#don’t mind me continuing to make useless hcs for my au that is made for myself and like 50 other people at best

[shit-sorry-fuck-mybad]

TOP GUN F1 AU CAUSE IM TRASH

I am obsessed with my silly little au and I decide to make myself happy from time to time so

Maverick’s maiden win is complete chaos, but honestly it’s exactly what everyone expected

It’s the second race of the year, his second race with Ferrari

He was a little disappointed he didn’t win the first race but you know what they say, he’s not superstitious but the curse might just be a thing so he lets it go, maybe the universe was actually trying to help him for once

Quali has never been his strong suit, quali is about precision, maverick needs those other 19 drivers to fight, he needs room to improvise, he needs uncertainty, he needs battles, he needs to interact with others on track so that he can eventually beat them

Iceman is a fucking beast on quali, always has been, makes sense doesn’t it

Race day, Maverick is starting fourth, not what he expected but still good, it’s lights out and away he fucking goes

He’s like a man possessed, he can hear his race engineer giving him orders on the radio but he’s way too focused on his task, he knows his car, he tells them what to do… yeah they don’t appreciate that

Fighting Ice is the challenge he wanted

He knows what they say about him, ice cold, no mistakes, right? But maverick knows that this man is just like him, he’s desperate for victory, so when ice pushes, he pushes back

He crosses the finish line after almost causing maybe five crashes, ignoring several team orders and getting yelled at for ignoring said team orders, but he crosses the finish line as a race winner

Now… maverick knows Ice, everyone knows Ice, he’s a legend in the making or something like that, but they’ve never actually interacted

He puts his feet on the ground and Ice immediately grabs him by the shoulders, Mav still has his helmet on, Ice doesn’t, and he can see the anger and frustration in his eyes, he’s sweaty and tired but he still hold Mav tight as he demands an explanation

“What the fuck were you thinking Mitchell? That bullshit you just pulled could’ve gotten all of us killed” Mav soddenly becomes aware that everyone is watching them

He tries to act relaxed, like he isn’t being basically threatened by another driver, he smiles and then remembers he still has his helmet on, so he chuckles instead “But it didn’t”

Ice takes a step back, people don’t laugh at him, people are usually intimidated by his cold and slightly aggressive attitude, but this little bastard seems to be enjoying this shit “You’re dangerous, I don’t like that”

“if you don’t like dangerous then maybe you should’ve chosen a different line of work Ice… man” Maybe he’s delusional, he can blame the exhaustion of the race, but he thinks he sees a hint of a smirk in Ice’s face

“I won’t risk my life more than I already do because some cowboy like you decided to go suicidal mid race” and with that he walks away

Maverick watches him go and he knows, he knows that this is it, this is what everyone in this sport wants, someone that can fight them, someone that will do anything to understand them in order to beat them

Everyone wants a rival, Mav thinks he just found his, and he gets the feeling that Ice agrees

The media fucking loves it

“He tries to act relaxed, like he isn’t being basically threatened by another driver” what I’m trying to say is that Mav thinks it’s hot, he’s horny, he wants to fu—

I can’t write fanfiction so I do this instead, I think I’ll do one for the daggers cause like…. Come on it’s too good

Also someone called me out on the Leclerc and Verstappen parallels and like fuck you you are 100% right

Here’s the first part -> x

[crystalirises]

i am completely in love with your harry potter au, got any more crumbs? maybe some young georgebur falling in love? maybe some george x revivebur reunion?

(2/2) oh also I have this hc that not only did wilbur trust george with the hufflepuff cup horcrux just like bellatrix, but that he also made george's wedding ring into the ring horcrux (yk the one that poisoned dumbledors hand? except this one wouldn't be cursed obviously) so george would always have a piece of his husbands soul with him wherever he goes :,( <3 this is way to romantic in my head considering the fact that you have to murder someone and literally split your soul in half to create a horcrux🤦

hello! So this might not be exactly what you wanted cause I kinda like...

You know when you want to write but you're like... nah, I'm tired?

