in rainbow order like she wanted, uncapped the markers Lucy from the diner had given her last summer, and smoothed out the dryer-hot printer paper right in front of her chair. She has already stopped babbling at this age, a progression he had clenched his front teeth at when Renee told him, smiling at their now silent daughter.

The table should be creaking, at least. Right?

Snow in the north was glistening and beautiful. It looked almost wet, the ice refracting with smiling crystals. The hemlock branches were bending and breaking, reaching down with thin hands, beaconing the toddler forward. Isabella loved to climb.

And fall.

She was better at falling.

Foot after rubber foot scaled the beast of fauna, water dripping into her ill-fitted coat from the wrists down. It trailed in glossy clear rivets. Highway dividers. Geese flying down for the winter. Freezing.

From a sky view the sparrows watched the small girl, her rudolph cheeks bursting with new blood, the heat of her skinny body leaching from her bones. She was slowing down with each thin branch, each prick of a wayward needle. Sticky golden sap collecting on the webs of her knuckles. It smelled like grapefruit. She smelled like grapefruit. Ripe and delicious. Full of wonder. And terrified.

The height was farther from the ground than she had thought in her haste to see the sky, a good six feet between her and the snow lining the forest floor. She couldn’t make out the faint wisp of ocean that settled low on the ground as she had when she first snuck out to gather snowflakes. There was nothing but green and white and awfully sticky sweet gunk stuck to her clothes and skin.

Isabella gritted her teeth to scream for the furious help of her father when a hand poked the sole of her slipping boot. She just barely stomached looking down.

“Do you need help, little miss?” All that he let her see was a brilliantly white half smile, pitted skin, long lean fingers, ivory nail beds. Fur covered everything else.

A headful of pin-straight chestnut nodded without hesitation, her fear for the wrath of a kind man stronger than whatever awaited her in the hidden man’s hands.

She jumps.

Charlie has a shotgun strapped underneath his armpit when he finds her, fast asleep, head tucked into the stripped trunk of a pine tree. A fur coat wrapped around her tiny form like a blanket. He prays to God for the first time in a decade when she wakes in front of their tiny white oven, preheated to warm the room, talking of a golden haired angel with the saddest skin.

Izzy Marie Swan does not have time to believe in monsters.

The not-so-much-girl-anymore marched through the foyer on a mission that August morning, her first Bronte soft spine clasped between forefinger and thumb, dry toast between dryer lips. Her t-shirt doesn’t fill out like the other girls swear theirs do and her jeans slide off her nonexistent hips like they’re mocking her. At ten years old she looks exactly like Charlie Swan did at that age, boy scout skin without a switchblade to her name, crooked teeth and straight-out tongue held silent. She is too skinny and too tall and exactly what her mother picks on when she opens her teenage girl magazines. Her eyes are shit brown, a word she just learned, and to everyone else around her, she is adorable. Beautiful the way a child should be, without pretense or cause. A songbird held in an oak cage. Her father’s most precious gift.

She can’t remember where she left her backpack.

Like she does. Every morning. Just after breakfast. Two thirty minute kitchen timers before she has to get on the bus to the underrun and underfunded Forks Elementary. She even wrote an essay about it once. On forgetfulness.

She forgot to turn it in, just as she wrote. In that essay.

Her father had put in a cement bench just beyond the grove of trees that stood as their fence line, that march or the last, whichever seemed less dreary to her wayward mother. The same woman who stood toe deep in floridan sand at that moment, unaware and unknowing of her daughter’s want to attend public school anywhere warmer, maybe somewhere, like Florida. If her mother agreed, anyway. But she didn’t. Or at least, never asked to.

The bag was a horrible shade of amber. Red and gold. Orange and green. Mud leftover from a gasoline spill, with a dash of waterproof nutmeg. It had buckles as tough as airplane parachutes. It could withstand a windstorm. Or Washington rain. Not that she tested that… every night. Just last night.

And every night in the last week.

Out it stood, like a stranded lamb, loyal and bleeting underneath the damned bench, waiting patiently for the pale girl to take a seat and rifle through it, looking for something and nothing. Her hair was twisted into a ponytail, unbrushed and bushy. It too, loyal to the sweat collecting on her neck, kissing just underneath her soft blue t-shirt. Her shoes caked in mud, stomping just loud enough to scare the rabbits away as she slouched the sacred material against her denim lap.

She decided to be Izzy Swan out here one afternoon after the heat started. A reinvention of sorts. A rat-faced nuisance of a boy had refused to call her by her full moniker on the first day of fourth grade and it stuck. Like a disease. Like hemlock sap.

The Newton boy, she remembered. Michael? Mikey?

Something like that.

She preferred Jacob Black if she was gonna force herself to endure the male species. His eyes were black like coal. Kind like the brush of soaked cotton against her skin when she sat on the beach out in La Push. Smile white and wide, covering her face in blush like soot. His sisters produced the same effect, she was sure-- she didn’t like him or anything. God no. Just… a friend. A very pretty friend. A friend with nice dark skin. Soft as peach fuzz. But if she did like him, even though she didn’t because liking boys wasn’t something she ever wanted to do, he was seven and she had just turned ten and that was icky. That's what her mother had said the last time she had called the house. That the Black boy was hardly old enough to be her friend like that. Her dimple-faced, soft eyed, friend.

Her notebook was missing. The one she used for writing practice and to keep all the half scrawled declarations of love Mr. Knightley had stuttered out in that Jane Austen movie her father had recorded for her on the big box Television.

Izzy’s hands were scrambling and damp as she rummaged through her rightfully atrocious bag again and again without success. Her eyes turned wild, frantic with fear of all her little thoughts being splashed across an unexpected doorstep. Or worse, the scabbed over desk of Mikey Newton and his black headed friend.

A clipped moss green cover twinkled in the high sun just over her covered shoulder, the fabric turning dark at the crease. Her tongue wet the pillow of her lip and she sprinted, loose legs tumbling slightly with the rush.

It had been bundled to a fallen tree trunk. With leather ribbon. Covered in what looked to be a raincoat, too expensive for her father’s utility pockets. It looked completely untouched, suspiciously dry despite its survival of the night time pacific elements, no matter its wrapping. Fingernails chipped with forbidden periwinkle nail polish untied the composition book slowly, confusion and mystery replacing fear in a stomach swooping second. Her thumb, bitten to the quick, flipped through until landing on the inside back cover, covered in a small inky note, elegant in script.

‘You shouldn’t leave things out to rot in this weather. Especially things that are irreplaceable.’

No sign off. No name. No motive. She at least expected some taunt from one of the bigger neighborhood kids that had somehow found her not so hidden work. Nothing.

Irreplaceable? Her words were… irreplaceable?

She smiled all the way to the bus stop.

Bella Marie Swan starts to believe in monsters.

Being fourteen is the world’s way of spitting in your eye and then kissing you on the mouth, except it kisses you for real, not at all the way you thought girls got to be kissed. There's clicking of teeth and a tangle of old chapped lips and too much tongue. Too cold. Too fast. No sweeping off of feet. No candle lit dinner before. Just spongy clammy fingertips in places you don't want them to be and hair in your mouth.

Bella thought freshman year in Phoenix would be warm. Sun beating down on her skin like Apollo’s shield, melanin bursting just above her boiling red blood. There was supposed to be long drawn out poetry about marigolds and vibrant pink cactus blooms. But it's all sand. In her shoes. In the crack of her ass. She would’ve taken canyons over this. Maybe even mountains. But Charlie and Renee haven’t been talking for the last two years, long enough to know the difference between ignorance and bliss, and a man younger than her father has moved into the bedroom across from hers, in a house with walls much too thin. Walls that splinter when you run a fist at them.

She wonders if she’s supposed to marry him too.

She laughed when she asked Renee that. She didn’t even crack a smile.

Bella’s out on the cement back porch again, staring out at all that nothing that she’s come to love about Arizona, the stiff unnatural material of her shorts sliding uncomfortably against her freshly shaved thighs. Her mother had told her to start doing that too. Worse than kissing, she remarked. But it made her pretty like all the other desert transplant beauties, right? Like a fake plastic flower grafted onto a prickly pear. Something the grocery store would sell. Something not meant to be there.

A stagnant wind caressed her skin in flat heat. A fur coat of a blanket. She might just shove the last ice cubes in the freezer down her bra at this rate.

There are boot prints she doesn’t notice being washed away in the breeze, leading all the way up to the rocking bench chained to the overhang. Large slim diamonds lopping, lassoing around the old wood. Her eyes are closed and the sun is kind for now and there’s a chill blowing down her craned neck. It’s thin like a seabird and just as white. God the breeze is good. Chilly. Chilly?

Her chocolate eyes are molten as she snaps them open, open palm resting on her fragile collarbone. There is no longer natural air conditioning. The prints are gone. The sun no longer glitters behind her eyelids. There is no air in her lungs but her heart refuses to race, a scrunch comes to her brow as a stray object is left to wilt next to her hip, a place which once held her mother and then Phil and then. Nothing.

But now a strip of hemlock needles holding on to a thin branch for dear life is in her hands, touching her skin like a painful reminder of something she cannot remember. There weren’t hemlock trees for thousands of miles.

Nothing that green survived out here. Not even her.

There’s a wet chuckle in the wind that sounds like marred skin and southern fingers and her brain drowns itself in grey ghosts of the past. She still cannot recall. She never can quite get them right.

Bella Marie Swan presses the small twig between the heavy pages of her literature textbook and keeps it there. She gets fined fifty dollars as the school year comes to a close and steals the money out of Renee’s wallet like she has for the past three summers.

To remember.

Bella Swan does not need to believe in monsters. She knows them too well.

She supposes it's the eyes that surprise her. The tilt of his lips. The spare height of his cheekbones. The rest of the picture. The missing pieces. The ones her brain has been trying and failing to fill in itself. She had been wrong. So goddamn wrong.

She’s been seventeen for one hundred and twenty-three days. One hundred and twenty-three days of back and forth arguments with the woman who was once her mother and the man she let live her in bed when he wasn’t stalking the hallways, watching roads pass by in minor league themed blurs, wishing for an empty house once more. The sun hers and hers alone. She discovered and burned three CDs made by a boy who didn’t know her full name or the way her mouth tasted when she woke up and had forgotten to brush her teeth. She nearly burned down a hotel room with a candle she didn’t quite understand how to strike a match for, ran so hard she broke a pair of drug store running shoes, and tried to climb the lone tree in her deserted front yard just to say she still could. She got all the way to the top before realizing she had never gotten herself down before, not to her knowledge. Not to her father’s.

She had shoved everything she owned in a steel gray trunk and sat through the plane ride of her nightmares. Screaming children, water that tasted like a musty creek bed. No empty breathing room she so desperately prayed for. She was suffocating. She had suffocated.

And then. Him. The one hundred and twenty-third day. Closed in like a pack of old salmon chunks, held tight to a table of people that were sure that they had once known her, the cafeteria door had swung open. She should've been freezing this well into January, but all she knew was fire. The kind of heat that traveled from hypothermic limbs, the body’s way of tricking the brain into thinking everything will be alright while striking all the warning bells. She was sure he wasn’t breathing, all alone, the last boy to walk through the doors. A pariah. A martyr. God or Judas or Abel. Renee had never made her go to Sunday school and now she was cursing the woman over and over in her mind, just under her jaw.

The memories had unfurled.

The pretty girl next to her was going on about the grey skinned pseudo-family and all of it could’ve been written on cardstock and thrown at her in a heaping boulder and Bella wouldn’t have noticed. Not then. Not when his eyes were absolutely nowhere but exactly where they had never allowed themselves to be. The curve of her nose. The soft swell of her bottom lip as she tugged her teeth into it. The thin presence of her eyebrows. The fan of lashes, plucked, protecting the watery flesh that held his attention. His fists were hidden by the layer of denim that was his too light jacket but it didn’t matter, she knew what she would’ve seen.

Long lean fingers, ivory nail beds.

Her angel. Her writer. Her watcher. Now in front of her, hand stretching out, everyone staring.

“Do you need help, little miss?”

The best kind of monster.

[ayamturd]

For the color fics- sapnap w/ sea green? I always associate him with warm tones so it'd be cool to see what you'd do for him inspired by a cool tone :)

seafoam fern│sapnap

warnings: none, only fluff

pairing: in-game romantic!sapnap

a/n: i'm so sorry, my love, but i got extremely carried away in this fic

be gentle with him, i honestly loved writing for sap sm

‘colors’ m.list

It was a lovely day, the sun bright as it sprinkled through the covering of the overarching branches above.

Side by side, you yawned from the successful day next to Sapnap; despite it being only the late afternoon, you were tired from the amount you both achieved while sweaty to the amount of work you accomplished.

With his axe in hand, Sapnap’s pack was filled to the brim with the recent resources he collected. Varying from wood, ores and forage, it was safe to say his pyromania was traded for rather purposeful, destructive behavior to benefit you both.

Mirroring him was you by his side. With your bow slung over your chest as you pulled the reins of your horse, its back carried the collected meats you managed to hunt, the amount of brute murder enough to quench any violent tendencies left from warfare and trauma.

By any onlookers that dared cross your paths, you were a couple to be reckoned with, dangerous inclinations only feeding each others as warriors granted lovers.

Sapnap walked ahead of you briefly, his pace quickening while he twirled his axe in play. Though a man of brute force, there were those rare moments when he would let his cracks show; a graceful beauty, encapsulated by the world and ethereally connected to the Earth’s fire.

While it was a shame he had been burned by ones he trusted and once called home, the recovery was slow yet progressive. He was learning to breathe again, how to understand the objectives of his own goals and passions alone.

His independence made you proud, and the love for his own truth grew as well.

As you continued to pull the horse along, you eventually caught up to Sapnap where he was stood near a tree, his hand running over the runs of the old trunk that twisted like river valleys in a storm.

You sighed before smacking his head, quite harshly to add, while shaking your head. His response was immediate and deafening.

“OWW! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR??”

Ignoring him, you passed him in dismissal. He called out to you again in disbelief, making you smile in response.

“For once in your life, can you please stop thinking about arson?”

Sapnap gawked loudly, running to defend himself while you began giggling in victory; he was too easily riled up and an honest joy to tease.

“That’s not true.”

“Mhmmm.”

“You know that’s not true, you buttface, take it back.”

“Nah.”

“Y/nnn!” he whined out, his childlike behavior on full display for you to see. It wouldn’t do much to point it out, you knew, since he would only use his characteristics to annoy as revenge.

“Whaaaat?” you mimicked with a snicker.

“Stop being so mea—”

“Shut up,” you suddenly interrupted, eyes wide with your head perked in careful skill to listen. Sapnap was ignorant to your intentions and spoke even louder in turn.

“Now you're interrupting me? Aren’t lovers supposed to be n—”

This time, you held no patiences to demand, only pushing a finger to his lips while you closed your eyes to survey the area with ears.

“Sapnap, I’m serious. Shut up.”

His silence was compliance, allowing you to wordlessly pass him the rein as you crept on forwards quietly. On high alert, Sapnap tied the horse to a nearby tree and immediately covered your back with his weapon raised to attack.

He paused when you stopped, reluctantly opening his mouth to question the threat before your unexpected squeal made him flinch.

Running forwards, he was dumbfounded when finding a hidden springs before him, your excitement overwhelmingly confusing to the situation he assumed.

“…Why are you getting excited over a little puddle?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him gently in feigned annoyance.

“Shush you. It’s hot and I’m tired, plus its such a cute little place to cool off,” you concluded. As Sapnap tried to groan further, you removed your heavy armor and quickly stripped down your outer wear.

Once more, Sapnap was hilariously at a loss for words as you stared at him in wait.

“Well, aren’t you going to join me?” you offered with an innocent grin. Sapnap chuckled nervously, glancing between the pool of water and you in reluctance.

“I’m honestly fine myself,” he began, “and don’t feel like getting w—”

In true nature of your relationship, you interrupted him again, doing so with your palm against this mouth.

“Complain to me about it after you get wet, darling.”

“Don’t—”

His attempts were in vain as your shoved him into the cool water, the splash like a roar that gave you endless delight.

Sapnap was drenched, his hair like a heavy curtain that folded to the front of his face. He tried to scream out, but you couldn’t let him have all the fun as you choose then to jump onto him.

His frightened yelp forced a cackle out of you, his misery bringing a glowing smile to your face.

While he helplessly sputtered from your unexpected actions, you swam through the water to him, wrapping your legs around his waist with arms to cling from his neck.

His response was immediate and familiar when using his arms to hold you steady.

With a gentle hand, you pushed his dark hair back to reveal the embarrassing mess of your lover, his annoyance practically radiating off of him in heat.

Nearly breaths away from him, your eyes devoured the close sight of his features.

He was gorgeous. Although the ash of fire and burn of lava always gleamed brilliantly against his tan skin, there was something so breathtaking to see him in front of you, soaking wet while shining from the reflection of the seafoam hue.

The miniature waterfall you previously heard now faded in comparison to all focus on him, and by the ever growing warmth he admitted, you found yourself leaning closer.

“So are we going to kiss or w—”

His words were eagerly muffled from the tender touch of your lips.

“You talk too much.”

[queer-as-used-by-tolkien]

Storyline Study: Order Mentor

When you joined your Order at level thirty and met your mentor at level forty, each of the three was instantly revealed to be a different person altogether from the other two.

Tybalt Leftpaw, Lightbringer of the Order of Whispers, was on his first-ever field mission. He was very blatantly calling for you in a sort of undercover way, and simultaneously panicking when you tried to mention the full name of the Order. Your supposed mentor was as new to this as you, had a (sometimes very human-teenager) sense of humor, and had a rather sad backstory balanced by his good nature. You knew he liked apples.

Sieran, Magister of the Durmand Priory, was full of reckless abandon, disregard for authority, boundless curiosity and a heart for the little things. She was confident in her role and her ability, and unhesitatingly took you into dangerous places for the sake of exploration and adventure while brushing off rebuke like a tree sheds sap - even when it was heartily deserved. You learned to be rather frightened for her.

Forgal Kernsson, Warmaster of the Vigil, was an archetypal gruff, stern old mentor whose every drop of praise spoke volumes. But he also carried a sort of wildness to him, that rough edge from growing up a hunter in the Shiverpeaks, coupled with every willingness to say it like it was if it was true. He could be surprised, he could observe calmly when something was new, he could snark like the rest of them and even say things he didn't mean from time to time.

They all fought the dragons - they each more or less took it seriously. But Tybalt was a partner and friend, you were keeping Sieran in check, not the other way around, and Forgal trained you mercilessly.

You all grew together - they had each changed for the better by the time they died. Tybalt had learned that he was worth something, Sieran had learned friendship was worth everything, and Forgal had learned... well. He'd found a student to be proud of, a partner to fight with, a friend to trust... a child to carry on his legacy. But I'm not sure, exactly, what Forgal learned - what the point of his story was.

Sieran was more-or-less well suited to her role in the story; she symbolized innocence and cheer and optimism and the beauty of the world - so you could recognize what was being lost by the dragon's onslaught. Tybalt's story was one extremely well-suited to his character; he taught you that working together was vital to survival, even when neither of you knew exactly what you were doing - a valuable lesson as the story progressed. Both of their stories fit well enough into the three-mission story sequence concluding in their death.

