#hence why.. fucked up looking creature in the last image

[tartppola]

very specific au thought, silver if he was the shield instead ( read the tags to see explanations )

[rambheem-is-real]

Ee Varsham Sakshiga [With the Rain as Our Witness]

My submission for #varadevaloveday!

On the way back from Vedha's housewarming party, Deva and Varadha run into a storm. They take shelter in a hut, and Varadha suggests Truth or Dare. Which is a terrible game to play when you've been pining over your best friend for more than two decades.

Or: Modern AU Varadeva

-

“If you’re tired, go to sleep, raa,” Deva tells Varadha, breaking the sound of raindrops hitting the windshield of their rental car. 

Damn, Varadha thinks. 

Was Varadha tired? Yes. Was he actually pretending to be sleeping so he could ogle the other man? Also yes. Now he could either deny it, forcing himself to stay awake when his eyes probably wouldn’t stay open after the next few minutes and look like an idiot, or he could actually go to sleep, missing out on the wonderful sight of Deva driving. The angle at which he lifted the arm closest to Varadha as he steered was enough to ensure Varadha could see the muscle hidden beneath Deva’s dress shirt, a rare article of clothing for someone who usually preferred ratty T-shirts or tank tops. Deva had complained about it, of course. 

“Why the fuck were these torture devices invented?” Deva had snapped, fed up with being unable to fasten the tie to his neck. Varadha, already dressed up, had just laughed at him. 

“How are you, at your big age, unable to tie a tie?”

Deva just pouted, eyes pleading. And how could Varadha resist that? 

He had obliged, sliding off his perch on Deva’s desk to help him. Varadha’s fingers had felt like they were touching a live wire with every brush of his fingers against Deva’s neck, and the scent of Deva’s cologne so close hadn’t helped matters. 

“There, now you won’t look like a hobo at Vedha’s housewarming party,” Varadha jokes. 

“Vedha dresses just like me,” Deva complains. 

“Not today, he won’t.” 

Varadha had been right, all of their friends had shown up wearing some of their best. Not as fancy as the suits they had been wearing for the wedding a few months ago, but still classy. 

Now, the tie had been loosened, laying around his neck in a way that had Varadha imagining different circumstances. It did nothing to conceal the way the first few buttons on Deva’s shirt had been loosened, exposing Deva’s chest. Hence, the secret ogling. Varadha pushes down the instinctive fear that Deva had realized what was going on, that he had somehow found out about Varadha’s feelings. If Deva hadn’t realized in the last thirty years they had known each other, he damn well wasn’t figuring it out now. 

“Alright,” Varadha sighs. “My wonderful driver, wake me up when we get to your home.”

Varadha closes his eyes and leans onto the window, smiling at the chuckle he hears. The sound is more of a deep rumble with Deva’s voice, and it’s heavenly. Still smiling, Varadha lets thoughts of Deva lull him into sleep. 

-

The sound of the wipers furiously scrubbing the windshield breaks Varadha out of his nap. He opens his eyes to see a blur of water droplets and vague images of the road ahead of them. 

“Arey, em kanipisthundi ra neeku? [Dude, what can you see?]” He scoffs. “The rain’s gotten so much worse.”

Deva grits his teeth. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” Varadha makes an incredulous sound, drawing Deva’s attention. He can see Deva briefly turn to him out of the corner of his eyes, and his tone softens. “Really, raa. It’s fine; it’s a straight road until we reach the state border. By that time the rain’s probably gonna be better.”

“You don’t know that-” Varadha gasps in the middle of his sentence. “DEER!”

Deva swerves on the wheel, slamming the breaks. They narrowly miss the brown creature annoyingly parked in the middle of the fucking road, and the action sends them hydroplaning onto the other lane where they stop. 

Varadha takes a second to calm himself, and Deva quickly turns to Varadha to scan him for injuries. They hadn’t even hit the deer, for fuck’s sake, but something in Varadha warms to see Deva being protective over him. However, the warmth won’t stop him from teasing the other man. After all, it was one of his favorite activities. 

“What are you looking at? Koncham road atu pothene gaayalosthaya?  [Just because we went a little bit out of the lane will I suddenly have injuries?]”

Seemingly satisfied with his scan, Deva just rolls his eyes. “Ah? Rani gariki antha sukhamgane unda ani, check chesthunna [Just checking to see if Her Majesty is still comfortable].” 

Varadha half-heartedly smacks Deva’s arm, before his eyes land on the dashboard GPS. 

“Rey, there’s no signal here,” he points out. 

Deva starts the car, pulling it into first gear. “I don’t need a GPS to tell me where to go.”

“Mahanubhavuda [Oh great man],” Varadha says, folding his hands sarcastically, “You can do whatever you want when you’re by yourself. Me personally, I don’t want to get lost outside in this rain. Stop by the side of the road. Let’s wait for the GPS to figure its shit out.” 

“I told you already, it’ll be fine-” Deva’s interrupted by the sound of the tires hitting a pothole, and they both wince as they jolt in their seats. 

Varadha scans what he can see of the road, and finds a small hut coming up by the side, a few feet in. 

“Rey, rey, rey, there’s something there, stop!” He taps Deva’s arm in succession. “We can wait out the storm.”

Deva sighs but acquiesces. He pulls over to the side, in front of the structure, which looks more like a hut now that Varadha can get a less blurry look at it. Deva turns to look at Varadha, giving him a happy now? look. 

Varadha just grins at him. For all his teasing, for all his insults, Deva would agree to do anything Varadha asked of him when the time came. Varadha slowly curls his hand around the door handle. 

“Last one to the hut pays for gas!” He barely finishes before he gets out. The rain pelts his back as he lifts a hand above his head, trying and failing to keep his hair dry. Varadha hears an indignant shout and a “Vara!” muffled behind him, and suppresses the giggle that wants to climb out of him as he enters the hut. 

First, he thinks smugly as he observes the interior. Never mind that he had had the advantage there. Not like Deva hadn’t ever pulled some shit like this before. Tom and Jerry, Deva’s mom had lovingly called them as kids when they wouldn’t stop fighting when Varadha came over. Only she had realized that behind each prank, behind each childish insult, was a deep bond of love, and that fighting with each other was just the way they expressed their affection. They could go from happily playing with toys, to getting into a wrestling match, to guiltily soothing each other, all within the span of a few minutes. 

Varadha briefly spares a thought to the fact that Atha [aunt/mother-in-law] might be worried that they hadn’t come back home yet. There was nothing to do now, though. A quick glance at his phone shows no bars, just as he had expected. He and Deva would just have to apologize once they got to his home. 

Deva runs in a second later, almost knocking Varadha over. He frowns as he examines what he can see of the cramped space they’re now in. Varadha pulls on the wire near his face, and is rewarded with a flickering, weak light above their heads. Now that they can see better, it’s clear the hut wasn’t meant for someone to live in. Neither of them would be able to lie down flat on the floor, the rounded walls would prevent that. 

“Rey Vara-” 

Oh, Varadha can’t take that tone. That gentle, you deserve so much better tone. He sits down fully, resting his back to the wall, before Deva finishes. He glares up at Deva, still standing, who just looks exasperated. 

“I’m fine,” Varadha stresses, and what a reversal that is. 

Deva hesitates for a few more seconds before he gives up and joins him, sitting across so their calves touch. 

Varadha hates these moments. He loves now living with Deva and Atha, and being able to be around Deva more. If he has to adjust to living less lavishly than he had growing up, that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. 

Deva doesn’t see it that way, though. Every time Varadha’s had to eat leftover rice, take public transportation, stand in the hot sun for more than a few minutes, he gets this look on his face, some combination of guilt and anger, the latter emotion only for Varadha’s ex-family, of course. It never seems to get into his head that Varadha’s fine with this, that he’s not so soft as to consider any of these more than minor inconveniences. Deva had been both elated and sad to hear that Varadha and Baachi had left the Mannars. 

Elated because he had been there for all of the times Varadha’s family had humiliated, hurt, and insulted them, all for the crime of being born to a different mother. It had been Varadha who had kept Deva from trying to get back at his siblings numerous times for the shit they had put him through. Sad, because it meant Varadha was leaving his comfortable life with his wealthy family, to come tough it out inside Deva’s apartment, which was barely big enough for Deva and Atha by themselves. 

Well, the Raisans being in that situation was Raja Mannar’s fault in the first place, but Varadha was genuinely happy to live with Deva, and his decision had nothing to do with his separate secondhand guilt for the way Deva and Atha had to live their lives as he grew up with all of his basic needs automatically taken care of. Baachi had figured out a roommate situation with his own boyfriend, Rinda, and Varadha had begrudgingly accepted, not before attempting a shovel talk (successful, Rinda looked terrified) and a lecture on using protection (unsuccessful, Baachi had all but shoved him out the door after that).

Fuck. Now they’re both upset, and there’s a storm raging outside. Varadha can hear faint thunder in the distance, and he knows with their luck the storm will pass right over them. 

He tries to think of something that’ll lighten the mood, something to do to pass the time. Varadha nudges Deva’s foot with his own, to get Deva’s attention. He had been staring morosely at the ground, but he looks up to meet Varadha’s eyes. 

“Truth or dare?” Varadha asks. 

Deva just raises an eyebrow, and Varadha flushes. 

“I don’t see you coming up with something. Either figure something out or answer the question,” Varadha demands. 

Deva sighs. “Sare [Ok], raa. Dare.”

Varadha looks around the hut. What the fuck could he even dare Deva to do here? 

Deva seems to also realize this, and snickers. Oh, it’s on, Varadha thinks. Both of them had competitive streaks, and the best way to provoke was to act like the other was powerless. 

“I dare you to spend thirty seconds outside.” 

Deva’s jaw drops. “It’s raining!” 

“Exactly. Get out.”

Deva rolls his eyes, but dutifully crawls outside to lie in the grass for thirty seconds. Varadha definitely doesn’t admire the way the water droplets run across his skin.

When he comes back inside, he’s fully soaked, and Varadha realizes he’s made a mistake. The space is so small the puddles that Deva makes flow over to where Varadha is. 

Deva suddenly leans over Varadha, and before he can react, roughly shakes his head so the droplets in his hair land onto Varadha’s face. Varadha sputters, jumping away, and Deva laughs back to his spot on the floor. 

“Kukka [dog],” Varadha mutters, as Deva’s laughter slowly trails off. 

“Ok, my turn,” Deva says, still grinning widely. “Truth or Dare, Vara?”

Well, Varadha’s not going to pick dare. “Truth.” Deva opens his mouth, then closes it. Varadha smirks at him. “Whatever diabolical plan you had, it’s not happening.”

Deva pouts. “Damn, I gotta actually think of something to ask you now.” His brows knit together in concentration. “What don’t I know about you?”

A good question, actually. They had been inseparable ever since they had been introduced as toddlers, the sons of Raja Mannar and Dhaara Raisan. Every joy, every sorrow in their lives, they had shared with each other. 

“Do you actually approve of Rinda, or are you just ok with it for Baachi’s sake?”

That’s easy. “He’s an idiot, but not bad.” Not bad, Deva mouths at him, and Varadha flips him off, grinning. “He’s higher on my list than most other people, at least. And I trust Baachi to keep him in line.”

They smile at each other for a few more seconds. 

“My turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Varadha flicks an eyebrow, and Deva rolls his eyes once more. “You could barely come up with a dare last time. There’s nothing to do in here. Might as well make it a truth game.” He doesn’t like it, but Varadha can see the logic in that. 

“Alright.” He racks his brain for what he can ask Deva that he doesn’t already know. “Have you ever had a crush on anyone? Obviously, someone you didn’t tell me about.” 

Nice going Varadha , he thinks. Totally subtle. 

But Deva just contemplates it. Like there actually was an answer to that that wasn’t, Are you out of your mind? If there was someone I would’ve told you.  

“Promise me.” Varadha says, suddenly. “Promise me that everything you say for the rest of the game is true.” He hopes that if there really were secrets between them, this night would change that. 

Deva stares, mouth set in a hard line, for long enough that Varadha starts to sweat. Does.. does Deva want to keep secrets from him? Eventually he does lift up his pinky. “I swear.”

Varadha gives him a Look, now trusting him even less. Deva sighs. “I pinky swear, on our friendship, that I’ll tell the truth.” He then quickly links the pinky with Varadha’s. “And Varadharaja Mannar will also tell the truth.” Varadha opens his mouth, and then closes it. Well, he’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t agree to the deal as well. Complete honestly from both, then. 

“Sare, sare [Ok, ok]. Now answer the question.” 

Deva looks at the ground for the first time, not being able to meet Varadha’s eyes. “Yes,” he mumbles, and Varadha’s heart sinks. 

“My turn,” Deva says, quickly. “Have you..” He hesitates, but forges on. “Have you ever went all the way with anyone?”

“Have I had sex, you mean?”

“I’m just curious,” he defends himself. “Isn’t that the kind of question you would ask in a Truth or Dare game?”

“Yes,” Varadha answers honestly, to his first question. Deva takes in that information, eyes unreadable. “Now you. Do you still feel that way for that person?”

Deva closes his eyes, as if expecting a reaction from Varadha. “...Yes.”

Oh. Varadha forces a laugh. “Rasikudive, raa nuvvu [you’re really a player],” he jokes. “Pakkane mogudni pettukoni vere valla gurinchi matladthunnavu [you’re talking about other people with your husband right next to you].” The flirtatious banter was an inside joke between them, sometimes referring to each other as their husband or wife in private. It doesn’t seem to land in this moment, where Deva just looks pained. 

“Rey..” he starts, and Varadha interrupts. 

“It’s your turn to ask me something.”

Deva just looks at him. “Does it bother you? That I said yes to the past two questions?”

Fuck. Varadha hates his past self for suggesting this game. But he had promised. And it’s not like Varadha wasn’t a jealous person in general, even towards people Deva knows he has only platonic feelings for. 

“Yes,” he answers. Deva’s eyes widen. Moving on. 

“Does the person know you have feelings for them?” They’re getting dangerously close to what Varadha really wants to know, the identity of this mysterious crush of Deva’s. 

“No.” Deva says, quickly, but surely. Like that was unquestionable, like he had resigned himself to unrequited feelings a long time ago. “Do you? Have someone you like, I mean.”

Varadha keeps his eyes on Deva, thinking again about how if Deva had suspected anything he probably would’ve done so a long time ago. “Yes.” Deva’s eyes widen once again, and Varadha can see genuine surprise and hurt. 

Well, if they were talking about secrets. “Were you the one who beat up Ranga?”

Deva flinches. 

Varadha had always felt estranged from his family, but a few years ago, the catalyst for his leaving was Ranga. His brother’s boytoy? Boyfriend? Pet? Varadha still doesn’t know what he is to Rudra, but one day Ranga apparently thought it would be funny to call and withdraw Varadha’s application to his dream university. Varadha had been devastated, but knew better than to start something when Rudra could just as easily do the same to the other colleges he had applied to in retaliation. Let them pay for his college, graduate and then cut them off - this was Varadha’s mantra for higher education. 

He had, of course, raged about it in private with Deva. Had broken down, barely eaten dinner that night, slept with his head in Deva’s lap on the couch with Atha glancing worriedly at him. Varadha hadn’t told another soul about it. 

The day after, he went home to get a suitcase of his clothes and other belongings thrown at him the second he walked through the door. From the doorway, he could see all his trophies, his certificates, smashed on the living room floor. 

Someone had beaten up Ranga that morning. They had beaten him so bad he was in the hospital in a coma. Rudra had furiously enquired as to what happened, and somehow found out about what Ranga did. He had assumed it was Varadha, taking revenge, and had told Raja Mannar. And of course he only focused on the fact that Varadha had hurt someone, not even caring about the reason why. With Radha Rama’s encouragement, he had taken the decision to legally disown Varadha. 

That was the last day Varadha stepped foot in that house. He had gone numbly over to Deva’s apartment, holding nothing but his suitcase. Atha had opened the door, taken one look at him and the suitcase, and waved him in, had told him the guest room was always his. When Deva got home, Varadha could see the shock and clear guilt across his face. 

He had never asked Deva about it, and Deva didn’t talk about it. Varadha didn’t even blame him. He only felt mildly upset that if Ranga’s face did get smashed in, it wasn’t Varadha that had done it. 

“Was it you?” Varadha repeats the question. He knows the answer, of course. He just wants Deva to say something about it, now that they had both sworn to tell the truth. 

A shadow of Deva’s guilt that day comes back now, shoulders slumping. “Yes,” Deva whispers. “But you knew that.”

“I did.”

They sit in silence for a few more seconds. Varadha can be patient when he wants to, and can outwait even Deva, a man of few words. 

Eventually the tension is too much for Deva. “I’m sorry, raa,” he says, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking, at all. I didn’t expect them to take it out on you. That morning, I woke up still dreaming of your tears, and I couldn’t do anything, think of anything other than fucking that bastard up.” The last part is gritted out. “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him. I definitely wanted to, just for making you cry, for taking away your chances at your dream college.” 

Varadha swallows. He knows Deva cares about him more than anything, but to hear it put like that, it’s scary and reassuring at the same time. “You didn’t say anything about it afterwards, though. Even when I came to your house that day.”

Deva closes his eyes. “Does it make me a terrible person if some part of me, some small part of me was glad it happened?”

“Glad?”

“Because.. because it led to you staying with me.” He quickly clears his throat. “With us. Me and Amma.”

Varadha stares. Deva opens his eyes, and winces at whatever he finds on Varadha’s face. “I’m sorry. But it’s the truth. I felt awful for you getting kicked out, I felt awful that I ruined your life. I genuinely wanted to end it all, for a few days.” Varadha remembers the quiet, devastated glances Deva kept sending him all week, when he thought Varadha couldn’t see him. “But then I would see you, eating with us, laughing along with us into the late hours of the night, sleeping in the room that was now yours…” He swallows. Deva doesn’t finish the sentence, but Varadha, so closely attuned with his best friend, could easily tell what he wanted to convey. 

They sit in silence as Varadha digests this information, both looking anywhere other than each other. Eventually, Deva leans his head out of the hut, and comes back in, only slightly wet. 

He hesitantly tries to tell Varadha, “The storm seems to have broken-”

“Your turn.” Varadha interrupts. 

“My what?”

“Your turn.” Varadha nudges him with his foot. “Truth or.. truth I guess.”

“Are you angry at me?” He whispers, looking genuinely scared. Like what Varadha says now would screw with him for the rest of his life. “For what I did?” 

Varadha just stares at him, letting Deva squirm. 

Finally, he responds, mouth slowly curving into a smile. “Yedava [idiot]. If I actually was mad at you I’d have let you know the day it happened. I’m just mad you didn’t call me when you were beating him up because I had shit to say as well.”

Deva’s jaw drops. “You- you- dongasachinoda [fucking asshole]. You had me thinking you hated me!” 

Varadha can’t hold it back anymore, starts laughing uncontrollably. “Your-your face!” He wheezes. “You were so scared!”

Deva attempts to pout but fails to hold back a relieved grin. “Dick.”

“Well, if that’s what you want-,” Varadha winks, then laughs again as Deva attempts to hit him for that. He overshoots, and ends up falling on his face, onto Varadha’s thighs. Deva shifts into a more comfortable position, looking up at Varadha now. 

Varadha looks at Deva’s affectionate smile, and thinks back to the admission that Deva had loved having Varadha living with him. Suddenly, Varadha’s a lot less scared about who Deva’s been talking about. He thinks, he hopes, that he’s guessing it correctly. “What’s his name?”

Deva’s smile dims a bit. “Who?”

“It’s my turn, raa. What’s his name, the one you’ve been pining over?”

“How’d you know it was a guy?”

“You can’t ask questions, you only can answer mine. That’s how the game works.”

Deva looks deep into Varadha’s eyes, searching. Finally, he answers. “You seem so confident. Why don’t you answer, and I’ll tell you if it’s right?”

In response, desperately praying to every god he can think of that he’s not fucking this up, not ruining their friendship irrevocably, Varadha leans down and kisses Deva. 

There’s a brief moment of shock, a moment where Deva freezes, that Varadha starts panicking. 

Oh fuck shit fuck shit shit shit fuck fuck fuuuuuuuck-

Deva pulls back. 

I’ve gotta move out I can’t show my face anymore-

He sits up fully, so he’s facing Varadha. 

I’ve got to change my name, move to a different country, fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“What was that?” Deva’s face is carefully blank, but Varadha knows his own must be giving all of his feelings away. 

“I… thought it was me?” Varadha tries, feeling like a lump of embarrassment. He clears his throat, averting his eyes. “Or not. That’s fine. I’ll just-” He attempts to stand up, trying to push Deva off his lap. Fuck the rain, he’ll walk to Deva's house if that’s what he has to do to get out of here. And immediately start packing his shit once he gets there. 

He hears the unmistakable sound of a giggle from Deva, and Varadha snaps his head back around to see Deva with his hands clapped over his mouth. They can’t hide the wide grin he’s struggling to hold back well enough, though.

“What the fuck?”

Deva gives up and tugs Varadha back down, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Oh so only you’re allowed to pretend you’re mad at me?” 

“Ohh, you fucker!” Varadha pinches Deva in the side, hard, and Deva yelps, but it doesn’t stop either of their laughter. 

Deva pulls Varadha into a kiss, and this time it’s heavenly with both of them reciprocating. Both of their lips are chapped and dry from the lack of food or water, but Varadha doesn’t care. Deva, his Deva, is kissing him. 

They pull back, only far enough so Deva can rest his forehead on Varadha’s. 

He laughs incredulously. “Let me guess, you’ve also been secretly pining for your best friend all your life.”

“Fucking hell,” is all Varadha says in response, grinning. 

“We’re idiots.”

“Yep.”

Deva groans. “Even your brother saw it before we did, he kept teasing us at the party that we showed up together like a couple.”

“I think the whole world saw it before we did,” Varadha sighs. “I don’t know about your mom, though.” Deva winces, and Varadha pulls back, frowning. “What?”

“I might’ve…. told my mom at age six if I was going to marry anyone it was going to be you? And then repeated it when I was twenty-one and she started talking about people I might be interested in?” He grins, embarrassed. 

Varadha’s eyes widen as something occurs to him, and Deva immediately starts protesting. 

“No, no, it’s not like that-”

“Damn, you really were down bad for me, huh,” Varadha smirks, and Deva groans, hiding his face in Varadha’s chest. “What else, were you doodling our names together in your notebooks with hearts? Were you the one that put that sappy ass love letter in my locker in the ninth grade?” Deva doesn’t say anything, and Varadha bursts out laughing. “Wait, seriously?” 

Deva immediately pushes himself out of the light embrace Varadha’s been holding him in, and looks outside. “Well would you look at that, the sun is shining and it’s not pouring anymore.”

Varadha gets to his feet as well, grinning. He’s absolutely delighted at this turn of events, and won’t ever let Deva live this down. 

Deva’s about to go outside to the car, cheeks red, when he stops. He hesitantly takes Varadha’s hand in his own, looks at him like Is this okay? Is this too fast?

Varadha just brings the hand up to his lips, presses a kiss to the knuckles. An unspoken It’s very okay. 

Deva smiles shyly, and they head out to their car, hand in hand. The combination of the light rain and the bright sun makes a very visible half rainbow at the end of the field across from them, and Varadha smiles. 

"Let's go to our home, raa," he says. 

-

tags: @deadloverscity @ghostdriftexistence @zici @sambaridli @sometimesbrave @just-a-lazy-person @vijayasena @sinistergooseberries all the other server lovelies as well

[rekrappeter]

finding a true love’s kiss

pairing: fred weasley x fem!reader

summary: you couldn’t stand fred weasley, yet you were best friends with george weasley. it was a strange dynamic until you end up in detention with fred and he reveals a secret he has been hiding for years

warnings: not proofread, written weeks a part, inaccurate Harry Potter vocab probably, shitty ending

notes: this was originally for @lunalovecroft‘s writing challenge but I wrote one part like two months ago but hopefully it’s still legible to some extent. prompt used was “you can hate people and still think they’re hot”

"How long have you and George been friends?" Katie Bell aimed the question at you, diverting your attention from the burgundy rug underneath you to the curious eyes of your roommates anticipating your answer. You were all sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, creating a circle as you delved into the usual Friday night gossip session.

Pondering on the question for a second, you shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, "since the beginning of time it seems."

"Yet you've never... did it?" The girls squealed around you, clapping their hands in excitement. With wide eyes, you denied the question to no end.

"Did I have sex with George?" You spluttered out, feeling your face flush, "absolutely not."

"Why not?" Angelina pushed, wanting to get more details from you.

"I'll have you know," you started, lifting yourself from the floor and making your way to your own single bed, "myself and George are only friends, that's it."

Angelina eyed Katie as you turned your back to them, stripping from your white buttoned-up shirt and replacing it with a cozy pyjama top. "What about Fred?"

The silence was deafening, no one dared to laugh or squeal this time around. You stared down at the white material dangling from your fingertips, a sickening feeling forming at the pit of your stomach. When you scoffed, the girls’ shoulders loosened and they let out a sigh of relief when you turned to them with an amused smile on your face. "Fred and I can’t even be in the same room together for longer than needs be, never mind long enough for us to... do the deed."

“I don’t know, y/n,” Katie drawled on, standing up and walking over to you, she squeezed your shoulders as she said, “I think it’s all the sexual tension building up.”

Pushing her away from you, you faked gagged in their direction, “You two are crazy.”

“I just don’t understand how you can be best friends with one twin, and hate the other one,” Katie laughed, changing into her own pajamas and climbing on top of her unmade bed. “But we see the way he is around you.”

“Yeah, an ignorant jackass,” you chuckled, flopping down onto the bed.

“More like a boy picking on the girl he has a crush on,” Angelina said.

“Please, don’t make me sick,” you shuffled into your bed, pulling the quilt up to your chin. Angelina switched the lights off, leaving you in complete darkness. You listened to her maneuver in the dark, trying to dodge the mess you all made. Hearing her muffle profanities made you giggle, assuming she walked into something or kicked a lifeless object.