Yeah I'm currently going through that XD. My second year in college is starting next week so I've been busy with enlistment of classes and stuff. I did do something about this (along with other stuff cause I couldn't help myself and someone else asked before if I could make like a second prompt for what happens to Fundy after he got obliviated).

So yeah, this is like ten parts of drabbles that take place in this AU. Sorry if this isn't what you wanted. I'm very sorry.

Fair warning, some parts are dark cause... Georgebur are the villains and well they win and this is a Harry Potter AU, y'all know the villain, y'all know what his agenda is.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31985884/chapters/82666897

I. First Meeting

“You’re all bark, Mr. Soot.”

He stopped, one foot already at the top of the stairs. Wilbur threw a careless glance back.

And, oh, he was glad he looked back. There were many students within Slytherin, and he only recalled the most interesting ones. George Lore had always been very intriguing. “How so?”

“You’re charming, but I’ve seen your… skills. You’re not very sharp.”

Wilbur laughed, moving back down the stairs to where George waited. He’ll show him sharp.

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II. Expelled

“George Lore, the only man I will ever love, I believe this is where we part ways—”

“Wilbur, please keep your mouth shut and assist me with my luggage.” Of all the replies, Wilbur did not expect that. He glanced behind George where a bunch of suitcases waited eagerly to board the boat that would lead them back to the train station. Wilbur was stricken. When they’d expelled him for the murder of some… honestly, he wasn’t quite sure who he had murdered - some nobody mudblood, that was all… one, he had expected George to track him down just for the sake of lecturing him on his stupidity. Yet it seemed, that wasn’t the case. “Well, Wilbur? What do you say? Do we head home to your family’s manor or to mine? Either works for me.”

“Love, as much as I would love for you to stay at my home, what are you… huh?” George rolled his eyes, huffing before finally placing his bags on the boat, muttering on how useless Wilbur was and how he really was just charms and good looks. Not to be upstaged, Wilbur immediately took over, carrying George’s heavy bags onto the boat despite his confusion. He bit the bottom of his lip, watching as George stepped on board, sitting down as he waited for Wilbur to get his own bags into the boat. “Don’t tell me you’ve snuck out. Think of your grades, love, you care so—”

“I care more for you than some school who accepted those filthy mudbloods in the first place.”

Wilbur smiled, “And that’s why I love you. Whoever I killed, they had it coming.”

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III. Isolation

George was growing tired of the same dingy walls.

He never thought he’d end up in Azkaban, but fate tends to surprise you.

They trapped him in there, thinking that the dementors would drive him to the brink of madness.

He’d be damned if they were to devour his happiness. His husband was dead, and so was their son. There was no happiness in his mind, and he could not bring himself to hope. Hope meant food for those damned abominations. He’d keep his thoughts and his emotions kept under lock and key. He won’t let them take what was left of what he remembers of Wilbur and their child.

He refuses to lose them again. Not again.

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IV. Loss

He wasn’t an orphan, but now he felt like he was.

Fundy rushed out of the house, hands wet with sweat despite the cold and rainy weather of London. His bag dragged across the pavement, his shoes splashing against the murky puddles. He didn’t dare to turn back, he couldn’t. Dream and Sapnap would be devastated if they knew what he had done, but Fundy couldn’t stay and endanger his parents any longer. He loved them, they were the best parents a kid could ever ask for. But Sally and Jared Salmon would be better off thinking that they never had a son and that their lifelong dream was to move to the Netherlands. Fundy walked faster, scared that he’d turn back the longer he stayed near the house.

He could feel the tears gathering in his eyes, but Fundy knew he needed to be strong. Sapnap and Dream needed him to be strong. They’ve all lost too much. He won’t cry until the war is over.

Who knows? Maybe he’ll actually like living in the wizarding world.

He just wished it didn’t have to come with the cost of his parents forgetting he ever even existed.

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V. Wedding Ring

George found it to be quite amusing, honestly.

You would think that the Order would know better. Incompetent fools, all of them.

He admired the ring on his finger, a small smile on his face. When they’d dragged him away to Azkaban, they had given him the mercy of leaving the wedding ring that Wilbur had proposed to him with. It was hilarious, if only they had known that they had been looking at a horcrux.