But Forgal was different. He was the mentor who dies partway through. He was the one who trained you and taught you all he could, who died imparting one last gem of wisdom. Or, he should have.

I am not attacking Forgal. I am attacking ArenaNet. We had too little time with Forgal for the story Anet was trying to tell with him. He was like Obi-Wan but without showing up again as a ghost, without the prequels, without being able to send Luke to Yoda - without, most significantly, being able to explain why he'd said Luke's father was dead.

We don't know Forgal. We don't understand him. We only know his family died to Icebrood... but why is he with the Vigil, specifically? Why is he a good friend of Almorra's - allowed to butt in and insult a diplomatic ambassador with barely a reprimand? Forgal is the character that tells me the Vigil has been around decades, not a mere five years. Was he in another military? Forgal was over a hundred years old. You don't join a military at that age and, five years later, are a highly self-disciplined warrior such as he was. Maybe he was Lionguard? Hear this: Forgal is actually older than Lion's Arch. If he'd survived, he would have been old enough to bear witness to all three incarnations of that city. But, apart from being able to recognize the Orrian Scout on sight, this is only a trivial piece of lore.

After he judged us worthy, we should have had long training sessions with him - sparring matches wherein he would easily fend off our blows while simultaneously teaching us about the world, all the wisdom he'd gathered, expounding just a bit on the history of the Elder Dragons (perhaps customized for player's race!) - and then we go off and have a real Vigil mission. Perhaps remove the racial sympathy 'choice' and have all five! A sparring match before each one, with a different lesson (the racial sympathy missions were awfully short anyway). And if you want to keep the idea implied by the term 'racial sympathy,' you could change the tone of some of them, make the player more reluctant and Forgal more impatient, have a middle-of-mission lecture on why it's important to work with everyone - this way you joining an Order feels less 'oh you've always been sympathetic to other races' and more 'wait who are these people.' But you know the real kicker? These training sessions would have made us actually feel like we were a treasured part of his life, the kid he never had, that he takes the effort to train us and takes the time to correct us when we're wrong, that he shares his history with us.

And then, at Claw Island, he would place a hand on our shoulder and tell us - hey - don't worry. You did good. You tell my tale and you take my lessons and put them to good use, you hear me? Listen to Trahearne over there - I've told you a bit about him - he's a good kid, he's smart and he knows what he's doing. And - partner? Partner, I need you to put me down if that blasted dragon raises me.

And we're in tears and Trahearne standing there also puts up a fight and tells him not to go, but Forgal goes anyway, roaring his defiance at the dragon - and his famous line, "you may win the battle, dragon, but you will never defeat our spirit!" And maybe he adds - "you may defeat me, but I will be avenged!" like some cartoon villain only you know - you know that means you.

That is the storyline Forgal deserved. (I selfishly also fixed it just a bit with regards to Trahearne, but...) I don't care if we add an extra ten or twenty levels to the game to account for the four extra racial sympathy story chapters.

And see, now you'll argue that that's biased in favor of Forgal, to do all that with him but not the other two - and that's part of the idea.

Forgal isn't like the other two. He shouldn't be compared to the other two. The storyline we have is good for the other two. Extending their stories would feel... false. Yes, there are supposed to be parallels between the three Orders, but... in that case, ArenaNet should have done something entirely different with Forgal.

How about this: Almorra assigns us to someone else for a mentor, but we show such epic promise she switches us to Laranthir. His storyline? It's right in his idle dialogue at the Vigil Keep - he's always sought love. This puts his storyline on par with Sieran and Tybalt. What about Forgal? He's a Lionguard that all three Order mentors know well. We do racial sympathy with Forgal plus our Order mentor (doing those with only one ally is kind of absurd anyway). This can help set-up and foreshadow the tactical significance of Claw Island, too - and hey, maybe Forgal can even survive that! Or maybe he doesn't survive it but our Order mentor does! (Yeah, that fits better, since Laranthir is important in HoT.) And then, once the Pact is formed, their stories end more naturally without regard for the Order parallels, which would keep the story unique - where your choice of Order still matters even when it doesn't anymore. Tybalt didn't have to die - in fact, it's kind of absurd that he did since his story was about finding his own heroism, and then he dies. He can die later, perhaps, after he's thoroughly proved himself. (And hey, throw in an encounter with his old warband! Bonus lore points!) And Sieran 0 maybe Sieran could go through a heartbreaking transformation in Orr, the land of the dead - you see something far more heartbreaking than her death as she loses her spirit, and you and Trahearne both resolve that even if you're super-busy with the Pact, you can still cleanse Orr together to save Sieran. (This makes cleansing Orr a personal thing for you as well as Trahearne!) And Laranthir - well, I don't know what he was doing originally. Maybe he stayed back at the Vigil Keep to manage things, but you still see him now and then and he gives good advice and (since his storyline was about falling in love or something) you get to tease him about whatever's going on in his life, and then later he shows up again in HoT.

I'm going to stop - I already just presented a rough outline of a whole rewrite of core PS, I'm not going to step into HoT territory. (But since his storyline was about falling in love - ? Anything could happen really. Maybe his love died in the crash (we don't actually know of any characters who died in the actual crash. Awful shame) and that's why he takes the lead against Mordremoth. That would give him a cool motive.)

Anet I want this now.

I only wanted to say how unfair Forgal's story was to him, and then I came up with this whole thing - ? Some of it included a few helpful fixes for the Trahearne hate - this isn't something I can write out into a whole fic since I have a main fic and while this is a significant AU it's not quite enough for a whole fic but also far too much for just a headcanon - maybe I'll invent a new Commander.

[the-great-bbe]

The children shriek with laughter as the waves roll against their legs. The sweet sound melds with the crashing of the sea, of Mellario and Ellaria gossiping about their beloveds, of Rhaella sighing and relaxing for once. All is bright and golden and warm, save for their ice-cold goblets of sangria. Elia tilts her head back against her chair and smiles. Let those bastards keep that ugly ass throne, she has all she needs right here.

Or, the sangria beach party that Elia and her loved ones deserved. A short fic to start off Summer is for Dorne!

Among his many talents, Elia’s little brother is a master of mixing drinks.

He is a viper after all, and vipers know their poisons and how to mix them. Tequila from the agave blooming across the hillsides pairs perfectly with lime juice and distilled orange blossom nectar to make a margarita. Horchata foamy and fragrant with Summer Islander cinnamon can be elevated with sugarcane rum. And there’s nothing better on the gods’ green earth than red wine—proper Dornish sweetwine, not that diabetic piss from the Arbor—left to idle in icy splendor with strong brandy and fruit. Blood oranges, black strawberries, white nectarines, even a tart green apple or two. Their cousin Manfrey picked them all fresh from his private orchards near the Water Gardens just the day before. The bounty of Dorne for Dorne and Dornishmen alone.

A pitcher of his perfect sangria rests in a bucket full of ice slurry. Already her goblet is half empty, despite her efforts to sip and savor. It tastes so rich on her tongue much abused by dull Riverlands ale and Reacher wines. There are few blood oranges to be found north of the Boneway, even for a Princess of Dorne, and Elia feels the urge to inhale her drink. She sighs and rolls her shoulders. Just another sip for now. Summer explodes on her tongue, ripe and rich and such a dear welcome home.

Elia doesn’t remember the last time she was this happy. On Dragonstone it was a constant haze of sulfur and marine fog, and Kings Landing reeks from miles away. But here, on a long stretch of beach near Saltshore, the sun burns bright and delicious above the palm trees. Not a single cloud in the sapphire sky, nor any fog to mar the turquoise seas. Elia rolls her head back against her wicker chair. Perhaps later she’ll relocate to the hammock strung between two date palms and let the balmy sea breeze lull her and her children to sleep. But for now her precious Rhaenys plays in the surf with her cousins and Viserys, and dear Aegon builds a sandcastle with Oberyn’s help.

Instead of cowering from the Mad King’s rages and simmering with hatred towards her once husband, Elia lounges in the shade. Zinc paste is cloudy white on her shoulders, nose and ears to protect her from the strongest of the sun, just like the children. But the rest of her body is resplendent with shea butter and avocado oil. Thick aloe leaves already sticky with cooling sap wait in a basket by her feet in case she must ward away a sun burn, but her skin soaks up the midmorning sun like a child returning to her mother’s embrace. Gods, but the sun! She stretches her arms above her head and nearly knocks her wide brimmed hat aside. She swears she can feel the sunlight itself like warm silk through her fingers, like a waterfall down her chest to pool in her stomach and ignite joy in her veins.

She lets her gaze fall back towards the sea. When was the last time Rhaenys laughed this loudly? When was the last time Viserys laughed at all? Poor boy, but he, his mother and his baby sister are well in hand now. Targaryens by birth they may be, but the blood of Myriah Martell and Dyanna Dayne run sevenfold in their veins. Dorne shall never turn its back on any child no matter the color of their skin, and even from her shaded refuge Elia sees the freckles blooming across Viserys’s shoulders. Good; the more sun the better. Uncle Lewyn’s eldest daughter Obara throws him headlong into the waves and he shrieks with joy, while her little sister Nym and Doran’s Arianne demand their own toss into the surf. Rhaenys and Manfrey’s daughter Sarella help Lewyn’s Tyene search for shells and crabs, giggling and kicking seaweed at each other. When they find a proper shell, they bring it to Aegon and Oberyn who add it to their castle. Aegon blows a messy kiss onto Rhaenys’s cheek and Elia’s heart runs over with sweet warmth. Her babies, alive and well and happy.

It was a terribly close thing by the end of Robert’s Rebellion. Elia’s correspondence was cut off by Aerys in his paranoia, but she was able to smuggle out a letter to Oberyn when Rhaella left for Dragonstone. He returned with his sellswords to rescue them from their imprisonment, and not a moment sooner—Elia remembers how Kings Landing burned from her view on the ship home to Dorne. To think of what would’ve happened had they stayed…they say that Aerys was cut down by his own Kingsguard, and that the royal nursery was torn to shreds by the Mountain That Rides in search of children to kill.

Elia shudders. Perish the thought, banish it to the seven hells. Rhaegar is dead, and her children are Martells now. Even Rhaella forsook the Targaryen name when they alighted in Sunspear and she was hurried into proper birthing chambers. Daenerys came to the world not as a Targaryen princess but as a Lady Martell of Dorne, with Rhaella Martell the new Lady of Planky Town. Viserys and Aegon shall not give their lives to the Wall and Rhaenys shall not be chained to a Baratheon prince. Not if Westeros intends for Dorne to remain in the Seven Kingdoms, and truth be told Elia wonders if Doran intends to leave anyway. They entered into a kingdom with a union, and perhaps they shall leave with the sundering of one…

But that’s not what matters today. What matters is refilling her goblet. Elia raises it high, and Doran shuffles over with the pitcher. Her dear older brother is shirtless, stained with sand and salt, and there is a sweet flush to his cheeks. Even his bad leg seems fine with the therapy of burning sunlight illuminating their bones from the inside out. Mellario must certainly appreciate that! Her good sister lies on a spread linen sheet on the sands with Ellaria, Oberyn’s paramour. Both of them are bronze in the sun, a silk turban around Mellario’s head and Ellaria’s curls formed into twists down her back. And its’ said that Cersei Lannister is the most beautiful in Westeros, obviously people are blind. They look up at them with mischievous grins, before bumping their heads together and giggling. Elia smirks at Doran. “Careful now, habibi. I believe you’ll be ambushed later in the night and whisked away by a mystery woman.”

He laughs and his eyes crinkle at the edges. “I’ll be sure to not fight back too much.” He plops down next to her and sips at his lemon water. The maesters forbid him from alcohol and sugar until his gout is under control, a true tragedy in Elia’s eyes as the sangria is excellent. But even more excellent is seeing how happy her brother is. Gods, to imagine him mourning her and her babies as they did for uncle Lewyn, it’s a fate she would not wish on her loved ones. She intends to live to a hundred and twenty, just to ensure he’ll always smile at her with crinkled eyes.

Elia leans against his shoulder and peers out towards the cabana higher up towards the oasis grove. “Has Rhaella returned from Saltshore yet? Dany was giving the wet nurse a bit of a hard time.”

“Missed me, have you?” Rhaella, emerged from their cabana and the platters of fruit kept safe from the sea salt there, calls down to them. It’s been only a few months, and Rhaella is unrecognizable. Elia is glad to see the plump roundness of her stomach and thighs where before she was only skin and bone. And her skin, once as pale as parchment and twice as translucent, is as dark as her great-grandmother Dyanna. It glows against her silver-gold hair and lavender eyes, and there is happiness in her face where before there was only stifled fear.

Elia waves Rhaella over to the empty wicker chair by her side. Perhaps later, when the children sleep off their lunch and the adults are properly sauced from sangrias and margaritas, they’ll return to the cabana and lounge on the day beds. Maybe even one of the cabana boys—cabana men in truth, with their strong arms and backs—can give them all shoulder massages. Rhaella has a little favorite who is always eager to help his new lady relax. Elia raises her eyebrows at her good mother and she takes a long sip of her margarita. Elia is far from judging, as Rhaella deserves whatever happiness she can grasp.

They all do. How long have they all suffered these last years? Suffering Aerys, suffering Rhaegar, suffering the war that they wrought upon Westeros. Elia still remembers the screams from Rhaella’s chambers during their terrible stays in Kings Landing, she remembers the cold silences before Harrenhal and the even colder absences after. And now those men are dead and thousands with them. All over some Northern girl, and a prophecy that probably foretold the coming of the seasons than any promised prince!

Well, fuck them. Westeros has a new king now, in that stinking castle filled with blood and shit and ghosts, and the Baratheons and Lannisters can figure it out now. Let them have the starving smallfolk ready to rebel after a harsh winter. Let them have the honor of bartering away pieces of their souls until all that remains is bleeding pride. Let them have it all. All that matters to Dorne is the rice crop, and managing citrus exports, and the wellbeing of its people. Elia plans to build a new school for smallfolk children and petty gentry in Sunspear, as she is now Princess of Sunspear. More Martell branches for a blood orange tree to bear wondrous fruit. All beneath the sun, so bright in that perfect sky…

Elia sips her sangria. Oberyn and Aegon are finished with their sandcastle, and now he’s pulled out a guitar from somewhere and tries to teach his nephew how to play. Rhaenys perches on Obara’s shoulders and pretends to joust with Arianne who is on Viserys’s. Manfrey and his Summer Islander wife Bellegara Otherys finally finish up their romantic walk up and down the shore, with Bellegara joining Mellario and Ellaria’s whisper pile and Manfrey pulling Doran away to talk drunken business. Something about making a fleet of ships to rival Nymeria’s, and selling sweetwine to Sothoryos in exchange for coconut and date liquor. Elia giggles and can’t stop. Not with the sun so warm on her skin, not with Rhaella raising her goblet and toasting the coming summer.

It’s still winter north of the Red Mountains, but not here. No, summer is here for Dorne, and it is here to stay.

The children shriek with laughter as the waves roll against their legs. The sweet sound melds with the crashing of the sea, of Mellario and Ellaria gossiping about their beloveds, of Rhaella sighing and relaxing for once. All is bright and golden and warm, save for their ice-cold goblets of sangria. Elia tilts her head back against her chair and smiles.

Let those bastards keep that ugly ass throne, she has all she needs right here.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Mixtape

A/N: Here is my fic for A Very Harry Potter Summer so wonderfully organised by @the-hufflefluffwriter​ and @kalimagik​! My prompt was summer songs/mixtape. I loved writing this - I got to create a playlist and think of my favourite place in the world. The playlist will be at the bottom of the fic. There are a LOT of flashbacks in this, they’re bordered by asterisks and in italics! I have removed the taglist for this fic as there is content in here not suitable for those under the age of 18. If you are under 18, please read the warnings. I cannot stop you from reading but I will do my bit by warning you all. The smut starts with a boat scene, so that’s my warning for you all. As always, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: summer holidays and anniversaries.

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of food and alcohol, allusions to sex as well as a smut scene so under 18s, do not read. 

Word count: 3.3k

The September wind is cold and brisk as it wraps around you on your way to work at the Ministry for Magic.

Summer had come and gone in a rush of sun, sea, sand, and Sirius Black.

The build-up to the holiday was something else; he wouldn’t tell you where you were going. It didn’t matter how many times you guessed or argued; he would not crack. He even went to the extent of enlisting Lily to pack your things.

“It’s our first holiday together,” He said one night, his fingers trailing up and down your arm. “I’d like to keep it a surprise for as long as I can.”

The sincerity in his voice was reflected in his eyes, and you couldn’t remain angry at him, “Okay, I’ll just have to wait.”

He flipped you onto your back; pressing the right amount of his weight on top you, enough so you couldn’t wiggle away. He pressed kisses all over your face, “You’re going to love it.”

“I know I will, I’m with you.”

“Sap,” he mouthed before kissing you, effectively distracting you from your inquisition.

-------

Clocking in, you think back to the moment you arrived on the small Greek island:

******

The warmth of the sun settles over your skin as you step off the plane; Sirius close behind you. You tilt your face into the light, feeling all the tension make its way out of your body. Sirius’ hand is a steadying presence as you take in your first sight of the island. You had seen it from the sky; had gripped your seat in fear and anticipation as the plane made its awkward landing – the island being too small for a traditional landing but seeing the island from this level has you breathless from its beauty.

Your leg bounces up and down for the entire coach transfer to your hotel. Sirius chuckles as his hand grips your knee to keep it from bouncing. Your eyes are wide as you take in the full beauty of the island; the constant views of the Aegean Sea as well as the greenery of the trees. Even through the windows of the coach, you can hear the unrelenting chorus of the crickets – their song heavier in the mid-July heat.

The coach stops outside your hotel; Sirius pulling you off by hand and picking up your suitcases. It’s a small family run establishment – as is every hotel on the island. And from your first look of the whitewashed walls and terracotta tiles, you were in love. The eldest son walks you to your room for the next two weeks; he hands you the key with a kind smile, explaining that the attached restaurant is open until eleven that night, but the bar is open until the early hours of two.

He departs with a goodbye and a thank you, leaving you and Sirius to explore the medium-sized room you would call home for the next fortnight.

Upon sight of the bed, Sirius drops the suitcases and promptly jumps on the mattress, landing on his back. His hair fans out around him, resembling a halo. You snort at him in amusement, grabbing your suitcases from where he had dropped them to place them on the small bench across the room.

Flinging open the balcony doors, you leave your lover on the bed to see more of the resort. You hold your head up to the sun, enjoying the feel of its rays of your face. You sigh happily, opening your eyes and scouring them over the resort. The pool looks so inviting as does the restaurant area by the bar.

Arms wrapping themselves around your waist make you jump but you soon relax into the familiar touch of Sirius. He chuckles as he shifts a piece of your hair so he can kiss your neck. You lean into his touch, enjoying the feel of his lips on your already overheated skin.

“It’s so gorgeous here, Sirius, thank you,” You gush, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw.

Sirius’ hand pats your waist, “Anything for you, my dear.”