“You know, y/n, you can hate people and still think they’re hot,” you rolled your eyes at Angelina’s words, twisting in your bed and letting out a loud exhale into the pillow.

“Thanks for the words of wisdom, but Fred Weasley is not hot,” your voice was filled with distaste, your lips smacking together loudly to get your point across but you knew it would fall on deaf ears. Your friends never listened when you told them over and over again that you weren’t hiding feelings for Fred, the relationship you had with him will forever be non-existence.

It was safe to say that the conversation from the night before had left a sour taste in your mouth. You were woken from a sweet slumber by the sound of birds chirping through the opened window; normally, you’d groan in annoyance but enjoy the sound. This morning, however, was different. It was as if the birds had clawed their way into your brain and changed a few wires, you climbed out of the bed with the sudden urge to crucify the loud creatures. One look at your face and Angelina was twirling on her heels and made her way out the dorm room, leaving you to your own devices.

Mornings were usually the quietest time of the day for you. You would get up and skip down to breakfast but this morning you couldn’t even work the courage to plaster a fake smile on your face as you entered the Great Hall and your mood remained foul at the sight of Fred Weasley sitting beside his twin brother. Heaving in a sigh, you sat across from George and started piling the breakfast onto your plate.

“Jesus, don’t you look awful this morning,” Fred’s voice echoed through your thoughts.

Snapping your head in the direction, your eyes narrowed, “you really want to start this early?”

“This started a long time ago,” Fred snapped back at you, the smirk on his face making you roll your eyes to the heavens. You ignored him, looking at George who has a pleading expression on his face.

“Don’t even say it,” you mumbled, reaching for the milk and pouring it into the bowl of cereal in front of you.

“There’s no point, I’m sick of saying it,” your best friend said.

You ate silently, listening to the twins bickering and there was something about Fred’s voice that was eating at you. Despite knowing him for years, it was familiar, more familiar than usual. You glanced up from your spoon, unconsciously connecting your gaze with Fred. You shocked yourself by not looking away or flipping him off, and it surprised you when it looked as if he fell into a dream. The longer you looked at him, a warning signal was going off in your head  and then something clicked in your brain. All the color drained from your face, fear striking through your body.

“y/n, what’s going on?” George asked, grabbing your hand but you pulled it back and scrambled from the table, walking quickly out of the hall. Everything came flashing back - everything you dreamt about last night.

“You’re being so damn annoying today,” you hissed, pushing Fred away from you as he reached across the table to grab something. It was just you and him in the kitchen of the Burrow, a place you spent numerous holidays but it was quieter than usual.

“You’re annoying every day,” Fred retorted, taking a bite of the red apple. He leaned against the countertop, looking at you flicking through the book in hand. You rolled your eyes, stalking away from him but you could hear his footsteps follow you, “Why do you hate me?”

You looked over your shoulder, brows creasing in confusion, “What?”

“Why do you hate me?” Fred repeated.

“I don’t hate you, Fred,” you muttered softly, feeling the air thicken around you. You turned to face him, watching him swallow awkwardly and you could see it in his eyes; he didn’t hate you either. Without another word being uttered, you closed the gap between your bodies and connected your lips to his.

“Fuck,” you muttered angrily, remembering the dream that soon turned into a nightmare. You’ve never dreamt about Fred before, he may have been in the background of some but he was never the main character, he was most definitely never the love interest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“That’s a lot of fucks given,” George chuckled, pushing his way past students walking towards The Great Hall, “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, G.”

George raised one brow in the air, his arms crossing in front of his chest as he examined you closely, “You sure about that?”

“Positive,” you popped, brushing your hair out of your face and stepping out to the courtyard, “Just remembered a nightmare.”

“Want to talk about it?” You immediately shook your head, earning a laugh from George who nodded understandingly. “Most likely about my brother being a dickhead, aye?”

“Something like that,” you laughed, trying to push the lingering face of Fred to the back of your mind.

The day slowly passed by, your mood gradually getting worse throughout it. Every free second that your mind was preoccupied with studying or maintaining a conversation with someone, it wandered off to the same red-haired that starred in your dream last night. It wasn’t the usual thoughts that you had about Fred that consisted of wanting to punch him in the face or lock him in a broom cabinet. It was worse than that, you found yourself seeking him out and admiring how he twirled his quill between his fingers. The anger that usually washed over you whenever you looked at him was non-existence. It was more of a longing feeling and it terrified you.

You had spent the majority of the day in the library, not wanting to confront George and definitely not being able to be in the presence of Fred. You were slowly making your way back to the common room, trying to procrastinate it as much as possible hence why you took the long route around the castle. What you didn’t expect was to hear an explosion from up ahead and a strangled yell of annoyance but it was enough to put the puzzles together.

Just as you were about to round the corner, a figure stumbled into you and knocked you to the floor. You gripped out for the robes that made you lose your balance and brought them to the ground as well with them landing on top of you. A flash of red-hair made you groan and your eyes connected to Fred’s wide brown ones. It startled you, the image of him kissing you making your stomach nauseous.

“Shit, get up!” Fred exclaimed, jumping from your body and he waited for you but you were still in a shocked daze. He groaned and gripped your robes, pulling you up and running along the corridor with you trailing behind him. “In here,” he demanded, opening the door and pushing you inside with him.

The rough gesture brought you from daydream, realisation kicking in and you pushed Fred away from you. “What the hell?” you yelled, fixing your robes and hair that was a mess but you were consciously aware of them now.

“Shut up,” Fred demanded, covering your mouth with his hand. Your eyes widened again, feeling your heart hammer against your chest at the close proximity of his body to yours. Your eyes darted around his face, his eyes closed as he tried to listen intently to whoever was searching for him. The freckles danced along his nose, similar to how George’s were but with Fred, they were evenly spaced and spontaneous. His eyes lashes were full and long, you envied them. His lips were uneven, his top lip thin and his bottom lip full but they looked so kissable in that moment. When his eyes fluttered open after seconds of silence, your eyes lingered on his for a moment longer. You wondered if he felt the shift in emotion between you, or if it was one-sided. “I think it’s safe.”

You feigned a roll of your eyes and licked the palm of his hand, earning yourself a look of disgust from him. “I don’t even want to know what you did…” you mumbled, glancing around the room he pushed you in; an unused office except it was piled with broken chairs and tables, unopened boxes were on top of each other, some materials spilling from them.

“Of course you don’t, it’d be too much fun for you,” Fred retorted, stepping away from you and stumbling over a box behind him. You laughed loudly, ignoring him flipping you off as you opened the door to the office and stepped outside, only to be met with the peering eyes of Professor McGonagall.

“Professor..” you gasped, trying not to stare too much at the black ashes swept through her hair, “W-what happened to you?”

“Funny you should ask, Miss y/l/n,” her glasses hanging at the end of her nose, “I’m not at all surprised to see you, Mr. Weasley, however, y/n, I do hope that detention tomorrow will give you enough time to think about your actions.”

“P-Professor -,” you stuttered but you were cut off.

“This office looks like it needs a good tidy,” McGonagall peered into the damp and dark office, “It’ll at least keep you both busy on a boring Sunday, without magic.”

You stalked away from Fred when McGonagall excused you, the anger was bubbling inside you and you ignored his chuckles as he followed you back to the common room. “Wait up, y/n.”

You twirled on your heels, getting ready to give this man a piece of your mind when you looked over his shoulder to spot the other twin making his way towards you. A grin was on George’s face until he spotted the two of you, and it deflated just as quickly. “Where did you go?” He asked Fred, shoving his shoulder.

“I bumped into this headwrecker,” Fred pointed towards you. You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms in front of your chest, “McGonagall found us.”

“And we both have detention tomorrow,” you deadpanned, glaring at the twins.

“Oh,” George mumbled.

“Oh? Oh? That’s all you can say,” you sighed in frustration, “Because you two are complete gits, I have to sacrifice a whole Sunday and spend it with this twat.”

“I don’t know which bit she’s more annoyed about,” Fred whispered under his breath to George, but you could hear him clearly. You groaned and marched towards the common room, not seeing George and Fred share a look of amusement.

“I’ll give you one guess,” George laughed, shoving his brother again and following after you.

The dreaded hour of the clock struck and you were leaning against the cold, brick wall with your feet stretched out in front of you. Your eyes were glaring at the locked door of the office you misfortunately got dragged into yesterday evening by your so-called enemy. Your developing feelings for Fred ceased before they even got the chance to blossom into something real. The trouble he caused you left a sour taste in your mouth, a permanent frown on your face.

“Miss y/l/n, good morning,” Professor McGonagall greeted you, her eyes scanning the empty corridor for a certain ginger twin but she sighed and shook her head disappointingly when he was nowhere to be seen. With a quick swift of her wand, the door glides open and you follow her into the room with a heavy exhale. “Please do use these hours wisely, maybe even consider building bridges.”

The frown deepened on your face, first because of what she had implied and then secondly because your eyes danced around the room and it looked even worse than what you remembered. Ignoring her previous implications, you questioned her desire to how tidy she wanted this room. With an echoed laugh, she turned her attention to the door barreling open and Fred slipping through the door, “Ah, Mr Weasley, just when I was starting to get worried.”

You turned your back to Fred, not having the energy to deal with him, and you missed the smile he sent your way. “You know I’d never disappoint you, Professor.” You rolled your eyes at the charm lacing through his tone, distancing yourself as far from him as you could and started stacking tables on top of one another. You grimaced at the layer of dust flying around you and tried to swat it with no success. The sound of Fred chuckling made you glance over your shoulder to see him standing there alone, the door clicking on McGonagall’s way out.

“What?” you snapped.

“What?” Fred mimicked you, sitting down on a random chair. He kicked his feet up on a desk, tilting back in the chair slightly and swinging his arms behind his head.

“So what? You’re not going to do anything?” you asked, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “You got us into this mess.”

“You’ll actually soon realise that if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have got caught.” Raising your brow in his direction, you challenged his statement. “If you weren’t being weird and staying at the library, I wouldn’t have bumped into you and we wouldn’t have been in this office.”

You scoffed, “If you weren’t such a dimwit, we wouldn’t have been in this office.”

“Dimwit, wow,” Fred chuckled, “What age are you, five?”

You stared at him in disbelief, shaking your head and letting out an annoyed sigh, “Just do some fuckin’ work.” You turned on your heels, letting his next sentence fall on deaf ears as you blocked him out. You tried to ignore him as best as you could, the next thirty minutes passing by excruciately slow. It seemed that after five minutes of sitting, Fred got bored of his own company and started stacking chairs and pushing them into the corner with ease.

“Where are you spending the holidays?” Fred asked, breaking the silence.

“Why do you want to know?” you retorted earning a groan from him. You turned your attention to him, watching him lift his navy jumper over his head. Your eyes fell to the exposed area of his abdomen as his t-shirt got caught in the process, you felt yourself becoming flushed and looked away quickly before you got caught. “I’m going to my Grandma’s,” you gave in, finally answering his question.

“I thought Ginny mentioned something about you staying with us.”

“Y-yeah, that was the original plan but I have to go back home,” you mumbled, feeling the sides of your mouth twitch.

“Is everything okay?” Fred asked, he sat on the top of a desk, his legs dangling beneath him. You found yourself closing the gap between your body as the conversation went on, becoming weirdly comfortable with him. This was probably the longest you have ever been in the same room with Fred alone and the hatred that was so often accompanied between you was elsewhere. It felt strange.

You shrugged your shoulders, not knowing what has got into you, why were you opening up to Fred Weasley? “I got a letter from my parents last week, grandma is ill so..”

“That’s understandable,” Fred sighed, his eyes lingering on your features. You avoided his eye contact, feeling the air thicken between you, “Why do you hate me?”

The question caught you off guard and he could tell straight away when your eyes snapped to his and your brows creased together, “What?” you choked out.

“Why do you-”

“No, I heard you,” you snapped, running your fingers through your hair, “What made you ask that?”

Fred pouted, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he thought of a reasonable explanation as to why he was trying to change the dynamics between you. “Honestly, I don’t know, I just want to know why you hate me so much.”

“Fred, why do you hate me?”

“Because you hate me,” he chuckled. His words made you laugh, shaking your head and when he looked up at you, he couldn’t help himself but start laughing as well and soon enough, you both were laughing together in disbelief.

When the laughing died down, you were standing closer to him with a smile tugging on your lips, “You’re a bit of a twat,” you said.

“And you’re a bit of a princess,” he smirked, his brown eyes sparkling in amusement. It was easy to see the differences between Fred and George; in your eyes, they looked completely different. George’s smirk made you want to cradle his face whereas Fred’s smirk made you want to slap it off his face, with your own lips. The thought awoke you from the daze you were in, panic washing over you to see Fred’s features softening. He let out a shaking breathe before he wrapped his fingers around the material of the checkered shirt you were wearing. The startle movement made you stumble forward, but before you could protest, his lips found yours swiftly. For a split second, you felt yourself float away, to a place where there was none of this back and forward conflict. A place where you could relish in one another's company.

It was a happy place, but that was before your eyes shot open and a loud gasp ceased the moment. You pushed him away, wiping your lips with the sleeve of your shirt. "w-what the bloody hell was that?"

You wanted to smack the smirk off Fred's face, the amusement swirling in his eyes irking every bone in your body. "c'mon, it was bound to happen.."

Any ounce of respect that had developed in the last couple of hours that you gained for Fred completely vanished and he could tell by the way you were gawking at him in shock, “It was never going to happen,” you snapped. You stepped away from him, shaking your head.

“y/n, it’s all too expected,” Fred tried to defend him, sitting up from the table he was leaning on, “in all those movies and tv shows you watch, the two that hate each other the most usually fall in-”

“They’re movies, Weasley!” you shrieked, the walls shaking with the tone, “They’re fantasy, they’re… they’re not real life.”

“Why can’t they be?” Fred wondered aloud.

It took you a moment to process his question, your eyes shifting to look at him finally. You watched him gulped, his bottom lip sucked under his teeth, and it all fell into place. The vulnerable look on his face, the pleading in his eyes, made you soften slightly, your heart hammering against your chest. “D-don’t tell me you love me,” you whispered.

Fred’s shoulders lost all the tension they held, drooping down along with the frown on his face that gave you all the answers you needed. “I’m sorry,” he spoke softly.

“Fred,” you breathed out, “This is bizarre.”

“You’re acting as if I had a bloody choice in the matter,” Fred hissed, his long fingers running through his hair, brushing it away from his face.

“Of course you do!”

“No, no I didn’t,” Fred stalked up to you, his body towering over you but he wasn’t angry or annoyed, he was desperate, “I woke up one morning and had these sudden feelings for you, but do you understand how hard it was for me when you couldn’t even be in the same room as me?”

You opened your mouth to answer him, but common sense made you see it was a rhetorical question, so you closed it and only stared up at him with wide eyes. There was nothing you could say in this moment to make it better or to make any sense of it. “When?” was all you asked.

“Christmas,” he answered honestly, making your brows cease together, “three years ago.”

“Three years?” you gasped, “Why did you act like you hated me?”

Fred sighed, creating space between your bodies again, “I thought the more I pretended to hate you, eventually my heart would catch up and stop loving you but..” He turned his back to you, swallowing back the heartache he was feeling and placed his hands on the table in front of him, his hands balled into fists. But he only fell in love with you more.

“I’m sorry,” he heard you whisper, the feign touch of your hand on the back of his shirt before it disappeared just as quick. Fred took a few moments to himself, trying to control his breathing and when he turned around to face you, he was met with emptiness. You were nowhere in sight, your bag that rested on the back of a chair gone as well. “Fuck,” Fred mumbled, wanting to scream into the abyss but pulled out his wand and muttered a quick spell to tidy the rest of the office up, trying to hold back the tears that wanted to escape.

Fred hid under the radar for the weeks that passed, hardly being the usual trickster that people were fond of. Everyone that passed the sulking boy in the corridor sent him looks of confusion, some even asked if he was okay to which he brushed them off. George had become worried when it was week three without tormenting any of the professors, and because George was worried beyond reason, you were non-stop hearing about Fred and it pained you knowing that you were the reason for his sudden change in behaviour.

Christmas came and went, the snow started to melt and the leaves were blossoming once again. It was safe to say you were enjoying the peace and quiet in Hogwarts, not having to come up with a comeback every five minutes to fight off the irritation that was Fred Weasley. Deep down, however, there was an abundance of loss. You missed him. It shocked you more than anything but it was true. You missed the sound of his voice, you missed his smart ass comments, you missed him more than you ever thought you would. Maybe there were some underlying feelings and your mind was brought back to the dreams that he occupied, the theme of them made it feel more real.

Sighing into your breakfast, you came to the realisation that morning that you had in fact had feelings for Fred Weasley. “What’s got you mopping?” your eyes lifted to see George sitting down in front of you, no sign of Fred anywhere. The Great Hall was rather crowded for this hour in the morning, there was a buzz in the air.

“I just realised I had feelings for someone,” you admitted loudly, earning every inch of George’s attention, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

“And what are you going to do about them?”

Your eyes connected with your best friend’s stare, your brows creasing together. “You know?” you asked hesitantly, earning an eye roll from George.

“It’s not hard to put two and two together, kiddo,” he chuckled, pouring himself some orange juice, “he’s down at the Quidditch pitch.”

There were so many questions running through your mind but there wasn’t much time. The feelings were overwhelming and you were near sure that you’ve missed your chance with whatever could possibly blossom between you and Fred. You darted from the Great Hall, pushing past crowds of students, ignoring their displeased looks and ran like your life dependent on it towards the Quidditch pitch. When you arrived, your lungs burning and your heart racing, your mood deflated seeing the area completely empty. With your hands on your hips, you tried to catch your breath, sweat beading on your hairline. “Fuck,” you breathed out, turning on your heels but only to halt in your step at the sight of Fred Weasley.

“Looking for me, y/l/n?” he questioned, his voice not as daunting as it used to be. It was flat and soft, something new for him.

“You’re the guy that pretended to hate a girl for years to make her fall in love with you, right?” you asked, a small smirk tugging at the ends of your lips. Fred rolled his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “What if I told you it worked?”

“I’d say buzz off and stop messing with me.”

There was a moment between you and Fred, a moment of understanding where he stared at you from where he stood, the pleading in both of your eyes that showed this was just as awkward for you as it was him. It was different. The change in your interactions was something to get used to, wanting to be around Fred was new. Wanting to kiss him was a thought so out of this world that it blew you away. “I’m sorry I had you sulking for so long.”

Fred chuckled, taking a few steps closer to you until there was just enough space to breath in. For the first time in his life, Fred felt nervous staring at the person that he longed for for so long. “It would have been easier for us both if you just told me you felt the same that day.”

“Life’s never easy, is it?”

“Not when you’re involved,” he winked, the familiar smirk making its way back to his face for the first time in weeks, “I know I didn’t ask permission last time, but..”

“Yes,” you breathed out, this time being the one to wrap your fingers around his collar and pulling him towards you. Your lips pressed against his, the kiss soft and expected this time. Your lips moved in sync, his arms circling around your waist and pulling your closer. The kiss was perfect, and it was something you could get used to.

[realcube]

her prince || fairytale au! iida x reader

summary: you disguise as a princess in order to get into a formal event at the palace with the intention of killing the king but then you encounter the prince, soon to be king, and he’s a bit more charming than you’d like to admit.

(a/n): idk this might be a royalty au! or perhaps a medieval au! but idek tbh

tw// fem! reader, poison, mentions of animal zapping, begging, a bit of meanie iida

“Why does (y/n) get to be the princess?” Your friend, and fellow member of the SOIR, whined from beside you. “She has the most peasanty features out of us all!” 

Everyone else in the base groaned in union at her constant whining about the assigned roles, the ring leader of this operation — otherwise known as Katsuki Bakugo — finally broke his elongated silence as he previously seemed quite invested in whatever he was scribbling. 

Suddenly, he shot up from his desk then proceeded to slam his fist against it, causing all of it’s contents to tremble, “Shut up! As if you’re one to talk about peasanty features, Mina!” He barked at the girl, his aggressive demeanour faltering once he noticed how his hostility caused you to wear an alarmed expression. 

“We need her natural charm on the field, anyway.” he muttered, hastily sitting back down at his desk. Kirishima, Sero and Kaminari all had to do their best to suppress their snickers and focus on the tasks they had been given. However, they were all struggling as it was simply comedy gold to see their boss have such an evident crush on (y/n) but simultaneously be so far deep in denial for the sake of his pride.

Bakugo grabbed the scroll he had been writing on for the last few hours and held it up to display what looked like a numbered list, written in cursive. Therefore, you were unable to read it. In fact, none of you were able to read it; Bakugo was the only literate one among you, hence the reason why he immediately assumed leader of this operation even though it was originally your idea.

Upon noticing all of your blank expressions as you stared at what looked like a glorified piece of paper, he cleared his throat so he could begin explaining what he wrote to you. “I wrote out the plan-of-action for us to follow tomorrow but I forgot that you are all dunces so I’m going to have to read it aloud for you, aren’t I?”

You all nodded in unison which was promptly followed by Bakugo rolling his eyes once more and turning to read the plan.

“SOIR — stage one in (the) revolution — plan of action. Written and led by Katsuki Bakugo, soon to be King Explosion Murder!” He smiled to himself but it was accompanied by a chorus of groans from the rest of you.

“Step one; Kaminari steals a horse from his dad’s farm at exactly 5:15PM, rides it to the outskirts of the village so Sero can hook it up to the carriage. Meanwhile, Mina will assist (y/n) in putting on her gown and help ensure Kirishima puts on his suit and make-up properly. Afterwards, both parties will meet up by the carriage.

Step two; Sero will be coachman for the carriage to take (y/n) and Kirishima to the castle. Take the desired route and you should arrive at the palace by 6PM. 

Step three; Sero will drop off Kirishima and (y/n) then ride back to this base immediately, where Kaminari, Mina and myself will already be waiting. As for (y/n) and Kirishima, they will try to get into the palace and keep a low profile.”

You sighed, aware of how much Bakugo hates to be interrupted during his ‘serious monologue’, and you could tell it was one of those as he used your real names rather than the nicknames he’d given to you like ‘dunceface’ or ‘the pauper’. However, you just had to interject as you were yet to be filled in with some crucial information to your part of the operation.

“Bakugo,” You halted him as he finished his sentence, quickly averting your gaze to the floor as you had a habit of losing your train of thoughts as you looked into his fierce crimson eyes. “How are we supposed to get in? Are there any openings or secret passages you’ve located?” Your eyes widened in excitement at the idea that you could be like a proper assassin; using secret passages, going undercover, dealing with poison and all that good stuff! 

“No.” Bakugo replied bluntly, instantly shooting down any dreams you had of this being a cool mission. “Security on the palace will extremely tight considering this is a royal event. Only people who received an invite from the palace — hence, on the guest list — are allowed in, but I’ve already dealt with that obstacle--”

“You mean I dealt with that obstacle!” Kaminari cut him off with an offended tone before turning to look at you and Kirishima. “I was the one who zapped that messenger raven out of the sky to steal the invitation!” 

“Shut it, moron!” Bakugo barked, slamming his fist against the desk once again to grab everyone’s attention, his palm emitting tiny, and very much illegal, explosions. He slowly shifted his gaze on to you and spoke in an eerily soft tone, “Anyway, you and Kirishima will go under the aliases of ‘Princess Momo Yaoyorozu from the Yaoyorozu isles, and company’. So you will be able to waltz right in there, just don’t act suspicious.”

“How come (y/n) gets a cool, noble name and I am just ‘company’. Also, if my role is unspecified then why do I have to be her father? Can’t I just be her brother or something so I don’t have to wear that silly old-person wig?” Kirishima whined, immediately followed by Bakugo glaring daggers at him. 

“No, idiot, you have to be her father. If you dress as an old man then you’d be more likely to get in close proximity to the King.” Bakugo replied, impatience laced in his voice. He prided himself in coming up with such a logical excuse on the spot when in reality, the reason he wanted Kirishima to dress up as an old man was to guarantee that you don’t fall for him while on this mission. I mean, no matter how ravishing Kirishima was, how could you find him the least bit attractive while he looked like he was on the brink of extinction?

Kirishima grumbled inaudible curses under his breath as he slumped back in his chair defeatedly. Followed by Bakugo trying to resume his lecture but ceasing to do so as the familiar sound of groans erupted from all of you. 

“You’ve been over the last part of the plan, like, ten times already. Just today!” Mina pointed out, folding her arms of her chest and jutting her bottom lip out in disapproval. 

Sero hastily agreed with the girl, “Yeah! Here, I’ll summarise it for you.” Sero snickered before clearing his throat to prepare for his Bakugo impression, “ ‘You guys will sneak poison into the King’s quiche or whatever then I, King Explosion Murder, will come marching in to save the day and reclaim the land by declaring myself the new king! Bow to me, peasants!’ ” 

You and Mina both giggled at Sero’s rather accurate, yet satire, impersonation of the leader himself. While Kaminari and Kirishima both jokingly bowed to Sero, robotically muttering ‘all hail, king explosion murder.’

“Hey! Quit it!” Bakugo bellowed, furrowing his eyebrows as he clasped his hand together and pressed inwards, forcefully repressing his urge to blow up the whole fucking base. “I’m not going to go over the plan again so if one of you dumbasses mess it up tomorrow then you’re getting a boot to the face, got it?” 

“Yes, Lord Explosion Murder.” You all said monotonously in concert.

“You’re all fools!”

»»—————-　♔　—————-««

Step one, two and three had went smoothly. It almost seemed to good to be true.

Kaminari successfully managed to borrow the horses without anyone noticing, Mina did a spectacular job of making Kirishima look like an old man — as well as the skilful embroidery on your dress — and Sero managed to drive you here with all your limbs still intact. 