His husband’s horcrux. He shook his head, gazing over at the man who stood at the head of the war table. A map of Hogwarts laid on the surface, his husband’s focused gaze nearly covered by his curly, dark chocolate brown hair. He’d join in on the brainstorming once Wilbur had gained a bit of a plan. While George did adore his husband… he was more the charms than the brains.

For now, he keeps a part of his love’s soul close to his heart.

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VI. Knitting Habits

He’s never held a knitting needle before in his life, but he can’t say that knitting wasn’t fun.

“I never thought I’d see the day. You’re getting old, love. Should I get you a rocking chair too?”

George threw a ball of yarn towards Wilbur, eliciting a laugh as it hit Wilbur directly on the face.

“Ever the humorist, Wil. It would be funny if it wasn’t coming from a man who literally came back from the dead and looks decayed.” He sighed, leaning against the wall of the alcove. Wilbur was still mulling over their plans, a crease in his forehead. “I’m making a scarf for our little son.”

Now here’s to hoping that Fundy would like it. George did do it with the colors of their family.

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VII. Home

He trembled, the effects of the spell washing over him like a pile of snow.

George was whispering into his ear, but Fundy couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own breathing. Dream was dead, Sapnap got hit by a crucio spell, and George was taking him back to be tortured all over again. He continued to shiver, tears pouring past his cheeks no matter how hard he tried to keep himself from crying. The world around them melted back into existence, but all he could feel was his heart beating loudly in his chest and the arms wrapped around him.

“Shh, shhh, you’re alright, sweetheart.”

His captor pulled him along, keeping an arm wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing him every now and then each time he tried to put a bit of distance between them. He was led inside a room, and from the way it looked, Fundy could tell it wasn’t an ordinary guest room. It felt too lived-in, too personal. George led him to sit on the edge of the bed, gently petting his messy and dirty hair.

“It’s alright, Fundy. You’re home with dads now.”

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VIII. Scarf

Fundy scowled, the scarf somehow tight against his neck despite it practically falling off.

He felt George adjust it back around him, fussing over him like he was a child and not some captive that they’ve been keeping locked inside their room. Fundy knew he wasn’t the tallest, his best friends already joke - well, they used to - about it, but George was just a foot taller and still he somehow felt even smaller. He huffed, moving away until his back was against the wall of the alcove. George didn’t make a move to follow him, simply sighing before turning back to Wilbur.

He buried his face against the scarf, trying to bring himself comfort.

If he tried hard enough, he could catch the faint scent of ash and black licorice. Sapnap had worn the scarf at some point during the battle since he thought it looked comfortable to wear. Fundy had given it to him since he didn’t know where it came from and it had been too big for him.

What he’d give to go back to that time, instead of clinging to the fading scent of his best friend.

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IX. Very Dark Blue Eyes

There was a stranger in his room.

Fundy nervously fiddled with the end of his scarf. His wand was still on the nightstand where he had left it, and the stranger was blocking his way. He’d barely seen anyone for the past few months aside from his dads, but he could already tell who the stranger was. The stranger was his age and had long black hair falling past his shoulders. Fundy knew he was a Halo immediately.

“Holy shit… Fundy! Finally, I’ve been scouting the fucking grounds for hours! This place has terrible security, well except for the wards but they were easy to break.” The stranger rambled on and on, each word striking Fundy with more confusion. He wasn’t sure why he was acting like they knew each other. Fundy had no friends - aside from his Uncle Tommy but Uncle Tommy was awkward around him - so he wouldn’t know the stranger, especially since they were a Halo of all things. The stranger moved closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I missed you!”

“Who are you?” He moved away from the stranger’s hold, avoiding the stricken look that the stranger was giving him. Fundy scowled. Of all the times to leave his wand where he couldn’t reach it. “I know you’re one of those… Halos at least. Now, how did you get inside my room?!”

“Fundy…” Very dark blue eyes gazed at him, hurt dancing in their stare. “It’s me, Sapnap…”

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X. You’re a Wizard, Fundy

The letter came at some point during the night.