You hum, turning in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck. You kiss him for a minute before pulling away. You grin up at the love of your life, “How about we take a shower then go get some food?”

A wicked smirk takes over his face as Sirius drags you back into the room. “I think you read my mind.”

--------

The both you decide that for your first night on the island, you shouldn’t travel too far from the hotel. Instead, ambling down to the restaurant on the beach, hand in hand as you breathe in the night air.

The food is delicious; as is your company. Sirius keeps your gaze as he clinks his wine glass against yours; the conversation between the two of you flowing effortlessly.

Leaving the restaurant, your tangled hands swing between your bodies. You grin at Sirius as you stop outside a heavily populated bar. He beams in earnest before leading you inside.

The wine had gone to your heads; topped off with the cocktails you down at the bar. Sirius drags you into the centre of the dancefloor where other couples are pressed tightly to each other; so tightly you can’t see where one ends and the other begins.

Sirius spins you before drawing you back into his arms. You laugh as your wrap your arms around his neck. His hands find purchase on your waist. You dance together; bodies wrapped up in each other as the upbeat song from the eighties washes over you – the artist singing about an invisible touch.

You fall back into your hotel room; groping at each other. Sirius pulls off your shirt as you undo the buttons to his. Your hands run over the sculpted muscles of his stomach, not missing the way his breath hitches at your touch.

The sex isn’t hurried, but from the alcohol running through your systems it’s sloppy and full of laughter.

It’s perfect.

*******

You groan at the pile of folders perched precariously on your desk. Removing your coat and setting down your bag, you eye the heap with a venomous glare.

The pile of folders has you wishing for the sun of your holiday and the closeness of Sirius.

Opening the first folder, you think back to one of your favourite nights of the holiday:

*******

The young couple clearly fancy themselves the latest duo to hit the charts with the way they belt out the song. You see Sirius’ shoulders shake as he tries to quash the laughter building up inside him.

If only the young couple knew how they were butchering the song about not breaking hearts. Sirius leans over to whisper in your ear, “They won’t be breaking hearts, but they are breaking ear drums.”

His comment has you snorting into your drink, spilling it slightly.

The couple at the karaoke machine finish their rendition of the seventies hit, bowing as they leave the stage. Sirius doesn’t hold back his laugh as he stands up, drawing you up with him. For a moment, you think he’s going to pull you up on the small stage which would be nothing short of a disaster since the karaoke machine would not hold any magical singers.

Instead, Sirius leads you out of the bar to walk by the harbour. He pauses by the war memorial dedicated to the second muggle war; pulling you closer to him, arm settling around your waist.

“Hey, Sirius?” You ask.

Sirius hums in answer; grey eyes bright in the moonlight.

“Don’t go breaking my heart,” you sing, laughing as Sirius’ face lights up.

In his gravelly voice that reminds you of a rock singer from the eighties, he sings back, “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Underneath the moonlit sky, you sing the words back to one another – adding the song to the list of promises made to each other through the years of your relationship; first starting on your first anniversary in Seventh Year.

The waves crashing onto the harbour provide the backdrop to your duet and promises.

*****

Lunch isn’t a big affair; something simple brought from home so you can eat at your desk as you catch up on the paperwork. You pause with a forkful of food on its way to your mouth; another memory gripping you in its clutch:

******

The speaker system attached to the hotel resort plays on a loop for the majority of the day. It’s both a dream and a curse. A dream as you get to know the latest muggle chart songs, but a curse as it’s repeated on a loop.

You sit on the bed, running a brush through your hair. You bark out a laugh as Sirius shimmies around the room, thrusting his hips in time to the beat of the Donna Summer song that was playing for the third time in two hours.

“What do you say, babe? Am I ‘hot stuff’?” He asks, thrusting his hips again in emphasis.

You continue to laugh, fanning yourself, “The hottest stuff.”

Sirius dances across the room to you, laughing along with you.

With a tug of your hand, Sirius is sprawled out on the bed next to you. In a second, he has you pressed into the mattress as he straddles you. His hands run up and down your body as he presses kiss after kiss to your face – your eyes, cheeks, lips. He kisses everywhere.

Soon, the kisses become longer and more insistent. Hands start to pull at clothing; discarding them across the room.

The reservations at the restaurant are forgotten as Sirius’ hands find that spot at the apex of your thighs, and you throw your head back into the pillows with a moan.

For the rest of the night, Sirius reminds you just how hot he really is.

******

As the day continues, your thoughts consistently hark back to your holiday.

The September weather has taken a turn for the worse; the rain battering the windows of your office at the ministry.

Balancing your chin on your hand, your desire for the warms beaches of the small Greek island grows stronger. With a longing-filled sigh, you think back to one of the many days spent on the beach:

*****

You run your hand gently down Sirius’ arm, enjoying the goosebumps that rise in your finger’s wake. Through the tinted glass of your sunglasses, you watch the man you fell in love with way back in Fourth Year. His chest rises and falls in a slow motion; he’s utterly relaxed in this place – he has no worries here.

Sirius’ hair is tied up in the leather band he keeps around his wrist. It elongates his neck and reveals more of his face. You bite your lip at the sight of the fading bruises on his neck, knowing you were the one to put them there on your first night here. Your stomach flutters as you know your neck looks something similar… as do your inner thighs.

The tattoos painted on his body stand out in the sun; the magical symbols and the memorial pieces litter his chest and arms with a fair few on his legs.

He really is something else.

He had always been handsome; had always had the attention of boys and girls alike through Hogwarts. It was expected that you had fallen for him too; realising your feelings in Fourth Year but not confronting them until Sixth Year.

Through your relationship, you had witnessed him transform into the man he is today. A man who will always have a glint of mischief in his grey eyes, but a man who loves you fiercely and will do so for the rest of his life.

A sing from the hotel plays in your mind; a Swedish band singing about kisses of fire, and Sirius’ really were.

The feelings for this man had you burning from the inside out; and you had been burning since you first kissed in Sixth Year.

Your hand runs over a scar on his arm; received in a duel through the wizarding war. That night had been one of the worst of your life; using the entire bottle of Dittany on his arm in panic whilst trying to stem the bleeding. Losing him would be a nightmare unto itself; a thought that you couldn’t even comprehend.

The song continues to play in your mind and the lyrics settle deep within your bones. Never before Sirius had you felt like this; you were entirely infatuated with him, and he you.

As your eyes run over his body; from his tied up hair to the tips of his toes, you felt even more in love with than you were before the holiday.

*****

Instead of apparating home, you decide to take the tube, letting the menial aspects of your job leech from your body as you rest your eyes.

The rocking of the carriage hauls you back into another memory:

*********

The waves lap against the boat. The azure blue of the Aegean looking as if it spans for miles and miles. You hold your hand to your forehead, shielding your eyes from the sun as you sunbathe on the deck of the boat.

It was Sirius’ idea to rent the boat; deciding to see more of the island from the ocean and simply spend the day just the two of you where you couldn’t be bothered.

It was a surprise to learn that he could drive boats, but with a sheepish grin, he explains how he was taught by his grandfather when he visited the family villa in Italy one summer.

The tinny noise of the radio sounds quietly in the background; an upbeat muggle song becoming the theme of the boat ride. The singer croons about how love really hurts without his lover. Sirius surprises you once again by knowing some of the words; he shrugs at your questioning eyebrow.

Sirius anchors the boat just off the coastline of an empty beach. He switches off the engine, letting the boat bob in the water.  

The heat of the midday sun changes the atmosphere. Sirius’ touch starts to linger; first on your shoulder, then as he thumb pulls down your lower lip. He taps your bottom lip once before pressing a kiss to your mouth. You gasp into his mouth and Sirius takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

His hands undo the fastenings to your bathing suit; dropping it to the side with a salacious grin. With a light chuckle, you pull him back down to your mouth, humming at the feeling of his hands roaming your chest. You draw away from the kiss, instead, moving your mouth across his jawline and down his neck, sucking hickies on the way.

Your hands slip into his trunks; he inhales sharply at your touch before pouncing on you with a laugh.

The weight of his body is enough to keep you pinned underneath him, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him further into you if that was at all possible. He braces a hand above you as he rolls his hips into you; you arch your back wanting him as close to you as possible. Sirius sucks hickeys wherever he can reach – your neck, your collarbone, your chest. He takes his time with you, eliciting drawn out moans and groans from your mouth which he swallows with his own. You run your fingernails down his back, leaving behind red marks on his shoulder blades.

In a small boat anchored by the beach, you lose yourselves in each other until your skin is slick with sweat and you’re panting into each other’s mouths.

*******

The holiday defined so much for the both of you. It was needed; the both of you beginning to feel the stresses of everyday life starting to pile up on your shoulders.

The holiday helped you reconnect as a couple, bringing you closer together than ever before. The island would always hold a special place in your heart for that very reason.

-------

The house is quiet as you unlock the front door. Toeing off your shoes, you hang your coat on the rack and drop your bag next to it. The smell of food wafts to you from the kitchen and you follow the mouth-watering scent.

Two pillar candles are lit in the centre of the table. Two plates filled with food are settled on either side, and the love of your life grins as you enter the room.

“Darling,” He greets, “How was work?”

“Long,” You sigh, pecking his lips in hello.

Sirius pulls you back in for another before letting you settle at the other end of the table.

For a minute, the only noise between the two of you are the scratching of knives and forks on plates. You take a sip from your wine glass, letting the crisp taste settle on your tongue before swallowing. You beam at Sirius, “Happy Anniversary, my love.”

He raises his wine glass to you in a toast, “Happy Anniversary to you too, darling.”

Sirius reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, silver rectangular box. He stares at it for a minute before sliding it across the table to you.

“I thought we weren’t doing gifts this year!” You cry, “I haven’t gotten you anything!”

Sirius chuckles, “Knowing you love me is enough.”

“Sap,” You mouth across the table, picking up the small box.

“I didn’t want to forget it.” He whispers, watching you unwrap the small box.

“Oh…” You whisper as the wrapping reveals a tape nestled in the small box.

“It’s a mixtape… of the songs we heard on holiday.”

“How did you do this?” You ask, picking up the tape in your hands.

“Well I made a note of all the songs I knew and then if I didn’t, I asked the wait staff when you went to the bathroom. They’re all songs from my favourite parts of the holiday, though I did love it all.”

“Sirius, this is wonderful.”

“Remus explained how to make the mixtape.”

“I’ll need to send a thank you gift to him.”

“You like it?” He asks, insecurity lining his voice.

“Like it? Sirius, I love it. I love it so much, it’s perfect. I’ll listen to it always.”

“There’s a note underneath.”

You look down to see a small folded piece of paper nestled among the tissue paper. You sit the mixtape down carefully before unfolding the note from Sirius.

There, written in his elegant script are the words: “For the best summer I’ve ever experienced. I love you. Happy Anniversary, my darling.”

“Sirius… I love it. I love it so much. I love you. I’m going to play it right now.” You say, standing to pop the tape into your stereo system.

You gasp as the first song begins to play – immediately recognising the opening bars to one of the many songs you and Sirius had danced to on your holiday.

“Oh! It’s the song from our first night when we fought tiredness and went out. We were at the restaurant down the road from the hotel and then danced to this song we had drunk too much wine and cocktails.”

“One of the best nights of my life.”

You hold your hand out to the long-haired man, “Dance with me,” you whisper.

He takes your hand without question, spinning you before drawing you into his arms, holding you tightly. You sway to the beat of the song; letting the memories of your holiday wash over you in a tidal wave of emotions.

Sirius keeps his eyes on you, holding your gaze through it all. He dips his head, pressing his lips to yours for a long, sensuous kiss that has your toes curling and your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him pressed close to you.

Summer had come and gone in a haze of sun, sea, and sand.

But Sirius Black would always be a constant.

*********

MIXTAPE:

Genesis - Invisible Touch (first night on the island)

Elton John and Kiki Dee - Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Karaoke scene)

Donna Summer - Hot Stuff (hotel room scene)

ABBA - Kisses of Fire (beach scene)

Billy Ocean - Love Really Hurts Without You (boat scene)

[wisdom-walks-alone]

we’ve got mistletoe and firelight

a christmas fic for my friend @queerbutstillhere! this was originally for the @damijonsecretsanta but i didn’t finish it in time fhnusihf sorry it’s a bit late korey but you know me DHFUSHYFSL

read it on ao3 The first Christmas was spent in Hamilton County, at Jon and his family’s house. It was snowing. Jon was just about to lose hope for a white Christmas, but mother nature seemed to pull through.

There was excitement in the air, as there always was during this time of year, and Jon was watching as the snow fell lazily outside the window.

"Down, boy," his mom chided, chuckling and putting a hand on his back as he realized he was hovering.

"Sorry, Mom." Jon lowered himself back onto the couch, a sheepish smile on his face.

Mom shook her head, smiling herself. "It's fine, Jon. You know powers are fine in the house, I just don't want you getting in the habit of using them without realizing."

"I know, Mom, I'll be careful," Jon assured her. She ruffled his hair, was met with his protests, then disappeared back into the kitchen to check on dinner.

Just then, Dad walked out of the kitchen, a steaming mug in each hand. He handed the one piled high with whipped cream to Jon, who thanked him avidly. "I would say it's hot and to be careful, but I'm not sure that really matters anymore," Dad commented, and Jon took a tentative sip of his hot chocolate to test it.

It felt fine to him, so he shrugged. "Don't think so. Tastes good, though."

Dad smiled. "You got a little something on your lip there." He pointed and Jon went cross-eyed for a second, then licked the whipped cream off his lips. "You're a bit too young to be shaving, still."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Daaad, you're not nearly as funny as you think you are sometimes."

"It's Christmas, Jon, humor me."

Jon stuck his tongue out and took another sip of hot chocolate.

When the doorbell rang, Jon was the first one up, at the door in a split second, mug left forgotten on the coffee table. “Damian!”

Damian stood in the door, wearing a long coat and a nice shirt and tie, contrasting Jon and his family’s matching sweaters. His dad stood behind him, dressed similarly.

It was a little surreal to have Batman over for Christmas Eve dinner, but then Jon was starting to get used to surreal.

“Bruce, Damian, thank you for joining us!” Jon’s dad came up behind him, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for having us, Clark,” Mr. Wayne replied, stepping inside and reaching to shake his hand.

“Hello, Corncob.” Damian brushed snow off of his shoulder before shrugging his coat off, handing it to his father when he held out a hand for it.

“You can hang those right here.” Dad gestured to the coat rack. “Dinner’s almost ready. And Lois made pie!”

“Can’t wait. It’s been too long since I’ve had Lois’s pie,” Mr. Wayne said.

“Me, too,” Dad agreed.

“Mom made pie last week,” Jon commented, looking at his dad quizzically.

“Exactly,” Dad replied solemnly.

Damian shakes his head. “Tt.”

Dinner went by without much fanfare. And Mom's pie was delicious, as always. Dad had three slices and Damian's dad had two. Luckily, Mom had thought ahead and made two pies. Always one for preparedness.

Once they were all full and done, Damian wiped his mouth and stood. "Now that dinner is finished, I believe it is time for the main event…" He paused, looking around at all of them. Drama queen. "Presents."

"Yes!" Jon leapt out of his seat and made a beeline for the tree.

"Just one, Jon!" Mom called after him. "It's only Christmas Eve!"

Damian met him by the tree, picking up a box that Jon knew wasn't there before. "Here, open mine."

Jon took the box slowly, looking at Damian. "Really? For me?"

Damian scoffed and turned away. "Yes, Jonathan, for you. Who else would it be for?"

Jon smiled widely. "So we are friends,” he said, smile turning devilish.

“Tt. Don't push your luck.”

“You loooove me,” Jon taunted, floating over Damian’s head. “Can’t get enough of me!”

“Just open your present, Hayseed.”

Jon laughed, landing cross-legged on the floor. He started tearing open the wrapping paper, eyes widening when he saw what was inside.

"Monk-E-Monsters! I've wanted this game for months! How did you know?"

Damian shrugged, a knowing smirk on his face. "I'm Robin," he said simply.

"But I thought it was all sold out until after the Christmas season," Jon remembered, looking at him quizzically.

Damian shrugged again. "I'm also Damian Wayne. I pulled a few strings."

Jon grinned and threw himself at his friend (they were friends, whether Damian liked it or not). "Thanks, Damian."

Damian froze for a second, then relaxed. "Of course," he replied, patting Jon on the back. "Merry Christmas, Jon."

-

Wayne Manor was always cold this time of year. It was an unbelievably old house, and unbelievably big. But gathered in one of the smaller living rooms by a roaring fireplace, it wasn't so bad.

Decorations covered so many of the rooms that Jon would have thought it impossible if he didn’t know who lived here. Even then, the bats must have really had to pull together for something like this—probably all under Alfred’s watchful eye, of course.

A good amount of the caped community was here for one big Christmas party. Jon and Damian's dads were talking with some other members of the League. Dick and his friends were testing how many ornaments he could juggle before dropping one. From his vantage point, Jon guessed they were up to eight or so. He could see some more of Batman's allies in the hallway, Kate and Duke sitting on the stairs chatting, Harper, Cass, and Steph giggling over something on their phones. Conner was hanging out with Tim and the rest of their Titans team, while Jon and Damian sat on the couch with their own Titans playing Super Smash Bros.

"Again?" Gar whined, throwing his hands up.

"Man, you gotta let someone else win every once in a while," Wally added, already resigned. He and Gar sat on the floor, Damian on the couch with Emiko on one side and Jon on the other. Raven sat on Jon's other side, her controller floating in front of her, most of her attention taken up by her drink and her book.

Damian shrugged. "Emiko wins sometimes. So does Raven, when she's paying attention."

"We mean you should let one of us win for once!" Gar wailed.

"You'd win if you were good at the game."

"You little sh—"

"Hey, hey, hey." Jon put a hand on Gar's shoulder to keep him from lunging at Damian. "We are not having a brawl on Christmas."

"But it would be so entertaining," Emiko said disappointedly.

"He is kinda right, though," Raven piped up, not taking her eyes off of her book. "Just get better at the game and maybe you'll win."

"Et tu, RaeRae?" Gar looked up at her, looking like a sad puppy. Literally. He had turned into a little green puppy and was staring up at her pathetically.

Raven wasn't even phased, just turned a page in her book. Jon snorted.

Gar turned back, but the pout remained.

Just then, somebody wolf whistled, and everyone in the room turned to the culprit: Tim. And once everybody saw who it was, they followed his line of sight, right over to Jon and Damian. Jon suddenly felt very vulnerable, which was ironic in of itself, shrinking in on himself a bit while he tried to figure out why everybody was staring at him.

"Hey, Rob." Gar grinned toothily, staring at the space above their heads. Damian's face turned beet red, and Jon looked up to see Kon floating over them, dangling what was unmistakably mistletoe over their heads.

Damian crossed his arms haughtily, pulling a leg closer to his body, clearly trying to downplay his embarrassment. "Tt. As if anyone would partake in your childish holiday games."

Jon couldn't help but laugh. He leaned over, pressing a quick peck to Damian's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Damian." Somehow, Damian's face had managed to turn a deeper shade of red, and he looked away as he pulled his other leg onto the couch.