As for you and Kirishima, you both mastered the role of snobby aristocrats surprisingly fast, considering you both came from extremely deprived families. But it was as if the lifestyle just came naturally to you, hence you were both able to enter the castle without a problem.

However, no amount of acting expertise would allow you to hide the star-struck look which took over your features as you admired the massive Corinthian hall which you had the honour of stepping into. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, providing light along with the pale candles which sat in the alcoves of the walls. The roof was jaw-droppingly high and was expertly painted with detailed images of religious scenes; angels, the virgin mary, jesus, fairies, dragons, everything. 

At the other side of the hall sat none of than the King himself, looking smugly upon the crowds of people that filled his ballroom as he sat upon his extravagant throne, made of gold mined by slaves and welded together by citizens of the kingdom who were currently in poverty, but who the king also claimed to care so deeply about.

Disgusting. Consequent to seeing that evil vermin, your look of awe immediately dropped.

Your eyebrows knitted together as you simply could not avert your gaze from that man and his generally villainous demeanour that everybody just seemed to ignore. With a sigh, you leaned back against a pillar and mused, “Ugh, look at that vile creature just sitting here like he owns the place, just wait until he gets a taste of his own medicine. Right, Kirishima?”

You spoke, spinning your head around to look at your red-haired partner after you received nothing but a muffled ‘huh?’ as an answer. “What do you mea- oh!” you instantly cut yourself off upon realising that who you were spilling your plans to was not Kirishima but rather some dashing young man who was currently stuffing his was with damper bread.

“I- I am so sorry, sir. I thought you were someone else. Erm, uh, I shall take my leave now.” You stuttered, swiftly turning on your heels to bolt off in search of Kirishima but you were stopped in your tracks by the man scarfing the last piece he was holding to offer out his hand to you.

“No need to apologise! I, too, mistook you for someone else. That is why I was eating so gluttonously in your presence, my apologies.” He said, leaning forward into a bow to press a gentle kiss on your chuckles once you gave him your hand.

“I’m Tenya Iida, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”  He spoke, his tone suddenly becoming a lot less formal after he straightened up from his bow while slowly retracting his hand. “And would I be right in assuming that you are Princess Yoayorozu of the Yoayorozu Isles?”

Now that he was standing straight, without a pudding in his hand, you could take a moment to discretely examine him. He stood tall with his shoulders back and his head high to perfectly balance his glasses on the bridge of his nose, everything about his posture screamed ‘royalty’, not to mention his blue undercut which was slicked back into a loose comb-over. As for his outfit, he wore a white shirt along with a royal blue tie which complemented his blazer which was a similar shade, with the kingdom’s crest positioned on the left hand side of his chest. There was also his straight-legged navy trousers, his black derby shoes and his matching designer watch but what really brought the outfit together was his bold, enchanting smile. 

You blinked a few time as it took a moment for that name to register in your mind but once it, you nodded rapidly in response. “Ah, yes, that would be me.” You chirped casually until his name finally clicked in you’re head, “Wait, are you Iida Tenya like- the king’s son Iida Tenya or?” You inquired, trying to act ‘casual’ as if you hadn’t been practising many week preparatory for today but the nervous look in your eyes was unconcealable.

Iida couldn’t help but chuckle at how bewildered you seemed while asking that question, “Well, yes, unfortunately.” He mumbled the last part but it was still said clearly enough for you to hear. “As you are probably aware, today is my coronation. But to say that I’m dreading the crowning is an understatement.”

You quirked an eyebrow at this new information. Well, it wasn’t really knew. The whole of SOIR knew that the formal event was going to the coronation for the new king. Hence, you and Kirishima were made aware that you had two targets to eliminate, but if you had known that the to-be king was such a cutie nice guy then perhaps you would’ve fought his case.

Logically speaking though, for this plan to work, both targets had to be eliminated. It was pointless to only poison the current king, as the crown would already be Tenya’s since the dinner which you planned to spike was going to be served after the crowning. And if you only poisoned Iida, not only would that upset you but the king would simply hand his status over to Tensei, who had been pushed back in the line for the crown due to his impairments after leading and fighting in many wars. 

But, how could you kill Tenya when he was just so...charming?

None the less, somebody had to it. The lives of many citizens were in your hands tonight, as success would lead to improved situations for all. Once the monarchy is gone, there will be nobody stopping you from using your quirks freely! Plus, the royals would no longer hoard all the luxury and wealth of the kingdom, so everybody would be able to lead happy lives, free from financial burdens.

The list goes on but for now, you just had to look that fetching prince right in the eyes and think to yourself, ‘he’s the reason i’m poor’; which was easy to believe considering that the watch adorning his left wrist was probably worth enough to free your whole family from poverty.

It somewhat worked, but not really. The way his honeyed crimson eyes would gaze into your own was enough to make your heart flutter but you mentally reassured yourself that you were most definitely not falling and heart palpitations were just a symptom from your lack of sleep.

“Anyway,” Iida began once more, the tips of his ears heating up as he realised that he had been staring at you for an elongated amount of time. “It has been lovely speaking to you today but it’s about time that I take my leave, duty calls.”  He said, mentally scolding himself for being such a creep and hoping that you paid no mind to his lengthened gaze.

“Ah, alright, I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer than needed.” You sung, awkwardly fidgeting with your fingers as you recalled the ‘manner classes’  Bakugo made you and Kirishima take part in to help you avoid instances like this where you had no clue how to formally end an interaction, with a prince of all people.

It was a long shot but it was your best guess. You swiftly grabbed Iida’s hand, pulled it up to your face and before he had time to react, you planted a kiss on his knuckles — just like had done to you — before bolting off into the sea of aristocrats to go find Kirishima. Leaving Iida standing, blushing more than ever, slightly confused but mostly amused. 

“She’s really something.” He muttered to himself, scratching the side of his neck before hurriedly marching towards the throne, in search of his brother.

Although their interaction was brief, Iida would be lying if he said he wasn’t silently praying that he’d run into the girl again.

»»—————-　♔　—————-««

Step 4 went perfectly. 

‘mingle for exactly 10 minutes until food preparation. Then, (y/n) will use her quirk to sneak into the kitchen while Kirishima distracts anyone that could catch her in the act.’

Bakugo’s gruff voice echoed throughout your head like that of a siren, as you waited for the perfect opportunity to spike the three large, extravagant platters of food laying on the golden trolley which was rumoured to deliver all three of the king’s daily meals. 

At first you thought you had an issue as you had no idea which meal belonged to which person, they all looked almost identical, meaning that you might accidently poison the wrong meal, hence murder Tensei in vain. However, then you recalled a piece of wisdom Bakugo had given you offhandedly once, ‘y’know, there’s a tradition in this kingdom stating that the elders should be served the most salad on the side of a dish — so hand over your cucumbers, bitch!’

So with that in mind, your arm emerged from the shadows once most of the cooks had cleared from the kitchen to tend to other duties, and you dropped some of the poison into the dish with the most salad and the dish with the least to ensure that Tensei got to see the light of tomorrow. 

I mean, you could’ve just poisoned all three to avoid doing all that critical thinking but not only was it risky, you also kind of had a soft spot for Tensei despite the fact he was basically double your age.

Utilising the shadows as your disguise, you stuck out of the kitchen yet you were unable to find a pathway back into the ballroom since there were just so many chefs crowding around the entrance to kitchen. You were sure to get caught if you exited the shadows from there but luckily, there was alternative.

There was a back door of the kitchen which led out into the grand garden, allowing the chefs to waft the smoke out and into the open air, if needed. So through the shadows, you were able to sneak out into the garden without being noticed by a single person. 

Or so you thought.

As you jumped out of the shadows and swiftly turned a corner to look for a route back into the palace, you were greeted by a familiar face that wore an incredibly stunned expression. From behind their glasses, they squinted to try recognise you through the dark night. 

“Oh, Ms Yaoyorozu.” Iida chuckled, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he realised that it was you he had bumped in to during his attempt at ditching his own coronation. Also, since he had just witnessed you doing a rather illicit act. “I’m not sure if you were ever made aware, but quirk usage is very much forbidden in this kingdom.”

You blinked rapidly, surprised at how oddly level-headed he was being about having just watched you sneak out of the kitchen, “Oh-” you choked, looking around to see if anybody else was around but the coast seemed to be clear; well, as far as you could tell, but that wasn’t easy considering the foggy night appeared to fleece everything. “I am so sorry. I was never told about such rules but I’ll be su--”

“Yes, you were.” 

There was a while of silence between the two of you. To say you were taken aback was a understatement, why was he suddenly so confrontational? And why did he say that with such a nasty look in his eyes? Does he know something you do not? Even though you had only met him barely an hour ago, you could still tell that his comment was quite out-of-character. Hence you were hardly able to stammer out a reply, “W-w- um, was I?”

The tip of Iida’s lips twitched upwards as examined your bewildered expression; it brought him infinite amounts of amusement at how ignorant you must’ve thought he was to imagine that he could fall for your silly little ploy. 

“Yes. Well, I mean, Ms Yaoyorozu had knowledge of these laws; the rules of the kingdom were attached to the invite, but you’ve made it rather clear that you’re not Yaoyorozu.”  The words rolled off his tongue, each one sharper than the last; he didn’t plan on calling you out on your impersonation tonight but as his eyes skimmed over the terrified expression on you face, he was immensely glad that he did.

“So, tell me, who are you? Other than a scum-of-the-earth imposter that deserves to rot in slums for the rest of their poor, pathetic life.

You faltered slightly at his threat before blurting out, “Momo’s cousin.”

Iida snorted, but quickly tried to force a serious scowl back onto his features, “Exactly how gullible do you think I am?”

At this point, you were at a loss. The prince stood angry in front of you; meaning that it only took a yell for most of the guards in the palace come marching over to you, before tossing into the dungeon cell which you would have no choice but to call home for the rest of your life.

So if you didn’t act fast and wisely, this could be the last moment of freedom you’ll ever experience.

Throwing away your pride, you dropped to your knees in front of the prince, leaning forward to press your forehead against the shining tops of his derby shoes as you cried, but not loud enough to catch the guard’s attention.

 “Please, your highness! I- I’m just a kid; like you! I swear I wasn’t here to cause trouble, I just--” your pleas were cut off by your own saliva getting temporarily caught in your throat but this gave you the opportunity to conjure up a believable excuse.

“I just--” you repeated, desperately attempting to come up with something until you mindlessly blurted out, “I just wanted to feel like royalty! Please give me another chance!”

Iida eyes widened at this; was it too far-fetched to believe that you created an elaborate plan to sneak into the palace, all for the ‘aesthetic’? Perhaps. But the way your glossy, sorrow-filled eyes looked up at him from the ground made his heart sink to his stomach while a sickly feeling ascended to his throat.

He felt so guilty.

In a moment of panic, he used his power to threaten and frighten a poor girl to the point where she was now begging for life on the paving beneath him. Although you were technically a felon, there seemed to be no malicious intentions behind your crime so why should you be prosecuted for it? Yet Iida still used his status to instil fear into you, solely to feel superior.

Perhaps he is not as different from his father as he once thought; a horrible feeling really, as Tenya despised no one more than that man. Iida wants no association with him or the horrible monocracy established in the kingdom. Which is why he chose to run away from his coronation. He hoped to fake his own kidnapping for a few weeks, then he’d come out of hiding and pray that Tensei had been given the crown instead.

He couldn’t bare seeing you on the dirty ground any longer so he hastily took your hand to assist you in standing back upright, “It’s-- you’re pardoned, just please come with me. This’ll only take a moment.” 

At this point you’d just go along with anything he said, under the assumption that if you disobeyed, you’d be banished. So you trailed behind him, his hand acting as your guide since you could hardly see past the tears which clouded your vision. 

You both approached a white wooden gazebo with a matching pale metal bench, he quickly took a seat and pulled you down next to him, sandwiching your hand in-between his own and caressing the back with his thumb as he waited patiently for you blubbers to die down. 

His lips fell into a frown as he watched you desperately wipe the tears away from under your eyes but smear your expertly applied mascara in the process, “My sincerest apologies; I don’t know what came over me.” He spluttered, harshly biting his bottom lip to silence himself. 

You took deep breaths, hurriedly trying to compose yourself before the prince snapped at you again. So, once the tears had stop brimming in your eyes, you looked at him with a ready expression. However, your faint sniffles, red eyes and smudged make-up didn’t do a good job at reinforcing it.

“Alright,” Iida started, removing one of his hands from yours to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I understa--”

“Are you going to imprison me?”

Iida choked on thin air, his eyes widening at your random — but seemingly genuine — inquiry. “Good heavens, no! Never! What makes you think that?” Was he really that menacing? He was only a prince and he was already using his authority for intimidation. Iida could only imagine how mad with power he’d become if he were to take the crown.

Good thing he wasn’t going to. 

The reality of the situation you were in hit you like a truck as you caught a glimpse of the time from Iida’s designer watch since he had his hand resting upon your knee. You inhaled sharply, doing your best to compose yourself, “Sir-”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, I’m Tenya. Plus, we’re around the same age so ‘sir’ is hardly appropriate.” He chuckled, his lips forming a reassuring smile. In any other case, he’d go by Iida but he didn’t want you to associate him with his father in any sense, even if it was just by surname.

“Oh, how rude of me. I completely forgot to ask, what’s your name? And you have my word that I won’t do anything spiteful with this information.”

“I’m (y/n).” You replied without a second though, before continuing, “Your crowning is supposed to be in 10 minutes, correct? I think you should get going.” You hummed, trying your best to hide how tense and conflicted you were. If Iida doesn’t bugger off right now then he’s gonna miss the ceremony which will lead to a high chance of the event being rescheduled, therefore you’re going to have to act out this plan all over again! How many more messenger ravens does Kaminari need to zap?! 

But on the other hand, there was some part of you that really didn’t want him to leave for some reason; perhaps you enjoyed his company a little more than you’d like to admit. Another part of you said that he doesn’t deserve to die, he’s too nice of a guy; then you remembered the evil, corrupt glint in his eyes as he told you about the fate he wished upon you just a few minutes ago, then you didn’t feel as bad.

Your kind reminder was met by Iida simply shaking his head, “Absolutely not! There is no way I can leave you after I said those horrible things. Plus, it’s not as if I want to be king, anyway.” He mumbled the last part but of course you heard it as his face was only a few inches away from yours.

“Why don’t you want to be king?” 

Iida didn’t even hesitate to reply with the response that had been waiting on the tip of his tongue, “I shan’t participate in the monarchy. I plan on staying in hiding for a week before coming out, hopefully by then Tensei will be crowned king and I will get to lead the army instead.” 

As soon as his plan fell from his lips, his eyes immediately widened. Why was he telling you this?! I mean, now that you knew his plan, once he ‘goes missing’ you could easily tell the king that this was part of his scheme all along, in which case the king wouldn’t crown Tensei and instead send out search parties for Tenya. But then again, why would the king listen to a pauper like you? No offence, it’s just that those who come from a lower social status are less likely to be allowed in the castle, and less likely to meet the king. 

So he reasoned to himself that there was no harm in telling you his plan, but a part of him couldn’t help but wonder why he subconsciously felt comfortable enough to tell you in the first place. I mean, he’s only known you for an evening; surely there’s no why he’s caught feelings this fast, right?

Your heart skipped a beat upon hearing his circumstances, thinking that this was the end of SOIR, but the more you thought about it, you realised that perhaps this was a good thing. 

This meant that — assuming the king eats the meal prepared for him regardless of the ceremony — the king will be dead so the only person you’d have to eliminate was Tensei who was widely known to be more lenient about the rules of the kingdom. I mean, he let his troops take a water-break during battle for goodness’ sake! Assassinating him should be a piece of cake, especially for the SOIR.

Also, this ensures that you won’t have to kill Tenya, which is a thought that made you oddly happy and relieved. 

Sniffling quietly, you rubbed beneath your eyes to further mess up the eyeliner and mascara Mina had done for you. Then you hummed, “Oh, that’s cool, Tenya.”

“And I would like for you to be my bride once I emerge from hiding!” 

You froze, blinking rapidly and inquiring further in hopes that perhaps you misheard him, “Huh? Your what?”

“Bride!” He chirped, scanning the baffled look on your face and figuring that he should elaborate, “See, I think it works in both of our favours; you get to live a somewhat royal life and I get to settle down with someone who my father did not pick out for me. Plus, though I’m no love expert, I can definitely feel something special between the two of us. I hope that’s not just me being a fool. But anyway, I completely understand if you refuse, marriage is a huge commitment.”

Even after he finished explaining, you still sat there staring at him, absolutely flabbergasted that he really just asked you to marry him. Also, quite shocked that there was a scarily large part of you that wanted to accept his offer. 

“Tenya, we literally just met a few hours ago.”

“Six, to be exact.” he corrected you, accompanied by a little shrug as to say ‘who cares?’

“And we are both sixteen.” You continued to rationalise but talking to Iida when he’s dead-set on something was like talking to a brick wall; a brick wall that provided logical arguments, the worst kind of wall.

“The average life expectancy in this kingdom is 35 years of age so if you think about, we’re basically half way through our lives already. Why not settle down?” 

Although, his statements were annoying as hell, the charming smile that decorated his face while he spoke was enough to convince that he was right. Despite the fact those statistics were clearly a sample from the lower class; royalty would obviously live to a much higher age. Plus, he was definitely correct about the special feeling between the two of you, like you have genuinely never felt more endeared by a person’s presence before, especially after they were just wishing hellfire upon you a few minutes ago. six, to be exact

As he sat there and exchanged a longing gaze with you, the voice in your head that wanted you to accept his proposal was getting larger and larger by the second, drowning out the voice that strictly wanted to put an end to his clownery and that voice sounded eerily like bakugo. You’re a woman of logic, and logic says you should accept. Because, if you say no, there’s no turning back and you’ll probably never get another opportunity like this again in your life. But if you say yes, you have two whole weeks to make up your mind as to whether you actually want to marry him or not, and if you don’t, you can always break up with him after he comes out of hiding. Additionally, you’ll be able to go back to the base and confer with the SOIR as to what you should do. Also, you were kinda in love with him, but logic disregards love.

Iida moved his hand from your knee to hold both of your hand in his own while his gaze filled with yearned remained locked onto your eyes, he’s truly never seen anyone more beautiful before. Despite the fact you make-up was ruined, tears were stained to your face and mascara was smeared under your eyes, you still looked ten times more divine than any queen he’s ever seen. 

“So, (y/n), what do you say?”

[candyradium]

Finally got around to typing up my Technoblade D&D build!!! I’ve been working on making these for a lot of the Dream SMP characters, and I thought it would be fun to have him in stat block format, so you too can throw c!Technoblade at your players as a final boss! (Disclaimer: I don’t know how accurate the CR level is, I just set it to 8 since the build is a lv8 build PC build.)

Image description and explanation/rambling below the cut!

[Image ID: A D&D stat block for Technoblade. It reads:

Technoblade

Medium humanoid (firbolg), Lawful Neutral

Armor Class: 18 (Half plate, defense fighting style)

Hit Points: 72 (8d12+24)

Speed: 40 ft.

STR: 18 (+4)

DEX: 14 (+2)

CON: 16 (+3)

INT: 14 (+2)

WIS: 13 (+1)

CHA: 6 (-2)

Saving Throws: Str +7, Con +6

Skills: Athletics +7, Intimidation +1, Perception +4, Survival +4

Damage Resistances: bludgeoning, piercing, slashing

Senses: passive Perception 14

Languages: Common, Elvish, Giant, Goblin

Challenge: 8 (3,900 XP)

Innate spellcasting. Technoblade's innate spellcasting ability is Wisdom (spell save DC 12). He can innately cast the following spells, requiring no material components:

1/short rest each: detect magic, disguise self

Speech of beast and leaf. Technoblade has the ability to communicate in a limited manner with beasts and plants. They can understand the meaning of his words, though he has no special ability to understand them in return. He has advantage on all Charisma checks he makes to influence them.

Powerful build. Technoblade counts as one size larger when determining his carrying capacity and the weight he can push, drag, or lift.

Unarmoured defense. When not wearing any armour, Technoblade's defense equals 15. He can use a shield and still gain this benefit.

Reckless. At the start of his turn, Technoblade can gain advantage on all melee weapon attack rolls he makes during that turn, but attack rolls against him have advantage until the start of his next turn.

Great weapon master. When Technoblade scores a critical hit with a melee weapon or reduces a creature to 0 hit points with one, he can make one melee weapon attack as a bonus action. Additionally, before Technoblade makes a melee weapon attack with a heavy weapon that he is proficient with, he can choose to take a -5 penalty to the attack roll. If the attack hits, he adds +10 to the attack's damage.

Warrior of the Gods. If a spell, such as Raise Dead, has the sole effect of restoring Technoblade to life (but not undeath), the caster doesn't need material components to cast the spell on Technoblade.

Divine fury. While Technoblade is raging, the first creature he hits on each of his turns with a weapon attack takes extra necrotic damage equal to 1d6 + 3.

Action surge (1/rest). Technoblade takes one additional action on his turn.

Combat superiority (4/rest). Technoblade can apply the following maneuvers using his four superiority die (d8s):

Feinting attack: Technoblade expends one superiority die and uses a bonus action on his turn to feint, choosing one creature within 5 feet of his as his target. He has advantage on his next attack roll against that creature before the end of his turn. If that attack hits, add the superiority die to the attack's damage roll.

Menacing attack: When Technoblade hits a creature with a weapon attack, he can expend one superiority die to attempt to frighten the target. He adds the superiority die to the attack's damage roll, and the target must make a Wisdom saving throw. On a failed save, it is frightened of him until the end of his next turn.

Trip attack: When Technoblade hits a creature with a weapon attack, he can expend one superiority die to attempt to knock the target down. He adds the superiority die to the attack's damage roll, and if the target is Large or smaller, it must make a Strength saving throw (DC 15). On a failed save, he knocks the target prone.ActionsHidden step (1/rest).

As a bonus action, Technoblade can magically turn invisible until the start of his next turn or until he attacks, makes a damage roll, or forces someone to make a saving throw.

Greatsword. Melee Weapon Attack: +7 to hit, reach 5 ft., one target. Hit: 11 (2d6 + 4) slashing damage.

Heavy Crossbow. Ranged Weapon Attack: +5 to hit, range 100/400 ft., one target. Hit: 7 (1d10 + 2) piercing damage.

Multiattack. Technoblade can make 2 weapon attacks.

Rage (4/day). As a bonus action, Technoblade enters a rage that lasts for 1 minute, ending early if knocked unconscious or if Technoblade's turn ends and he hasn't attacked a hostile creature since his last turn or taken damage since then. He can also end his rage on his turn as a bonus action. While raging, Technoblade deals +2 damage, has advantage on Strength checks and Strength saving throws, and has resistance to bludgeoning, piercing and slashing damage. Technoblade cannot cast spells during a rage.

End ID.]

Okay. Rambling time.

Holy SHIT I loved making this. I tend to play spellcasters or dex based characters, so it was a lot of fun to make a str character for once.

Stats first. As a barbarian/fighter and also as a force of nature, str is his highest stat. I could have made it 20, but I have a weird aversion to writing up characters with maxed out stats for some reason? Anyway, that’s what he has. He can always boost it if he takes another level in fighter. I also decided to give him pretty high intelligence and wisdom, which are rare in barbarian characters, since, y’know, their main point is to hit things very hard. But Techno is so, SO resourceful, and one of the main reasons that he’s so good at fighting is because he does his research and acquires the best items for it and puts himself in the right place at the right time. Hence the high-ish int. I feel a little bad making his charisma so low, but cha represents several things, most notably the ability to talk to people and force of personality. Also known as: how hard it is to be swayed or controlled, magically or otherwise. Remember what happened at the festival? That’s low charisma. Also I had to give him a low stat to balance the fact that he’s insanely good at so many fucking things. Why.

As a side note, when picking his proficiencies, I was using the homebrew rule that you can use your strength modifier when you roll for intimidation. So his Strength (Intimidation) check would actually have a +7, which is MUCH better than the Charisma (Intimidation) check of +1. Big strong characters are absolutely scary, damnit, and I will die on that hill.

Next up: race. I HAD to make him a firbolg. They’re connected with nature and are often portrayed with animalistic features (e.g. Caduceus Clay from Critical Role), and it means we can have both pig Techno and anime Techno, since firbolgs naturally have the disguise self spell. I just think that’s neat. They also get the ability to turn invisible! Which Techno has been doing a LOT recently! Sure, firbolgs can only do it for a turn, but it still fits.

Onto classes. Barbarian was a dead certain for Techno, honestly - his battle prowess, how he acts when he fights, it just fits so well. Even his use of potions - he gets a lot of buffs from them, increased damage and damage resistance being the two most notable and the two that best translate to D&D rage. Even speed potions - barbarians get +10ft movement speed at level 5. And barbarians are made for two-handed weapons, so obviously I HAD to give him a greatsword. The Orphan Obliterator is a deadly weapon. He also still favours swords even when axes are better in the newest version, so a greatsword was a must. Also I just really like greatswords.

I wavered a bit when picking a subclass, to be honest. I’m not really a big fan of any of the official subclasses (they don’t really fir my playstyle, which is why I homebrewed an entire new subclass for my barbarian character, but that’s a post for another day), but looking through, there were a few that could work. Originally, I picked Juggernaut - this was because of how he fought during the Dream battle, moving Dream around the arena into a more advantageous position for Techno, which is the Juggernaut’s 3rd level ability in a nutshell. They also can’t be knocked prone, and both of these things work INCREDIBLY well for skywars/bedwars style combat - staying put on this island and knocking off your opponents.

However, in the end, I decided to go with Zealot. It was inevitable after he REALLY started building his character on the Dream SMP, which is what this is mostly based on. Zealots have two main points: they follow a God, and it’s very, VERY hard to kill them.

Sound familiar?