His mama had asked his papa if he’d enrolled Fundy in a faraway school by accident, but papa had said that he hadn’t. They were whispering about it during breakfast, throwing glances at him every so often as though they didn’t want him to hear. He pretended not to care, attention focused on his breakfast. Mama and papa weren’t arguing, but it almost felt like they were. He hoped that their conversation would be over soon, but it continued even after Fundy finished his breakfast. He left his plate on the table before walking out of the dining room and into the hall. Mama and papa didn’t seem to even notice that he had left. Now to find what was the problem.

He found the problem all too quickly, his scavenger hunt cut short by the fancy letter that had been left on top of a table in the hallway. Fundy held the letter in his hand, the paper coarser than most that he’d felt. He knew he shouldn’t be snooping, but his mama and papa never talked about something so incessantly, at least not something about him. He snuck back into his room, the letter clutched in his hand. Maybe he’d failed his entrance exam at the school his parents were enrolling him in? He pouted, but he’d studied so hard for it and it had been so easy for him!

Fundy didn’t know why his hands trembled as he tried to pull the letter open. Mama had folded it back to the way it had been, and he couldn’t really see the trace of ink at the back. A part of him wanted to hide it away, maybe then mama and papa would stop worrying about it. He didn’t know why, but a part of him felt like something was about to end the moment he opened the letter. He took a deep breath. He could handle long hours of studying, even though his mama and papa said it wasn’t healthy for him to stay up so late. He could handle what was inside the letter. With shaking hands, he opened it, scanning the life-changing words that were meant for him.

If he only knew what that letter meant at the time, then maybe he would have just burned it.

[flameohotfamily]

I love all your fics and HC’s. After reading Maiko ff for nearly ten years I finally decided to write some of my own and it’s not getting responded to much. Any advice on if I should keep it up or quit while I’m ahead?

OMG, dear anon <3333333333333

I'm... speechless? Thank you so much! Sending you virtual bear hugs!!!!!

I tell you what. I had been writing my first original story a few years ago, in my second language (not English, hah), and it took me around a year to write it, nearly 400 pages (almost a novel). I posted new chapters every week, I replied to every comment, every mention, I researched every drop of information and read a lot to have a good vocabulary. What do you think how many likes or comments I gained?

About a year after finishing it (plus the whole year I've been writing it and it was free to read at any time), I gained 62 likes under my story. A whole year!! Someone gains 62 likes in one day from a first chapter. Do you think I felt inspired, or creative, or talented?

With my first maiko fic it was even harder, my English level is still low and definitely was on the bottom in spring, and I was so so so scared to post it. Perhaps, in my native language my text would float like a river, in English I tried to write it at least grammarly correct (I failed even with this, seriously, my brain slowly breaks every time when I read something harder than Present Perfect) lol. And what do we have? Almost the same story, I mean, none of my fics has at least 100 kudos even now. Maybe you asked a wrong person for advice after all.

I become upset when I notice a mistake in my writing, I get frustrated every time when I read gorgeously written fics or stories (not because they are written gorgeously, but because I cannot write like this and I feel like a complete failure), I'm angry at myself every time when I cannot write at least a line for a new chapter. I guess, I might know how you feel sometimes.

But all of this is... strangely okay. Writing is a process, it's your learning and growth. Your mistakes, your frustration, your critical view of your texts, your insomnia at 4 a.m. when you have weird inspiration, your sitting in front of your notebook or laptop waiting for some creativity from above, your tired amused smile when you see a short comment under your work.

There is a great quote from one Talmudic sage, Hillel the Elder: “The shy man will not learn; the impatient man should not teach.” And I think it describes a lot of things perfectly. I know it takes courage to start, to write, it takes courage to post your work, it takes courage to read a comment from some critic who tears to pieces the text that you've been carefully writing for three weeks or even more. It takes courage. And you already did a good job and made great efforts by writing something and posting it, and I'm very very proud of you!!! You stepped outside from your comfort zone, you stepped over your shyness and insecurity, you're learning and it's... it's awesome!!!