"Tt. Whatever." Then, when the room had once again filled with chatter and they were about to start another round of Smash, Jon heard Damian mutter a quiet, "Merry Christmas, Jon."

-

Their first Christmas in their new apartment wasn't looking too shabby, if you asked Jon. He was quite satisfied with the way everything was decorated, by the lights laid out on the TV stand, the tree in the corner letting off a soft glow. Of course, Damian was a perfectionist, so obviously everything would look perfect.

Damian walked out of the kitchen with a mug of hot chocolate, sweater sleeves pulled over his hands, and plopped on the couch next to Jon. He pulled the blanket over his bare legs and tucked himself under Jon’s arm, turning his attention to the Hallmark movie Jon had put on. Jon still didn’t understand the point of wearing shorts with a sweater, and when asked, Damian would just shrug.

He leaned his head on Damian’s, nursing his own mug of hot chocolate. “This is nice,” he said, squeezing Damian a bit tighter.

“Arguable. This movie is maybe mediocre at best,” Daman replied, a smirk audible in his voice.

Jon rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean the movie and you know it.” Damian snorted. “I mean this. You. Me. Us. It’s nice.”

“You’re such a sap,” Damian said, turning his face further into Jon’s chest. “But I agree with the sentiment. I must admit, this is nice.” He played idly with the hem of Jon’s shirt, and Jon pressed a kiss to his head as the movie continued to play.

As the credits rolled, Jon stood up, earning him a whine, with grabby hands following after him as Damian flopped the rest of the way onto the couch. Jon chuckled, walking over to the tree and picking up a small box. He brought it back over to the couch, and Damian’s eyebrows scrunched. “It’s only Christmas Eve,” he pointed out.

“Yeah,” Jon agreed, “but I think you deserve to open one tonight. I hope you like it.” He smiled, holding the box out to his boyfriend.

Damian took the box gingerly, undoing the ribbon carefully and lifting the lid. He pulled out a silver charm bracelet, laying it out on his palm so that he could look at the charms. They were small, nothing fancy, just disks with their initials and a pair of green and blue jewels. “Like I said before, you’re a sap,” Damian told him, but he was smiling. “I love it, thank you.”

He pulled Jon in for a kiss, hand on the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. When they pulled away, Jon gestured to the bracelet, and Damian held out his hand as Jon did the clasp.

Damian smiled. “It’s beautiful. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome,” Jon said, taking his hands. “Merry Christmas, Damian.”

“Merry Christmas, Jon.”

-

Damian's never been one for mornings. So when sunlight spills in through the window, all he does is roll over and push his face into the pillow. It smells like lemon scented shampoo.

The bed dips behind him, and strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him close to a warm body. Damian relaxes into it.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Jon mumbles into his skin, nuzzling into his neck.

Damian pulls Jon’s arms tighter around him, and he feels Jon press a kiss into his shoulder. “Morning, love,” he replies drowsily, his voice still thick with sleep. He twists and rolls over in Jon’s arms to face him, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from Jon’s face. Jon hums, pulling him in for a kiss.

“Daddy! Baba!” a little voice screeches from down the hallway. “Santa was here, Santa was here! Wake up, wake up, Santa was here!”

Damian groans, turning his face back into the pillows. Jon just chuckles. “Your son is calling.”

“Before 8 AM, he’s your son.”

“Was that a Lion King reference? Color me impressed.”

“Ari! Ari, Santa came!”

Damian sits up at that, Jon’s arms falling to his lap. “Sebastian Phillip Wayne-Kent, do not wake your sister up this early in the morning!”

Jon sits up next to him and drags a hand down his face. “It’s too late, she’s awake.”

An excited shriek sounds from Aria’s bedroom, and Damian sighs into his hands. “You heard her, Hayseed. I’m going back to sleep.”

“You can’t go back to sleep, you have to see what Santa brought you,” Jon teases. Damian flops back onto the bed.

“Nope, it’s too early for this, goodnight.”

Too quick for him to process, Damian is standing in Aria’s room, the excited and very awake toddler standing up in her crib, jumping and bouncing. “That’s cheating!” he calls out the door. Jon just cackles from down the hall.

“Ba!” Aria smacks him on the chest.

“Alright, alright, let’s go, you little terror. Santa came last night.” Damian lifts her out of the crib and settles her on his hip, making his way downstairs, the smell of pancakes, eggs, toast, and coffee flooding his nose. Of course Jon already made breakfast. He continues to the living room, where Jon is just barely managing to restrain Bash from opening anything too soon.

When he sees Damian he finally lets go, and Bash zooms over to the tree, floating around as he looks for which gifts are for him. Seeing Bash’s excitement and wanting to follow suit, Aria wriggles free from Damian’s arms and Jon has to use his superspeed to catch her before she hits the floor.

Damian sighs and drops onto the couch beside Jon, watching Aria toddle after Bash, trying to keep up.

“Look, Ari, this one’s for you!” Bash holds out a large box that’s almost as big as Aria. Damian knows there’s a doll in that one.

“Yay!” Aria sits down on the floor with it and starts ripping it open, and Bash finds one to tear open for himself.

“Hey.” Jon gets his attention and holds out a small box, a dopey smile on his face. Damian takes the box gingerly, taking off the lid. It’s a new ID tag clip for his scrubs, with a rubber cartoon cat. He laughs.

“Thank you, habibi, it’s perfect.” Jon clears his throat and glances up for a second, and Damian follows his gaze to where Jon is dangling a piece of mistletoe above their heads. Jon looks at him expectantly, and Damian laughs as he leans in.

“Eeewww,” Bash cuts in, making a disgusted face at them.

“Eeww!” Aria echoes happily, scrunching her nose in an attempt to copy her brother.

Jon rests their foreheads together as they laugh. He looks up at Damian through his lashes and says, “Merry Christmas, Damian.”

Damian smiles. “Merry Christmas, Jon.”

[lesetoilesfous]

i dunno if they're open, but can i request from the kiss prompts, 30) kiss in the full moon, with NB!Handers? basically a Hawke who uses they/them pronouns, only goes by Hawke, and no specific descriptors or mentions of their sex? =)

Hey anon! I had way too much fun with this, thank you so much for the request!!! I really hope you like it. I am also going to be adding NB!Handers to my preferred pairings list specifically because of you :D <3

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting Pairing: NB!Handers

Characters: NB!Hawke, Anders

Tags: modern AU, post All that Remains, reference to mental illness, reference to police violence, reference to abusive institutions (the Circle is really, really awful y'all), reference to gun violence, smoking, strong language, everyone's an adult here Anders is just broke (hence the bike)

Rating: Mature

“I knew I’d find you here.”

The Kirkwall marina is quiet and mostly empty - boatowners have retired below decks with the rise of the moon and stars, and the place is mostly closed to the public otherwise. Anders had seen Hawke’s jeep, first, when he’d padlocked his bike to the iron fence. Now, as the wind pulls ripples across the ink-black bay, he finds the person in question.

Hawke is wearing a heavy brown leather jacket covered in patches, their long brown hair wavy with the humidity and blown about in the wind. They’re sitting on a stone pillar near the pier, staring up at the wide full moon. It’s such a clear night that Anders can make out the craters on it, and it’s harder to see the stars in the immediate radius of the moon, which diffuses into silver rainbows in the dark. The ocean falls in soft sighs against the thin beach, and ahead of them the bay closes between two promontories, which are darker black against the deep blue night.

Hawke looks back at Anders at the same time as their mabari, Dog, lifts her great head, sandy ears pricking in his direction. Anders waves at them both, trying to rearrange his features into an expression that doesn’t show exactly how worried he is. Instead, he folds himself awkwardly to sit on a pillar beside Hawke. The stone is cold even through his jeans, and Anders can feel a hole working its way through his battered converse. He’ll worry about that tomorrow.

For a long moment, Hawke is quiet, and the two of them sit there in the dark, listening to the eerie rattle and creak of the boats in the Kirkwall marina. Then Hawke says, softly, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Anders looks at them, but they’re still staring ahead at the bay, and the moonlight skidding silver over the water. Their nose is smooth and bumped a little with the scar of an old break. Their eyebrows are thick and dark, as are their eyelashes. Their brown eyes glitter in the starlight. They tuck a clump of wavy hair back behind their ear, which is braced by silver cuffs over the shell and a row of hoops along their earlobe. Anders breathes, and the air is so cold that it tastes sweet.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to be here.” He’s trying for a joke, but even Anders can hear the way it falls flat as he feels the smile plastered onto his lips slip a little.

Hawke looks at him, and their eyes are rich and dark and brown and beautiful. There are thumbnail bruises of purple sleeplessness beneath them, too. They speak again, hushed as if the pair of them were in a cathedral and not a car-park outside a half empty marina. “Still.”

Something in Anders’ chest lurches as the wind makes the trees and grass behind them hush a sighing chorus to the sea. He shrugs, and feels the awkwardness of it across his shoulders. He’d never eaten well, in the Circle, and his body as a result felt stretched out and distended: he wasn’t fat or muscular enough to pull off the broadness of his proportions, but ever since he’d hit puberty what food he could get just didn’t seem to stick. He pushes away the memories of old hunger and focuses on the present, instead. “Yeah, well, you’re an idiot.”

Hawke huffs a laugh then, one of their canines hooked a little in front of their other teeth. They look down at their hands, where their nails are chopped short and painted with haphazard, chipped black polish. “Maybe.” They bite the inside of their cheek, and swallow twice before they speak. “I just. Keep thinking that if I dream it hard enough I’ll be able to go back and save her. You know? Like I’ll figure it out, somehow. And this time I won’t be too late and -”

Hawke cuts themself off, blinking rapidly, their dark eyes brighter in the moonlight. Anders swallows the lump in his own throat, and the urge to lean across and squeeze their arm or something similarly saccharine. With a feeling like chewing on breaking glass, he forces himself to pull up his memories of the months following Karl. It’s difficult - most of that time is a blur spent flinching every time he saw a templar in kevlar. Too many nights spent waking up with the sound of a bullet in his head. Anders winds his fingers together, squeezing them tight enough to hurt to ground himself back in the present. He can feel Hawke’s dark eyes on him, their gaze questioning. Anders looks up instead at the moon, and calls himself a coward.

“After...After Karl I, couldn’t really think straight. For a while. I mean, not that I ever thought straight.” Anders tosses half a grin in Hawke’s direction, but they don’t smile back, just watch him, quietly. Listening. Anders always feels as if he doesn’t know what to do with all that attention. He isn’t really used to people respecting him when he speaks. He doesn’t want to waste it. He clenches his teeth, and the wind whispers over the back of his neck, pulling at the hair in his ponytail. “But, um. I didn’t really feel like I woke up until I... Let myself accept that this is just. What the world looks like now. Without him in it.” Anders’ eyes burn, and he blinks rapidly and hopes that Hawke doesn’t notice the way his breath hitches.

If they do, they don’t say anything, instead fishing a packet of cigarettes from their pocket, lighting one before offering him the pack. Anders takes it gratefully, slipping a cigarette between his lips and leaning forward for Hawke to light it. Their lighter has a bright, chipped progress flag on the casing, and Anders can’t help but find it reassuring, for all the cliche. The cigarette lights, and Anders breathes in deeply, savouring the warm ache of it and breathing out a long gust before he speaks again.

“It’s like. They were part of another chapter. And you’re already onto the next one. And you kind of, have to stop trying to go back to those pages, otherwise you’ll miss what’s happening in these ones.” Anders laughs, and scrubs at his cheeks, feeling the graze of his stubble and wishing he’d remembered to shave. “Sorry, that’s stupid.”

“No,” Hawke says, firmly, taking a drag of their own cigarette and breathing it out in a gust of smoke before they speak. “No, that makes sense.” They look at him sidelong, then, and when they blink a tear runs rapidly, silently down their tanned cheek. “I don’t know how to keep reading.”

Anders rests his hand against the stone he’s sitting on. It’s rough and cool. His eyes move from the great belly of the moon to the dusting of stars over the horizon, trying to trace the shapes of the constellations. “I think…” He says, slowly, sounding the words out as he says them, “It starts with this. With people you care about. Quiet places. Places where you feel like you can be everything you are and feel everything you’re feeling without holding it in. Places where you feel safe.”

Hawke shakes their head, and their hair falls over the shoulder of their jacket, catching on the ridges of their patches. “I don’t feel safe.”

Anders ignores the wrench in his chest at that, and takes another drag of his cigarette before he looks down to meet Hawke’s eyes. “You will.” Hawke holds his gaze for a long minute after he says it. Then they nod, once, and glance away, bringing the cigarette back up to their lips.

For a while they sit there in the quiet, smoking, peaceful. Dog has rested her head on her thick paws, and Hawke is careful to tap their ash far away from her. Eventually, the ever-present blur of memory and feeling at the back of Anders’ head threatens to overwhelm the silence, and he tugs his phone out of the pocket of his coat. It’s an old suede thing with feather detailing he’d got second hand. Isabela teases him about it, but it always makes him feel safer than anything else does. He figures that’s enough. Anders taps the cracked screen of his phone, blinking at the blue light. Hawke glances at him, their brown eyes almost black in the dark.

Anders tilts his phone screen at them. “Mind if I play some music?”

They blink, once, then nod, and take another drag on their cigarette. “Sure.”

Anders hits play with a sense of near physical relief, and the tinny, soft sound of some alt rock eases into the air between them. After three songs Anders has finished his cigarette. After four, Hawke has finished theirs. For a moment, they sit there, unmoving and terribly still. Anders sits forward, feeling the weight of his phone shift in his pocket as he does so. “How are you feeling now?”

They offer him a shadow of a smile, heavy coat and baggy jeans disguising long lines of wiry muscle that Anders couldn’t forget if he tried. “Better. Anders?”

“Yes?” Anders wishes he didn’t feel as much like a heroine in some silent film, but Hawke always seems to have that effect on him. They make him feel like some damsel in need of saving. They make him want to be a hero.

Hawke’s lips curl up into a crooked smile that creases the corners of their eyes. “Thanks. For coming out here.”

Anders shrugs and lies. “It’s nothing.” When Hawke snorts, he goes on, grinning, “No, really. What else was I going to be doing? Now my friend, on the other hand. This poor sap is opening his free clinic at 5am this morning which…” Anders gets out his phone, tapping the home button. “Is in about three hours. Now that idiot, him, yeah, I’d feel sorry for. But luckily neither of us know anyone so masochistic.”

Hawke huffs a laugh, their voice rough and climbing into a giggle as they squeeze their eyes shut, scrubbing at their cheeks. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” They say it with a smile.

Anders tilts his head, and tries to ignore the warmth that flushes through his chest whenever Hawke looks at him like that. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Hawke shrugs, and pushes their hair back over their shoulders, moving so that they’re facing him, their legs spread wide and their jacket hanging loose over a white t-shirt. They look up at Anders boldly. “You’re my idiot.”

Anders’ flush pushes its way up into his cheeks and on into his ears, the cold of the early morning forgotten in the way that Hawke is staring at him. “Really? I must have missed the memo…”

“Anders,” Hawke’s voice is soft, and as they speak they rest their hand on Anders’ cheek. Their skin is soft and cold with the night air, and Anders leans into it as if he’s lost at sea and their touch is the only thing keeping him from drowning. It takes him too long to unstick his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth.

“Yes?”

Hawke smiles at him, warm and soft and indulgent, and their thumb strokes gently across his cheek as they lean forward. “Stop talking.” Their breath is warm as it blows across his lips, and smells faintly of cigarettes. And then they’re leaning even closer, and they’re kissing him. Their lips are soft and taste like cherry chapstick, and Anders doesn’t care as they tilt their head, the scar on their nose scratching softly against his skin, the warmth of their breath filling his lungs. Hawke licks into his mouth with a hunger that feels like burning, and Anders opens for them, lifting his hands to cradle their head and pull them closer, his fingers tangling in their thick, soft hair. Anders’ heart feels as if it’s going to beat its way out of his chest and that’s meaningless against the way the world is spinning, every inch of him lost except the point where his cheeks brush Hawke’s, where his chin bumps theirs, where their lips move to lock and loosen around his own as they move.

When they pull back, Anders isn’t sure he remembers how breathing works. But they grin at him, and their eyes are silver in the moonlight when they lean forward to bump their foreheads together, cradling the back of his head. Sighing, they shut their eyes. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Anders breathes, and swallows, lips wet and sore with the force of their kiss, wrists resting loosely on Hawke’s strong shoulders. Above them, the moon is bright and full and beautiful. Anders tries to speak past the lump in his throat. “Do it again?”

Hawke looks up at him, and their eyes are almost black in the dark. Then they kiss him.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

To Dance With Danger | Jurdan Whump Fic

Anon asked: “Can you write something about how Jude gets hurt somewhere and the Court of Shadows and Cardan go looking for her”

Summary: “The only thing he knew was the weight on his chest, two boulders sinking into the concavity of his lungs. How furious he was with Jude, and how much that didn’t matter. That her favourite flower was the blue bellflower, and its petals were falling from the throne.” Please forgive me.

Rating: T

CW: Mild cursing. Minor mentions of abuse (~) and vomit (*); Paragraphs containing these sensitivities have been marked with the allocated warnings. Major descriptions of pain and delusions.

Part I    |    Part III    |    AO3    |    Masterlist

Part II- Follow You Down To the Red Oak Tree

She’d never considered herself stupid. 

Foolish, maybe once or twice. But Jude Duarte-Greenbriar was never an idiot outright. So it came as a great shock to her when she found herself bleeding out in a cave in the middle of the Milkwood.

Wouldn’t this be a hilarious way to go? All her life, Jude had been worried about time peeling her right out of her own mortal skin. Yet here she was, dying from a paltry cut.

That last thought, she knew was stupid. This was more than a paltry cut. It throbbed like a second heartbeat and burned like her knee was a plate of scrambled eggs someone was pushing around with a fork.

A small pool of spilled blood darkened the ground near her ankles. Sometimes, her vision narrowed, blurred.

Perhaps this was one last way for the stars to taunt her. Give her everything she ever wanted and more than she could possibly hope for; a grand feast befitting of a Queen, spread out just for her; then rip her away from herself like the tablecloth in one of those mortal magic tricks.

Jude was not afraid. 

When you’d lived your whole life knowing the promise of death was the single certainty of your existence, you tended to come to terms with it. So Jude did not fear dying. Only the horrible, yawning oblivion that came after.

☽☽☽☽☽

It was a quarter past one, and Cardan’s feet were flying. Out his chamber doors, down the spiral stairs, right to the little wooden door opposite the library, which he promptly began pounding on.

There was a groan within, some shuffling. Then, “It’s the middle of the day, for Mab’s sake,” a groggy voice came muffled from behind the door. “What could possibly be so—oh.”

The Bomb, all messy-haired, eyes squinting at the brightness of the hall, let the door creak open a fraction before realising who exactly had summoned her from sleep. She opened the door in full.

“Cardan—erm, I mean… Your Majesty,” she said, brows furrowing. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Pleasure?” Another even-more-groggy voice came from inside the room. “I’ve got a mallet hammering at my brain thanks to him. Bloody pusher. You can tell His Majesty to kindly sod off.” The Roach held a pillow over his gnarled green head and a rude finger up in the direction of the door.