Techno isn’t just a barbarian - he also has three levels of Battlemaster fighter. The barbarian/fighter combo is one of the best there is for sheer combat power (bested only, in my opinion, by barbarian/moon druid - those characters are actually unkillable) and the choice of Battlemaster specifically opened up so many options in combat. I had debated going with champion, just for the crit probability boost, but ultimately decided that Battlemaster was infinitely more fun. The three maneuvers were picked for a combination of reasons - they’re all incredibly useful in combat, but I also just thought they were thematically accurate and/or funny. I just had to give him Menacing Attack, because one of the few constants in Technoblade’s combat is people running the hell away from him during competitions. Feinting is for pure combat ability, and Trip is just. Really funny to me. It worked better when he was Juggernaut and literally couldn’t be knocked prone, but I just like the idea of someone using their full action to try and knock over this eight foot tall firbolg (they’re so fucking tall! This bitch is massive!) Technoblade just. Looking down at them before knocking them clean off of their feet with one swing of his Greatsword.

And finally, weapons and magical items. The magic ones didn’t actually make it onto the stat block, because I wanted it to be purely basic character building, but I absolutely had some ideas. Some of these were rolled on loot tables, some were completely homebrewed to fit Techno’s canon weapons. Guess which ones lmao.

magical heavy crossbow (use charge to fire 3 bolts simultaneously, using only one arrow, rolling an attack for each. Each target must be within 10ft of each other. 7 charges per day)

explosive bolts (10ft radius, double dice of the weapon it’s fired from, dex save)

mithral half-plate

ring of feather falling

trident of flight (attunement) (30ft swim and flight speed, 120ft flight speed when its raining)

upgraded cape of the mountebank (8 charges, 2 for misty step, 4 for dimension door) (yes it looks like his normal cape)

bag of holding

sword of life-stealing (attunement) (I don’t know why I added this except Techno’s canon sword would be VERY hard to homebrew and also he can do enough damage with a normal one so he could literally just have like a +2 or something. Do what you want)

[orionsangel86]

“I Think It’s Time For Me To Move On”

...And Other Things That Have Destroyed Me This Weekend...

So there is this common trope within love stories which generally happens at the end of the second act in which everything goes wrong and we all think that the lovers are doomed to failure. Its pretty much standard in every Jane Austen novel, every romantic film every made, every single bloody love story. Go ahead, name one. I guarantee you the break up moment is there.

Within the epic love story of Dean and Cas, there have been many break up moments, and all have had their emotionally devastating impact on the relationship and the show...

But THIS was a different level. 

(For a nice summary of Destiel break up moments and understanding of this trope, @tinkdw​ wrote about it here.)

I didn’t think that there would be another moment within Dean and Cas’s relationship that could hit me this hard. The mixtape in 12x19, the wrapping of Cas’s body in 13x01, and the return of Cas in 13x05 are moments that I consider to be the very top of the scale in making this pairing undeniably romantic. Moments that pushed it beyond a platonic interpretation. These three moments have been the things I cling to when the show has otherwise made me doubt any conclusion to the DeanCas story, and since there hasn’t been another one of those moments since 13x05, until now I have been somewhat nervous that the story was dropped, or being forced back behind a platonic screen. 

15x03 has ripped that screen away. 

Emotional meta under cut...

This entire episode was an emotion fuelled dramatic roller-coaster that killed off three characters including our beloved witch queen in a scene that almost stole the show and practically canonised the SamWitch ship. Rowena’s death should have been by far the most torturous moment for viewers to endure, and it was extremely torturous and had me sobbing on a plane 3 hours into a 7 hour flight. That incredibly heartfelt moment between Sam and Rowena will probably go down as one of the top tear-jerking moments on this show. It was tragic in the best way - the way Supernatural is famous for.

But lets not gloss over the fact that in an episode where THAT should have been the climax, where THAT should have been the emotional highlight and end point, instead we get a further MORE dramatic stand off between Dean and Cas that pulled focus and ripped all of our hearts out just as violently as poor Ketch in the first act (a very clever and smug piece of meta foreshadowing there Mr Berens).

On a meta level, this is HUGE as a writing choice because they MUST know how this looks. This was the climax of the third episode of the finale season. The way Supernatural has always structured itself since Carver era is that the first three mytharc episodes of each season establish the direction of the story and set the foundations for the character level focal points and dramatic key notes to come. 

That the writers have chosen to end the foundation episodes with a DeanCas break up moment that was more dramatic than a Spanish Telenovela has just stunned me and left me reeling because I just can’t see how else this can go. This break up scene absolutely DEMANDS a huge reconciliation of the sort that will be part of the A plot of the season - the FINAL SEASON. Guys. Part of the reason I have been so quiet and so disillusioned with the show during late season 13 and season 14 was because they pushed any Destiel plot into non existent territory - it became kinda irrelevant and Dean and Cas just acted like friends (homoerotic friends yes, and sometimes like an old married couple, but it was mostly played as an afterthought imo), so for this to suddenly be brought to the forefront of the emotional story again is excellent news for us. 

The thing is, like with those huge moments I listed above, the break up scene is basically undeniably romantic when you break it down to its components:

1. It’s only Dean and Cas. 

Once again we have another scene of high stake emotions that excludes Sam. In a platonic reading of the show, it makes zero sense for there to be such a hugely disjointed relationship between Cas and Dean and Cas and Sam given he has known them both for so long now that if they were all “just friends” then surely Sam would also feel the impact of Cas’s choices as heavily as Dean. In a platonic reading, Dean comes across as an asshole, Sam comes across as being weirdly uncaring about his friend of 10 years, and Cas comes across as not even bothering to get Sam’s opinion before leaving. A romantic reading makes sense because quite literally THIS IS A ROMANTIC BREAK UP.

2. The words spoken. 

“Well I don’t think there is anything left to say.”

“I think it’s time for me to move on”

From Cas’s perspective at least, name one time in a piece of media where such language has been used for a platonic breakup sincerely? There have been heartfelt break up songs that use these exact words. (I should know I’ve spent the last 24 hours listening to them all).

That last line in particular is so heavy. It’s the last line of the episode and nothing about it is platonic. This is relationship terminology my dudes. “I need to move on, and get over you.” This is Cas’s bloody Adele song. My heart breaks for him, but if I was his sassy and fabulous best girlfriend right now I’d be sitting him down, sipping a cocktail, flipping my hair and telling him “Babe, you’re too good for him. Good Riddance. Let’s go out, have some cocktails, something pink and fruity. No dive bars for us darling. I’ll take you to Heaven... the fun one in London.”

In all seriousness though, from Cas’s perspective, this was him admitting defeat and giving up the fight for love. How anyone can possibly say Cas isn’t in love with Dean after this, well I just don’t know what show you are watching. This is the face of a heartbroken man who has just accepted that his love is unrequited. 

3. The many faces of Dean Winchester

On the other end of the scale, Dean was mostly silent after his poisonous words “And why does that something always seem to be you?”

Forgive the terrible gif quality I’ve no time for fancy gif work!

Look at his face here. He knows what he said was fucked up and he immediately regrets it. The way he swallows around that regret and then turns away.

and after Cas says that devastating final line and walks away? We get THIS reaction from him:

The jaw clench as he looks down. The sorrow on his face as he realises he has well and truly fucked this up. LOOK

Finally, he looks up, makes himself look up and watch Cas leave. If that isn’t the face of a broken man I dunno what to tell you. Anyone who thinks Dean is totally heartless and uncaring right now needs to reassess because this is NOT the face of someone uncaring. This is the face of someone who has just lost everything. Again. 

4. The FUCKING MUSIC

Seriously. The sweeping heavy drama of the low strings that come in right after Dean says that horrid line, that carry the weight of the look of horror and heartbreak on Cas’s face as they amplify the emotion there. As they blend seamlessly into the slow and subtle version of the Winchester family theme behind Cas’s heartbreaking speech and Dean’s stubborn stoic face hiding a multitude of emotion, until the violin dominates as Cas says “I think it’s time for me to move on” and the Winchester Theme swells to its climax, ripping all our hearts out just like poor Ketch as Dean watches Cas walk out of his life surrounded by darkness. 

I MEAN.

A friend on Twitter reminded us all of this point about the importance of this theme via @justanotheridijiton​ here which is essentially:

“The Winchester theme is not simply an aural marker to let the audience know when and how Sam and Dean love each other (any Supernatural fan knows that is the baseline of their relationship), but to provide narrative information, especially when the image and dialogue are incomplete or inconsistent with the true situation...  Seasoned fans will recognize the theme and its history of being paired with images indicating deep emotional bonding and a desire to do the right thing by the Winchester code. Here we trust our ears over our eyes to reveal the truth.”

So here is yet another key indicator that any surface read that this is actually an ending between Dean and Cas and that Dean really is just an angry asshole is utter bullshit. 

Honestly, this was PAINFUL, but it was painful in the best way. It was 13x01 levels of pain, but this time it was Cas choosing to walk away which makes all the difference. Dean’s greatest fear isn’t his loved ones dying on him after all, but of his loved ones choosing to leave him. This was exactly the kick up the ass Dean needs in order to win Cas back, classic love trope style. 

Hence my excitement at what is to come. Yes we won’t see Cas again until 15x06, but in the meantime I fully expect a good helping of angst and wallowing from a depressed Dean who has to deal with the fact that he has just lost the love of his life and it is all his fault. That he just pushed away the one person who promised they would always stay by his side. That has got to hurt. 

So yeah, this episode emotionally destroyed me, and I’ve only really covered the primary reason, let alone all my feels over SamWitch, Rowena’s death, Belphegor’s taunting of Cas over his deepest fears and then having to suffer through smiting a creature wearing the face of his son until his body was nothing but a burnt corpse... I wonder if Bobo had a bet going in the office over how much he could hurt us all? He was certainly enjoying scrolling through the Supernatural tag on Twitter and liking everyone’s reaction tweets including some brilliant Destiel related ones. I do love Bobo. Our Angst Goblin King. 

If anyone had asked me a few weeks ago what my thoughts were on the chances of getting explicit canon Destiel by series end, I would have said somewhere in the realms of 30-40%, considering it a battle of wills between DabbBerens and CW studio execs who I still feel are against it in general. I would have considered everything that happened after 13x06 as the writers getting a big NO on Destiel from the network and therefore having to pull back on any Destiel related plot points (purely my own speculation on BTS matters of course).

Now I am wondering if Dabb kept fighting the network? If he managed to wear them down into begrudging acceptance? I’m currently up to around an 80% chance of textual canon DeanCas if we continue on this path. If Dean is clearly shown to be mourning and hating himself over Cas next episode, and if this DeanCas dramatic plot line continues to be a focal point of the emotional story arcs... well...

I’m side eyeing 15x07 a lot right now. Only in my wildest dreams would I think that they might actually introduce an old boyfriend for Dean in a “coming out” episode, but the placement, timing, and potential is all there and I’m kind of once again donning the clown mask because I’m just in awe at everything that they are doing. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, I’m gonna paint my face in red and white and wear my rainbow wig and listen to break up songs on Spotify whilst trying to shove my heart back into my chest where Bobo Beren’s gleefully ripped it out with his hands like the demonic angst goblin he is. Wish me luck, I’m not sure I’m gonna get through this season with my emotions intact.

[idk-maybe-i-did-it]

Scars: Year five, Chapter eleven

Remus Lupin x Reader

Warnings: Blood, swearing, mentions of self harm, implied mention of bruising, 

Word Count: 2730

Remus ___________

" Why's there blood on the floor?"

Her voice sounded so hesitant.

" Y/n get out of the room."

" Tell me why there's blood on the floor."

" No."

Now, you might be thinking, "Hey Remus, when did you get here?" Or, " Hey Remus, why are you stopping? I need to know."

But either way, I can answer those if we just rewind for a bit.

————————————————————————

James pulled the car to a stop and Sirius stood, leaning his elbow atop the vehicle's roof.

I hesitantly opened the back door and ducked my head under to exit. Peter got out after me.

James turned and looked at me from his position against the car, his lips pursed and his eyes lay quizzical and sympathetic as he gazed at me.

I slipped the small box into my pocket and shut the door, walking up to the steps of the house. ________________________________

Third Person _____________

Oh, tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree

It's been three long years, do you still want me?

If I don't see a ribbon 'round the old oak tree

I'll stay on the bus, forget about us, put the blame on me

" This was auntie's favorite song y'know."

F/n stood up from his seat on the couch and moved over to the record player, crouching down and sifting through sleeves of vinyl records on the lower shelf until he found one.

He turned and grinned over at Y/n, holding the sleeve up for her to see.

Happy Together, The Turtles

Y/n gasped and moved forward quickly, gently taking the record from his hands as she replaced 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon' with 'Happy Together'.

" Don't you remember when mum used to play this and make me and Liz dance with her?"

Her face was soft and gentle as she looked over at him, much softer than it had been the past few days. F/n missed that innocent look to her face and the meager easiness to her eyes.

He stood back up and gave Y/n a smile, before images of her clouded his vision.

The insert, that one bloody insert was the cause of these nightmares.

F/n had managed to rid himself of the terrors years before but ever since that stupid passage they never stopped.

All he could ever think about when he saw her, when she looked over at him and when they hung out during the day, all he ever saw were images of deep crimson blood dripping from his daughters skin to her carpet below.

All it took was one measly diary insert to trigger the old memories.

" Yeah, I always loved those nights..."

However, a knock on the door quickly snapped the two of them out of their trance.

Y/n turned and ruffled her hair, awkwardly moving towards the door.

" Coming!"

A few moments went by while he waited for her to open the door.

" Baby!"

F/n's head whipped around at the word and his shock soon dissipated at the sight before him.

She meant baby,

as in Remus Lupin baby

Peter nervously took his mother's tin of biscuits out and James diverted his eyes from the older man on the floor, unknown to wether or not the man knew he had been the cause of his daughters lost memory. Sirius nodded his head to the man, his smile tight, and Remus almost flinched as he met the man's gaze while squeezing his daughter tight.

Y/n stepped back from Remus and leant up, quickly pecking his lips before she moved to greet the others.

The older man, however, frowned when he saw the werewolf spin his daughter around, distasteful would be a proper word.

He absolutely despised Remus Lupin.

The half-bred boy had no right to touch his daughter, to kiss her, to see her, to be friends with her, nor to even be near her.

The boy was a monster who could only do harm to the people around him, in F/n's eyes at least.

He knew not to trust a werewolf.

Being a werewolf only brought harm to the people around you.

F/n distastefully thought back to the first night he and M/n had fought.

" This isn't my fault F/n."

The man turnt around and seethed at the woman, his nostrils flaring.

" Yes it is your flipping fault M/n! Y/n and Elizabeth can't even get into school now because of you!"

" You and I both know that the incident wasn't my fault F/n. Do Not blame me for what that creature did to our child!"

" Mummy?"

M/n's head snapped over to see their three year old daughter had waddled into the bedroom, her stuffed bunny rabbit's ear held loosely in her fist. M/n and F/n stared open mouthed at the child.

" Yes dear?"

The child nervously stuck a thumb in her mouth and diverted her eyes.

" Lizzy went thump on the floor and she won't get up when I try to shake her."

F/n immediately froze, his mind going into panic mode and M/n quickly ushered the young Y/--

" Hey Dad!"

F/n snapped out of his trance, swiping his eyes over to where Y/n was pouring tea for the four boys surrounding her, one of which with his arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

" Ye- Yes dear?"

" Aren't you gonna come and say hello to Peter, James, Sirius and Rem?"

F/n had to clench his jaw before a mangled yeah left his tongue. _______________________________

" Y/n why don't you show the boys around? If they hang out over here for the last week of summer then they best know where everything is."

The five teenagers quickly became silent at the tone he had used; Sirius and Remus being the only two familiar by it.

Y/n hesitantly nodded and brought a hand up to usher the four boys to the hallway across the room where her room lay, walls f/c in all their glory. _____________________________

Remus lay his head in her lap and stared up at her face while she played a game of cards with the other three boys on the floor.

How he loved looking at her face.

Remus blocked out the noises of the others and gazed up at the features lining her frame.

Features no longer familiar to his eyes.

She had changed since he saw her last, before the incident with James happened.

Her eyes no longer held the same deep purple circles beneath them and her e/c irises no longer had dark shadows swimming in them.

Her smile was no longer fake, her tears no longer sad and her skin seemed to just sparkle under the change of attitude. The female no longer found need to hide her arms or skin, Remus was yet to explain how she got all those marks running up the length of her arm, and she only wrapped a thin layer of bandages over the marks for the matron at school had instructed her to do so after applying a gel to the tissue.

So almost ever feature on her face had become completely unfamiliar to Remus' eyes and he had since then swore to memorize every new detail displayed upon on body.

Of course it would seem only fitting that something of that type would happen, her entire being had gone from negative to positive and The Marauders were completely unfamiliar to such a thing when it came to her.

Although they were glad of such a change, James couldn't help but feel put down that he had caused such a thing to happen, that he had been the root cause of all their despair and depression.

Sirius comforted him by saying it was a bottle of booze's fault. ______________________________

Remus ___________

Sirius and I talked about it when we got back to James' house and we decided to come back tomorrow to make sure that guy isn't a complete arse.

Her father gave me some bad vibes and apparently Sirius felt the same way.

Hence the secondary check in. _______________________________

It happened ten minutes after we walked in the house.

Well, a lot of things happened actually.

One of the things was this:

" Where's daddy at? Where's my dad at hm?"

" I'm right here Y/n."

" No, that's not what I meant. Where's my dad at huh? Where's he been at for the past fifteen years?"

Technically James, Sirius and I weren't supposed to be hearing this but they were talking rather loudly.

" Y/n you can't be taking this there now of all times—"

" Yes I fucking can."

" Sweetheart please don't swear—"

" Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? Well try being me for the past fifteen years, having to explain why your aunties your mum. Now that's uncomfortable."

I could feel the tension from between the two rooms.

" Please don't be this way to me Y/n."

" Don't be this way to you?! Look at me, Horrible Y/n, Naughty Y/n,— No, No, No, I know you're good at walking away but not today you won't. Where is he?"

" I'm right here Y/n."

" No your not. My dad was a man who actually cared and my dad was a person who didn't just turn his back on people for Seven Whole Years."

" How do you—"

" I used to count the days until you would let me come back. All in all it added up to seven years."

" Well listen kid, that man abandoned us okay. He left a—"

" And you abandoned me!"

I could hear the strain to his voice now.

" It was a temporary thing Y/n, Candace agreed."

" Temporary?! I'm still living with her—"

" No, your aunt is dead and that is why you're here. I'd rather you stay here than with that half-bred boyfriend of yours—"

" Oh don't you call him that!"

" I wanted you back, I always did Y/n!"

" Ohhh, I believe you. Honest."

Sirius glimpsed over at me with the look that said 'We need to stop.' So the four of us moved back over to the deck of cards and tried to black out the sounds of their argument.

But one sentence, and I knew it had her stilled.

" She never gave you back!"

" Well I was never even Candies to give! You're supposed to be my dad!"

" She loved you so much—"

" More than you did apparently."

And that was when she walked back in.

" I do love you Y/n, believe me."

She turned back to the door, " I want to."

But what I'm talking about, is the thing that happened. The thing that had them yelling things again.

Everything happened in quick succession.

Four things.

Thing one, we walked in and they were at the table playing cards.

Second thing, Y/n welcomed us in and her dad looked at me the same way he did yesterday and the day he took her back.

With loathing and hatred.

The third thing that happened, and this confused us a bit, she asked when 'Lizzy will be home from University' and he responded by saying 'Soon'.

Y/n's sister died when she was younger.

The fourth thing, she walked into her sisters room.

And there was blood.

Everywhere.

A good minute of her staring at the floor passed before Sirius hooked an arm on her waist and started pulling her out.

She elbowed him and demanded her father come in and explain.

Which brings us to this point.

" Why's there blood on the floor?"

He shook his head and told her to get out.

" No, tell me why there's blood on the floor."

" No."

Bollocks to this.

I shook my head and stepped up, placing a hand on her shoulder.

And in the gentlest, calmest voice I could muster, I looked him in the eyes and said, " Just answer the question."

Words became words and skin hit skin and before I knew it my face was flung to the side and my left jaw stung like a bludger smacked against it in the rain.

Sirius lashed out at him and James helped me back to my feet while Y/n stared in shock at me, frozen to the spot.

His next words made all of us freeze and I suddenly understand why the blood was on the floor.

His voice had been filled with hatred and loathing and fire and it all clicked.

He called me a monster, he called me a creature that should be killed, he said I'm dangerous and I should never go near his daughter, that 'werewolves only ruin relationships' and that it's his home so I can't tell him what to do.

And suddenly an idea popped up in my head, an idea so ludicrous, so vulgar and horrifically heartbreaking that I almost dismissed it, but it seems so likely.

What if his eldest daughter killed herself because her being a werewolf tore apart her families relationship?

What if Y/n wasn't the reason her sister was killed and that her dad only told her so she wouldn't know what happened?

What if the gunshots that went off in the woods that night were actually the bullets coming from a gun her sister had in her bedroom and the blood on the floor was actually her own?

What if her father used Obliviate to make Y/n forget?

What if her father used Obliviate to make Y/n think he had always been a muggle?

But Y/n had asked when he sister was getting back...

What if he Obliviated her again to make her forget her sister was dead a few days ago?

It would make sense because the Y/n we used to know hated her father for what he did so she wouldn't be likely to forget her sister died...

Holy Shit this man is a maniac.

I glimpsed over to my girlfriend, the blood had drained from her face and suddenly I could see the gears in all their eyes turning.

Yelled spurt out and over all the voices and noise and things happening, although nothing could've prepared me for what happened next.

She was screaming at him and crying and trying to lash at him with her fists and suddenly Sirius was gone and into her bedroom and my arms were wrapped around her from behind and pulling her back while he was making excuses for why he never tried to take her back from her mum all those years ago once more.

The lies spilling from his mouth were easy to recognize because they were the same ones Y/n had come to use over the years, always making up excuses for why he didn't want his own daughter and we had always told her otherwise.

Soon however Y/n was screaming again and started to pry herself from my grip, which is actually a lot easier than it used to be because I've let myself go over the summer (in James' words), and suddenly Sirius is back by my side helping me pull the door shut and pull Y/n out.

I can see James in the car, ushering us out, and before I slammed the main door shut I yelled 'You're a terrible father you know!'

Now we're sitting in the car and I'm holding an ice-pack to my face, Y/n's leant up against me and everyone is silent but from the way James is squeezing the steering wheel and how Sirius is gripping the seat I can tell that they're bloody pissed off.

That was a hell of a lot to take in.

" Is your face okay Remus?"

Her voice came out small and I nodded my head. ________________________________ My eyes widened.

I forgot to give the letter back to Y/n.

The letter her mum sent her in fourth year.

______________________________________________________________

Drink some water, eat some food and remember You Are Loved!

[botslayer]

Octodad: Not-so-dark theory

From top to bottom, Octodad looks like a fairly innocent game, A simple story about an Octopus trying to survive in suburbia. But, through subtle hints and references, and inconsistencies with that premise, it is revealed that Octodad is no mere cephalopod. He is, in fact, something far more horrifying, on paper at least... What do I mean?

Octodad is not, in truth, an Octopus, He's a Cthulhi. For those not familiar with the works of H.P. Lovecraft, Cthulhi are also called "The Starspawn of Cthulhu" and "Xothians," and are a race that looks like Cthulhu who's true origins, as with everything in the Cthulhu mythos, are debatable and vague as sin, the only things known for a fact are that they look like Cthulhu (Or, in their first appearance, like Octopi), worship him, followed him from their home dimension/universe into ours, and then perished en masse while what remained of them went into a death-like sleep, same as Cthulhu.

Now, Star Spawn aren't often seen in the works of Lovecraft, but they do have a sliver of popularity in the fandom. Not as big (in the popularity sense) as Deep Ones, but not as unknown as the humble Penguins of Leng. Now, again, it's worth noting that common interpretations of Star Spawn are basically baby Cthulhus, just tiny versions of their dark and malevolent master, but to start with, they were described as "a land race of beings shaped like octopi and probably corresponding to the fabulous pre-human spawn of Cthulhu," in the story "At the Mountains of Madness." 

Octodad highly RESEMBLES an octopus, but with some interesting tweaks. Namely: His eyes, two of his Tentacles, and something we'll talk about in just a minute. But let's talk about Octodad's anatomy when compared to another octopus, namely, the one in the "Wold of kelp" at the Aquarium.

Now, this is Octopus is a giant, climbable sculpture one might see at a water park, so in a technical sense, some liberties could have been taken with its anatomy, but it looks semi-accurate to real octopi, down to the slit-like pupils and the tentacles all being at roughly the same spot despite them spreading out for kids to climb on. Now, if you pay attention, a patron of the Aquarium will note that the "World of kelp" was something else before it was the world of kelp, though they THINK it was "Squids or something" before. Based on how the section played out, I have to believe the whole affair was either cephalopods in general given how many bases of just kelp they went over, or just Octopi because HOLY CRAP there are lots of octopi out there. Failing that, I don't think the statue was a squid to begin with, the eyes are far too forward on the head, what can be seen of the tentacles makes them all look the same, and most species of squid have circular pupils and irises, not slits/rectangles. 

Octodad, in contrast to the sculpture, has vertically ovular pupils, far rounder than the slits on the larger statue, on top of that, his eyes take up a slightly larger portion of his head. Then we take a look at Octodad's tentacles, namely the two that form his mustache. These two tentacles are set away from the other six in a way that makes no real anatomical sense for an octopus. Not to mention that the two are preposterously shorter than the others, it's less like another pair of tendrils and more like a strange growth coming out of the middle of his head. Moving on from that, there's also a certain disparity with his other limbs, his "arms" are shorter than his "legs" when he stands, however, when he enters water, his limbs, save for his mustache, are all of equal length, this strange effect carries over to when he's buck-ass naked, so no, he isn't just scrunching two up while he's in the suit... Speaking of naked octodad:

What the hell is that THING in the midst of his tentacles? It's a lighter color than the others, he's still using two tentacles per leg, one per arm, and his mustache is basically vestigial. Octodad's anatomy makes no fucking sense unless you consider the idea that he has some level of shapeshifting power... and wouldn't you know it, Cthulhi have just that. To what end is a little shakey, as with most things in the Lovecraft universe, but still.