I tell you honestly, yesterday I wanted to delete my modern au fic because I have no inspiration, motivation or power to continue it. Last week I wanted to delete this blog because I felt exhausted and I saw all of it as a useless waste of time (I mean, how many 20 y.o. make a whole blog about two cartoons? In this era of productivity and glowing up and making your own business from everything?). I burned out some time ago, and I'm still recovering from it. Some of my readers ask me when they can expect a new chapter, and I have no answer. Because I literally force myself to write and it doesn't feel right. I still get upset when my text is not smooth and beautiful, when I cannot find the words, or I simply don't know the grammar, I still doubt that I might sound ridiculous and no one talks like that (no one speaks English in my surroundings, so it's a kind of challenge), I still feel an urge to delete all of it. Or start to write in my native language at least, because personally for me it takes so much time to create something in English.

But the whole point of writing is that you should enjoy what you're doing. As long as you love writing in general, your texts and these characters, I think you should continue. Maybe write only for yourself, maybe for those five readers who would read everything that your mind would ever create, maybe for a big audience of your followers. Even if no one ever would appreciate it or comment it, I think you should write.

Take your time, rest some time, don't exhaust yourself, make something you're usually enjoying doing, whether it to listen to your favorite music, or reread your favorite book, or drink your favorite coffee/tea. And open a new page. Maybe you would write only one new line for a whole day or week, maybe you would write a chapter during one evening, who knows. But don't stop writing and don't give up on yourself so easily. Even a small step is progress, and even one kudos/like/comment means that someone somewhere spent their time reading your texts. Maybe you should quit it for some time, but please don't act too harshly and wipe everything out. Take days off, think about it, remind yourself why do you love this ship and why did you feel a desire to write about them, remember which positive emotions maiko or other ships/shows/stories etc. bring personally to you. Maybe you just need a break (I have a break right now, it's okay, it's refreshing).

Our maiko fandom is a tiny island between large oceans of other pairings (you know what I mean, since you're far longer in this fandom than me). We're small and unpopular, and underrated and even bashed sometimes. So I genuinely feel happy and grateful when I see new maiko content!! That's why I'm trying to support everyone who creates something new, or just appreciates it with kind words and positive vibes. What I'm trying to say, you are appreciated and welcomed, and it's great and wonderful that you decided to make a contribution into maiko family/nation/fandom or how you used to call it.

I know that perhaps I sound too motivational and supportive, but when I say it, I truly mean it - I'm ready to support every new maiko creator!! Because that's what some people here did and are doing for me, because that's what we're all supposed to do. Support and encourage each other. I wish I'd known who you are and seen your works, anon. Please feel free to write me here on in messages (don't be scared or embarrassed, I'm just like you!!!), and share your work. Write me, any of you, guys. I'm not a writer, I haven't written a masterpiece, I'm not a good advisor, but I'm ready to support you and help you to spread more maiko and your writings, and even share some of my experience if it might be helpful.

I hope I answered to your question. I feel so so honored and complimented that you've written me, so thank you!! Hope it helped, at least a little.

Send you, dear anon, and all the maiko shippers a lot of inspiration and positive thoughts. I bet you all are super talented and creative and deserve only the best things. Enjoy your writings and the process of creating, and don't be too hard on yourself because you're incredible <33

[mysticmylifeisamess-enger]

The Joy of Painting

Pairing: Jihyun/Reader

Word count: 1,417

Summary: “We don’t make mistakes, we just have happy accidents”

A/N: I’ve had this hc that V would love Bob Ross and I did something about it. Also I’ve watched like 10 episodes while writing this, yeet is this really about v or is this me professing my undying love for bob ross ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

edit: and if you want more artsy V, I know a great slowburn Tattoo Shop AU you can check out

Jihyun buried his head between his hands, a frustrated sigh passing his lips as he stared down at his work. A piece he spent hours on just didn’t look right to him, as if it was missing something and he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. His first scenic painting in months and he felt like it was getting the better of him.

Twirling the brush in his hand, he realized the more he looked at it, the more problems he’d find. Some colors looked too murky, there were useless strokes all throughout and it just didn’t come together at all. He fell back into the chair behind him, defeated by his own painting. One more glance at the work before him and he almost felt like it was mocking him, averting his eyes to instead stare at the ceiling.