“Van,” the Bomb tutted over her shoulder. She pulled her dressing gown tight around her and faced the High King again. Only then did she seem to register the look on his face.

“Liliver,” Cardan said, frantic. His mind was all static, hollow—so very full of nothing. Words felt like they came through a tangle of tree sap and brambles in his throat. “It’s Jude.”

That’s all it took. 

The Court of Shadows was moving, the guard summoned. Even the Roach managed to scrape himself together. The Ghost slipped into their ranks just as they were passing through the throne room, and informed the High King he’d done a sweep of the palace, just to be sure.

“And?” Cardan demanded, pivoting on his heel to face the sharpshooter.

“She’s not here,” the Ghost said.

Cardan’s mouth set into a grim line. He gave a curt nod, but his stare lingered on the dais. Where the pair of thrones sat, a latticework of woven roots and blossoms. They seemed to be holding their breath, too.

From the back of the leftmost royal seat, a deep blue flower petal shivered. Then it was falling in listless swoops and dives, whispering across the seat of the chair.

Hurry.

“Get a carriage,” Cardan said, just loud enough to be heard. The room was silent as a snowbank. “Go.”

There was a beat. Then, the din of metal and rushing of boots and they were all moving again.

The High King and his men took to the forests, guarded with crossbows and swords that might as well be spoons for how much they would protect against the glimpses.

Cardan didn’t know why his wife had decided to catch a glimpse. He had even less of a clue as to why she thought she had to do it alone.

The only thing he knew was the weight on his chest, two boulders sinking into the concavity of his lungs. How furious he was with Jude, and how much that didn’t matter. That her favourite flower was the blue bellflower, and its petals were falling from the throne.

☽☽☽☽☽

Night was encroaching. This, Jude only knew because the game she’d invented—finding pictures in the cracks and shadows of the cave wall to beat back the tide of sleep—was becoming more and more difficult.

She shivered. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying there, but the fever had set in.

Jude couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a fever. It must’ve been when she was six or seven. When she was still living in the mortal world, and her mother was still alive to take care of her and getting fevers was the most of her worries.

Eva had climbed into her bed with two washcloths and snuggled up real close. 

She’d sat there for hours, pressing the warm compress to Jude’s forehead when she was too cold and the cold compress to her forehead when she was too warm. Telling her stories of magical places. Feeding her saltines and seltzer.

Jude had wholly forgotten how it felt to have a fever. It was as if she was being filled to the brim with hot wax and dunked in a bucket of ice water at the same time.

She’d only recently rediscovered how it felt to be comforted. She wondered if she’d ever feel that again.

Maybe, Jude thought, she could imagine herself some comfort. She was so very good at lying, after all. Maybe she could lie to herself. Just for a little while. 

She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the woeful sighs of the glimpses ebb and flow from outside the cave.

She imagined lying next to Cardan in their bed in the Royal Chambers. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, Cardan would cocoon them both in satin sheets, trace lazy shapes around her bare shoulders with the tips of his fingers. Pepper her back with nips and kisses. 

He would agree to be the big spoon for once since she was the one in need of comforting.

“Jude,” he would say softly, caressing her cheek, brushing the hair away from her eyes, “You are perhaps the single most important thing in my life.”

She’d turn her head to nuzzle the crook of his neck. “And you, mine, my love,” she’d say. He smelled like fallen leaves. And burnt toast.

Jude crinkled her nose. Odd. He didn’t usually smell like burnt toast. Had they just had breakfast? She couldn’t remember….

“I don’t understand.” Cardan’s voice was dipped in worry, and he paused the soothing circles of his fingers.

“Cardan,” Jude said, rolling her eyes, “We’ve been over this. I want to be here. I want to be with you. I love you.” 

Sometimes her husband just needed a little reminding. Sometimes she preferred to give him that reminder in other, much more wicked ways. Perhaps today she would give him both.

A sinful smile curled the corners of Jude’s lips. She turned around in Cardan’s arms to face him fully and was about to seal the morning off with a kiss, followed by further disreputable behaviour, when she noticed the look on his face.

It was the same one he wore when he’d looked at her from the riverbank after pushing her in a lifetime ago. The same one that had graced his face when she’d first placed that crown atop his head.

Now, in the bed they shared, Cardan looked at her with nothing but cold ire. “How could you do it?” he whispered, and Jude’s brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?” She didn’t know why, but something slick like tar settled in the pit of her stomach. She wanted him to smooth the crease between her brows. To kiss her forehead and call her his darling god.

But Cardan’s face remained a glacial effigy of the man she’d come to love. With nothing but disdain, he looked down his nose at her and asked, “How could you kill him? How could you murder my brother?”

*Jude sat up straight and vomited all over the cave floor. Then, she was pulled out to sea by a riptide of sleep.

☽☽☽☽☽

The High Queen of Elfhame was spinning. Round and round, a circle of fever dreams.

It was like sitting on a merry-go-round and looking in towards the centre where all those mirrors usually hang. Watching whirling versions of things and lights and yourself pass you by in the reflective panels moving in the opposite direction. 

One terrible vision after the next.

Locke’s water-logged body, blue-green and covered in seaweed, standing at the mouth of the cave. Valerian, dirt pouring from between his teeth as he smiled, walling up the entrance with stones, then filling the cave with blood. Balekin ensorceling her to kiss him, then turning into a giant moth right as her lips touched his. Cardan’s head on a pike with upturned eyes, jaw dropped as if mid-warning. A voice in her head.

Heeding requests, even my own, is the singular skill which evades her grand arsenal.

No key fits every lock.

I do not want Balekin dead.

How could you do it? How could you murder my brother?

Perhaps this is what she deserved. Perhaps she was a monster who couldn’t control herself long enough to keep from hurting those she loved, no better than Madoc. Perhaps Valerian’s curse was coming to fruition, after all.

If Jude could have laughed, she would have. But she could not. Dark waves lapped at the shores of her consciousness; and who was she to ignore the sea?

☽☽☽☽☽

Eventually, there was another voice in her head.

Shit, it said. Yes, she really was in very deep shit.

I FOUND HER, it bellowed, splintering her thoughts. She wondered if she should tell the voice to shut up. Though, it probably already knew that’s what she wanted, since it was in her head, and had probably heard her think it.

It was getting crowded in here. Her head was a swollen, throbbing balloon.

Fucking shit, the voice repeated.

Well, she thought, that was quite rude. No way to address a lady, such as herself. Whoever she was.

Something prodded her leg. 

A sudden, violent wave of pain swept over her.  It rose and rose and rose, but never fell. Darkness pulled her to its depths again.

☽☽☽☽☽

Can you hear me?

Stay awake. Stay. Awake.

*The voice was urgent. And constant. And very annoying. It felt like a cheese grater running down her mind. Her throat burned. Maybe the voice had run a cheese grater over that, too. Her hand slid into something wet. It smelled like sick.

Then, there was a cold compress on her forehead.

“Mom?” she croaked, her voice like cracked plaster. She lifted the heavy weight of her eyelids.

A figure was looming over her. It was too dark to see who, but her heart thrashed against her chest, all the same. This was another terrible dream. She was not sure she could take another one of those. Then again, she was in no position to fend it off if it decided to come. She was in no position to do anything, really.

“Not mom, Your Majesty,” the figure sighed, removing the compress. “You’re burning up.” 

Not a compress. Hands.

“Whose Majesty?” she asked through the haze in her mind. Everything was so confusing. Everything was also spinning.

She heard rummaging. Next thing she knew, a match had been struck, and the room filled with warm light. The figure looking down at her was indeed a woman, though it was indeed not her mother.

She had familiar plumes of white hair circling her head like smoke. Full, wine-red lips pressed into a weak smile. “Hello, Jude,” the woman said.

Yes, that must be who she was. She opened her mouth to thank the beautiful woman for the reminder, but all Jude could seem to do was squint. She knew this woman from somewhere.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

Jude could not muster the wherewithal to reply. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, slid gingerly under her knees. Then, the world tilted, shifted, until she was right up against something warm and solid.

Jude looked up at the woman. “You’re ethereal,” she murmured, staring up at the soft planes of her face. Blush blossomed a stain of pink across the woman’s cheeks. “Are you god?”

The woman snorted, then. Jude didn’t understand what was so funny. It seemed a perfectly reasonable question to ask. Since she was dying, and all.

“That’s quite enough of that, Your Majesty,” the woman said. “Let’s get you home.”

Home, Jude mused. She’d thought she was home, but maybe… she was wrong? Wherever home was, it sounded nice. She should like to go there someday.

☽☽☽☽☽

She was deep inside a cave. She could see nothing, but echoes of conversation pinged off the walls.

Delirious. Didn’t know who I was.

Reckon it’s the fever?

The infection perhaps?

Could be, but you need to keep her awake.

Can I hold her? Please?

The moon was a Cheshire cat smile above her. It grinned, then shattered into one hundred panes of opaline glass—a dragonfly’s wing, splitting her knee wide open.

☽☽☽☽☽

When Jude woke again, she knew she was home. 

She was being jostled around a bit, and her leg felt like someone had set it on fire, but she didn’t mind. She was wrapped in something soft. The sound of hooves on packed earth thundered in her ears.

Her name was being called.

“Jude,” someone said, over and over, a litany. A curse. “Jude, my love, you mustn’t fall asleep. You must stay awake. Can you do that for me, Jude? Please, stay with me.”

She opened her eyes. Blinked slow. The disembodied voice belonged to someone. That someone cradled her in his lap, holding her face between his hands. Everything was blurry, but she’d know those hands anywhere.

“Jude?” he whispered.

She summoned the tattered bits of her strength, lifting her hand to cover one of his. It was shaking.

“I know you,” Jude said, willing her eyes to focus. A keening sound tore from him.

Him. She knew his name. What was it? Her mind was so muddled by exhaustion and the riot of pain in her left leg, she could not remember. She was so angry at herself for not remembering.

Jude frowned. Huffed. Tried to refocus her eyes. It was the most important name, more important even than her own. She was a terrible person for forgetting it. She was pretty sure she was a terrible person anyway, but forgetting his name made her even worse.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. Her frown deepened. “Why is your face wet?”

“Because I’m very worried for my wife,” he said, in a strained sort of voice.

“You have a wife?” Envy billowed, a parachute in her chest. Which was ridiculous. She couldn’t even see this man. How could she possibly know if she was jealous?

He breathed a laugh. “Yes,” he told her, stroking her hair gently. “She is a headstrong, ornery fool who holds a vendetta against my poor nerves.”

Everything was quite difficult at the moment. All Jude could think was how beautiful this man’s voice sounded and how very badly she wanted to go back to sleep.

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes again. “She sounds awful.”

“No,” he said. “She is not.”

☽☽☽☽☽

*Watching his wife being carried off like a rag doll into the Royal Chambers, blood-spattered and covered in her own sick, Cardan Greenbriar had never felt so small.

~He felt smaller now than when Dain had tricked him, and he’d been kicked out of the palace for a murder he did not commit. Smaller now than all the times Balekin had removed his belt. Smaller now than when he was a kid crawling beneath the dining table, scrounging for scraps of food and attention.

The Bomb had explicitly forbidden Cardan from accompanying them further than the ante-chamber.

“If I’m going to heal her,” she’d said to him firmly, pausing outside the bedroom doors, “I’m going to need the utmost focus. Which will certainly not be achieved by you being in there, all blubbering and sentimental. So unless you know anything about mortal biology…”

Cardan had never in his life wished to be mortal; but suddenly, the desire to be one was visceral. He’d never wanted to lie more than he did in that moment. He tried to will the words past his lips, but they snagged in his throat. 

He was unable as ever.

So he’d been kicked out of his own bedroom. Away from his own wife. Who may or may not be dying.

The matter was still inconclusive. Cardan read it on the faces of the cycle of people poking their heads out in intervals to check on him or bring him tea. Sometimes, it was the Roach. Sometimes, the Ghost. Only once was it the Bomb, who had been hard at work for endless hours, and needed a break. 

Her face was just as dour as the rest.

“I know how you’re feeling,” she muttered, sliding down the wall to sit next to him on the floor just outside the bedroom doors. “If you need to talk—”

“What I need, Liliver, is for you to heal her,” Cardan snapped. 

He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. She was only trying to comfort him. She, too, had once been forced to watch as her beloved toed the line between life and death. Right now, though, the High King did not have the strength to feel sorry for anyone but himself.

The Bomb only nodded. Once, short and curt. She left him to his misery after that. Cardan supposed he’d probably have a lot of apologising to do to a lot of people by the end of this.

A while later, and rather belatedly, he realised he could very well just barge in there and demand to stay. Magical oath or not, he was still High King. They would still listen to him. 

But maybe the Bomb had a point. Maybe it would only make him more anxious, to be in there; he did not want to impede on Jude’s progress. Maybe nothing was the most he could do.

All his life, he’d spent doing most every childish thing. He’d tugged on the tails of cats, threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way, threatened people when they offended him. 

Now, Cardan sat there on the floor with his head in his hands, doing absolutely nothing, and felt more like a child than ever.

☽☽☽☽☽

Jude was a dragonfly hovering over water, dipping in and out of sleep. She was flying and then sinking and then flying again.

It went like this for a while. 

She’d fall asleep in one place and drift to the surface of consciousness in another. Sometimes she felt no pain. Sometimes she felt a great deal of pain all at once. The latter would usually send her careening back into nothingness.

On occasion, she’d awaken just long enough to recognise the faces floating in and out of her vision. The Roach, with his scythe of a nose. The Ghost, with his sandy hair and silent demeanour. The Bomb, who Jude had a strange, vague feeling was blushing every time she looked at her. She even recognised a nurse or two.

Always, there were people. There was one face, however, that she did not see.

“Bomb,” Jude rasped, and the faerie’s eyes met hers. “If I die, would you tell him I hated him? Tell him, that’s why I did it.”

“What do you mean?” The Bomb asked. But Jude was already drifting again.

☽☽☽☽☽

Next Part

Last Part

Masterlist

AN: I am…so sorry. I’ll be the first to say, I am the absolute worst for telling you guys this was going to be a two-shot and then leaving this on such a cliffhanger and making you wait for a third part. Don’t hate me? The good news is, I have a lot of the last part written. The bad news is, the last part is what has been keeping me from updating-- writing it feels more and more like giving birth with each passing day.

So if you enjoyed this part, and would like to give me some writerly encouragement in the form of a comment/reblog/keyboard smash/message/ask, any and all of the above would basically be like giving me a dose of that sweet, sweet epidural and I would be forever grateful :’)

If you’d like to be updated on the next part of this Three-Shot (to come very soon), let me know and I’ll add you to the tag list! Back to the woods now. -em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree by James Vincent McMorrow

Tag List: @velarhysismine​ @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @knifewifejude​ @clockworkgraystairs​ @jurdanhell​ @judexcardanxgreenbriar​ @hizqueen4life​ @nite0wl29​ @mysweetvilllain​ @thesirenwashere​

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

A Dragon by any other Name

Hey hey hey! Been a while since a phoenix wrote a thing but i was a pinch hitter for the @ftguildevents reverse bang, writing a fic for @rougescribe dope af artwork that is right here (seriously it's sick af)

Hopefully this fic is worthy of it, so without any further ado please, enjoy.

Natsu knelt in the snow, holding down a shiver that tried to shake his small body. The moon hung too high above him in the inky sky, uncaring in how its cold light shone like a spotlight on him as it guided biting winter winds and the frost to attack him. His knees dug deeper in the ground, trying to focus his thoughts, to keep them from wandering. To keep the cold from scattering them like it scattered flurries of flakes in his face with each heaving gust. His fingers long had gone numb, unable to feel them as they ran shakily over the gooseflesh on his arms. The scarf wound tight around his neck did nothing to aid in his plight.

What he wouldn't give for the warmth of rigid scales, scratchy like bark as they dug into his back when he rested. 

Natsu shook his head furiously to banish the thought but the cold seemed even harsher now as the memories of searing warmth and soothing smoke crawled to the front of his mind. He stood suddenly, his young bones creaking much too loudly at the action, eyes darting about the unbroken line of trees. His gaze locked onto a familiar rise above the treetops, piercing yellow eyes staring back at him pensievely with wings like sails unfurled slightly by his sides. The red of his scales painted black by the night. 

Natsu hurriedly blinked away the flakes gathered on his lashes, the beginnings of another shiver threatened to travel up his spine. He bit down on the insides of his cheeks, knowing full well what chastising words laced with disappointment awaited him when he took off into the brush. The same words as yesterday, and the day before that. And the many before that. Natsu decided it was better to hear them again that lose to the cold.

Igneel huffed as Natsu came to a stop before him, straightening with his wings folding to his back with a leathery snap. He fixed the young boy with a stern look, unmoving as he hurried to hide beneath his wing to press tiny hands against his hardened skin to sap warmth. He remained silent as the minutes ticked by, the snow piling higher by his clawed feet, unbothered by its presence save for when it started to gather on his snout. With a slight shake of his head it fell to the ground.

"You're mad at me again. Aren't you?" The voice was small, muffled from under his wing and he felt Natsu shy away, scurrying into the smallest corner of Igneel's wing to hide from the scathing words he thought were coming his way. Igneel sighed, his breath swirling heavily in the air. He unfurled his wings slightly once more, enough to see Natsu's back facing him but still closed enough to keep the snowfall from the child.

"I could never be mad at you. Only disappointed at worst." Igneel voice rumbled loud even as he spoke softly, the trees shivered at his words. Natsu flinched, curling in on himself. "That's just soft mad." He said glumly. Igneel couldn't help the light chuckle at his son's logic.

"You are too dependent on my flames when your own needs tending to." Igneel lowered himself to the forest floor, curling his head towards Natsu as he rested it on his forelegs. A mischievous glint in his eye aimed at Natsu's back. "Perhaps I should hide away deeper in the woods, behind the tallest tree. Maybe without me here your inner fire will blossom."

His joke did not have the desired effect he wanted. The small child wheeled around, horror painting his features and his fists clenched tightly, trembling from something other than the cold.

"No!" He shouted. "No no no! Don't do that! I'll try harder I promise! Just don't…" His voice trailed off. He pulled his scarf over his face and tucked himself away once more. "...don't leave me alone..."

Igneel blinked at the unexpected outburst. Silently he chastised himself, tail sweeping guiltily from side to side. He should've known better. Atlas always bemoaned his jokes, said they were in too poor a flavour. Igneel would roll his eyes then. Maybe his old friend was right.

"Natsu." He called softly, nudging the boy with his wingtip. "Natsu, come here. Please." He didn't move and Igneel tried again, praying his words hadn't dug too deep a wound.

Slowly Natsu turned, scarf still pulled over his face, and trudged out from under Igneel's wing. He stopped when he felt the dragon's warm breath on his skin and plopped down heavily on the ground near Igneel's face.

"You shouldn't make jokes like that." Natsu sniffled, voice muffled by the scaly cloth and Igneel winced at the realization that he made him cry. " I'm sorry my son. Truly I am. I should never have said those words to you."