Also worth noting is the church Octodad got married at, a Church dedicated, at least partly, to Cthulhu himself. Now, we only see one window with any kind of figure on it, Cthulhu, wereas the others are all decked out with a strange symbol, as are a few paintings lining the walls of it. These paintings may be of religious significance to the practitioners of this particular faith, but a lot of it looks like some minimalist "If you get it you get it" kind of stuff, and then one is literally a crayon drawing of a child with a smiling balloon. The last vaguely Lovecraftian thing in the church is the treasure chest Octodad gets his wife's ring from, all the coins within have a squid/cuttlefish-like creature printed on them, In the story "Shadow over Innsmouth," the people of a town called "Innsmouth" start breeding with fish people. They did it specifically for the undersea gold the fish people (called Deep Ones) give out for the service. Deep Ones worship multiple gods, cheif among them are their great parents, Mother Hydra and Father Dagon, though worship of Cthulhu isn't against their laws or anything. 

The game takes a break from the hints of Eldrich horror while the family is at home, though it is worth noting that we don't REALLY know where Octodad's children came from. Hell, the game makes a joke about it at the end, Tommy asks, plain as day, "If dad's an octopus... Then where did me and Stacy come from?" While his parents laugh the question off, it has a few possible answers: The two of them (Or just Tommy) are leftover from a failed relationship/marriage Scarlet was a part of before Octodad came in, the two (Or just Tommy) are adopted, or, in a manner not dissimilar to deep ones, Cthulhi may just be able to breed with humans in this universe. 

Now, I say Tommy may be adopted/Not Octodad's specifically because Stacy says something concerning in the "Deep sea" exhibit at the Aquarium. She apparently has dreams wherein a deep, dark spot in the ocean seems to call to her. This turns out to be a sea horse ranch. Cute as that is, dreams are a recurrent theme in Lovecraft's work, sometimes compelling people into the service of Great old ones like Gla'aki, for example. Or there was that one story when a guy met Yog-Sothoth, the omniscient and omnipresent god of the universe just because he dreamed that deeply. Also "The Dreamlands" are a place in Lovecraft's fiction. I could keep going down that rabbit hole, but I'm lazy and I think that point is made.

There is also another reference (Possibly) to "Shadow over Innsmouth" and "Dagon" with the character of Chef Fujimoto. Now, Fujimoto himself is not a reference to anything in particular, but his backstory has some Lovecrafty bits. Namely, Fujimoto was once a soldier (Dagon) who cut open a combatant. Instead of human guts, "Piles of fish" were inside. (Shadow over Innsmouth.) This one might be a little more of a stretch but remember that Fujimoto is OBSESSED with Octodad and believes very firmly that there are fish people everywhere. ("Why is everyone fish!?") There are several Lovecraftian stories where the character feels he is being pursued or is surrounded in some way. Call of Cthulhu ends with one of the characters feeling that the cult is gunning for him, partly because some dude looked at him funny, and Dagon ended with the main character fearing that a servent of Dagon was coming up his stairs after him, so he threw himself out a window. The crippling paranoia experienced by Fujimoto is another hint that SOMETHING Eldrich is happening in the universe of Octodad. 

Also worth noting is that a magazine entitled "Inquisitor" can be found at Gervason's, Octodad is on the cover, and they think he's an alien. Which begs the question: Why is it that most humans will let an obviously strange man do things without much concern at all? Hell, there are three lines present in both the main game and one of the extra shorts that imply EVERYONE sees something is wrong with Octodad. And I quote/paraphrase:

"I thought he was a lawyer?" "He's slimy enough to be one."

"Is it just me or did the captain look jigglier than usual?"

"Hmmm, I don't see a blurblerulb on the list." 

These lines imply on some level that people recognize SOMETHING is wrong or different with Octodad but they don't carry the thought far enough to do anything with it... Unless perhaps at a distance, hence that cover of “Inquisitor.” 

Another thing that tends to happen in Lovecraftian horror is the mind not making proper sense of things. For example: Canonically in the mythos, the image of Cthulhu mankind sees, humanoid body, octopus head, draconic wings, etc, is not what he really looks like, it's just our perception of Cthulhu because our minds aren't equipped to comprehend the real deal. Looking too long at just what we can see of Cthulhu will unravel your mind, causing both insanity and death if exposed even longer. I think that's part of Octodad's effect. When he's dressed, the humans around him perceive what their mind makes sense of. He's in a shirt and pants, therefore he is appropriately dressed as a human, therefore their minds SEE a human even if he's not QUITE right. We see, rather obviously, that he doesn't have human hands, he has tentacles with suckers, but Scarlet refers to it as a "Hand" still, this implies she and others see his appendages as hands or feet when he's disguised or doing something "Human enough." Only really undone if he's naked or does too many strange or seemingly malicious things like accidentally smack someone with a bag of doughnuts.

This is why you can get away with randomly dragging things across the floor, their minds are telling them something is a little off, but their ability to perceive might be telling them he's just got a medical condition or something. It's nothing to judge him for, he's just got a disability. 

So at the end of that trail, what are we left with? Octodad as a Xothian/Deep one hybrid? Does that fundamentally change the game's story? Does this mean Octodad is a dark horror from beyond? Does he secretly seek to kill and maim and destroy all the things we hold dear? Will he one day help awaken Cthulhu and usher in the new age of the great old ones? No. See, Octodad, despite his horrifying inspirations, is a benevolent creature. He "blubs with a love for all mankind" in the ending for Dadliest Catch. He still obviously loves and cares for his family, whether they know his secret or not. He's just an alien from another dimension... or at least he has ancestry from another dimension. 

Now, why is that? I've got two little ideas for that: It's an often found interpretation that most of the original writings of Lovecraft focus on the idea that "It is different, therefore it is bad." Xenophobia of an extremely high sort. Mind you, I often find this interpretation lacking, but we can probably discuss that later. I feel Octodad may be a natural extrapolation of the idea that it isn't bad because it's different, in fact, Octodad, despite keeping a secret, is an all-around "good" guy. Upstanding, moral, all that garbage, he just happens to be non-human.  Something supporting this being a running theme is the scene with the Snugglefish. For those who have yet to play Dadliest catch, a section of the game takes place when the power in part of the Aquarium goes partially out. During this event, Octodad and Stacy come upon a large sculpture of a creature called a “Snugglefish.” which is covered by the dark. We shine lights at the supposedly malevolent creature, complete with monstrous teeth and evil red eyes, partially with the intent to “Blind it” despite the fact that its obviously a statue. That whole section up to then is nothing but fumbling in the dark, looking at the strange and some might say “alien” life living in the deep ocean, you can also learn some stuff about them if you pay attention.  The whole thing ends when you fully light up the spots on the statue, revealing it to BE a Snuggle fish as opposed to some giant monster. As a result of revealing this, Stacy’s fears of it go right out and she feels she understands the creature better, as with most things, learning and understanding quiet one’s fears. when we learn what something is, we stop seeing it as an immediate threat is the take away from that section, I think, which is, again, I’d say, a call to Lovecraft's writings and his fear of that which was different and unknown and how it’s so easily thrown out with just a LITTLE understanding.

Another plausible explanation for Octodad’s kindness may be that Octodad is not a Star Spawn of Cthulhu, but of Kthanid. Kthanid is not an original creation of H.P. Lovecraft, but a bloke by the name of "Brian Lumley." Lumley's creation is the brother of Cthulhu, and is considered the main reason Cthulhu is sealed away these days. Kthanid is said to look almost exactly like Cthulhu but to have "Golden eyes that radiate peace." He's a loving, benevolent "Elder God" that wants the best for not just Humanity, but for all things. It would logically follow that if a creature dedicated itself to Kthanid, or was one of his spawn, it would be at least mostly as loving and kind. So, if Octodad, or "blurblerulb" if you prefer, was a purely hypothetical Kthani instead of Cthulhi, his disposition may well fit within the actual mythos.

So, what do y'all think? Does this theory hold water? Or does it sink harder than Cthulhu going back down for a nap?

[gilmesc1]

Do you have any thoughts on fictional portrayals of DID, like danganronpa, spl!t, and others?

Yes, I usually would take time to do research but lucky for you I already did XD

I looked into Danganronpa a while ago since we have 1 or 2 system mates from it, and in that case, prepare yourselves for a hot mess of my opinion and facts I got from a google fest.

So, to start out, I guess I might share spoilers?? So you hath been warned. Additionally I’m not going to sit here and rephrase the entire story so, honestly why am I even explaining this. Anon at least knows what’s going on XDD

So Danganronpa is a psychological mystery anime that focuses heavily on the themes of hope and despair, where in most versions of the story characters are forced into a killing game where they have to kill each other. Bet you couldn’t have figured that one out on your own XD

One thing I like about it is that the characters overall are written fairly well. Many of them are complex multi layered gems of writing with good development and story arcs. One thing that I found interesting is the semi accurate portrayals of mental illness and how it impacts the characters in this insane situation.

So, let’s break into that. I focused on the portrayals of NPD and DID specifically, and I could go back and look into others, but we’ll focus on those for this post. And just going to throw this out now, I think it’s interesting and also kind of a bold move to tackle those kinds of things in an anime.

So let’s look at the DID portrayal. The character’s name is Toko Fukawa, and she is a fucking wreck. Confirmed emotional abuse gives a lot into her character, and we see her as this timid, deflective, honestly broken shell. Later in the series we are introduced to her alternate personality, I know, exciting.

However it’s a literal serial killer. So like. Yeah.

I don’t love that part. I mean, out of all of the portrayals for this alter, you had to go with serial killer? And not only that, but a really famous, generally acknowledged as insane serial killer. Thaaaanks writer.

To recap what a lot of tumblr says, this kind of portrayal is dangerous because the majority of DID portrayals are of crazy violent stereotypes. It was quite honestly disappointing, and I wish that the writers hadn’t used this as their big reveal.

But hey, neutral standing here, let’s look at why he did do that from a different perspective. Since the theme of the game/anime is killing, it does make sense plot wise to have a serial killer. Additionally, it’s a clever way to get said serial killer into the game in the first place. Plot wise and with a few things I’ll mention in a second, it does make sense in a twisted way.

But let’s get the bad out of the way first. One thing I really don’t love is her appearance. It’s like someone took the original character design of fukawa, took some drugs, and then drew a nightmare creature. Seriously, there’s crazy eyes, hair flying everywhere, and this freaky inhuman tongue that the alter has out no matter what she’s doing. Like whaaaaaat the fuck.

Firstly this spreads misinformation that we can change appearance at will. Like don’t get me wrong, I wish I could, but the best I got is changing clothes if I have the time. Also the tongue I really hate because it gives the impression of the alter being this inhuman monster. Also again with the impression that we can morph stuff when we switch. I mean, if I had that, I’d be having a lot more fun in my day to day life than I do now.

Do what you will with that information.

Additionally we do see Fukawa’s tongue, and it’s not a weird demogorgon kind of thing, so, yeah, the tongue thing is weird.

Finally her name. It’s Genocider Syo/Jack/Jill. Not a normal name, no the only name we have for her is her serial killer name which I feel serves to continue to show her as this inhuman thing where we all go, Oh god oh fuck time to be afraaaaid.

But hey, let’s look at what they did right.

The backstory of how genocider came to be is really accurate to how it works. Fukawa has a history of abuse at a young age, and genocider eventually comes into the picture to protect her.

Let me explain: So this is a theory on my part (Check out Weeby Newz’s youtube video, that’s where I got this) but Fukawa was revealed to have suffered massive emotional abuse at the hands of a boy who she had romantic interest in. Since he was moving away, she decided to confess her love to him in a letter before this happened. Turns out the boy pinned the letter in her classroom so everyone would make fun of her. Dick move.

I think genocider formed after this specific event, firstly because this is a huge defining experience for Fukawa. Additionally, the way genocider acts serves to prove this. Her target victims are boys, and her first victim was the boy who hurt Fukawa. I mean yeah, killing was waaaay extreme, but bear with me on this next part:

I’d say that genocider is a protector. A lot of her initial actions were to protect Fukawa from getting hurt in the same way, and protectors do have a history of going to the extreme to protect their hosts and systems. Even though she seems like a persecutor, I don’t think any of her actions have been directed at herself and Fukawa, they actually seem to have a decent relationship, and to end this theory that is completely non canon and just me pretending I’m smart, I’d call her a protector.

Next, looking at the relationship they have. Genocider at one point tells the protagonist that they have a “non disclosure policy” when they switch when the other is in the middle of something. (like murder??) And I personally really liked this, as it was a kind of realistic DID humor in my eyes. Take it or leave it, that’s my opinion.

And that’s really all I have on that behalf. Genocider really isn’t shown as a “normal person” often, which I guess is the point but also leaves me with nothing to evaluate. (Side note, this is only V1 of the series and I’m aware she changes but dear god go easy on me)

Finally, here are a few things that I find a little weird tbh.

At first glance when they switch, it’s a touch accurate, if over dramatic. Losing consciousness and coming to as a different alter is possible so I do like that, however they also have her constantly switching when sneezing, which is a little out there.

I mean, I think I’ve done that before, but for it to be a consistent theme, idk. Maybe overdramatized again.

Secondly, there is a voice change, which is accurate, but it really just serves to fit the crazy image, so I’m conflicted on that.

So that is really all I can say on that specifically, to end things I’m going to talk about one other character Fukawa has interactions with, Togami. (He has a first name but I can’t spell/remember it.)

So I gravitated towards him while watching the series because he reminds me of me, hence me saying that he seems to be a dead ringer for npd. Let me explain.

He’s very cold and distant from others and obviously feels superior, additionally he is willing to fight tooth and nail to consistently be on top and win in any situation, leading to him doing some fucked up things.

But like I feel for him. It’s like watching me XD

His past was a very competitive cuthroat environment, where he was taught that losing is worse than death. Additionally he was almost groomed to be this untouchable figure so it’s no surprise that he believes that. I might make a second post about him because there’s a lot more I can say, but I’m going to double back to Fukawa now.

So Fukawa gains a very unhealthy obsession with Togami, despite him wanting literally nothing to do with her. He’s verbally abusive to her and does go out of his way to attack her, but she thinks it’s a sign of love. Poor Fukawa.

This also kind of fits with NPD, because we can have some pretty gravitating personalities. I think the attraction has a lot to do with Fukawa’s mental state, but I just found it interesting that the emotional abuse victim gravitates to Togami of all people.

So I brought him up for that above thought I had, and also to compare this last point. So Fukawa was confirmed to have DID, like it was specifically stated. To my knowledge it was never stated that Togami has NPD, but I strongly assume that he does. (key word assume, I could be wrong.)

So I found it interesting that Togami has this very accurate portrayal of NPD without ever confirming that he has NPD, while Fukawa is specifically confirmed to have DID while having a semi accurate portrayal. I think the writer really wanted to include mental illness in his story line and I doubt he intended anything to be intentionally harmful.

Writing mental illness into a story is very very very tricky, and it’s practically impossible to satisfy everyone, but the fact that he did do it is in my opinion, very bold.

He made good and less good choices, but overall he did make very compelling characters. Genocider admittedly fits better in this plotline as a crazy killer than she would as a realistic alter, but this is fiction.

So final statements: Toko Fukawa is not a bad character. I like a lot about her and overall I think she is very well written. Genocider is very less developed and more of a surprise plot twist than a character, which is unrealistic. The writer made some very awkward choices from a realistic standpoint despite it fitting well with his story.

So overall, she really isn’t a good portrayal of DID. You can enjoy her character like I did, but the main takeaway here is to not take her as a realistic portrayal. I know it seems obvious but this is the kind of thing that forms unhealthy ideas in viewers.

I’m not hating on Danganronpa or Toko, I actually really loved both. I’ve tried to stop ranting about fictional works that I hate. I used to be a loose fucking canon but I realized that I had been bashing a few autistic friend’s special interests, so now I try to be hyper aware that a fictional work might mean everything to someone even if I personally disliked it.

But that isn’t the case here because again I loved Danganronpa XD

So friends, that about does it for me. I liked doing this kind of analysis so if you want me to do more, send them my way XD

My next post will probably be the syscourse analysis if I can get that done before I get an easier topic. So thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, thank you for the ask anon.

And I’m now out of words. You all should be happy. XD

[breyito]

Brittle

TITLE: Brittle  AUTHOR/ARTIST: @breyito (read also on AO3) PROMPT DAY : Day 4: Hurt/Comfort for @geraskierweek SUMMARY: Post- Ep. 6Jaskier is on his way to being mostly allright, when an unexpected meeting with Geralt tears all his efforts apart. WORD COUNT: 2.1 k BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix show TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Angst. Hurt no Comfort. Emotional pain.   RATING: Teen and up ADDITIONAL NOTES: Yeah...I chose hurt. Ooops? ñ.ñ  I couldn't help it!!! I just love Jaskier and his angsty-potential!!! Tbh, I've read some amazing post-ep.6 fix-it fics, but I'm of the opinion that some things you just don't forgive; at least not without effort from the other part. Hence, this was born. I knoooow that Geraskier Week is ending, but RL is a bitch and writing (even if I've written more this week than the past semester, jeez) is hard. I plan to finish all the prompts, even if it takes me another week lol. Tho I'm having a hard time to come up with ideas for the last two days, so...help?? Enjoy the pain!!

When they find the bard, he is singing in a small tavern. This far North the Nilfgaard army has not being able to reach, yet; but refugees have been traveling and passing through, and it is noticeable. The place is fairly full, the ambient warm from the fire on the hearth and the ammount of bodies. The mood of the people, though, is solemn and gloom. The usual joyful tunes and bawdy lyrics that make most of Jaskier's songs would not be welcome; but his most recent works, full of longing and despair are listened to with the aumost attention; people eager to feel conected in their grief.

~I need time to replace, what I gave away~

He is singing with his eyes closed, the melody pouring out of him without effort; and he does not see them enter: the sorceress, the princess and the two Witchers.

~Though I try to resist I still want it all ~

The four of them sit in a corner, willing to wait until the performance is over; but the white haired witcher does not take his eyes away from the bard for a second.

~I see a little house on the beach and children's names I see quiet nights poured over ice and the sweetest ale~

Geralt tries really hard not to think that the song is about him, because surely it can't be. Neither of them are built for a quiet life and a settled home; and yet he can't stop hearing the hopeful proposal of 'lets go to the coast for a while' that he never responded to, which was on itself an answer of its own.

~But everything is shattering and it's my mistake~

Vesemir notices the moment the lark sees Geralt, because his body fills with tension, his shoulders go back and his eyes fill with something else: anger, pain, hurt. He feels the sharp inhale Geralt takes of the man’s souring scent, and hears the aborted whine that climbs up his troath.

~Only fools fall for you, only fools Only fools do what I do, only fools fall~

The sorceress thinks to herself that there is no way the dumb Witcher can miss the song being about him. The bard is practically singing it to him, not looking away once. The rest of the place might not notice, but the four of them on the table know. Even without the enhanced senses she thinks she can smell the betrayal and the hurt the bard pours out in every exhale. She did not know things were so dire between the two men, or she would have insisted on Geralt aproaching first, with an apology at the ready; instead of ambushing him to ask such a big favour.

~Only fools fall…~

As soon as the song finishes the bard jumps into action; throwing the few coins in the floor into his lute case and sprinting for the back door. Obviously, they follow. Or, Yennefer and Geralt do, leaving Ciri with Vesimir inside, to protect her.

~*~

Jaskier has never believed the saying that Witchers have no emotions; that they can't feel and only care for killing and coin. Because if that were true, then why would they help?why would they risk their own lives for the ungrateful little beings that humans are? They are hated, spat on, cursed, stoned...and yet they continue to travel seeking for monsters to kill and people to save. Surely it would be easier to just take whatever they want, instead of getting barely what they need? They could stop traveling, live in the woods or the mountains, hunt and plant and live quietly; until people grew desperate enough to seek them out and pay whatever amount they demand for killing whatever creature is tormenting the pesky little humans. Or become bandits, roaming the roads and stealing and killing as much as they want. It's not a big secret (just something people like to forget) that they can control the minds of people with their magic (similar to the way mages can, but they don't, not usually). They could take over a city, a kindom. They could do so many things; things that would turn them into the monsters people already treat them as. But they don't. They just keep picking themselves up after a badly payed hunt, a stoning, a beating for just exhisting; and they go back to the Path. So no, Jaskier has never believed the rumours about Witchers not having feelings. Traveling with Geralt only proved him right.

But right now he wishes it were true.

Because if the lack of emotional conexions was something biological, something they did to Witchers on those cursed Trials; if love and care and affection was something they forced them to erase, this would be easier. It would mean Geralt doesnt care for him because he literally can't. But knowing he has such a bottomless heart; that he cares, so deeply; having seen first hand how far his affection goes...and yet know none of it is directed to him? Know that he's just an annoyance, a passing amusement, some silly human the man took pity in? That's torture. Jaskier doesnt know what to do now. What do you do when you realize (when someone literally has to spit it to your face because you just won't get it) that the person you built your life around despises you? How do you keep moving on, when you have linked yourself (your sense of being, your sense of worth) so fully to another being and that other is no longer there? When you have spent more of your life by their side than alone? How do you manage without them?

Somehow, he endures.

It takes time, and acting skills, and ale and some new-found interest in weapons and fighting to release all that anger coursing through him; but he copes. He stills feels brittle, like all his pieces were put in the right order but not glued back together, and a minimal shift can break him apart again. There’s nothing to do about the pain, not really; just wait for it to dull until it’s an ache and not searing pain (like the throb you feel in a broken ankle when it’s going to rain years after it happened; not the excruciating pain of the exposed bone through ruptured flesh). He’s not there yet; but he feels like he could be, in a few more months (or years, being realistic, but realism has never been his strong suit, has it?).

There’s a war going on, after all, and he can’t give himself the luxury of pining when people are being killied left and right. He stops singing about White Wolves and monsters; because Princess Cirilla is still unacounted for, and people are starting to remember (after years of a heavy silence imposed by Calanthe) that Geralt of Rivia was to claim her by the Law of Surprise. He has made a name for himself and the last thing he wants it’s to be taken hostage on the missguided notion that Geralt would give a rat’s ass about him and come to his rescue. He is not that stupid. 

So he crafts another identity, another name and life and repertoire (he’s lucky that enough songs from Jaskier are being sung by other minstrels, so he doesn’t runs out of ballads and dittys while he composes new material), changes his image to fit in rather than stand out (more earthy colors with minimal embellishments, embroidered by his own hand), grows a beard (still carefully maintained) and lets his hair reach his shoulders. He sings more about longing and loses, homesickness and heartbreak; but still tries to end the performances on a high note, a cheerful tune (people respond better, when they can sing their woes but still feel hope at the end of another dark day).  

Or at least that is what he usually does. It only takes Geralt to show up once for all his careful work to come tumbling down. He can feel his grief start to choke him and barely manages to finish the song (and of course it’s about Geralt, because all his songs about heartbreak are about him) before he’s gathering his things in a hurry and running for the door. He just wants to get to his room at the inn before he starts to unravell. Of course he doesn’t get to, because the damn Witcher and the fucking witch follow him and cut him off.

“Jaskier.”

“That’s not my name.” he answers in a lower registry. It’s useless, he knows, but he still tries to side step and continue on his way. A hand grabs his forearm and the strenght behind it stops him short. He can feel the heat of his palm scorching his flesh even under all those layers and he starts to shake.

“Jaskier.”

“What? I’m on my way to the inn, I’ll be gone by morning. You-”

“Jaskier”

“-don’t have to see me or talk to me-”

“Jaskie-”

“-or even acknowledge me so-”

“Jaskier!”

“-what do you want!?” he screams, and his voice carries into the darkness around them. “What could you possibly want from a shit-shoveling useless minstrel, uh!?” 

He can tell that both the Witcher and the sorceress are shocked by his outburst; and he takes advantage of this by shaking the hand off and walking a few more feet away from them.

“Jaskier. We need you.” Is what he hears next, and the words make him stop. He lets loose a bitter short laugh.

“Oh, haven’t you heard, woman, that he doesn’t need anyone?” he hears steps behind him and continues walking, “And I wouldn’t go depending on him very much either. He tends to bite and run the other way when that happens, you know?” The Witcher gets ahead of him and grabs his shoulders, thightly and pushes him against a wall.

“Don’t do that.” he growls, shaking him, impatient. “She’s done nothing to-”

"How is it, Geralt” Jaskier interrumpts, finally looking into Geralt’s eyes “that you go out of your way to respect, protect, love” he spats the word out “people that  curse your name, spit on you, wish you dead and use you so badly that you have nothing left when they are done with you;” he doesn’t even try to pretend the words aren’t about certain witch that has apparently deemed the Witcher’s company good enough again, he sees her flinch at the quick look he shots her but pays it no mind “but show nothing but disgust towards the one person who has always stood by you?" he sees the way Geralt recoils at that, but honestly, if he can lash out when he feels hurt then he deserves to hear the pain he caused others.

"Jas-"

"What did I had to do; what did I had to change; what else did I had to sacrifice for you to give me a sliver of your affection?” He can’t hold his gaze anymore and just looks over his shoulder, tears escaping uninvited. “Just a morsel, a fucking crumb of yourself?" His voice breaks and fuck, he wanted to finish this conversation with the last dregs of his dignity intact, but he doesn’t even get that, does he?

"Jaskier, I'm so-" despite the fact that Jaskier has spent the last fucking year wanting to hear an apology from the man that destroyed his heart; right now he can’t. He suddenly feels so tired. Brittle, like that single word could make him crumble and disperse his very core to the winds. He swallows a moan and starts begging.