Watching from the doorway, it was like watching him go through the five stages of grief. Denial, continuing to paint with furrowed brows and an annoyed look on his face. Anger, finally stepping back and letting out a disgruntled sound at how it looked. Bargaining, going back and trying to justify some parts. Depression, slumping back into his seat as he eyed it. Acceptance, the empty look on his face as he stared at the ceiling.

“Jihyun?” you called from your spot, watching him swivel in his chair to face you. He gave you a small smile, reaching his hand out for you to take before pulling you into his lap. He buried his head in your neck, taking in your scent and relaxing into your touch in silence.

“Everything going okay?” you asked, raking your fingers through his hair. You felt him exhale deeply against your skin, shaking his head in response.

“I think I’ve lost it,” he chuckled, his gaze falling back to the painting, “MC, what is it missing?”

You hummed in thought, looking at it with the same amount of intensity he did and rubbing your chin in mock concentration. You could easily understand his frustration, and just like him, you couldn’t quite place what was wrong with it.

“I’m not sure,” you said, looking back at him to see him lull his head back to his seat.  

“I think I’ll call this incomplete, it’s really not going to get better from here,” he sighed, pausing for a moment to look back at it, “What if I’m not meant to paint anymore?”

“Jihyun, you’re just stuck. Why don’t you take a break?”

“I’m not entirely sure a break will help. This painting is going to end me before I end it.”

“You shouldn’t let your paintings control you,” you laughed, getting up from him, “Bob Ross always says it’s your world to do with as you please, you have complete control over it.”

He tilted his head slightly, perplexed by what you just said.

“Have you never seen The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross?”

“The name sounds familiar, but I can’t say I have.”

“He’s an artist, The Joy of Painting is his show where he paints and you can follow along. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it, Bob Ross reminds me so much of you,” you said, piquing his interest as he perked up.

“How so?”

“You’ll have to watch it to find out, do you want me to put it on for you?”

He stood up, stretching his arms above his head before they came back down to his sides with a yawn. His tall figure well above your own as he looked back down at you, that same endearing smile on his lips leaning down to press a kiss to your temple.

“Maybe another time, I think I’m going to give this mess a second try.”

“Alright, if you say so,” you mused, turning on your heel to walk out, “let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you dear,” he said, turning back to his work. While your presence was a breath of fresh air for him, he still couldn’t quite figure out the mess in front of him. It was an hour-long pattern of him being ready to press his brush to the canvas only to stop short an inch of it and pulling it back hesitantly. The fear of messing it up even more was the only prominent thought on his mind.

He looked down to see more paint on his clothes than what he put on the canvas, falling right back into his chair again. Running his hand through his disheveled hair, he tried to collect his thoughts. They almost all seemed to revolve around the self-doubt that only grew with every glance at that damned canvas.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the sketchbook that sat on his desk, an idea occurring to him as he picked it up and made his way to his room. ‘This has to be worth a shot,’ he thought to himself as he opened his laptop, making a quick search to find a few episodes of what you were referring to and settling on one.

At first glance, he was taken aback. Bob Ross reminded you of him? He thought his hair could be a little untamed, but he didn’t think it could get to the level of the thick afro this man sported. Though he continued to let it play as he readied the pencil and sketchbook in his hand.

“Hi, welcome back. Certainly glad you can join us today,” his voice gentle as he spoke, though the underlying delight he had was evident. Jihyun found himself mesmerized by the way he talked, explaining what was on his canvas and what this episode would entail. He was also a bit excited to see what the end of this fantastic little winter scene was going to look like.

As he continued to sketch along, following diligently to the instructions he was given, he was immersed with the sound of the brush running along this man’s canvas. The honeyed words paired with the calming scenery that unfolded before him put him at ease. And he found himself impressed with the seemingly lighthearted advice he’d give.

“You’re only limited here by your imagination.”

“As long as you’re learning, you’re not failing.”

And his personal favorite, “We don’t make mistakes, we just have happy accidents.”

The last half hour felt like he embarked on a tranquil journey, and he felt ready to tackle to the painting that awaited him. He went back up to his studio, took one long look at it, and knew exactly what to add, picking up his brush and getting to work. His patient demeanor came back almost tenfold as he carefully placed a few strokes.