"Yeah you shouldn't have." The retort was well deserved. Though there was an odd hitch to Natsu's words, as though he wanted to say something more. " It's just that…" He shuffled where he sat, curling in on himself as he held the scarf tighter to his face. " All of this is so hard to do. Everything would be way easier if i'd have just hatched out of an egg like you."

"I can't eat fire without it burning the corners of my mouth. And when I try to breath it, it hurts my tongue. My flames don't always come when I call for them and I can't keep warm in the cold like you can. Because i'm not like you." The words tumbled out fast, almost tripping over each other in the haste they were forced out in. He drew his knees to his chest and dropped his head to rest on them.

" Everyday you tell me that I should try harder and that I give up too soon. And that one day it'll all be natural. But I know it won't be. Because i'm not a dragon." He drew a shuddering breath, heart pounding wildly in his chest at the rush of letting all his fears free and Igneel almost reeled from the force of it. Stress and insecurity and anger at himself had laced Natsu's words, digging their way past Igneel's scales to attack his heart. His tail swept across the snow once more, piling it up against the tree trunks. He dug a claw into the snow in thought, the gouge mark deepening with each passing. Natsu rocked slightly, back and forth on his heels, lost in a whirlwind of emotion.

"And who is to say…" Igneel paused, eyes narrowing as he chose his words tactfully. "...that you aren't a dragon?" Natsu stopped rocking and lifted his head somewhat, allowing the scarf to fall just beneath his eyes to Igneel with a withering glare. Bright green eyes were tinged with red around the edges.

"I'm not stupid Igneel." He accused. 

"So what makes a dragon 'a dragon' then?"

"A dragon has scales and claws, and fangs and-"

"Ah, but you have those too." Igneel cut him off, reaching a claw out tenderly to hook on the end of the scarf to pull it down past his quavering mouth." You have fangs hidden away beneath those lips of yours. And you have scales." He raised the claw slightly, showing off the end of the scarf that hung limply from it. "As for claws, well you always chew them off but they're there. Strong enough to leave a scratch on my scales in your rowdy sleeps. You are my son, that makes you a dragon in the truest sense."

"Dragons have tails. And wings."

"I knew some with one or the other. Any many who had neither." Igneel responded cheekily. "And those without were no lesser than those with. Only less burdened in a fight."

Natsu snatched away his scarf from Igneel,  flying to his feet and staring at level with Igneel's eyes. He dug his heels into the ground. " A dragon's s'pose to be strong and powerful! I'm not! This is supposed to be easy for a dragon cause it's easy for you! But it's not for me! Cause i'm.not.like. you! Stop trying to make me feel like I am!"

His echoed words from earlier stung at Igneel even harder now as he saw the turmoil in Natsu's eyes, locked behind a wave of fresh tears that struggled to break free and run down his face. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip harshly, biting at it without care even as Igneel caught glimpse of the first beads of blood. He only slowed his gnawings then, wincing slightly at the pain while he forced his eyes down to focus at his bare feet shuffling on the ground.

"Natsu…" Igneel murmured. He eased his head closer to the child until his horned snout was just mere inches from his chest. His eyes rounded with softness. "My son… My one and only son. A dragon is more than just the few traits you can see. Or what they came from. Do you really think us so unalike despite everything that we share?" His question hung in the air, unanswered, yet Igneel pressed on.

"What magic do you have? What magic do you train everyday to use?"

"....fire… " came the trembling answer. 

"Fire." Igneel affirmed with the slightest of nods. "Fire that I gave to you. Fire burned into your bones, your soul, that connects us both in a bond stronger than blood not only to each other, but to the others before us." 

Natsu focused back on Igneel,lifting his head while he swiped a knuckle over his split lip to smear the bits of red on his cheek. "What others? It's just me and you out here."

Igneel smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes slightly. " My flame was passed on to me from my mother. And she gained it from her mother before her. And the line continues beyond that, with the flame passed from fire dragon to fire dragon for countless generations. They live on in our fires though they have long since passed." He huffed out a breath. Thin puffs of smoke laced with blinking embers danced around Natsu and winking out of existence when they touched his skin.

"You are a part of that lineage. Whether you were born into it or not holds no account, you hear me? The snowflakes that fall around us are all different with no two alike and yet they are still very much the same. Much like you and I."

Natsu curled his fingers around the ends of his scarf, eyes flitting between it and Igneel's face, as if mulling over hiding behind it again the way his fingers tightened on the tassles. He moved forward with an unreadable expression that seemed unsuited for his young face, resting his head against Igneel's dry snout. 

"Why is all of this so hard for me then?" He mumbled

"It takes time for an ember to grow to a blaze."

"It wasn't for you though. It's always easy for you."

At this Igneel chuckled. "I'm old Natsu. Very old. I've had my time to make it look easy. But there were times I struggled, much like you. Or perhaps I was worse off." The cold moonlight now dripped through thick, dark clouds on the pair, determined to stay on them and not be hidden away like the rest of the sky. " Far beyond my days as a hatchling I struggled with my abilities. Much to the….ire of my mother." The fire dragon's lips thinned at his chosen words. She was a tough one, with a scaled over heart he would often joke out of range. The love was in there, as he always saw in her blind eyes. But so was annoyance and a palpable sadness at each failure. And at each failure her methods became harsher to get him to a point she deemed satisfactory. Igneel winced.

His tail curled closer to his body at the memories rushing back, the tip brushing Natsu's ankle. "She was a master like no other. Truly. But i'm embarrassed to think that my training methods are a bit too much like hers in some ways." He sighed, nudging Natsu with his snout. A silent tell that Natsu understood, scaling the dragon's head with practiced ease to settle for the night.

"In my haste to see you strong I may have repeated her mistakes as a teacher and perhaps, as a parent as well." Igneel's eyes glanced up at the weight resting atop his head, nestled comfortably just between his horns. "Tell me my son. Do you think I need to change how you're trained?"

He felt Natsu move, sliding down just above his ridged brow. Then a pink head came into view hanging upside down, the scarf almost unwinding fully. " Are you gonna be disappointed if I say yes?"

Igneel shook his head."No."

"Then yeah, you should. And no more bad jokes." His tone was firm with his mouth set in a serious line. "I'll still keep trying hard if you promise."

"I promise."  "And you promise never to leave me alone?" 

"I never will."

Natsu's lips curled in a small smile, twinging slightly from the cut. He pulled back but stopped himself short, doubt filtering in his eyes. "....Did you really mean what you said? About me being a dragon like you?" He sounded unsure, as though mentally steeling himself for a bad answer.

"Yes. You have no reason to ever doubt that you aren't. As long as you have the fire then you are a dragon like me. One who can be better when you get older." 

The snowfall had finally eased, the clouds finally winning over the moon and painting everything dark. Igneel tipped his head up slightly, and Natsu slid back with a surprised yelp. "Now close those eyes and get some rest, fire dragons have to rise early to greet the sun."

"Can't fire dragons ever sleep in?" Came the whispered grumble though he already felt Natsu curling up dutifully. Igneel chuckled, resting his head on his clawed legs. "One day we can give it a try."  He mumbled out something more that Igneel didn't quite catch but he didn't press any further into it. The trees were still, the winds having died down some time ago to barely a stirring.

"Hey Igneel."

"Yes Natsu."

"......Thanks, for making me feel better."

"Anytime, my son. Anytime."

[howtosingit]

Fic: i could live by the light in your eyes

“Why did you choose me?” * TK and Carlos remember the night they met.

1.2K | Also on AO3

-----

“Why did you choose me?”

Carlos is still trying to catch his breath, his left hand pressed against his sweaty curls as he leans back against his pillow. TK’s own sweat-soaked back rests against him, the thin sheet pulled low enough for Carlos to admire all of his favorite parts of his boyfriend’s body. 

Wait, not boyfriend. Fiancé. His eyes drag down to where their hands are clasped against TK’s chest, their fingers intertwined so that they can each feel the cool metal of the engagement rings resting next to each other, the way they have for the last two hours. TK’s face is turned away from him, but he knows the other man is looking at the rings, too, by the tone of the question. Carlos’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

It’s quiet between them as Carlos stares down at TK, waiting for him to clarify what exactly he’s asking. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been together for almost two years, Carlos still can’t read his lover’s mind, no matter how hard he tries. There are some things that TK just has to decode for him.

“I mean, this ring symbolizes a choice, right?” TK asks, raising their fingers up to his mouth, and Carlos feels the soft press of his lips against his knuckle. “So, what made you decide to choose me?”

The words linger between them, no heavier than the breath used to speak them into existence, as Carlos contemplates TK’s query. He thinks back to just a few hours ago when he joined TK on his knees, tears in both of their eyes, and poured his heart out, telling him that he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life sharing the world with the person he cherishes more than anything else.

He knows he’s going to take every opportunity to tell TK how much he loves him for the next 70 or so years of their lives, but maybe that’s not what TK is asking from him right now. Maybe, in-between the words he’s saying, TK is asking a different question all together. And Carlos knows the answer to that question the way that he knows that the sun rises and sets daily; it’s a simple fact of life.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he starts, wondering how he’s never told TK this before.

TK nods against him, his brown hair rubbing against Carlos’s chin. “Hard to forget the baby in a tree,” he replies, and Carlos can hear the smile in his voice. A smile appears on his own face, and he leans down to bury it into TK’s hair, pressing a kiss there as he inhales the other man’s scent. 

“That’s true, your dad was pretty badass that day,” Carlos admits, raising his head to look at their ceiling as he bites his lip. “But, when I think about that day, that’s not usually the first thing I remember. I remember the rain, actually.”

He feels TK shift beneath him, no doubt to look up at him. Instead of meeting his eyes, Carlos simply tightens the arm wrapped around him, rubbing his thumb against the back of TK’s hand.

“That was like the third or fourth call of the night, and by the time you all got there, I was so cold and tired and moody,” Carlos mutters, closing his eyes as he’s pulled back to that evening. “All I could remember thinking was how I wanted to get back to the station and finish my paperwork so that I could just go home and sleep.

“Meeting your dad was pretty cool, I’ll admit, and I had been looking forward to crossing paths with Captain New York. And then he played the badass hero and I was really impressed,” he continues. 

“I believe those were your exact words to me actually,” TK adds, leaning in further. Carlos feels his lips on his neck. “I can’t believe the first time you ever spoke to me was just to fanboy over my dad.”

Carlos laughs, bringing his other arm around to wrap TK in a full embrace. His eyes drop to meet TK’s green ones, seeing how they’re pinched at the corners from the wide smile taking over his face. 

“There it is,” Carlos whispers, a sense of déjà vu stealing the breath from his lungs. “That’s what I remember more than anything about that night.” He brings his hand up to trace along TK’s jaw, absorbing all of the love in his eyes. “That million-dollar smile.”

“You’re such a sap,” his fiancé scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I mean it, Ty,” he affirms, holding TK’s chin to keep him close. “I was freezing my ass off, and then you turned that smile on me and it was like I was suddenly on fire, I couldn’t explain it.

“You all left and I couldn’t focus for the rest of my shift, all I wanted to do was run after you and chase that feeling,” he continues. “And then I saw you at the bar and I wanted to talk to you so bad, and then you smiled at me again and it was like some crazy bruja magic. Your smile is the most beautiful, powerful thing I’ve ever seen, and I swore that I was going to do everything that I could to make sure it never disappeared.”

He stares openly at TK now, watching as his green eyes fill with tears. With a shuttered breath, TK pulls himself up to press his lips against Carlos’s, his smile making it difficult but completely perfect. Carlos can feel his tears as they spill out onto his cheeks. 

“I choose you because your smile has always made me feel like I can take on the world,” he mutters when they separate, their foreheads pressed together. “And making you happy, making you smile so that you can share that power with the rest of the world, that’s all I want to do, for the rest of my life.”

He reaches up to brush the tears away from TK’s eyes, their matching smiles blinding. 

“For me it was your eyes,” TK says quietly, his own hands coming up to run through Carlos’s curls, untamed from their previous activity. “That very first time you looked at me, those brown eyes cut right through me. I was so fucking terrified, because I knew then that I would never be able to hide from you. And I was even more terrified, because I kind of didn’t want to.”

TK’s fingers tickle his face as he traces along Carlos’s eyebrows, right above the brown irises in question. “I choose you because you’ve always seen me, for everything that I am, and you never once looked away.”

“And I never will,” Carlos assures him, reaching up to link their hands together again, their rings touching as if they’re magnets, incapable of separating for too long, just like the two men who wear them. 

And as their lips press together, followed by their naked bodies and finally their souls, Carlos thinks about how, when it comes to loving TK, there was really no choice to make at all. 

But if there was, he would make the same one, every time, without question.

[stefciastark]

Vines

Rating: T

Characters/Themes: Tony & Peter (Irondad), Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Nick Fury

Genre: H/C

Words: ~1600 and counting

A/N: Originally made for Day 11 of Webpril (a little late, whoops), I have also published this into a separate fic. If you'd like to stay up to date with how this pans out for chapter 2-3, you'll find that on my AO3 or FFN on the 'Standalone Fic' links below :) x

~Read it on AO3 | Webpril | Standalone Fic

~Read it on FFN | Webpril | Standalone Fic

Peter had never thought he’d be afraid of plants. Alright, maybe poison ivy and rhubarb, but not vines of all things. He also never thought he’d see the day when plants came to life...well okay, plants were already alive, but sentient was a whole other can of worms that Peter wished was never opened.

“Remind me to add a herbicide feature to the suits next time,” Tony chimed in over the comms. Peter couldn’t see his whereabouts, a cloud of smoke barring his view. It seemed like no matter how many explosives or sheer blunt force they sunk into these things, they were getting nowhere.

“New York is struggling with the trees as is, Tony, I don’t think we need you nuking the last patch of grass in Central Park,” Clint fired back.

“Look, can we talk about saving the forests later? I could use some more hands on deck here.” Steve was about a block and a half away from the rest of the team, having appointed himself to ‘perimeter’ duty but had soon been confronted with a writhing mass of vines that sprouted from the ground like heads sprouted from a Hydra.

Steve’s request was met by an enthusiastic “coming!” from Peter, who promptly proceeded to assume the role of a modern George of the Jungle, but instead the jungle was made of concrete, and the vines were...well the vines were vines.

Peter locked on to the small speck of blue weaving in between a forest of green, and proceeded to deploy the four mechanical arms that erupted from the back of the Iron Spider. Each arm seemed to operate on Karen’s schedule, but Peter couldn’t complain; the AI had faster reactions than Peter ever would, and if he thought about that too much it scared him.

As each metal appendage slashed and carved its way through the thick stems, thick sap oozed out like blood, but as soon as the incisions appeared, they were gone, replaced by cell membranes that were multiplying way too fast.

“Uh, guys? This isn’t working…”

“You’re telling me,” Clint grumbled, feeling more useless than ever. It didn’t matter if his arrows were covered in acid, produced flames, or were laced with electricity - the outcome was still the same. As soon as Clint came to that realisation, he had perched himself on the balcony of a nearby highrise, not wanting to risk being caught amongst the chaos. There was many a time he wished he weren’t as human. Moreso, he wished he weren’t as fragile.

“Hold on, I’ve got this.” Tony rounded the corner of the sidestreet nearest to Peter and moments later as the suit brushed past Steve, a long thin pike that exploded out from a Tylenol sized capsule dug into the ground right next to one of the vines besides Peter.

Within less than a second, Peter felt a shudder beneath the ground, followed by a geyser of dirt. The vine writhed for a moment before falling limp with a heavy thud. It suddenly looked so much smaller, no longer resembling a gigantic green tube man from outside the local car dealership.

“Well that wasn’t so bad.”

Peter groaned internally, not needing his Spidey Sense to tell him that those would be Tony’s famous last words.

The vine began convulsing, and Peter was reminded of the nurses from Silent Hill. For a moment he wished they were; then he wouldn’t have to deal with something at least half the size of his apartment building.

Rising once more to its full stature, half a dozen smaller vines broke out from the soil beneath it. Now it really resembled a Hydra.

Tony registered simultaneously the resurrection-including-birth and his position that put him at the epicentre of it all. Firing all repulsors at maximum capacity, he took off aiming vaguely for Hawkeye’s vantage point on the balcony.

That would’ve been the plan.

One of the smaller vines had snaked its way around the suit’s foot, up the ankle, and began to relentlessly squeeze. Sparks were beginning to fly out of Tony’s right foot repulsor before sputtering and going dark, and in that brief window where full-flight momentum had been compromised, the vine arched back.

Peter watched with mild panic as Tony whipped into the ground with the vine still stubbornly attached. He knew the suit could handle a lot, but what he never knew - and he was fairly sure Tony didn’t really know either - was if the suit was going to be able to come back to the workshop in one piece, preferably with Tony in one piece in it. And speaking of the workshop, after the dust cleared Peter’s heart sunk as he took in the scuffs and the scattered uneven plates that normally fit together like a puzzle. Of course, with all of their recent calls to action over the last few days and most of the other suits undergoing major upgrades and testing during an almost two month long quiet period - which turns out was a major oversight - the only suitable suit candidate was already semi out of commission.

Tony’s communications stuttered back online, jarred momentarily by the impact, and a low groan filtered over the comms.

“Tony, you alright?” Steve was almost 300-feet away, jumping back in after spending an frustratingly inordinate amount of time trying to pull an answer out of S.H.I.E.L.D who had sent a few airborne vehicles to try and scan and triangulate.

“Just. Peachy.” Each word was punctuated by a forceful attempt to remove the vine’s grip from the suit. Tony didn’t want to admit it out loud, but the strength at which it was constricting was starting to hurt. A lot. He really didn’t want to think about how much pressure the baby vine had to be exerting for him to feel it beneath the suit. He was suddenly a lot more alarmed about the larger vines.

S.H.I.E.L.D used that moment to broadcast, Nick Fury’s voice filtering over the present team’s radios. “I see we might have a bit of a weed problem. I would’ve thought gardening was a bit below the Avengers’ paygrade.”

“Just tell us how to get rid of these things, they’re giving me the creeps.” Clint broke his silence, his time surveying the convulsing vines of chaos in Central Park not bringing him any answers.

Fury was all business now. “This thing’s set up camp over by the boat house to your north. Scans picked up a large form that looks like a bulb about 32-feet below the surface. Find it, kill it, and we can all go home.”

“Roger that,” Steve replied, shifting his shield to sit more securely. “Tony, are you rea -”

“I’m gonna need a bit. As kinky as being tied up would be in any other situation…” Tony never quite finished his thought, turning off his radio as the vine constricted once more and he gritted his teeth against the crushing pressure. More of the baby vines had seemed to smell the nearby prey and had turned their attention to his figure lying supine on the ground.

Peter winced, hearing the (almost) disguised strain in Tony’s voice. The parent vine didn’t seem to care about his mentor anymore, and if it had eyes, Peter was sure they’d be twinkling in a lazy kind of sadistic pleasure. It had minions to do its dirty work now.