"Please, leave." he pauses, to see if the other man will, for once, heed his request. He doesn’t, of course. " Geralt, please, leave." he pleads. The Witcher lets go of his shoulders, but opens his mouth. But Jaskier won’t let him speak, not if he doesn’t want to end the night reduced to more pieces. "You are no good to me witcher. You wound me; it hurts. Everytime I think of you a fucking hole opens in my chest and threatens to consume whole.” he starts wheezing, but keeps talking, trying to explain his pain, to make him understand how badly those scarred hands have wounded him. “Seeing you here... Listening to your voice? It’s ripping me to pieces."

"Ja-" the bard feels like puppet whose string was cut. He falls to the floor in a crouch, hugging himself, trying to contain the void growing in his chest.

"Geralt, have mercy." he sobs, desperate. He hides his face between his knees, tears and snot being absorved by the dark fabric.

Finally, Geralt leaves. The keens and sobs of pain follow him all the way back to the tavern.

"Good gods, what have you done to him, Witcher?" Vesemir asks when they return to the table. The piercing cries continue on in the night.

~*~

Mmm, are those reworked lyrics from Troye Sivan?? Yes, yes they are. I just love this song and I had to tweak the lyrics a bit so they fit better, but I love the result, tbh. Thanks for reading!!! Ideas for day 6 (destiny) and day 7 (free day) are accepted ;P

Kisses

[carringtonblackwood]

Blood & Bone || Cari & Dewey

Dewey comes to Carrington’s aid after he has an unfortunate encounter with a pack of alghouls moonlighting (pun intended) as squirrels. 

@deweythedew

Carrington’s phone slipped from his hand and onto the bathroom counter, leaving a slash of red along the white marble. He’d managed to rinse off most of the blood - both his own and the thick, dark substance that was the alghouls’ - in the shower after the creatures had attacked him in the attic. Half a dozen of the bastards, scratching around, unable to get out because of the locked door. That he had opened like an imbecile. But he had been telling the truth when he’d told Dewey he suspected squirrels. And now he was paying the price for such an amateur mistake. It had to be this endless night, emboldening the necrophages and making Carrington’s good sense take a half-step back. But he had managed to kill them. All but one, that is. It had escaped into the house, and was still missing. Though the fucking devils had left Carrington’s body - mostly his torso and back - a mass of lacerations and teethmarks. Some of which were already healing, but others of which were not. Not when there were broken teeth and talons embedded in his flesh. Hence the need for the forceps to pull them out. But of course he couldn’t find his. So as much as he hated to ask Dewey for help, he knew he needed it. And there was no one else he trusted - save perhaps Arthur or Nadia, but he didn’t know if they had the skill - to dig out the festering leftovers. 

So when he heard the doorbell, he picked up the phone and texted Dewey that it was open, and he could come in, but to be cautious since there was an alghoul still on the loose. He also warned him of the mess on the upstairs landing, and in the bedroom and bathroom, though he had no doubt the other man would be able to smell it before he saw it. There was… quite a lot of blood. 

Dewey would have been lying to say that the drive to Carrington’s was anything short of frantic. The moment he’d gotten his hands on a pair of forceps, another smaller pair, and an entire medical kit brimming with various items necessary for a proper patch up, he was off. Of course Carrington likely wouldn’t need everything inside, considering that any wounds vampires sustained would heal over time. But based on what the other had asked for, he assumed there might be… well, shrapnel, for lack of a better word. Which only served to tighten the coil of anxiety winding inside of his gut. Alghouls. Nasty little buggers. And terrible to deal with on one’s own. 

Soon enough he was making his way up to Carrington’s door, and not a moment after pressing the buzzer, received a text. One that did little to allay any of his worries. Still, he hadn’t come unprepared for the worst, and so he cautiously opened the door, made his way into the house - all but ignoring the stains of red here and there - tunnel-vision leading him straight to the bathroom entryway. “Oh, your poor thing…” Dewey’s voice echoed the concern etched into his features as he settled the med kit onto the counter, immediately guiding Carrington to lower himself onto the toilet seat. “Look at you - I told you it was-- Oh, never mind, we’ll worry about scolding you later. Goodness, what a mess,” He wasn’t even aware of how similar to a fussing mother he sounded, simply opening his case and taking a roll of instruments out and placing it onto the side of the counter. “Alright, are your towels in the hall closet? We don’t need to stain anything more in your home, and this is going to be quite… Mm, well, we’ll need towels.” 

Dammit, but he hadn’t bled like this since Japan. He’d managed to get his fingers around a few of the longer pieces and pull them out, but they were slippery, and the last thing Carrington wanted was to break them off. Still, the sink was full of broken teeth and bits of talons. A right mess. Just like he was. If Carrington had been human, he’d have likely passed out by now, or at least been light-headed. He’d need to feed after it was all said and done, in order to heal properly. It would still take a day or two, and a few of the deeper laceration might even scar. 

But what was one more. His body was littered with them already. From broadswords and glaives, to bullets laced with vampire poison, four centuries of battles, both human and hunter, had left a map across his skin. A map he wasn’t proud of. A map he rarely let anyone see. But he had no choice. He could only hope that Dewey wouldn’t think him horrible to look upon. Still, when he heard the other man on the stairs, Carrington sighed in relief. 

He glanced up as Dewey entered, giving him a slightly sheepish look that was only partially forced. “You should see the other guy,” he said flatly, wincing as he let himself be sat down. He sat quite still as the other man fussed and sorted his things, unable to remember the last time someone had cared enough to fuss. He confirmed the location of the towels, and waited on Dewey to return, all the while trying not to think about how the other man’s presence already made him feel more calm. Less agitated. It didn’t lessen the pain of the wounds - even as a vampire, injury still hurt - but it lessened the anxiety of dealing with it alone. Especially with one of the creatures still loose in the house.

“Thank you,” Carrington said quietly after a moment. “For coming.”

Towels in hand, Dewey returned to the bathroom and set them down beside his tools. A litter of forceps in varying sizes, tweezers, scalpels and two sets of scissors. Perhaps he had overpacked, but one could never be too certain when it came to Alghouls. He hadn’t personally dealt with them himself, but he knew enough from those who had. “Actually, I’m quite sure I don’t want to. Though I will cleaning up the product of your little scuffle later on. I’ll rate your effectiveness based on the state of them,” He offered the blonde a wry smile, though his eyes still held that wealth of concern and worry. 

Carrington’s next words had the furrow in his brow deepening, gaze flitting to him in-between placing a small oval steel bowl on the counter. “Why wouldn’t I? Work has been a veritable hell since this darkness. But even if that wasn’t the case, I would have come,” It just seemed to be the simplest of concepts to Dewey. Carrington had been there when he had fallen to pieces, had held him together and made him feel more whole than he had in years. They were… friends. Wasn’t this what friends did for each other? 

“Alright then,” Lowered onto one knee, he positioned the blonde so his back was facing Dewey, who couldn’t help but wince at the shredded state of the pale flesh. “They certainly didn’t hold back, did they? Awful creatures. Now, keep still,” He selected what appeared to be the largest talon, delicately closing the silver around it before carefully easing it out. His other hand laid on Carrington’s hip, hoping to ground him a bit against the discomfort. 

“You said there was still one left, yes?”

Carrington huffed. “I’m afraid my methods were a bit sloppy this time, considering I had a filet knife instead of the usual.” Meaning the katana he kept on the wall in his bedroom. It was still in its place, while the bloody knife sat in the sink with the rest of the leftovers. He glanced over his shoulder at the other man. “Precisely. You have more than enough on your plate. The last thing you need is my stupid mistake taking you away from actual patients.” He was quiet for a moment. “But I’m still glad you’re here.” 

At the very least, they were certainly friends. Anything more than that was… yet to be seen. But regardless, Carrington would’ve done the same for him, had the situation called for it. Without question. He turned back to stare at the floor, closing his eyes as Dewey started to work. “No, they didn’t. But I’ve had worse.” As could be seen by the scars that littered his back. But he didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word as Dewey pulled the first long, sharp bit of talon out of his back. It hurt, certainly, but moving would only impede Deweys progress. The press of his hand along Carrington’s hip provided the older vampire with a focal point, one that he took hold of gladly, if only in his mind. 

“Yes.” The word was said quietly, but heavily. “The largest of them.”

“Well, you could have been wounded far worse. That’s what I’m mainly concerned with,” The image of Carrington being swarmed by a multitude of alghouls was enough to turn his stomach inside out. He truly didn’t want to think about what might have happened had the other not been so adept at fighting. If it had been himself, well… Quick reflexes were one thing. Dealing with another predator never encountered prior was another. Still, the worst hadn’t happened, and Dewey would only be feeding into his anxiety if he continued to think of what might have been. He huffed out a laugh. “Compared to the hospital, this is a respite. And currently you are an ‘actual patient’, Mr. Blackwood. One I happen to be quite fond of,” A small smile worked its way onto his features; bemused, fond. Gentle.

“Mm. I’ll see about finding it once we’re done here,” A smaller pair of forceps were used to grasp at the end of the cartilage, ensuring nothing snapped off or slipped during extraction. Once out, Dewey deposited it into the bowl, settling with a tiny ‘clink!’ against the bottom. 

“Right then. One down…” And so it had begun; piece after piece removed carefully, set into the bowl, a dampened towel catching the blood that trickled out afterwards. Dewey’s hands were sufficiently coated, but that hardly occurred to him as the process chugged onwards. Another scan of the vampire’s back showed that he had sufficiently vacated it of remaining talons and teeth. He warmed the towel with a bit of hot water, gently applying pressure to the slowly healing openings. “Alright, anywhere else I’m not aware of? I see at least two in your arm,”

Carrington could only nod at Dewey’s assertion. Alghouls, while not large creatures, were savage ones. Even in small groups they could tear a much larger creature apart. Even a vampire, if they were enough of them and the vampire was unable to escape. Carrington had encountered them before, so he knew the dangers, but caught mostly unawares had left him a bit down for the count. As evidenced by the current situation. Carrington felt a small smile of his own creep onto his face at Dewey’s words, despite his discomfort. “You’ve a good heart, Dr. Foster,” he said softly. 

Carrington closed his eyes after that. “I’ll be fine to sort it…” he said of the remaining alghoul. It was just one, after all. He frowned a bit as the talon was pulled out, but didn’t move. He turned off the part of himself that felt pain after that. It registered, but in a numb sort of way. He mentally recited the alphabet backwards. In Greek. And when Dewey was done, Carrington pulled himself out of the trance-like state and waited for further instruction. He blinked, completely awareness always taking him a moment afterwards. “Um… no. I… think all the worst damage was on my back. I’ve got some lacerations across the front, but… no. No, I think that’s the worst of it.” 

He turned a bit so Dewey could see his arm, and he tried not to think too much about the image of Dewey’s hands covered in blood as they came into view. The way his fangs pricked at his lips. Or the images it conjured up in the back of his mind. Images that Carrington pushed deep down… and locked them away in the dark. 

A good heart. Dewey wondered about that more often than he cared to admit. Wanted to believe it despite an overwhelmingly berating voice that assured him that was not the case whatsoever. Hearing it from Carrington caused a sort of emotionally charged warmth to bloom inside of his chest. Pausing in his work, he leaned up to brush a gentle whisper of a kiss behind the blonde’s ear. “Take one to know one, doesn’t it?” 

And as for the remaining Alghoul… “You most certainly will not. As soon as I’ve finished here, you’ll need to feed and then rest. I can take care of one, large or otherwise,” He hoped the firmness of his instruction showed just how adamant he was about this course of action. This wasn’t a one-sided arrangement; he could take care of Carrington just as much as being taken care of by him. Soon enough, he’d removed the leftovers from one arm, then moved onto the other. The front of his shirt was speckled with a bit of blood, but he could always drive home and change before heading back to the hospital. 

Then it was on to the chest. For the most part, it just needed to be wiped down. There were a few claws stuck in one side of his breast, and one in the abdomen, but they were easily plucked and joined their siblings in the now half-filled, bloody bowl. It looked almost like a gruesome excavation dig. “Alright, I believe that just about does it,” After warming a fresh towel, he set about soaking up any remaining blood on the blonde, peering up into those lovely blue eyes with a satisfied smile. “If only all my patients were this stationary. You’ve been practically perfect. I’m afraid I’ll have to substitute a lollipop for something a bit more substantial, however. How… Or, what I mean to say is, ah, where do you… feed?”

Carrington felt the pause, but thought nothing of it. Not until his eyes fluttered shut of their own accord at the brush of Dewey’s lips behind his ear. He turned just a fraction towards it, and his body remembered what it was like for his breath to hitch in his throat, even if he had no breath to give. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being told he had a good heart. Because did he? Or was he, in reality, a monster? Perhaps not for his supernatural nature, but for the other things he had become. A killer. A taker of life. A taker of trophies to remind himself just what it was he was doing. Or perhaps what he was. What would Dewey think of the things he’d done? Of the atrocities he’d committed in the name of preserving life? 

Carrington found he didn’t care to find out. 

He also didn’t care to find out if Dewey was capable of handling the alghoul that he had let escape. Like an amateur. But Dewey seemed set in his decision. And a part of Carrington wanted to let him. Just as a part of him wanted to let him take the reins of… of everything… if only for a little while. So he was quiet for a bit, watching the other man with weary but no less observant eyes as he moved to tend Carrington’s torso. Again, he tried not to focus on the red that stained Dewey’s hands and shirt. He closed his eyes and leaned back a bit, to give Dewey more room to work. “Have you ever killed one before?” he asked, not in a condescending way, but in an earnest, need to know way. “If you haven’t… you told me not to go alone, hm? And look what happened when I didn’t listen?” 

He only opened them as Dewey wiped the warm cloth down his bare skin. The wounds still hurt, but the pain would ease soon enough as they healed. It was hard not to smile though, as Dewey looked up at him. So Carrington let himself, but resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. As tired as he was, it might be his undoing. “It’s not hard to sit still when someone is doing such good work.” It was a compliment on Dewey’s own skills. For as still as Carrington could be, someone that knew what they were doing made quite a bit of difference. Dewey had a gentle hand along with his good heart. But then reality slithered back in. But there was nothing for it. “Just downstairs. It’s… I keep it refrigerated. Behind the winerack.” Several bags of blood, a pint each, were in the small space. “I um… I just… I’ll have to show you.” And hope Dewey wouldn’t think him a monster trying to be civilized. 

The short answer? No. Never. And he knew exactly where Carrington was going with that question, so Dewey simply continued tending to his wounds as he talked. Damn him for turning those words around just to make his own point clear. But... he was right. They knew so little about each other still, but he wondered if Carrington could sense that Dewey wasn't exactly a fighter. He wasn't blind, either - the blonde's torso, his arms, back, shoulders, the entire expanse of skin held a myriad of stories carved into the flesh. Carrington had fought more than his fair share, he reckoned. It'd be impossible to think otherwise. Nobody who cowered could sustain so much pain and still continue to stand as tall as he did. Or perhaps he was being presumptuous. He wouldn't dare ask about them now, though. 

Not yet.

"Now you listen,” He made a soft ‘tch’ sound, attempting to appear annoyed but failed spectacularly, a mild worry settling in place. For as sound advice as it was, that had been given before Carrington was nearly slashed to pieces. Still, he didn’t want to come off as a hypocrite; and they were both vampires, taking on one Alghoul really couldn’t be that daunting of a task, right? 

Dewey exhaled a sigh, before giving Carrington a reluctant nod. “Alright. But, you let me handle the heavy lifting. Deal?” 

The compliment caused Dewey to tense for a moment, though his movements still remained as precision sharp as ever. He never knew how to take compliments on his skills. Did he even know how to take them outside of that? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he only acknowledged it with a small, bashful smile before clearing his throat. “Whenever you’re ready. Shall we take care of your uninvited house guest first?”

Carrington knew when to use words to his advantage. And it wasn’t to be stubborn. Not in this instance at least. It was simply to bring his point across. Look what had happened to him, after all. And he wasn’t new to this. Though he had little doubt that Dewey thought he was. His discretion was appreciated when it came to the old wounds that marred Carrington’s body. Not that he wouldn’t answer any questions the other might have, but he didn’t know if he could without being overly cynical at this point. Later perhaps, he’d be able to discuss them a bit more objectively. 

Dewey began to protest again, and Carrington was about to shake his head at the other man’s stubbornness. But logic seemed to rule out, and when Dewey asked for a compromise, Carrington could do nothing but agree. “Deal.” The slight tension was noted, but not commented on. And when Dewey prompted him, Carrington nodded. “Likely it’s downstairs, away from the bodies of the others.” He stood, taking a moment to steady himself - and give Dewey’s arm a thankful, a slightly longer than necessary, squeeze - before padding cautiously into his bedroom. He took the katana off the wall and unsheathed it, leaving the scabbard on the bed. Carrington handed a shorter blade in a matched setting to Dewey if he wished to take it. “Stick it with the pointy end,” he said with a wry smile, unsure if Dewey had ever used a sword before, but not wanting to assume either way. “And aim for the neck.” Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that, but best to be prepared. 

Carrington also grabbed a torch from his nightstand. It had a powerful beam that should blind the creature if it set upon them again. Padding out into the hallway - Carrington barefoot and in nothing but his blood-stained jeans, Dewey likewise spattered with red - they made their way downstairs to the foyer. There was a scritching sound from the room on the right, and Carrington flicked on the torch, beam down for now, and approached the threshold. “I’ll go in to flush it out, then-” A black streak launched itself from behind the sofa, straight at Carrington’s head. “Watch it!” he said, crisp and short, trying to slice the creature with the blade in his hand. But it was fast, and made it past, slipping and clawing it’s way across the foyer, squealing and yowling and swiping at whatever was within it’s reach. 

Did the idea of facing the remaining, and largest of Alghouls that hid in Carrington’s attic sound daunting? Absolutely. He wasn’t an expert in supernatural creatures by any means. At best, he had a general understanding of a few, the base knowledge required to get by without too much incident or injury. And why had he learned as much in the first place? Besides protecting himself, to ensure that nobody else would have to suffer from his own mistakes, so he could pass along the lore to others, and so on. Or, as was the case now, to protect someone he cared for. He wished, selfishly, that Carrington’s hand would have stayed in place a moment longer, but felt himself filled with renewed vitality when they entered the bedroom.

The doctor promptly snorted at the advice, grasping the blade with a huff. “The pointy end, indeed. Quite cheeky for someone still in the recovery stage,” Though it was all light and teasing, the corner of his mouth quirked up as he balanced the weight of the tool in his grasp. Not terribly heavy, but with enough force behind it, could definitely be enough to take out a creature at least half his size. Perhaps larger - he wasn’t an expert on swords or wielding them. He would simply do his best and avoid impaling himself or anything else aside from the Alghoul. Following alongside Carrington, he wanted to protest the idea of him entering first, still mindful about his injuries. 

But neither of them got the chance to finish their thoughts; the thing had gone straight for Carrington, and Dewey gasped as he slammed into the wall behind him. A shiver ran down his spine from the gruesome noises it emitted, but he forced his nerves down and made a grab for the flashlight in Carrington’s grasp, flicking on the high beam and pointing in the creature’s direction. It gave an especially wretched screech, immediately trying to back itself away and ran into the foyer wall. Dewey didn’t wait for it to make another move. He lunged forward, ramming the blade into it’s neck. Still it writhed, the last of it’s fight, and managed to get in a few clashes at his exposed forearm before he twisted the blade with a sharp grunt, keeping pressure until it eventually went limp. 

He heaved a sigh, grimacing a bit at the dark blood splattered on his clothes and, although he couldn’t see, a fine splattering on his face. “Well,” He found his voice, slowly standing up and glancing back to Carrington with a small, anxious smile. “Told you I could handle it. Apologies for the mess…”

Carrington had educated himself for many of the same reasons Dewey had. To both protect himself against the creatures he might encounter, and so that no one else needlessly suffered because he had been unprepared. Four centuries was a long time, as he thought quite often, and in his quest to keep those like himself - and other innocents, supernatural or otherwise - safe from those that wished them harm, alghouls were only one piece of a constantly expanding and changing puzzle. 

Dewey was also proving himself to be quite the mix of pieces as well. Such a gentle hand wielding the tools to heal only a moment before, he now held a tool that was meant to do the opposite. Carrington gave Dewey a teasing huff of his own, wishing for a bit more contact himself. But they had pressing matters to attend to. “Perhaps I should be prescribed bedrest then. Doctor’s orders.” A teasing smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and Carrington looked as if he wanted to say something else. But he refrained for the moment. 

They moved downstairs, Carrington mindful of where Dewey was in regards to the sweep of the blade in Carrington’s hand. God forbid he harm the other man accidentally. But all those thoughts raced from Carrington’s mind as the alghoul screamed and jumped out of the darkness towards them. The next few seconds happened almost in slow motion. The torch was out of his hand and the alghoul was screaming it’s pain and rage as Dewey blinded it. It made to back away, and Carrington was about to move in and dispatch it, but his blade wasn’t needed. 

He brought the strike up short as Dewey drove the shorter sword into the creature’s neck with almost - no pun intended - surgical precision. It wailed and writhed, clawing at the vampire’s arm with it’s razor-sharp claws, but Dewey held it beneath the blade until it was dead. If Carrington’s heart was still capable of beating, it would’ve been thundering in his chest by now. And his breath would’ve come in short, ragged gasps as he watched Dewey stand and back away. He glanced at the other man’s face, splattered with blood - Christ Almighty… - before stepping close and - before he could think better of it - slowly raising a hand to lightly brush the blood from Dewey’s cheek with his thumb. It left a small streak of dark crimson across his skin. If not for the fact that it was alghoul blood, and didn’t smell all that nice, the visual itself would’ve been enough to make him think indecent thoughts. Even now they brushed against the back of his mind. But he pushed them down as best he could and returned the smile, also small and slightly anxious. “That was… brilliant,” he said, trying not to sound breathless, but afraid he was failing miserably. 

Well, Dewey would definitely have to change before going to work now. No doubt about that. Still the resulting mess was well worth the effort, knowing that there were no longer any of the nasty critters lurking in Carrington’s abode. Or, at least he hoped not. Should they check the attic again? The thought became faint as he realized Carrington was approaching him, and vanished in an instant as the blonde’s digits brushed against his skin. Oh, he must have been such a sight - why was Carrington touching him? 

Though the initial surprise gave way to a very familiar ease; shoulders sagged, his grip on the darkened blade loosened, and Dewey found himself leaning into the whole of Carrington’s hand, nuzzling the pale fingers. “I’d… I’d hardly call that ‘brilliant’,” he countered quietly, gaze slowly trailing up the other’s bare chest until nearly coal-black eyes settled on that striking blue. Such a gorgeous color. That was brilliant. The sudden lump that appeared in his throat threatened to choke off any more words, but was that necessarily a bad thing? 

Lips pursed, a kiss pressed against the pale digits. “We need to get you something to drink, before I can clean up this mess. You said you would show me where?”

Dewey was a sight. And Carrington had to  remind himself to mind his manners and not simply… well. They weren’t quite there yet were they? But Christ Dewey made it difficult. Especially as he turned his face into Carrington’s touch, his weight settling gently against his palm. His fingers flexed ever so slightly, wanting to curl around the nape of Deweys neck and pull him close. It would be so easy, Carrington knew. A simple movement, barely taking a thought, and just the right tilt of his head… 

Carrington swallowed. It was almost unfair. Especially when the other mans dark eyes held his own. Carrington thought he could easily lose himself there, in those deep, obsidian pools. And then Dewey was kissing his hand… and Carrington couldn’t stop the flutter and flex of his fingers against his cheek. His thumb made another soft swipe, and he might have tipped his head the tiniest bit closer. But then he remembered himself again. And though he didn’t snatch away - God why would he? - he did stand a bit straighter. “Yes.” Another shared look, a pointed brush of his fingers as they reluctantly pulled away, and Carrington led the way into the kitchen. The blood was in a small, refrigerator behind the wine rack. The rack opened up to reveal the second bit - a modification of Carrington’s- and he reached in and pulled out a small unit of blood. 

Giving Dewey a slightly uncertain look, Carrington lifted the bag in a small gesture. “I don’t use these often, in case you’re wondering. I know the hospital needs them more than I do. I purchase them. And the money is supposed to go towards the children’s wing. A donation. Of a sort.” He gently took the blade from Deweys hand and set it on the counter next to his own blade. It would all have to be cleaned anyway. “Your arm needs tending,” Carrington said as he pulled out a small saucepan and filled it with a bit of water. He set it on the range and turned the flame to low before setting the small pouch in the water to warm. 

He had been. Wondering, that was. Dewey was loathe to admit to his curiosity regarding where his friend procured said blood - the one thing he did not want to do was judge. It would have been far too easy to do so, to assume, and to place Carrington in a box that he had stored away for every other vampire whom he had seen with a blood bag. Yet it wasn’t so easy because it was Carrington that he was potentially implicating. A man he knew so little of but was still willing to place a large portion of trust into. 

So when faced with the idea that Carrington did in fact purchase from another seller, an outside party who was getting his supplies from… somewhere. God forbid an actual hospital, Dewey simply nodded, offering the blonde a fairly weak smile. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. But I appreciate the fact that you did,” His gaze flickered down towards his lips and, without hesitation, he closed the distance between them. Pale lips upon pale lips, soft, sweet despite the hint of alghoul blood that streaked the corner of his mouth. But he didn’t care about that. Not at all, in fact. Nor his arm. They could tend to it in a moment.

To say he was taken by surprise would have been an understatement. At the very best, Carrington had expected a polite acceptance on Dewey’s part when it came to the very real aspect of having to feed on the blood of other living creatures. At the very worst… Carrington didn’t wish to think about that at all. But all those thoughts and potentialities rushed from his mind, scattering to God knows where as Dewey leaned in and pressed his lips to Carrington’s. The sensation was… Christ but it made his knees weak. He sucked in an unneeded breath, but the next moment it was forgotten as well.