After a while, he didn’t notice you watching from the door as he mumbled to himself, picking up a ‘let’s get crazy’ every once in a while as you saw him drop a tree into his little world. You inched closer to the sketchbook open on his desk, smiling to see a small scenic drawing that looked familiar on it. You were so captivated by the drawing, you didn’t feel Jihyun’s gaze on you until his arms wrapped around you from behind.

“I’m guessing you started watching Bob Ross.”

“What makes you say that?” he teased with a sly smile.

“For starters, there’s a lot more happy little trees on your painting now,” you laughed, turning in his arms to face him, “And you seem less distraught than a while ago, are you feeling better?”

“Absolutely,” he said, placing a kiss on your forehead, “though I have to ask, what is it about him that reminds you of me?”

“Well,” you started, taking a deep breath as you continued, “Just like him, you’re very patient and kind. His words are always so soothing and reassuring. I always turn to him to brighten my day or for soulful wisdom. And he just has a way of making me feel special, just like you do.”

He swore he fell for you harder in that moment, his heart feeling as if it could burst in his chest. His lips almost moved on their own as they captured yours, trying to show you how sincerely he loved you. He knew exactly what you meant, especially when you made him feel the same way. You pulled away with the brightest smile, the warm feeling in his chest growing.

“Now we just have to get you the afro,” you teased, making him chuckle.

[who-is-the-king-of-new-york]

Letters(Newsies WW1 AU)

Summary: Blink and Crutchie stay home while the others go to war. (based on my really old hcs) 

Yes, this is long-awaited and it’s finally here (if I ever continue this I will post more parts but as of now this is all I have.) This also took a hell of a lot of research on what the American’s did when they first joined the war, so I apologise if this appears to be more like it is british because that’s what I go off normally. 

Dear Blink and Crutchie,

We have arrived safely. We will barely be here a week before we are positioned into British lines to replace a lost regiment, luckily we will remain together. While setting up camp we have seen many British soldiers pass through, half of them with bandages wrapped around various limbs as they head to their ships back home across the channel. We can only hope that they survive the boat ride back to England. Tommy says that they look like a shit version of that mummy that was discovered in Egypt when we were teens. The town we are occupying has some lovely French women who are helping out with the cooking in a mess hall. It makes it feel like home, unlike what we are used to when we have to cook our own meal with the measly rations.

There's more color here than what the papers made it out to be. Although, Tom and I have decided that it's probably just because we aren't on the front lines yet where Al is taking photos. I think I saw Racer walking around, taking pictures of us as we arrived, but I couldn't quite tell because we had to continue moving. The other fellas who arrived with us are taking their chances with flirting with the girls who live in the town. It's quite funny to be quite honest, apparently one of them called a girl 'an ugly cow'. I'm not too sure. Crutch, you might know what 'laid vache' means. At least I think that's what he said. The passing British general said that it was what you should say to them. Clearly, he was playing with us and I could hear some of the wounded following him snickering so I don't think that the boy knew what he was doing when he said it.

Currently, Tom and I are writing this letter because the other boys are struggling to sleep with the artillery in the background because they are terrified. Most of us are writing letters to loved ones but as we only have the ex-newsies we thought why not write to you to let you know we're okay. We also have a bet on how many of them are going to sign up to fight.

Tom wants me to mention the way we stopped at Lafayette's grave on our way here. He thought it was admirable that we did that. Bring part of the provisional division is quite strange, there are no other Americans other than the ones we brought with us. It's hard seeing what has happened to the British as we pass by their hospitals and camps. Apparently, we're here to assist the French and British lines because of the situation on the Italian lines. Something about them losing 60 miles? Has it been in the papes back home?

What's the coverage like? How are you two doing? Is the lodging house okay? How are your boys? Any improvements in the love life? I was beginning to think I was getting more than you both combined and I can't get a moment alone with a lady. Tell the rest of them that we're okay and miss them!