“Alright Queens, you and I have got this.” Steve looked at Peter and nodded. Clint had one arrow left and that method of attack had so far proven incredibly useless. Except…

Peter swung his way up to the balcony Clint was occupying near the East Green section of Central Park. “Hey, can I have your last boom arrow? Maybe it’ll work, but I’ve got a plan.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, loathe to give over his last projectile and cementing how inessential he had begun to feel. Pressing his lips together, he reached behind him and pulled out his last arrow. “Just press this bit in the middle of the arrowhead, okay? After that you’ve got about five seconds before you need to get the hell out.”

“Cool, got it. Arrowhead, five seconds, run. Thanks!” And as soon as Peter had appeared, he had started his commute back towards Steve.

Tony was lying incredibly still. He discovered that if he barely twitched a muscle - which these abominations could somehow tell beneath a layer of armour - the rate at which the squeezing increased slowed down.

“Today would be great.” Tony turned his head towards Steve, who had just shifted his attention to Peter who had arrived with an arrow in hand. Steve at once understood the plan.

“Hold tight, Tony.” Steve’s voice dripped with an authority that Tony found profoundly irritating but Peter found comforting.

“Not going anywhere, Cap.”

Steve took off at a sprint next to Peter, who was using the surrounding trees and lamp posts as targets for his webs. The closer they got to the epicentre of it all, the more concentrated the vines were. What started as sporadically placed vegetation now looked more like a dense jungle.

Peter landed softly on the grass as Steve slowed to a jog. Looking up, they were confronted with a writhing mass that looked more like a Kraken than it did a plant.

As they deliberated their next course of action, Peter’s blood ran cold as over the radio he heard Tony’s agonised scream.

[innittowinit]

Abandoned amusement parks are the best place for young children (chapter 7)

AO3 

Fic summary:

Techno, Tommy, Wilbur and Phil have been hanging out at the abandoned amusement park in the woods since they moved in. Techno likes knowing he's definitely alone with his brothers Tommy likes climbing on the old rides Wilbur likes having a place to play his music Phil likes spending time with his younger brothers

That is, until a group of brothers calling themselves the 'dream team' move in down the road. Will the sleepy boys give in and share the park or will they succeed in scaring the new kids off?

Chapter summary

Dream recounts what happened today to Bad and their mom Wilbur comforts Techno

chapter word count: 1704 (sorry its another inbetween chapter) 

Dream snickered as he leaned back in his chair, a half eaten ham and cheese sandwich sitting idly on his plate. He had his mask lifted up so it sat atop his head, showing his freckled cheeks and and reddish cheeks. 

“That was a fun game, they were playing along this time”

He reached for a packet crisps, only to drop his hand and pick the sandwich back up when Bad gave him a disapproving look; they all wanted to make Bad proud, he wasn’t around often anymore but when he was here it was great. 

It didn’t really feel like home when he was off at school. 

Playing with the sleepy boys had been fun though, he mulled over the events of the day as he chewed on the childish meal, the sun was still high in the sky and he doubted it was past 2pm at all. 

Phil didn’t seem like he wanted to play, for a moment Dream wondered if Phil just didn’t like playing anymore, he was the oldest afterall, but he quickly shook the thought from his mind. Why else would he still turn up to L’manburg with his brothers? 

No, Phil definitely enjoyed it, he was probably just tired today, sometimes even his own brothers didn’t like playing Manhunt if they had had a long day. 

He remembered buying the fun snaps, it had been a little nerve wracking but he needed them for the plan to work! He had had to lie about how old he was for the shopkeeper to give them to him, he didn’t ask for ID though so he guessed the old man running the place also didn’t see the point in having an age limit to buy a toy. While they were going through their plan first, Sapnap had said he wanted to blow it up.

Obviously they couldn't do that. 

And so they decided on fun snaps and their ‘weapons’. At least this way they’d still get shocked by the noise of the snaps going off anyway, it wasn’t like they wanted to cause any real harm, he didn’t want to lose any more potential friends because of the ways he had fun. 

“We actually got into L’manburg today” Sap laughed, hair dusted with sandy dirt from when he had been pushed to the floor. 

His sandwich had been toasted to make the cheese melty and he was dipping it in a Tomato cup-a-soup. As far as Dream was concerned, that was single handedly the worst food combination ever made and he deserved to be pushed over for eating like that. 

“I hope you guys aren’t playing too rough out there, those Reid kids have a littl’un right?” 

Nodding, Dream shoved the rest of his lunch into his mouth, chewing it as much as he could before giving up and just speaking with his mouth full anyways. 

“Yeah Tommys like really small, we aren’t playing too rough though Ma, they’re cool with it, I promise! Even Sap and George like them”

Once she had finished preparing her own lunch, she sat with her kids; they were so rowdy, it would be a straight lie if she said she didn’t worry about their safety sometimes but she supposed boys would just be boys, no amount of sports clubs or extracurricular activities had ever quenched their need to run about and hit each other with sticks.

What was fun about hitting each other, she had no idea, but hopefully they’d grow out of it before they seriously hurt themselves or someone else 

“That’s nice to hear then, I’m glad you boys are making new friends, I know it can be difficult adapting to new places-” 

“Nah mum it’s easy!” Sapnap had cut her off, hand in a bag of crisps since he had finished his meal, despite how much Bad tried to influence healthy eating decisions.  

“That’s nice sweetheart, some people find it hard though! Hey! You know what could be cute? If you take Bad down to meet your buddies, you said they had an older brother around his age too right?” 

Dream groaned, feigning annoyance as he glanced over to his brother, while like Phil, Bad still cared about them a whole lot, they didn’t really have the almost-replacement-parent kind of dynamic that the sleepy bois had with their older sibling. He didn’t really understand that, Bad was two years older than him and the way they thought and rationalised things was about the same level, so why did his new friends seem to treat their older brother like a grown up? 

Even though they were a bit weird, they were nice and they were fun to play with, so eventually he nodded, it would be so much fun having Bad there to fight with them. It felt like it had been ages since they all played together. 

“I think they’re playing something else now, we can all go tomorrow after school if you want” 

With a shrug and a flippant smile, Bad had at last agreed to go meet his mischievous brother’s new friends. If the scar on George’s cheek was anything to go off though, it seemed like they were a lot more ill-disciplined than his boys were.

Or at least that’s what he liked to think. 

--------

“Phil didn’t mean to hurt you” Wilbur mumbled as they walked hand-in-hand to the old pool where they spent so much of their time together, gently lowering himself in and then helping Techno in afterwards. 

The two sat idly against the curved wall, sitting in comfortable silence as Wilbur waited for Techno to sort his thoughts out. 

“It still hurts” With a voice as quiet and weak as his was right now, anyone who had bothered to stay around long enough to hear his voice, absolutely wouldn't think this was him. 

The assertive, confident way he normally would speak to his brothers long forgotten as he gingerly swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He felt invalidated, ignored, humiliated. 

Why did Phil have to bring up the one thing he couldn’t argue with him on? He had got hit harder than Tommy! Why did he only care about Tommy? 

With a heavy chest and an aching arm, he rested his head on his brother’s shoulder, just wanting some comfort but not really knowing how to put his feelings into words. Thankfully, Wilbur seemed to recognise this rare moment and gently wrapped an arm around him. 

“Do you think….” He trailed off into a murmur after that, prompting Wilbur to remind him he needed to use his words

“Do you think that deep down...maybe Phil thinks I’m weird too? It’s weird to be this shy isn’t it? I’m supposed to have grown out of it by now right?”

His voice sounded frantic and panicked, breaths punctuated his sentences as he spilled his emotions into the empty pool. Gentle hands pulled him into a hug and he was tight against Wilbur’s chest, being reminded once again that even if he felt bad himself, his family would always save the day. 

“...well I think objectively it is a bit weird that we’re both this attached, and we should be able to be able to do these things that other kids our age can but just because what we have is a little funky doesn’t mean you're weird. If it was normal we wouldn’t have a speech therapist but I don't think it's bad, the other kids in our classes always talk about hating their siblings and stuff. I’m glad none of us are like that.” Wilbur tried his very best to articulate how he felt, a lot of the feelings he wanted to explain, he didn’t have the words to describe, and so he was left with small comparisons and metaphors. 

He didn’t bother saying them, if he was struggling with saying them he might accidentally say something that could hurt his brother more. 

“I don't think Phil thinks you're weird either. I think he’s frustrated, he works so hard to make sure we’re all okay and we don’t always show him that we appreciate it. I think maybe he’s scared for you, he knows it’s hard for you to talk and with him getting mad it probably came out wrong. He probably wants you to get better really bad and I bet it’s hard for him to watch you struggle and not be able to help. That doesn’t make what he said okay but I do think you should talk to him and try to find out why he said what he said”

Techno nodded, he felt a bit guilty for being so mad at Phil now, he cared so much about them and he had got his little brother hurt.

Even though he felt guilty, he still felt hurt though and maybe it was childish but he didn't care. He wanted to strop and huff and ignore everyone.

Before today he didn’t even realise it was possible to want to fall out of the earth and want to be cuddled by all his favourite people, simultaneously.

“I think you’ll feel better if you talk to Phil though, you wont need to make up theories on why he said it anymore than you already have.”

Another nod, he knew confrontation was inevitable but he wanted to sit here a bit longer,  with the shade from the trees and low hanging vines, to the roaring hot sun, it just felt so much better to try and think through his feelings here rather than having to think it all out while he was actually having the conversation with Phil. 

“It’s hard” An almost exasperated sigh left his lips “I know Tommy’s just the priority because he’s the youngest. I love him too, so so much, but he didn’t even check to see if I got hurt though. He saw I wasn’t able to protect Tommy and he got mad.

“Today, Phil was tired and stressed and he said some really stupid things but Tech’ I can’t tell you what he meant by them, I’m telling you all these questions would be solved so much faster if we just went and spoke to him.”

“..okay let's go”

[1-1snailxd-art]

Sanders Sides oneshot fic - Magic Beans

Type: Magic au (kinda...like my own magic universe)

Characters: Logan Sanders, Remy/Sleep, Virgil (Patton and Roman are mentioned)

Relationships: I’m tagging losleep put it’s mostly platonic cause they’re roommates (oh my god they were roommates) and analogical because that’s the bit, implied royality.

Warnings: Remy swears...he said b**ch.

Words: 2032

Summary: Remy steps in when his sleep deprived roommate wants to quit magic school before even attempting to learn magic. A visit to his favourite coffee shop seems like the best way to snap Logan out of the funk he’s in.

Authors note: Look, I was sad, I watched @blinksinbewilderment stream on instagram and they mentioned a losleep/analogical magic coffee shop au (no angst) and I tried something. 

General Taglist (let me know if you want on or off): @thequeensphinx @ollyollyoxinfree @celeste-tyrrell @pumpkinminette

Bonus: @aowrot did some art of Remy (click to see). I approve of his style and floating hat. Honoured to have fanart done for this little tale. 

———————————————

“Girl, you know there is a bed right there for a reason.”

Logan sat up stiffly when the sound of Remy’s voice filled his tired ears, along with the crinkling of paper as he moved.

“I am…aware.” He said, squinting up at the man highlighted by his desk lamp. “I did not intend to sleep here.”

“Well, you did, and if that schedule is correct, you have class in an hour.”

Normally that comment would have caused Logan to bolt upright, but instead he slammed his head against the desk and groaned in frustration. If Remy’s statement on time was correct, he’d probably managed a maximum of 2 hours of uncomfortable sleep and was nowhere near ready to give his presentation on wand construction.

“You learning through osmosis now?”

“If it were possible, I would.” Logan mumbled into the paper before sitting up to rub his forehead. “I shouldn’t even bother. This whole thing is pointless. I’m not going to get into the magic course anyway, so I might as well give up and go to sleep.”

“Right, bitch, we’re out!”

Logan gasped and fumbled over his words as Remy suddenly pulled his chair back and pulled him up by his arm.

“Wha-where are we going?”

“We need a magic elixir to find my annoying, magic obsessed, roommate because that ain’t you right now.”

“That is ridiculous.” Logan huffed, unable to pull out of their friends firm grip. “Even if some personality changing elixir did exist, you wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“True, but you don’t gotta bring it up.”

Remy was kind enough to at least grab Logan’s satchel as they left their tiny dwelling and headed into the town centre; leading the conversation so Logan could walk in reasonable silence. When the pair had first moved in together, they had hardly interacted beyond cleaning and rent day. Remy was either working or out at someone’s party until the early hours, while Logan filled his daily schedule with work, class and study. At one point, Remy questioned if the man ever slept or understood the meaning of free time. However, over the past month, Remy noticed a shift in Logan’s behaviour that he couldn’t ignore. Dishes were left piled into the sink more often, curse words penetrated the thin walls at all hours and he found an empty jam jar left on the count with a spoon in it. The jam was the final straw for Remy because it was too weird to be considered normal for his formally perfect roommate.

 “May I ask where exactly we are going?”

The further they walked into the busy centre, the more Logan wanted to return to his room and forget the real world existed.

“I told you. To get an elixir.”

“That was a joke, so what is the truth.”

A sideways glance with a raised eyebrow was the only response Logan received as Remy took his hand and quicken their pace down the street. Rounding the corner Logan groaned as he saw the painted sign for ‘The Magic Beans’ and understood what his black jacket clad mate had meant by elixir.

“Coffee? Seriously?”

“Serious as a heart attack, babes.” Remy said, holding the door open for Logan to walk inside. “Trust me, this will perk you right up.”

“You’ve been partying with Patton again haven’t you?”

“I will not apologise for appreciating Roman’s poppin’ parties with that puffball dancing around. That kid has more energy than 100 shots of espresso.”

Shuffling awkwardly around the couch in the stores centre, Logan watched as empty cups levitated their way into the kitchen and laughter echoed from full tables and booths. Jealousy gripped his gut as he watched how effortless some of the workers made magic seem. Clearly, they had been blessed with strong magic in their families, unlike him. Remy may have been perfectly content with a magic-less existence, but Logan wasn’t. He wanted nothing more than to point his finger at a book to guide it to him, or even just be able to use a wand. Anything that would make him more than what he was.

“This way bookworm,” Remy guided Logan to a secluded booth in the far corner of the store and ushered him into the seat. “Let me introduce you to my magic elixir of life.”

“I don’t understand the allure of a beverage brewed from bitter tasting beans.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Remy beamed, hiding his face behind a menu.

“Doubtful. I’ve tasted coffee before and it was far from an enjoyable experience.”

“Haven’t tried magic beans then, have you?”

Suddenly Logan understood why Remy was hiding his face, because he was sure he was trying to compose himself right now. The voice belonged to a man that made Logan’s brain come to a sudden halt; eyes lined black, purple highlights peeked through black hair, and glossed lips were pulled into a half smile that Logan couldn’t take his eyes off.

“He hasn’t.” Remy cooed, lowering the menu and leaning back now he could maintain a cool expression. “Logan is a hard one to coax away from study hall and your parents don’t allow take away.”

The worker chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, giving Logan a peek of his hip as the black uniform lifted behind his apron.

“Yeah, they are very protective of our recipes. Better safe than sorry though. You just want the usual, Rem?”

“Cheers, babes. You know how I like it.”

“Sure thing. And what can I get - ah, Logan, was it?”

Worry danced across the server’s eyes when he was met with only a stare in response. Upon releasing he had been asked a question, Logan cleared his throat and forced his mind to function enough to grab a menu without showing just how shaky his hands were.

“Ah-um-yes. Logan is, well, me.” Cheeks burning, Logan cursed his sleep deprived brain for being unable to form coherent sentences and tried to read the jumble of letters in front of him. “I’ll have a…um…”

With a sigh of defeat, Logan dropped the menu on the table and hopped he didn’t look too ridiculous smiling up at the other man.

“I don’t know what to have. I’m sorry. This isn’t really my…”

“Cup of tea?” He offered, seeming to immediately regret the comment as Logan blinked back.

“…ironically, I’m not a tea fan either, um…my apologies, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, sorry. Virgil.” Quickly scrapping his hand down his pants to dry it, Logan shook the hand Virgil had extended. “So, you’re a real newbie to this scene then. How have you survived studying?”

“He isn’t surviving, which is why I’ve brought him here.” Remy offered before he had to watch another awkward pause.

“Right.” Virgil let out an awkward chuckle and ran a hand through his fringe as he thought out loud. “So, coffee noob, not a tea fan, study-aholic. Do you prefer sweet or savoury flavours?”

“Oh, Logan is very salty.” Logan’s head snapped round and glared at his friend opposite him. “Girl, that look only cements my point. What do you recommend, Virge?”

“I think I’ve got an idea. I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” Logan called after him as he watched Virgil walk back towards the counter.

 “You’re so gay-ow!”

Logan kicked Remy under the table and spoke in a hushed tone.

“What the heck was that?”

“You’re smitten, kitten, that’s what.” Remy said, rubbing his shin under the table. “Thank Mama Remy when you get his number.”

“Falsehood. I’m going to kill Mama Remy while he sleeps.”

“Good luck with that, you’ll be too preoccupied to even think about me. So, what’s the most powerful wand core?”

“Phoenix feather strands with northern tree sap.” Logan replied without thought; resting his elbow on the table so he could comfortably massage his left temple. “What exactly is your plan here?”

“To find the nerd that wants to put magic into the Sanders name despite what his parents say. Should I buy a wand or make my own?”

“I seriously doubt I will ever be able to learn magic at this rate… and if you’re born with magic, and the wand is just for show, buy it; but you’ll need to make it if you’re not.”

“I think you’re gonna blow them away when you pass this course and get to make a wand. I can see you now;” pushing his glasses up onto his head, Remy gestured an invisible wand out to the side. “Wielding a wand crafted from a fallen elm.”

“Based on previous encounters, I’d say that is more likely Roman’s style. Given my birth is in the later part of the year, and my reduced sight, oak would be a much better fit.” Yawning, Logan fiddled with the corner of the menu until he froze at Remy’s laugh. “What?”

“Girl, you are going to ace that test.”

“Falsehood.” He said with more force than earlier. “With an infinitesimal amount of sleep and limited knowledge, it will be impossible for me to achieve a passing grade.”

Leaning onto folded arms, Remy locked eyes with his friend and smiled. “You just answered 3 key wand questions without batting an eye. I think you’ll be fine.”

Logan raised a pointed finger to rebut the statement, before realising what Remy had done.

“You are one bad elixir away from an evil genius.”

“I was born without magic because I would have been too much for this world to handle.”

“I will concede to you this time, but even if I do go to school, I will still need to stay awake for the test and practical examination. I don’t think I can function for another 3hours.”

“I’ve got you covered,” Virgil beamed, placing a tall dark mug in front of Remy and holding another out for Logan. “Chilled to help you wake up. Mild bean blend with a salted caramel mix; extra salt to balance out the sweet. All the buzz of Remy’s coffee, without the bitter bite and some cream on top just for show.”

“That hasn’t been on the menu,” Remy grumbled as he reviewed it one more time just in case he’d missed a new addition.

“I know.” Logan noticed Virgil shift nervously on his feet after placing the beverage down before him. “Thought I would make something special for the beginner.”

“You never did that for me!”

“Don’t act so offended. You were already a veteran drinker when you first came here.”