Everything was forgotten as Carrington raised his hands to Dewey’s face, cupping it ever so gently. He didn’t care about the alghoul blood that coated them both. Or the swords dripping with gore on the counter. He only cared about remembering the softness of Dewey’s mouth, his gentle acceptance, and the way something so sweet and simple could quiet the world. 

If only for a little while. 

end.

[izzy-b-hands]

The Water’s Fine

First off, and you’ll know the line when you see it, but while writing this I immediately remembered that ‘I’m washing me and my clothes’ vine and pictured Snafu doing that instead and died of laughter. 

That aside, this fic is due once again to @peachessir, who spent the early part of this afternoon discussing Sledgefu and other The Pacific related things, and it was wonderful and also inspirational. Hence, this fic. Also, warning, we get nsfw again. I’m not going to explain myself, I’m just going to call this self-care. 

Read on below, and enjoy!

Disgusting was putting it mildly. 

No, actually, it was not even mild. Less than mild, not nearly a strong enough word for the filth hanging onto him and Eugene. He didn’t know if a strong enough word even existed. 

“It ain’t gonna rain,” Eugene whimpered as they walked to the beach, watching the next set of boys head out to where they’d just returned from. “This sun is just baking it all onto us. I’ve never felt so...” 

“Gross, terrible, filthy, uh...icky?” Snafu tossed out. 

“All of those, at once,” Eugene replied. “What I wouldn’t give for a bath.” 

“Well, we ain’t got that,” Snafu said. “But we do got something like it.” 

“A bucket full of water you’ve been hidin’ somehow?” 

“Nah. Big ol’ bathtub is right out there,” Snafu said, and pointed towards the ocean. 

Eugene gave him a look, and Snafu shrugged. 

“I know it ain’t perfect. Not my ideal either. But it ain’t likely to rain, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather do something, anything, to get something near clean.” 

He watched Eugene peer over to the rest of the camp, presumably looking for the other men. 

“Tell you what. Our clothes are dirty too, right?” 

Eugene nodded, and glared down at his own uniform. 

“So, to start, we’ll just run in with ‘em on. Again, nothin’ is coming out of this as clean as we want it, but it’ll be better than it is now. Then we can strip ‘em off and focus on cleaning us. If anyone else comes over in the meantime, by then we’ll be doin’ our thing and them theirs and they won’t give it no mind anyway.” 

“Won’t bother me if anyone else comes over,” Eugene scoffed as they tromped onto the sand. Their weapons and other accouterments had already been left back with Burgie and the other boys near their tents, leaving them in just their clothes, nothing to leave on the sand except their boots. 

“Okay. Awful quick to say something though,” Snafu teased. 

“Let ‘em come over and stare at us if they want. I don’t care, I know where I’ll be looking,” Eugene said, and immediately blushed. 

Snafu raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Oh yeah?” 

Eugene charged towards the water instead of answering, and Snafu followed. 

The water was warm, and even if it wasn’t a proper bath it felt fantastic, even with the salt water hitting the various small cuts and gouges he’d accumulated over the past few days. That pain was worth it to feel any of the dirt and muck and blood and everything else wash away. 

“Careful. Coral is sharp, and if you go out too far past it you gotta be ready to swim proper,” Snafu warned as Eugene continued to traipse into the surf. “We’re not the only thing in here either, so be mindful.” 

“You tellin’ me any creature in here is gonna wanna take a bite out of us?” Eugene smirked. “I think they just smelled us, and went as far away as possible. We just destroyed an ecosystem by walking in here.” 

Snafu laughed, and carefully dropped down under the water, avoiding the coral as he let the water run through his curls. “Guess it’s ours then. They’re gonna have to rename this section of coral for us.” 

“What? The ‘Jesus, What Is That Smell Ridge?’ Maybe, ‘What Died And Rotted Here Coral?’” Eugene laughed and shook his head. 

Snafu nearly laughed but found his breath gone as Eugene stripped his jacket and shirt off, and tossed them towards the sand. “Uh...maybe yeah.” 

He stripped his own jacket and shirt off, tossing them so they landed just near Eugene’s on the sand. He moved closer to Eugene, carefully, as he navigated the coral and waves. 

“You were right, this isn’t half-bad. Still wish we could have a good bath with more soap and non-salt water, but I’m feelin’ better,” Eugene said. His smile was the brightest damn thing Snafu had seen, and he wondered what else he could do so he could keep seeing it again and again. 

His mind short-circuited slightly then as Eugene undid his pants, and gripped Snafu’s shoulder with one hand as he tried to pull them off. 

“Sorry, but I’m gonna fall onto this coral otherwise, and I’ll never get these things off without help,” Eugene giggled. 

“I can help,” Snafu said quickly, feeling the blush take over his face and everywhere else as he let a hand fall to Eugene’s waistband, helping to pull them down, then returning to Eugene’s waist to hold him up as Eugene finally managed to get them off. 

He knew he needed to let go. He should let go. 

But he didn’t want to, and Eugene’s hand softly resting still on his shoulder let him know he didn’t want him to. 

They were quiet as Eugene’s hands finally moved to undo Snafu’s pants, helping him out of his while the waves crashed around them. Blessedly, everyone else was still far away at the camp, off the beach, giving them something like privacy. 

Which he was all the more grateful for as they finally crashed together, lips against lips and hands wandering. They’d been standing on this part of the coral far too long, and he could feel it slicing into his feet just a bit, but it hardly mattered when his feet were already a mess of sores and blisters, and he had Eugene warm against him. 

“We should get off of this; my feet are bleeding,” Eugene murmured. 

“Yeah I’m, Jesus, this is a lot of blood,” Snafu hissed as he took Eugene’s hand and carefully led them back to shore, wincing with every step. 

“We’ll be fine,” Eugene said. 

Snafu nodded, despite wanting to scream as soon as his feet hit the sand. “Just fine.” 

“Unrelated note, I see a lovely little hidden spot, over there, you see it?” Eugene asked, using his other hand to point it out. 

“I do,” Snafu said. “Looks like a place a fella could just lay down, and not be on his feet, and have a bit of privacy.” 

“Is it gonna hurt more to run, or for us to go slow?” Eugene asked with a wince, pulling one foot up off of the sand. 

“Both, both are gonna hurt,” Snafu said. “We can make it though.” 

And he was damn determined to make it too. That little spot meant not just a chance to keep their feet off the sand, but a chance to keep being close to Eugene, who was holding onto his hand like it was a lifeline. 

Clothes in their other hands, they reached the spot and dropped them before dropping to the sand themselves. 

“This is better,” Snafu sighed. 

“Much better,” Eugene murmured. 

Their eyes met, and that was all it took to bring the moment back (though he knew that anyone who might have seen them walking out of the water and on the beach would have been very aware of the ‘moment’ still being there for both of them.) 

He rolled on top of Eugene, who was adorably clingy, immediately wrapping his legs around Snafu’s hips to keep him close. He was well aware that while this spot was somewhat sheltered from everyone else, there was still a chance someone could walk in on them. 

However, he wasn’t prepared to let that stop him from peppering Eugene with kisses, leaving hickeys on his chest and shoulders, and grinding his hips against Eugene’s like it was the last thing he’d do in his life. 

“You’re so goddamn loud,” Snafu smiled, breaking their latest kiss and nipping at Eugene’s lips. “I like it.” 

“If we get caught,” Eugene said, apparently attempting to sound serious, but immediately giggled. “There’s no explaining it. Why am I worrying, we couldn’t explain it anyway.” 

“Sure we could,” Snafu said, slowing his hips so their cocks were still against each other, but it was almost painful not to push closer, faster. If he had his way, the underwear would be off and gone and they’d be doing what he knew they both wanted to do (and that Eugene kept reminding him of, every time he used his legs to try and pull Snafu closer than humanly possible.) “You just got a horrible cramp in your back, out there standin’ on the coral.” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Eugene smiled, then whimpered as Snafu bit gently at his neck. “Horrible cramp. Couldn’t even walk back to camp with it.” 

“Not at all. That would have been downright dangerous,” Snafu added, fighting to hold himself back. There were two things he knew for sure in the moment: that he wanted to come as close to when Eugene did as he could manage, and that they would need to run back in the water for at least a moment or two before heading back to camp. “So I had to help you work it out. Right here, away from everyone else because...” 

“Because you knew it would be a lot of work, to get rid of that cramp,” Eugene whimpered, his hips rutting faster against Snafu’s. “And no one else would want to see it because...they just wouldn’t, fuck.” 

He could feel Eugene come, his cock pulsing underneath the fabric between them, and finally let himself go with a moan that he just barely managed to quiet by burying his face in Eugene’s shoulder. 

For a moment, breathing hard, arms around each other, they lay in the sand. For a moment, he could pretend. That they would get up after this, and instead be back home, leaving the beach to go to a hotel or an apartment or somewhere they could be together. For a moment, they were safe and there was nothing but the waves and the feeling of being close. 

“Thank you for helping me with that uh...cramp,” Eugene giggled, and there was that smile again, and Snafu wished he could capture the image, and carry it with him wherever he went. Both for himself, and so he could show it to Eugene whenever he was tired or sad or upset, and he could see just how gorgeous he was when he smiled. 

“Thank you for helping me with mine,” Snafu replied. “Think we might help each other out with other...cramps, if they come up?” 

“I would like that,” Eugene’s kiss was gentle before he started to get up, and reached for Snafu’s hand. 

“I’d like that too,” Snafu said, pressing a kiss to Eugene’s hand as he took it, and let Eugene lead them to the ocean, so they could clean themselves off once again. This time, not feeling filthy, but feeling wonderful and in love. 

[obaewankenope]

If you want "Absconding with Harry" questions, talk to us about how time-turners compare to Crowley's ability to halt time. Like... compare and contrast.

I’m not going to lie, nonnie, I legit grinned in delight at this. Warning, incoming nerding.

.

Okay. This- this is interesting.

So, in order to answer thisquestion, we first must consider the nature of the time-turner in HPcanon. Looking it up on the HP wiki gives us a general run-down ofhow they work:

“...a magical device used for time travel… encased anHour-Reversal Charm in the time turners...for additional stability.The number of times one turned the hourglass corresponded to thenumber of hours one travelled back in time. However, they can onlystay in the past for five hours at a time, without the possibility ofserious harm to the traveller or to time itself.” -https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Time-Turner

So the time-turner is anHour-Reversal Charm placed on a magical artefact which can be used bya magical user to travel up to five hours back in time. We knowthat’s how they work courtesy of Harry Potter and thePrisoner of Azkaban whenHermione and Harry use her time-turner to rescue Sirius and Buckbeakfrom death and dementors. The movie gives us a sort of visual of howits conceptualised as working, with time happening in reverse aroundHarry and Hermione, whilst they are unaffected. Their present formsdisappear from Ron’s viewing before they return through the doorsof the infirmary. So they cease to exist in the present in order toexist in the past and continue from there.

Of course, they don’t return tothe future with the time-turnerwhich, it is implied, is possible. Whether this is just an issue withexplanations or how the wiki conveys it, it’s not all that relevantreally. There’s no actual evidence of how the time-turner worksbeyond what HP3 gives us—no, I don’t consider CursedChild to be canon, sod offlmao—so anything after this is supposition.

The Hour-Reversal Charm has alimited time before it becomes harmful to the person and to time atlarge. This is supported by the supplemental material JokeKRowling onPottermore:

“All attempts to travel back further than a few hours haveresulted in catastrophic harm to the witch or wizard involved. It wasnot realised for many years why time travellers over great distancesnever survived their journeys. All such experiments have beenabandoned since 1899, when Eloise Mintumble became trapped, for aperiod of five days, in the year 1402. Now we understand that herbody had aged five centuries in its return to the present and,irreparably damaged, she died in St Mungo’s Hospital for MagicalMaladies and Injuries shortly after we managed to retrieve her.”

This suggests that there is aphysical toll to time-travel through magical means. If we usemodern-science to try and explain it, I suppose you could argue it’sa fundamental breakdown of the traveller’s body from the exertionof time-travel. I would imagine it’s sort of like when you travel abit too fast to besafe for the body and it experiences trauma from the force exerted.Of course, this is more theoretical physics and I am not aphysicist. Just a nerd who spent four hours arguing about time-travelonce with her step-father. That was a fun time.

I suppose if you could be protectedfrom the harm of the force exerted to time-travel in all ways thenyou could, in theory, not be affected in the way Pottermorestates Eloise Mintumble was affected. This also, incidentally infersthat the time-turners used by the Ministry are not capable of thesort of protection needed to avoid the trauma of time-travel beyondthe five-hour mark.

So, moving on to the use oftime-turners in Harry Potter canon and why they’re not used for,say, really significant events.

(By the way, what Dumbledore tellsHarry and Hermione to do is, technically, really fucking dangerous ofhim to do. So the fact that he does it anyway really just is one moreexample of how little fucking respect he has for an organisedinstitution and the laws of magic. Arrogant sod.)

Pottermore gives us a little moreinformation about the damage of using time-turners in a long-term,significant, or dramatic manner. Say, by travelling 50 years in thepast, or for big events like preventing someone’s execution etc:

“Even the use of the very limited amount of Time-Turners at theMinistry’s disposal is hedged around with hundreds of laws. Whilenot as potentially dangerous as skipping five centuries, the re-useof a single hour can still have dramatic consequences and theMinistry of Magic seeks the strictest guarantees if it permits theuse of these rare and powerful objects. It would surprise most of themagical community to know that Time-Turners are generally only usedto solve the most trivial problems of time-management and never forgreater or more important purposes, because, as Saul Croaker tellsus, ‘Just as the human mind cannot comprehend time, so it cannotcomprehend the damage that will ensue if we presume to tamper withits laws.’”

Now, the reason I’m interested inthis last quote here is that last bit right there. That “justas the human mind cannot comprehend time, so it cannot comprehend thedamage that will ensue if we presume to tamper with its laws”.That bit.

That ties in, quite fantasticallyactually, with my own beliefs regarding Crowley and how he affectstime. Crowley is a demon, as we all know. He’s a demon that isolder than the Earth, same as Aziraphale is an angel older thanEarth. We don’t know how old they are exactly but they’redefinitely older than Earth and time and all that stuff.

Crowley Fell before Earth. He becamea demon out of curiositymore than anything else. He reveals  during the apocalypse that hecan create a time-bubble and pull two other beings into it withoutany harmful effects to them or time on a larger-scale.

That, in itself, shows an acuteawareness of what time is, what it isn’t, and how to perform somepretty epic damage control for anything time shenanigan-related.

Crowley isn’t a human, obviously,and thus doesn’t have a human conception of anything.He doesn’t have a mortal conceptioneither, so he’s set apart from the magical creatures that populatethe world of Harry Potter. He is sourced from the Divine. From thatwhich made everything.All the laws of the universe are laws he understands and can ignoreas and when he wishes so long as he is sufficiently strongenough to do so.

Does this mean Crowley could changeevents with time-travel that a magical being wouldn’t be able to dowith a time-turner? Probably, yeah. Does this mean Crowley wouldchange events however? Probably not, no.

Because Crowley understands, unlikea human, the nature of time as a fundamental attribute of theuniverse in which he functions within. He understands that justbecause he existed before it, because he can ignore it, doesn’tmean he won’t be affected in some way by it. Or that those affectsare worth the meddling.

If he’s sufficiently motivated by,say, avoiding Armageddon? Oh, he’ll do something,but not once does he go back in time and fix the fuck up at thenunnery. Not once does he even mention it. Why not? Well, obviouslybecause others may have noticed the sudden shift. But also, becausedoing that likely would have done more harm than good. So he rollswith it until such a point when he can use his powers in a way thatis of some degree of benefit.

That it means putting him,Aziraphale, and Adam in a little bubble of time that is eithercompletely outside of any rules of time or works on some rules thatthe rest of reality doesn’t. The result is that time is stillhappening outside the bubble, but that they’re inside the bubbletalking. Obviouslyit’s sort of a mental little bubble, one that takes theirconsciousness to a plane where time is more of just a concept than anactual thing that has a direction and flow, hence why the sand is allpiled up on itself.

So what does this mean in regards tousing a time-turner? Would Crowley be able to use one? Would heinstinctively compensate for one? Or would the poor thing short thefuck out and do the equivalent of hiding in the corner screaminginsensibly? Who knows.

The last one is an amusing mentalimage but generally, no clue.

I have, in Absconding withHarry, the idea that magic canbe affected by miracles. That it’s safer to use miracles on adultsthan on children unless you consider All The Variables. But thatthere’s also always the risk that the children’s magic will reactunexpectedly. This is why Crowley and Aziraphale don’t perform toomany miracles directly on Harry. They may do it on the space aroundthem, may alter it a bit to filter out this and that, but until he’san adult, direct and constant applications of miracles isn’tsomething either of them are willing to do.

Also, both of them have their ownmagic. Not human, but angelic and demonic. It’s the sort of thingthat is like them channelling their angelic and demonic essencesthrough a mortal form (granted they’re technically immortallymortal but eh), which presents as magic because it’s used on aphysical plane. But, in the end, it’s still inhuman magic.

Which, thinking about it, makes themsimilar to goblins, centaurs, Veela, and so on.

Huh. That’s interesting.

Might need to consider that a bitfurther for later things in Absconding with Harry.

[anistarrose]

Live By The Book (Gravity Falls x TAZ Balance)

Summary: It’s just the Balance Arc with Gravity Falls characters, because that’s exactly what we all need in our lives, right?

Word count: ~4200

Warnings: some violence, but no worse than you would normally find in GF or TAZ

Lots of people say Amnesty is the more Gravity Falls-like campaign, and I see exactly where they’re coming from, but the whole “creating an item that absorbs the power of defeated magic users even though you yourself turn into a being of pure magic when defeated” thing just strikes me as a very Ford idea. Hence this fic.

Going to count this as a @forduary submission!

(The form Ford takes on here was partially inspired by @marypsue‘s take on Lich Ford!)

Stan had seen skeletons before, humanoid and otherwise, and they’d never particularly rattled him. He wasn’t a fan of dead bodies by any means, but unlike the living, they were nice and predictable. Skeletons usually didn’t expose you in the middle of a heist or get you run out of town, and for that reason, he tolerated them just fine.

But there was something about this one that unsettled him, in a way that had to be all in his head, yet still set his hands shaking and his heart racing. It was as if he’d just woken up from a nightmare, still shaken and panicked but having already forgotten what he’d been so afraid of.

Stan never felt like this when he saw the dead. He didn’t understand…

Maybe… maybe it was just something about how the body had seemed to almost lurk in the shadows, how they’d nearly passed it by completely before Dipper had noticed it and pointed it out. Maybe it was something about how the skeleton still wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that concealed its eyes, or how it was cloaked in a long brown coat, one that had somehow avoided being decomposed like the body and its other clothes. Or maybe it was the offness of the hands that curled protectively around a red, rectangular item in its lap — an offness that, Stan realized, was due to the extra fingers.

Dipper approached the skeleton slowly and reverently, as if expecting it to spring to life, and laid a hand on the item it cradled. He grimaced, as if some shock had coursed through him, but his expression relaxed a moment later, and he pulled out a heavy-looking tome, bound in red leather and with the image of a six-fingered hand emblazoned on the cover.

Even Stan — who was by far the least magical person in the room, no contest — could tell there was something up about that book. As Dipper cautiously began to flip through the pages, he could feel magical energy radiating off of it in waves, making his stomach churn and and his hands grow sweaty…

“It’s all spells,” Dipper reported after a moment or two of perusing. “And a lot of different types, too. Conjuration, alchemy, evocation…”

He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “It looks like even some necromancy…”

“And the actual book’s gotta be magic too, right?” Mabel asked. “What happened there when you grabbed it?”

“I don’t know, it was weird. It felt like it was… resisting me? Deciding whether it wanted to let me take it or not? I know how dumb this sounds, but it felt… sentient.”

He let out a small, sheepish laugh. “It might have just been my imagination, though; I —”

The book slammed shut beneath his hands, and he jumped.

“Oh, wow! You sure are a magic book with some real attitude, aren’t you?” Mabel asked it. “Can you do something like that again?”

The book didn’t oblige, lying perfectly still. Waddles waddled up towards it and gave it a sniff, and Dipper yanked it away. “Hey, this isn’t for you! It could be cursed, for all we know.”

“Come one, Dipper, Waddles knows that books are friends and not food! He’s a well-learned gentleman!” Mabel crouched down to give her pig a pat on the head, but almost as soon as she’d laid her right hand on the ground, she grimaced and lifted it back up. Even in the cave’s dim light, Stan could make out the thick layer of dust coating it.

All three of them turned to look where the skeleton had once been, but now the trenchcoat and glasses rested upon a pile of fine gray ash and crumbled bones, having silently spilled out across the cave floor after the removal of the book.

***

A year passes — and then some.

***

“This place has always thrived because of… well, what else? Advertising. We’ve got a few consistent channels — surely you received a brochure in the mail, or saw our billboards, or met someone drawn here by a beam of magical light. Those are just a few tools of the trade, and they served us well during our residency here —”

A smile was creeping across Edward’s face, making less effort with every moment to conceal its sadistic delight.

“But Stanley, I’m sure you know the most successful type of advertising, don’t you?”

“Word of mouth,” Stan instantly replied.

Edward went silent for a moment, as his controlled grin morphed into a wide smile of bared teeth. Next to him, Lydia’s expression mirrored her brother’s.

“Stanley, you landed on ‘Skull’ in the last round, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Why do you —”

“Bad luck.”

Edward tilted his hand ever so slightly, just enough for the Animus Bell to let out an eerie, distorted ring, and Stan instantly felt like the weight of a fully-loaded wagon had struck him in the gut.

The force hurtled him backwards and sent a numbness rushing down his limbs, freezing up all his fingers. The color seeped out of his vision in the blink of an eye, leaving him to stare at the grayscale back of his own body as it stumbled away from the twins, threatening to collapse to the floor — and then caught itself.

“You know,” Stan’s own voice declared, “this place is really starting to grow on me. I think I’m gonna go tell everyone I see about the great deal we got here.”

“Kids?” Stan yelled. “That’s not me! I didn’t say that!”

But his words made no sound no matter how loud he screamed, and Dipper and Mabel’s eyes stayed fixed on Stan’s corporeal form with twin looks of horror.

“Uh, yeah! Sure!” Mabel managed to choke out. “But can we, you know, actually get our prize before we leave? We sure worked hard for that Animus Bell, didn’t we?”

“We sure did, wonderful niece Mabel who I love!” Edward replied from within Stan’s body. His spectral form flickered behind Stan for just a moment, and Lydia appeared by his side, still in the form of an elf. “How about this: I take the bell, and you two can stay here for the rest of eternity — except you’ll get to live! How’s that for an offer?”

“Let them go, you bastard!” Stan roared, and reached out to try to strike at the liches even though he knew he couldn’t hurt them — but instead, he found himself drifting backwards, pulled away from the platform and towards the roof by a force that felt like it was tugging at his heart itself, dragging his soul away no matter how hard he fought, how desperately he tried to reach towards Dipper and Mabel —

He managed to turn himself around, and a hundred yellow-eyed creatures instantly scurried out of sight, but he hardly noticed them. His eyes, his incorporeal form, his entire being — they were drawn to one singular feature of the ethereal plane, a giant X-shaped rift that glowed blue at its boundaries, but led to what seemed like an endless sea of pure midnight black.

Even Stan could piece together what this was — a portal to the astral plane. And if he was drifting into it, that meant he was dying.

For a moment, Dipper thought it was his own hands that were involuntarily shaking in fear — and they easily might have been shaking after all, because he didn’t know if he’d ever felt this afraid and helpless before in his life — but when he looked down, he saw the Journal practically shuddering, as if trying to break out of his tight, panicked grip. He let his fingers relax just slightly, and the Journal immediately fell to the ground right in front of him and flipped open its cover open. Sparks of red electricity lept between the pages as they turned all of their own accord, finally coming to a rest on…

“Magic Jar.” A spell to project your soul out of your own body, and possess another being.

Dipper took a deep breath, and wrapped his fingers around a gemstone in his pocket with one hand while raising his wand with the other.

“Here’s a fucking offer for you,” he growled to the liches. “How about I take my uncle back?”

Mabel cried out as Dipper’s eyes went blank and his body toppled to the ground, but she must have noticed the page the Journal lay open to, because after just a few seconds her panic subsided, and she placed herself between Dipper’s body and the liches, hands crackling with sparks of magic. Dipper took just a moment to breathe a spectral sigh of relief that she’d gotten the message, and began to fly towards Stan —

Except, he could see two Stans now, one corporeal but possessed and the other just a flickering light being drawn towards an inky black sea, towards a portal to a collapsing afterlife. There was no real choice here — he flew towards Stan’s soul as fast as he could, and grabbed ahold of his hand.

Stan’s momentum yanked him forwards, and they nearly both went flying into the rift, but somehow, Dipper brought them both to a halt. Even in his disembodied form, his arms burned with the exertion — but he barely noticed, because all he could think was that Stan was okay. They were going to save him. Stan would be okay.

Stan himself just stared at Dipper with wide eyes, first in shock but then in panic. What if you fall in too?

Dipper smiled, and reached to grab Stan with his other arm. I won’t. I promise.

He didn’t know where the confidence came from, but he felt more certain of it than anything else in the world — except maybe the fact that he and Stan weren’t alone.

The two of them stayed at a stalemate with the astral plane for a few more seconds, no longer falling towards it but unable to fully break away from its pull, and on the other side of the rift, Dipper could see tendrils of blue lightning practically raining down from the sky to strike the tar-like surface of the water. There wasn’t a single deceased soul in sight — just a dark and unrelenting storm, lit by raging bolts of blue.