Love, Henry (with input from Tommy Boy)

Crutchie and Blink sent a letter in reply telling them about the status at home, about all of the boys putting their names into the draft, some of them being chosen to go already. They also put in a picture of Les in his uniform before he left weeks before their letter arrived. They knew the boys in the lodging house - which they took over from Kloppman when he retired - would want to send a message so they sealed a letter comprised of messages from all of them inside as well. All they had to do was wait the incredibly long time between the letters being sent and the arrival on the lines.

Just days after they sent that letter they had Davey breaking through the doors of the lodging house with the news. News that Henry was home. It was true. Henry was home with a bullet wound through his shoulder which rendered his arm useless for months. He could hardly lift a glass of water to his lips with it, let alone hold a rifle and dig trenches. Henry had money to survive and live with from his 5-year military career but he decided that he would get a job. He couldn't stand sitting around and waiting for his arm to regain strength. He acted on the dream he had as a kid, he wanted to open a bakery. Well, he started the first step towards that at least.

Jacobi was still going in his deli and taught Henry how to bake while paying him for the goods he produced. At first, he struggled to knead the dough due to the minimal use of his left arm and he settled on holding the bowls of whatever batter in his weak arm while kneading or mixing with the other. This allowed him to slowly rebuild the strength while still rapidly producing baked goods. The taste of them improved with each batch. Jacobi loved watching Henry bake, remembering the times as a newsie when all he did was stare at them because he couldn't afford to buy the pastries. Jacobi was proud of these boys and the men most of them had become.

The best part of Henry's recovery was him finding a girl. It was the stereotypical love story. She would come in every day just to buy his pastries and watch him through the door to the kitchen. Jacobi noticed and often let her stay after closing to talk to Henry. She was much younger than Henry, somewhere in her early 20s, parents nagging her to marry a nice upper-class man. She came from a background like Katherine's, rich businessman father and high standards. She didn't care much for the expectations for her to marry someone like Darcy. She loved Darcy to pieces but not in the way her mother wanted her too. The only thing that was playing in her favor was the fact that Henry had been honorably discharged from the army, something that her father would respect greatly but would appreciate the ambition to own a bakery.

Race would be home in a few days. That’s the only thing that was going through the groups' mind, the ones at home at least. Crutchie had been to his home to clean it before he came home, realising it was completely unnecessary now that Race had left it to his new fiancé while he was away. The girl had been a street kid like themselves, finding work at Medda’s as a stage manager and costume maker and really whatever Medda needed at the time. She had taken it upon herself to clean the house from top to bottom on her day off that week, excluding the office in which Race kept his cameras because he was very specific about how it was kept.

Race would be home soon and that was the glimmer of hope they had to a glimpse into what their friends were going through. They were praying it was better than what the British were going through. Although, all the information that they had was nothing more than a few snippets in the papers because of the increasingly isolationist country that they lived in.

The day when the first telegram rolled through the door was the beginning of the cull. The group held a mutual silence amongst their group as they mourned the short-lived life of their friend. Their brother. Blink and Crutchie focussed on the boys in their care, reminding them of what the lost member of their pack used to be when they first met all those years ago. The boys had noticed too, each of them making sure they were home on time to not cause them unnecessary stress. The young ones being brought home by the elder ones, giving Blink the peace of mind required to ensure that none of them attempted to sign up while underage. The silence was kept until a letter arrived.

Dear the ex-newsie pack,

I am writing to you from a hospital bed, or the closest thing to a hospital. I believe I’m at a clearing station run by the British until I can get transferred to an American one. Although, I’m writing to you now while the morphine is numbing the pain enough to tell you that I don’t think I’ll be able to get home. The doctors have taken the bullet out but the blood is still seeping through the bandage hours after, it’s an open wound in a shitty hut in the middle of France, I’ll either bleed out or get an infection.

Davey, you allowed me to live long enough to write this letter. The medical knowledge you gave me meant that I could survive off of my minimal medical supplies until I was rescued by the British. I tried to refuse the morphine they gave me but I came in as the fresh shipment came in. Thank you, I love you.

The rest of you better not miss me too much, take care of Sally for me.

See you in the next life,

Les

There were bloody fingerprints on the corners of the envelope and strange red mud stains on the letter itself.