Tuning out the other voices, Logan glanced sadly between the clock on the wall and the personalised drink in front of him. He considered what Remy had just demonstrated and made a decision before speaking again.

“Thank you, Virgil, but unfortunately I can’t stay.” Two sets of eyes snapped to Logan as he carefully shuffled out of the booth. “Remy believes I can pass this test, but if I don’t leave now, I might not be able to even take it in the first place. I’m sorry.”

A smile crept back onto Remy’s face as Virgil grabbed Logan’s hand when he turned to leave.

“Wait…you said you needed something to help get you through the exam, though.”

“I-I-I’ll just have to…push through it I guess.”

“No. Here.” Grabbing the cup from the table, Virgil held it out for the other. “Take it with you.”

“But… you don’t do take away, here. What about your family recipes?”

“Yeah, well…this is my recipe a-a-and I want you to take it.” Cautiously, Logan took the cup and Virgil released his other hand. “Besides, when you return the cup…I’ll get to see you again.”

Logan almost let the beverage slip through his fingers in shock but nodded and hurried out of the store. Remy chuckled before carefully taking a sip of his own drink.

“The only thing that would have made that gayer, would have been if Pat and Roman were here sharing a rainbow unicorn.”

“You planned that whole thing, didn’t you?” Virgil breathed, not taking his eyes away from when he last saw Logan.

“Not entirely,” he sighed and dug into his back pocket. “I thought for sure the bitch would have paid.”

———————————————

What else have I done?

Writing masterlist / master post thingy

Check out my main blog @snail-giggles for random fandom reblogs and stuff

[goldeneyedgirl]

the fic that does not exist

What you are about to read was the first Twilight fic I posted. In all honesty, I deleted it two weeks after posting it and repurposed it for my degree into a 21,000 word novella that I’m still trying to turn into a decent YA book because, frankly, it has potential and I want to. 

But gosh, do I love the original version because I can see exactly where it was supposed to go and it remains one of the best things I’ve written. Because it turned into something that got me my degree. A precursor to how I approached Shadow to Light. To Alice always been a tiny bit bonkers in my fic.

It will never be reposted on AO3 or FF.net. What is posted below is probably 75% of the original. Some parts/lines were removed but nothing that affects the plot. There is a 50/50 chance I may delete this in the future.

But yeah, from circa 2015 (what the absolute fuck, I’ve been at this for five years?!), have “R”. 

--

It begins on a Wednesday. She runs out the front door, in bare feet and a nightdress that is too short, and she keeps running until she reaches Dr Cullen's house.

("It's Aro, Carlisle. We need to find the others, we can fix this.")

Dr Cullen brings her inside and Mrs Cullen gives her a glass of orange juice. They ask her a lot of questions, and she trusts them until the paramedics come to the door and she drops the glass, cutting foot badly and she hopes she bled all over Mrs Cullen's ugly rug.

(She doesn't scream or cry in the ambulance. She answers their questions politely, and apologises for getting blood on the gurney.)

She is put in a tiny cubicle to wait, a nurse cleaning and bandaging her cut foot. She asks for a glass of water the nurse never brings. And then, he's there. Too-long blonde hair, stooped stance, too thin and hollow looking, the circles under his eyes darker than his eyes.

("Jasper," she whispers. He doesn't hear her. He does when she calls out to him, and tries to leave the cubicle. She starts to scream for him when the nurses appear out of nowhere, and hold her down, slide the syringe into her and even as she's crying for him to save her, her world is turning white and quiet. And when she wakes up, she can't quite remember the name on her tongue, the face blurred in her memory.)

--

Her mother unlocks the door sometime after two, and carries in a tray. Milk, a sandwich and dozens of tiny round pills.

"It's time to eat," her mother says simply, placing the tray on her desk.

She watches her mother fuss around her room, making the bed, gathering the laundry. Doing her duty, and nothing more. There is never an explanation, never comfort.

Just obligation.

Her mother hates the way she stares, with her eyes too big and too knowing. She always thought a mother's love was infinite, eternal and complete. Now she has found the well tapped barren and dry, and she finds it difficult to grieve for that.

When she thinks of a mother, it is not this sour woman who pins her like a butterfly with shame and pity and resentment. No, the mother she images has laughing eyes and hair the colour of caramel. A woman who fixes, soothes, comforts and loves. Who smells of summer herbs and fresh linen, and a laugh like bells.

--

There's so little to do, now everything has been taken from her. Instead, she sinks into her tiny garden, gathering the pots around her until she can pretend, the scent of herbs thrown into the air, and she watches through the railings. She sees a lot. She sees Miss Hale stealing kisses from the McCarty boy, but turns him away in front of witnesses.

(It upsets and frustrates her, more than she can explain. She watches Miss Hale go out in expensive dresses with men too old for her, watches the dark cars pull up out the front of the prim and proper Hale residence. And every night, she waits. Waits for Miss Hale to get home safe, always waiting and listening for any cry for help.)

The McCarty boy sees her watching, and waves to her every time, with a cheerful grin and a wink. She waves back and blows a playful kiss when she knows Miss Hale is watching.

(She hasn't found her prince; she doesn't get much of a chance to look for him, locked away in her tower. But until she finds him, the McCarty boy could be her knight and rescue her, in a pinch.)

--

Her dreams are nonsensical, fragments of something larger that she doesn’t know how to decipher.

She dreams of running like the wind, of laughter and happiness. Of her hand clasped around another, but she cannot glimpse a face. Just a presence that anchors her.

She dreams of her hand slipping free and she stumbles, falling an impossible distance. Then there is mud and smoke and blood, and she is screaming hoarsely. She scrambles to her feet, and it is hard to run, the plants and mud tangling her feet. Under the smoke, she smells decay and mud. And she is trapped in her own grave, the darkness a weight upon her.

The smells from her dreams – of blood and smoke – hang heavily in the room when she jerks away from those haunting visions, enough that she thinks she can actually smell them. It’s just her imagination, she tells herself, but in the darkness of her bedroom, with the full moon hanging in the sky, it’s hard to believe it. That the stench isn’t there, blurring the lines of nightmares and memories.

--

She sneaks out during the summer fair, in a dress that is too long, and she didn't realise how much she has faded away, as she knots the straps tighter. The night is warm, and really, no one is going to notice her.

The fairy lights are woven through the trees, and music is playing softly. Laughter, chatter, fills the park, and it is magical. She wants to live in this moment forever.

He finds her sitting on the front steps of the library, peeling rind from the orange, her tongue catching the droplets of juice, her eyes closed in enjoyment. She is magnificent, with the ribbon in her hair, the oversized dress. She is gaunt, pale, like a tiny ghost and he is entranced and he doesn't know why.

(She welcomes him with a smile; he tastes like cigarettes and stewed coffee, she tastes like oranges and something bitter. Hands slide into pants, under skirts, and for her, it is salvation. For him, it is a drop of water in the middle of a desert. Gone all too soon and never again reclaimed.)

He buys her a blue paper flower that she tucks behind her ear, and she traces her fingers over his track marks so lovingly, he is surprised that they don't fade away.

--

Dr Cullen is kind to her, but her outburst so many months ago is still fresh in his mind, she can tell. He touches her gingerly, pity in his gaze at the black and blue shadows over her limbs.

(He sees finger prints colouring her hips, from her sweet, lovely prince the night of the summer festival. She wears them with honour, and she meets the good doctor's surprised glance with a cheeky smile.)

After the shot, the world is soft and her mother speaks to Dr Cullen, their words a dull hum. Nothing will change, nothing ever does. She will be returned to her tower, to sleep and pills and watching, for another twenty-seven days, until she is brought back to Dr Cullen.

--

She has one magnificent nightmare, where she is the princess at a ball, safe in the arms of the prince. But then there is nothing but blood, ghosts with scarlet eyes, her sweet tower a darkened dungeon, and bodies, oh the bodies. Of her beloved prince, her sweet knight, the ones that she watches over. Bodies split like overripe fruit, splayed open like butchered meat.

She screams until she wakes, her throat hoarse and raw and on fire, her mother waiting for her in the shadows, to send her back to the dungeons, the red-eyed monsters and the ocean of blood in weeping silence.

--

Sleep isn't coming, even with the pills on her tongue, with only water lining her stomach. She gives herself a paper cut and watches the bead of blood well up on her pale finger, and it is obscene and unexpected, and she watches it roll down her finger, over her knuckle with parted lips.

When she can dredge up enough energy, she writes a list. Of names, of people whose faces in her memory are hazy and indistinct. Of things that might have happened and things that did happen, but somewhere else. Of things she cannot allow herself to forget, even as the memories and details fall through her fingers.

--

Everything is blurring together, and she cannot put it right. She stitches memories together with justifications and logic, but their edges are still uneven, ill-fitting. Nothing is truly wrong – unless you count the crazy girl locked in a tower – but it isn’t right either.

Faces tumble through her memory, but she cannot remember the things she was supposed to never ever forget.

--

She leaps, leaps to freedom with a paper flower in her hair. It is better than flying. She leaps without regret, with sheer determination and the knowledge that there is nothing left for her in this place.

(The pills are bitter, the tower is quiet. Her hair floats loose around her face, not long, but no longer short. She didn't regret the loss of Mary-Alice in 1919, she doesn't mourn her now.)

The ground is hard, harder than she ever imagined. And she is just a doll of porcelain, already cracked at the seams. She shatters perfectly, the flower tumbling from her hair.

--

They bury her on a Friday, and it rains. A modest gathering of associated people in black, over an open grave, the only words that are offered are from a man that knows nothing more about Alice than a long illness that curdled her brain and sapped her body.

(Rosalie Hale came home at dawn with a torn dress and haunted eyes, but only screamed at the sight of the broken girl underneath the old oak tree. Emmett McCarty came running, and wept for the sweet dead girl who hid behind the railings and watched; for the necklace of bruises around Rosalie's pale throat. For a sense of utter wrongness he cannot put into words.)

A boy with dead eyes and thin arms waits at the back of the group, clutching a single orange and a bunch of flowers. He stares at the hole in the ground, saying nothing, but leaves his offerings on the fresh dirt with a reverence for something much greater than a sick girl. He is resigned to hopelessness that his salvation has gone, and all that lingers is the memory of enormous blue eyes and a sweet touch.

(Jasper Whitlock pushes aside the roses from the Cullens, the sunflowers from the Masens, the lilies from the Swans and nestles the orange in the dirt. His flowers were plucked from a garden, snow-white daisies and tiny blue flowers he cannot name - Forget-Me-Nots that will outlive anything else left behind.)

Her mother studies the grave sternly, smoothing down the hair of her younger daughter, and accepts the sympathies graciously. Her own pink carnations are already drooping over the headstone, as if they recognize her apathy to her child's fate.

(Emmett McCarty brings three bright yellow tulips in shaking hands. He tried, tried so hard to bring her back, even as his hands felt the sharp edges of bone under cold flesh. It was him that peeled the torn piece of paper from her hand, expecting a suicide note, her final words, but the curling handwriting offers not an explanation but two words 'Aro. Volturi.' And those are words that send a spike of fear through him and he doesn't know why. The note is still in his jeans' pocket and he doesn't know whom to tell.)

The rain turns the cemetery to mud and people begin to leave, petals dragged from stems with the ferocity. By winter, her grave will blend in with the rest, grass having grown over the dirt. Her family will leave her to her quiet sleep. It will be only a shattered girl, a broken prince and a confused knight that keep vigil at her grave.

(Esme Cullen buys pink roses and tries not to cry as she sits alone in her car. She truly doesn't know why, but there is something else there, just under the surface that she cannot quite decipher, that leaves her sobbing for the girl that saw no other way out than throwing herself from her tower, and all that Esme can do is offer pink roses and regret.)

--

She opens her eyes. And she screams.

(There is no more fear; just purest rage, sharpest anger. She will have her retribution and it will be sweet.)

[randomoranges]

salut là, here’s another soft xmas fic with a song title. hey do you know what is my fav xmas trope? it will be evident after reading this fic hahaha.

song is from Kenny Loggins Celebrate me Home 

I Believe I’ve Missed Each and Every Face (Home for the Holidays)

 Étienne sighed, melodramatic, and flopped over on his back on the living room sofa. He glared at the Christmas tree branch that hung over him and crossed his arms over his chest. This was the first year he was spending Christmas without his partner and he was – feeling it. Ever since they’d started dating, he and Edward had spent the holidays together. At first, it had been since Edward couldn’t fly back home and so Étienne had invited him along and afterwards, once their relationship had grown serious, they had alternated; one year with Étienne’s family, the following with Edward’s and so on. It worked. It was perfect. He enjoyed the compromise.

 Until this year.

 Sure, he had once upon a time spent the holidays without Edward, but he liked being with his partner during the festivities. This had been going on for nearly a decade and he just – wanted to have Edward next to him on Christmas morning and kiss him silly at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. Sue him.

 He missed him something fierce.

 He pouted.

 The worst was – it shouldn’t have even happened, but there had been a last minute emergency, Edward had been called in to work a conference at the other end of the universe and there just wasn’t enough time, or money, for him to fly back home for two days and then jet back out. Étienne had thought of joining him, but funds were a little tight at the moment and he had his own work obligations that would just make it a bigger headache than necessary.

 Therefore, they were celebrating apart. For the first time ever. And it was terrible and horrible and unfair.

 He felt bad for Edward who would be spending the holidays, alone, in a foreign place, even if his partner had assured him that it would be fine and that they could video chat at some point. It wasn’t the same.

 Therefore, two days before Christmas, Étienne had headed north to crash at his brother’s place where the rest of the family would be congregating to celebrate the holidays. He could mope all he wanted, could give out a hand with the preparations, and he could flood Edward’s inbox with increasingly wistful messages.

 He had no idea when he’d become such a sap, but he no longer cared.

 Étienne was counting down the minutes until his niece and nephew would be done with their naps so that he could at least pass the time with them, since he’d been kicked off kitchen duty for now and the laundry had been taken care of ages ago, when the doorbell rang.

 “Oh, can you get the door please, Étienne? That must be Jacques back from his errands,” Suzette asked him from the laundry room where she was loading up the next batch.

 Étienne rose from the couch, one long slouch of limbs and dragged himself to the front door. He unlocked it, braced himself for the gust of cold win, and opened it up.

 And then closed it shut again.

 For the briefest of moments, he was convinced he’d hallucinated Edward standing on the front steps of his brother’s house. But he knew that wasn’t possible, since Edward was miles and miles away for work related reasons. In fact, he had a conference today. They were going to talk about it later on.

 The doorbell rang again.

 “Étienne? Door please.” Suzette called out to him again.

 Étienne steadied himself with a deep breath and then slowly opened the door, peering first to steal a peek. He heard his brother laugh and then say something to someone else – maybe he was on his phone, but then he recognised the other figure – the one he’d seen before. He recognised his partner’s coat and his Oilers hat. He would know that figure – that stature anywhere.

 He just – couldn’t understand.

 Étienne threw open the door, cold be damned and stared in disbelief at Edward A. Murphy who stood on his brother’s front porch, grinning like a loon from ear to ear.

 “Hey there, gorgeous,” Edward had the audacity to tell him as he took a careful step closer.

 Étienne blinked.

 And blinked.

 And blinked again.

 “Eddy?” He asked to be sure this was real and not some poor attempt at wishful thinking from his brain. He hated how small his voice sounded or how it cracked a little towards the end, but Edward offered him a kind and gentle smile, before he stepped closer to him, an arm’s length away.

 “Hi, sweetheart,” He said, softer this time, before he closed the distance between them.

 Étienne proceeded to fling himself into his partner’s arms and hugged him as tightly and as closely as possible. It was him. Edward was here. He wasn’t sure how, but Edward – his darling Edward was here. It wasn’t a dream.

 “Eddy,” He breathed, furrowing his face in his partner’s chest. It was amazing how much better he suddenly felt, how elated he felt knowing that Edward was here. “Missed you,” He added, before he cupped Edward’s cold cheeks with his already cold hands to get a proper look at him. He sighed in relief at familiar, kind hazel eyes and perfect lips he could never tire of kissing. It was his Edward with his infamous Oilers hat and scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His heart felt full to bursting knowing that he was here with him now.

 “Missed you more,” Edward added. They shared a private smile, before Étienne kissed him nice and slow, glad he had the chance to do so and already planning to catch up on all the kisses he had been deprived of in the past few days.

 “I don’t understand how you’re here,” Étienne said when they pulled away. He didn’t dare step out of his shared embrace, even if it was cold and his ankles were now blocks of ice, but he felt that if he moved, this illusion would fade away.

 “Your brother picked me up at the airport.”

 Étienne then remembered that his brother had been outside and looked in his direction, asking him for clarification.

 “Let’s get inside and Ed can explain.” Jacques offered and before Étienne could protest, Edward had let him go and was leading him back inside.

 The moment they were all in and the door was once more closed and locked, Jacques gave them some space while Étienne wasted no time and proceeded to kiss every inch of Edward’s face, making Edward laugh and squirm. He wanted to steal Edward away and hold him close for days on end, but they could do that later, he convinced himself, even if he still indulged some more, rejoicing in the sound of Edward’s laughter.

 “I thought you wanted answers,” Edward said once Étienne had let him go long enough for him to remove his jacket, before he snuggled up back into his arms.

 “I do, but this is very nice as well.” Étienne looked up to Edward and smiled softly at him. This was, honestly, one of the many things that made him truly happy and he was content to be in Edward’s arms for a moment longer, simply to be held.

 “You’re ridiculous,” Edward told him, fond and amused, before he kissed him again, and Étienne melted just a little bit more on the inside as he went pliant under Edward’s soft caresses.

 “I know,” He murmured, moments later, as he drank in the sight of Edward and then hugged him closer for good measure, “So, how did you manage to get here?” He asked, caressing Edward’s face, trying to get his fill of Edward as best as he could, his fingers dancing from his rosy cheeks down to his shoulders and then back to trace his brows. Edward let him, used to this, and frankly not minding one bit.

 “It’s a long story, but – there was never a second set of conferences. The last one was last night and I caught the red eye out to catch a connecting flight to Montreal and then a jumper out here. I ran the whole thing with Jacques and Suzie and now, here I am,” He grinned at Étienne, pleased as punch with his little devilish plan, “Surprise.”

 “You absolute mad man – I can’t believe you pulled this off.”

 “Was worth it, though. Your face was worth it – getting to be here with you is worth it.” He murmured to him, soft and sweet and Étienne had to, so he pulled Edward down for another kiss, letting it linger as he wrapped his arms around Edward’s shoulders.

 When they parted, Étienne ducked his head, his cheeks burning and instead he contented himself with keeping a hold on Edward, “I’m glad you’re here,” He added once his brain had caught up with what had happened and he’d found his voice again.

 “Wouldn’t have been the same without you,” Edward added with all the sincerity of the world and it did something funny to Étienne’s insides.

 Étienne had never thought he could have this – that he could be this happy and yet – he had somehow managed to find Edward. He got to have Edward and Edward was here – with him. He spared Edward a glance and was rewarded with one of those soft smiles he had missed so much and could right almost every wrong in his world. This, he decided, was going to be the best holiday ever.

 FIN