Somewhere deep within that storm, a single slit-pupiled eye grew wide with glee.

In front of Mabel, the two perplexed-looking liches began to step towards her, but the Journal let out a burst of red electricity, and they recoiled. It slowly flipped open to a new page, then fell perfectly still, and Mabel read the spell it displayed:

“Planar Binding.”

Eyes glowing white and hands surrounded by pink sparks, Mabel turned her back to the liches and lowered her vision into the ethereal plane. It was gray, and harsh, and unfamiliar — Dipper had always been the one who would experiment with dimensional magic, not her — but there were also two figures that she’d recognize anywhere, and she reached out to them with every ounce of warmth and strength she had.

As they pulled away from the rift ever so slowly, Dipper and Stan saw the ethereal plane light up with color. Two bright pink spectral arms stretched out towards them, grabbing one of them in each hand and guiding them back towards the platform where Mabel stood, beaming with relief. The Journal lay at her feet, depleted of energy but just as relieved as her.

***

A lich slowly and deliberately paced around a small room, skeletal six-fingered hands crossed behind his back. Sheets of light brown paper hung from the ceiling like curtains, all of them covered in anxiously scribbled calculations and diagrams — of the Bureau, of the planar system, of the journal he was trapped in. It shouldn’t have been hard to escape from a room with paper for walls, but no matter how many pages he tore down, he always found more sheets behind them to take their place, and the size of his prison never seemed to grow.

Now more than ever, he berated himself — this was no one’s fault but his own. He’d been experimenting with ways to trap a being that had no physical form, but he’d completely forgotten to consider what happened to him whenever he died — more than a little ironic, given how much concentration he would have to put into maintaining his lich form in those early years, how simultaneously fascinated and fearful he’d been of the idea of becoming pure magic. He should have known better, and now who knew what price his family would pay?

Above him, a golden hand cut a translucent window through the red leather ceiling, and through it he could see the telltale flying sparks of a magical duel. He wished desperately, so desperately, that he could help, but he’d already expended so much energy showing the kids the spells and keeping their tormentors at bay while they saved Stan — a worthy cause, for sure, but one that had left him completely exhausted and useless. He would just have to hope they could finish the fight on their own…

A particularly bright flash went off outside, and all of a sudden, the Journal came to life in a way Ford hadn’t felt in years. This was not the way it activated when recording an enemy’s spells, or absorbing their wand — no, this was what happened when a being that made of pure magic down to its very essence was defeated. This was something that hadn’t happened since Ford himself had been trapped here — the complete and total absorption of a lich.

A gust of wind struck him in the face as the pages opened, sucking in a fashionably dressed elf who toppled to the ground right before Ford. He looked disheveled and disoriented, but not afraid.

Not yet, Ford thought to himself himself, as sparks of electricity leapt between his fingers.

“W-who are you?” Edward stammered. “What is this place?”

“Are you the one,” Ford asked with a controlled voice and a tight smile, “who’s been hurting my family out there?”

Edward didn’t answer. “Where are we? How did I get here? How did you get here?”

Ford would never be sure if it was the already-beginning absorption of Edward’s magic, or the sheer rage he felt towards the man who’d possessed his brother, or some combination of both that gave him the surge of energy he felt at that moment — but as he rose up off the brown paper floor, electricity surging through him, there was one thing that he was certain of: he was going to drain this lich of every drop of magic making up that ridiculously gaudy spectral form, and then, one way or another, he and his family were finally going to have a talk.

***

The Journal tumbled across the floor and slammed violently into the ground like it had been pinned down by some invisible force, shooting off more tendrils of lightning that Stan had ever seen it emit before. Lydia tried to grab hold of it, as if hoping she could pry it open to free her brother, but it smacked her in the face, and her form spasmed for a moment as the lightning coursed through it, briefly revealing her true black-cloaked appearance.

Then it thumped to the floor again and opened wide, pages flipping by in a blur as it spat out a charred-looking Edward. He locked eyes — wide, terrified eyes — with his sister, and rasped:

“Remember how dangerous we got, back when we were so desperate to save our little brother?”

Lydia cried out and rushed to his side, but as she grabbed ahold of his arm, he crumbled away, leaving her nothing but a handful of ash.

“I guess we really needed each other after all…” she murmured softly, and her eyes lit up with grey flames. Without a single word, she pointed a finger at Stan’s unconscious body on the runway, and a storm of black magic descended.

Stan instinctively raised one hand to cover nonexistent eyes, and pulled Dipper and Mabel close to him with the other. The wind nearly tossed him away from the kids, but after what felt like minutes but must have been less, the roaring of the storm died down and his vision began to clear…

“Oh no,” he heard Mabel gasp.

Lydia was gone, and so was Stan’s body. His possessions were all strewn about the room, seemingly intact, but his human form was nowhere to be seen — and he couldn’t even bring himself to grieve for it. It was horrible, he knew, but for some reason he was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude, with relief, that he would never again have to see his own face reflected in a mirror.

For just a second, he let out the first few notes of a bitter laugh before catching himself and turning to face the twins, who were staring at him with almost the same level of horror as when Edward had possessed his body.

“Sorry,” he began. “I don’t know what got into me —”

He heard a thump below him, and looked down to find the Journal at his feet. The waves of energy radiating off of it felt more powerful than ever, and it was open to a page Stan had never seen before: a blank page.

Dipper and Mabel stepped back as red sparks danced across the paper, but Stan didn’t move — couldn’t move.

He’s looking at the Journal — no, not the journal. The one Stan’s seeing now has a number written over the hand emblem, and it’s drifting in a tank of viscous-looking fluid as a thin, glowing tentacle slowly wraps around it —

Suddenly back in reality as quickly as he’d been jolted out of it, he fell to his knees. In front of him, he saw the Journal’s red sparks subside — but not without leaving behind a mark. Three short words had been carefully singed onto the page:

ARE YOU OK?

Before Stan could answer, he was somewhere else again.

He’s lying in a field and staring up at the sky, and the side of his jaw hurts like hell. He can tell by the length of his hair that he’s pretty young, and he can tell without having any idea how that there’s someone else lying down next to him, just a few feet away and facing the same direction.

“Are you okay?” that someone asks, and Stan realizes he’s remembered this day before, but every other time he’s thought back to it, the stranger’s voice has been hopelessly garbled by static.

“‘Course I am,” he replies. “Who would there be to always have your back if I wasn’t?”

The other voice chuckles. “Thanks for standing up for me, Stanley.”

They lie there for a few more minutes, just long enough for Stan to notice something else the static has left untouched this time. It’s the two-sunned, light purple sky.

And then he was back.

“I think so,” he answered the Journal. “I… well, I ain’t dead, at least.”

I’M GLAD, it wrote beneath its question. Then it flipped to a new page, and began another message:

HARD TO EXPLAIN RIGHT NOW

PLEASE TRUST ME

OK?

Around them, the remnants of Wonderland went up in black smoke and other competitors began to stumble out of their rooms, but Stan hardly noticed.

“Yeah,” he told the Journal. “I trust you.”

TURN OFF STONES OF FARSPEECH

Dipper and Mabel looked reluctant, but Stan nodded, and they did as the Journal said.

The next message was spread across two pages, and Stan quickly realized it wasn’t truly a message, but a crude drawing. When it was about halfway complete, Dipper gasped. “Isn’t that the Bureau of the Blind Eye?”

The sparks crackled more vigorously for a moment, as if to say Yes. As the map reached completion, an arrow appeared in Fiddleford’s office, pointing to an attached hallway that Stan had never been down.

HERE WE FIND THE ANSWERS YOU DESERVE

***

There’s a knock on the door of Stan’s quarters, and after eighty-two years of living with the same six people on the same ship, he can instantly tell two things about the person waiting outside: one, that it’s Ford, and two, that he’s nervous about something.

“Come in, Sixer,” he calls out, and Ford makes his way inside.

“I have a… weird favor to ask,” he begins.

“With you, that’s every favor,” Stan replies, and Ford smiles sadly.

“This one is weird even by my standards, I’m afraid,” he explains. “And… it’s very important. I’ve been researching some new types of magic — some potentially very dangerous types, I’ll be the first to admit — and trying to develop, well… a sort of failsafe, I suppose. A safety net, to ensure there’s never a cycle where we all die before Bill finds us.”

Stan sighs. He doesn’t like the sound of any of that — doesn’t like the sound of new, dangerous magic, doesn’t like the sound of messing with life and death even more than they already have — but just one glance at the stubborn, determined look in Ford’s eyes tells him that he doesn’t have a chance of convincing his brother otherwise.

“Well, I’m not gonna lie, whatever you’re planning is probably gonna scare the shit outta me, but it sounds like it’s for a noble goal and all. What’s the favor?”

Ford tries to hide it, but Stan can tell that he lets out a sigh of relief.

“I need you to help me have the best day ever…”

***

Stan was thrown backwards into the barricade of furniture pushed up against the door, and his newly cloned body ached as he struggled to get to his feet again. His assailant — one of several shadowy humanoid figures, all of them devoid of color except for their sickly yellow eyes and the cold blue flames that wreathed their hands — turned away from him and faced Mabel, who bravely stood her ground alongside Waddles as a dozen of the shadows advanced towards her.

Time slowed down to an agonizing crawl, and Stan could tell there was no way he’d make it to Mabel’s side fast enough to help her. And it wasn’t just Mabel — the rest of the room’s occupants were in equally dire straits. Wendy was holding her ground against two robotic-looking shadows, but had backed into a corner, while Candy stood over an injured Grenda, desperately launching bolts of lightning that grew weaker with each volley. Fiddleford had expanded his barrier spell to protect Soos, but it seemed to sap all of his energy and concentration, and his eyes were completely unfocused as he gazed out at the battle unfolding in front of him.

And Dipper — poor Dipper was lying limp on the ground next to Stan, clinging to consciousness and having let go of…

The Journal.

It tumbled end over end, and rolled to Stan’s side with a familiar determination. Just like he had many so times before throughout the last year, Stan could make out his own face reflected in the golden hand emblem —

Except this time, he recognized it. This time, he remembered.

Stan ripped the Journal in half down its spine, and the room exploded.

Sheets of paper went flying — so many more sheets than the Journal could have possibly contained, so many more pages and so many more spells — and they swirled around the column of blue fire in the center of the room, encircling it and climbing higher and higher and higher still until they reached the storm above. It was a tornado of knowledge, a cyclone formed from all the extensive magical experience of one very old, very brilliant, very angry —

author

scientist

wizard

necromancer

lich

friend

uncle

brother

— who had been imprisoned for so long, alone for so long, unable to protect his family for so long, and was now finally seizing the chance take matters into his own six-fingered hands once again.

Starting from the bottom of the column and racing upwards like a lit fuse, the spells began to ignite. Fireworks of a hundred different colors and elements consumed Bill’s flames — bolts of yellow lightning and plumes of red fire, downpours of sizzling acid and spears of silvery ice, dark clouds of necromantic energy and plagues of swarming insects — all forming one beautiful symphony of magical energy, a display of spellcasting brilliance that Stan had dearly missed fighting alongside. Papers swirled around him too, he realized, as well as around the other Bureau members, but these pages only gave off a soft, warm light, healing their wounds and shielding them from the biting winds that surged throughout the room.

The spells consolidated together into a single column of crackling red electricity, a beam that shot straight up as it intensified, burning away at the clouds of Bill’s storm — and then it was gone, and in its place in the center of the room floated a skeletal figure, trench coat billowing in the wind and sparks leaping off his glasses.

He turned to face Stan, and for just a moment, the image of his living human face flickered around his skull, smile wide and eyes teary with relief.

“Good to see you in one piece, Stanley,” Ford told him, and Stan nearly cried, because even despite all the necromancy and affronts against nature that had brought them here, his brother’s voice still sounded exactly how he remembered it.

He heard Candy and Grenda — the only two people in the room not to have been in the IPRE — gasp with surprise and confusion.

“What? Who is that?” Candy asked, and Stan smiled.

“The Author of the Journal — my brother.”

Thanks for reading, feedback/reblogs are appreciated a lot! A couple notes:

1. I had Mabel use Planar Binding instead of Planar Ally because I see her as a bard (thanks @apathetic-revenant for that suggestion!), and kind of fudged the details of the spell a bit to make it work (though canon has fudged the details of spells enough times that I don’t feel bad about it).

2. I couldn’t figure out a Gravity Falls character that could plausibly fill in for Barry Bluejeans, so the ending of The Suffering Game is a bit different here, with Ford leading them through their infiltration of the moonbase. Stan’s new body was cloned by the Handwitch from a fingernail clipping (she tried to get him to give her his actual hands, but they reached a compromise).

I don’t have any plans to write more of this crossover in the immediate future, but if you have questions about how you imagine a certain arc or character being handled in this AU, shoot me an ask! I’d love to talk about it!

[bithor]

first sight (you made me look twice)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers

Summary:

“What,” Bucky finally sputters, “the hell.”

Hot Guy turns around, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“You literally - that - a bookshelf, you held up a whole fucking bookshelf, how the hell did you -”

Bucky pauses for breath. His thoughts are racing, and Hot Guy, looking far too amused, is not helping. “Who the hell are you?” he manages. In hindsight, some thanks would have been in order, but this guy just supported the whole weight of a bookshelf and Bucky is seriously confused. And also a little turned on, not like that’s relevant.

(or; the one where Bucky can’t reach a book and ends up knocking over the whole shelf, and of course Steve Rogers sees him do it).

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: A fair amount of cursing

Notes:

My first fic for these two! It’s been so long since I’ve written something this long (hence, there’s probably a lot of room for improvement), and I almost can’t believe that I cranked this out in a day, honestly; I had so much fun writing this! There were a few ideas I’d been considering, but when I saw this prompt, I had to write it!

Written for @bravobarnes - thanks so much for being so incredibly sweet, I hope you like it!

Proofread by @hearing-from-my-lawyers - thanks for putting up with me, idiot. Title is from Seeing Stars by BØRNS.

Requests are open!

He isn’t that short.

And yeah, Bucky knows that’s something short people always say to try to delude themselves, but he really isn’t, because five foot eight and a half is a perfectly respectable height, fuck you very much, Sam.

That being said, there are times he really can’t stand being five foot eight and a half. Like right now. Because in front of him, here in the library of Columbia University, is a textbook he needs to finish his bioengineering essay, dented at the spine and title faded but containing all the information about prostheses he could ever need, and it’s on a shelf five feet fucking eleven inches high. And he’s been trying to get it for the past fifteen minutes.

Somewhere, he imagines, Sam Wilson is laughing.

He figures that there’s probably a much more rational way to solve this very pressing problem (Find someone? Get something to stand on? Scream in frustration?), but he’s Bucky Barnes, goddamnit, and he’s very much capable of retrieving a book from a shelf that’s two and a half inches too tall for him.

That’s what he told himself, fifteen minutes ago, but the book is still decidedly not in his possession.

Reaching up on the tips of his toes for what feels like the thousandth time - he’ll bet there’s a new crease in his Converses, by now - he swipes madly at the book. It evades him, yet again.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters - growls, really. The notion of a little creature yanking back the book every time he reaches for it flashes across his sleep-deprived mind, and he snorts.

“Need a hand?”

Though it really isn’t that implausible, Bucky is fairly sure that he didn’t imagine that voice (his mind doesn’t usually sound that deep) and he whirls around.

Nonsensically, the first thing that crosses his mind is, of fucking course.

Because he’s spent the past fifteen minutes doing everything he can to get this one book that’s just barely too tall for him and he looks like a complete ass doing it and he’s pretty sure he’s been muttering to himself and there’s probably coffee spilled down his front and his hair came out of the low bun he tied it in before he left so he probably seems completely deranged and of course it’s the hottest person he’s ever seen who’s walked in on him. He’s got the build of someone who’s lives in an off-campus gym (and the white t-shirt of someone who tends to shop two sizes too small because damn, that chest is a work of modern art), eyes that look like a window into an afternoon sky, and hair that, to Bucky’s crazy mind, reminds him of a field of wheat he drove by once.

And he’s smiling.

Fuck.

The smile looks a little bit more strained, at some point, and it finally occurs to Bucky that he’s essentially been gaping at this stranger for - how long has he been gaping at a complete stranger?

“Um.” he gets out. Sam is having a conniption, wherever he is. “I think I’m good, actually.”

Those blue eyes that Bucky really couldn’t look away from if he tried seem to sparkle with mirth. “You sure about that?”

A part of him, admittedly, is screaming at him to accept this guy’s help, thank him, and go home with his textbook and maybe the guy’s phone number if he plays his cards right (and that’s definitely not an unfamiliar game). It’s the smart way out.

But. Bucky is one stubborn son of a bitch - he’s been told so more times than he can count - and he may be kind of short but he’s nothing if not determined and there’s something programmed in him that simply will not let him take this guy’s offer because that’s not what he does.

So instead he shrugs, taking care to keep his gaze level (like he’s totally not contemplating punching the bookshelf - with his metal arm, no less), and says, “Yeah, I’m sure,” before forcing himself to turn back to that accursed bookshelf. Hot Guy hasn’t moved, and Bucky imagines his gaze following him.

The book is still there. It’s taunting him.

Hot Guy is watching him.

In a last-ditch attempt to not look like a vertically-challenged lunatic, he leans up on his toes, and swipes at it again. This time, though, he effortlessly grabs it, tucks it under his arm, and flashes Hot Guy a devil-may-care smirk.

At least, in a perfect world, that’s what would have happened.

Instead - instead - he fucking jumps on his tiptoes like a petulant five year old. And he jumps forward, reaching out while throwing his weight wildly in the direction of the book, and instantly regrets every decision he’s ever made in his life that’s taken him to this very moment. The bookshelf is a hardy one, but it cannot withstand the force of Bucky Barnes’s metal arm (a Stark model, no less) shoving it angrily, and as Bucky’s feet reorient themselves on the ground, time seems to halt.

It’s the kind of moment that’d make for a great entry in a photography contest - a tired and disheveled university student, metal hand hanging loosely at his side, gaping in sheer dread and bewilderment as a bookshelf stacked with rows and rows of university-level reading overbalances.

And the moment it’ll finally crash to the ground, Bucky thinks irrationally, would make for a great Vine.

He sees a bright white flash of motion out of the corner of his eye in that split second, and Hot Guy is gone. A good idea, he thinks.

After another millisecond of this, he wonders why nothing’s crashed yet. Stranger yet, the bookshelf seems to be frozen at an angle, shaking furiously but about a yard off the ground. Bucky darts around to figure out what the hell is happening, and is treated to the jaw-dropping spectacle of Hot Guy supporting the entire weight of this bookshelf by himself, a knee to the ground and biceps spectacularly on display.

Ideally, Bucky would just marvel at the sight for upwards of an hour, but he’s not that much of an asshole (he’d say he isn’t that desperate, but that probably wouldn’t be true), so he wordlessly races over to the far side of the shelf, drops to a knee, and drives his weight forward.

He’ll be the first to say that he isn’t unathletic, but it’s mainly from the effort of Hot Guy that they manage to force the bookshelf back into an upright position, with the only casualties being some books lying on the floor from their efforts and some muscles in Bucky’s back. He’s breathing heavily and leaning on the shelf - probably not a wise move, considering they literally just set it right - but Hot Guy looks like he hasn’t broken a sweat.

“What,” Bucky finally sputters, “the hell.”

Hot Guy turns around, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“You literally - that - a bookshelf, you held up a whole fucking bookshelf, how the hell did you -”

Bucky pauses for breath. His thoughts are racing, and Hot Guy, looking far too amused, is not helping. “Who the hell are you?” he manages. In hindsight, some thanks would have been in order, but this guy just supported the whole weight of a bookshelf and Bucky is seriously confused. And also a little turned on, not like that’s relevant.

Hot Guy sticks out his hand, and Bucky’s gaze involuntarily flicks to his biceps before returning to his eyes - Jesus Christ is he a fucking train wreck right now.

“Steve Rogers,” he says, the name embedding itself into Bucky’s brain permanently. His voice is a bit hoarse, and damn if that doesn’t do things to Bucky. “Art major. And you are?”

“Bucky Barnes, and - wait, did you say you’re an art major?” The question hangs between them, before Bucky belatedly takes Hot Guy - Steve’s hand and shakes it.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Mainly studio, but I’m minoring in graphic design, too.”

For a shining moment, Bucky visualizes Steve standing before an easel, face screwed up in concentration as he looks from his canvas to something off in the distance. Not what he’d first expected, but definitely not an unwelcome image.

“Right,” he says, arm returning to his side. “Well, thank God you were here, or I’d probably be getting yelled at by someone, and the librarians here scare the shit out of me.” It’s a weak attempt at a joke (really, Bucky’s brain feels like it’s been turned to mush by this entire encounter), but Steve rises to it and laughs - a rich, low, ringing sound. He wants to record it, honestly, but that’d frankly be unnerving, so he settles for committing it to memory.

“Are any of them, by any chance, shorter than you?” says Steve, laughter still in his voice.

“Hey, fuck you,” retorts Bucky, “I’m not that short.” Steve, who’s probably well above six foot tall, raises an eyebrow.

“I’m really not! I was the tallest in my grade for eight years! Not all of us get to look like -” he gestures broadly at Steve’s frame “that, you know.”

Bemused, Steve looks down at himself, almost reflexively, like he has no clue what Bucky’s talking about.

“To be fair,” he says, shrugging sheepishly, “that only happened the summer before freshman year.”

“Of high school?”

“College.”

Bucky lets out a low whistle. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Steve says, popping the p. “Shortest person in the entire grade twelve years straight, ‘til I got here. I was only supposed to hit five foot four, you know that?”

“Yeah, so what the hell happened?”

Steve looks down at the ground, before back up at Bucky. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” says Bucky, trying - and probably failing - to not sound too enthusiastic.

“Maybe later.” Steve glances around, before a thought seems to strike him. “Wait, what book did you need, anyways?”

Right. The engineering book. He’d forgotten about that. Bucky motions for Steve to follow him, and he turns the corner, hoping that by some miracle the book had fallen to the floor or something.

No such luck. It’s still two and a half inches too fucking tall for him. Almost involuntarily, he swipes at it again, and predictably misses.

“Goddamnit.”

“Let me,” says Steve, reaching over effortlessly and plucking it from the shelf. He makes it look so damn easy, and Bucky would probably glare at him - he’s been told he has a glare that could kill a puppy - if Steve weren’t holding the book out in front of him and smiling bright as the sun. “Here.”

Bucky takes it from him, slowly. The part of him he’d thought he’d abandoned in his sophomore year of high school urges him to brush his fingers against Steve’s hand, to see if his hands are as warm and rough as he imagines, but Bucky settles.

“You know,” Steve says conversationally, glancing around the library, “they really shouldn’t make the shelves that tall.”

It’s true, but Bucky isn’t going to rise to the bait. “Nothing wrong with it.”

Steve looks at him impassively. “Sure.”

It finally hits Bucky that, as much as he wishes it were true, Steve hadn’t come to the library for the sole purpose of watching him try to get a book. “What’d you come for, anyways?”

“Couple’a textbooks, nothing I can’t reach.”

That little shit. “Are you ever going to let that go?” Bucky counters.

“No way in hell.”

No surprise there. “Well, are you going to get them, or are you just going to stand around looking pretty?” The question slips out before he really knows what he’s saying - no one’s had this effect on him in years, and he’s only known Steve for a grand total of ten minutes.

Thankfully, Steve flushes a little, and it’s absolutely adorable. “Um,” he stutters, “they’re - come on, I’ll show you. If you want.”

It never occurs to Bucky to say no, but he smirks anyways because come on, he’s gotta do something to salvage whatever’s left of his dignity. “That’s a hell of an offer, Mr. Rogers,” he says lowly.

“It’s two shelves over.”

“A lot can happen, two shelves over.”

“Fuck’s sake, Barnes.” He turns on his heel, and motions for Bucky to follow him, before heading deliberately over to the art section. As he follows, Bucky takes far more satisfaction than he should in seeing the bright red blush rising up Steve’s neck.

(He definitely doesn’t wonder how far down it goes.)

When they get there, Steve browses through the shelves for a few minutes before grabbing a few books on portraiture and Photoshop. Bucky‘s content to watch appreciatively.

“You know,” he says, trying to keep his tone light, “I’ve got a friend who’s majoring in art, he’d probably have some recs for you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, for sure. I’ll ask him and get back to you.”

“Oh, so you’d need my number for that.” Steve’s tone is amused - he already has Bucky’s number, and they’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. It’s refreshing, really.

“Well, how else would I tell you?”

Steve plucks one more book in a fluid motion, and flashes Bucky a smirk that makes him - and he isn’t exaggerating here - go weak in the knees. “Oh, I’m sure you can figure out a way.”

And with that, he walks away and vanishes around the corner.

“Rogers, you asshole!” calls out Bucky, indignantly. All he gets for his trouble is a librarian from a nearby aisle shushing at him.

When he leaves the library, book neatly tucked under his arm, he’s still grinning wider than he’d thought possible.

Finding Steve Rogers’s phone number is much easier than he’d thought, really; Sam knows a guy who’s apparently in the same Graphic Design 101 class as Steve - some guy named Clint - and is more than willing to pass on the information. He also passes on the message “USE PROTECTION!!1!” in all caps, so that’s something.

Once Bucky gets back from his 2 pm lecture, he plugs in the number he’d received from Sam (that had been accompanied by a string of exceptionally dubious emojis that he really doesn’t care to think about).

To roger that: hey heard u wanted art book recs or smth pretentious like that

A few minutes later, grey dots pop up on the bottom of his screen, and his heart rate picks up.

From roger that: hey heard u knocked over a bookshelf or smth dumb like that

To roger that: fuck you

From roger that: at least take me out to dinner first

From roger that: if you can do that without knocking over a table

To roger that: 8:30 good enough for you?

From roger that: sounds good, where?

To roger that: i’m sure you’ll figure it out somehow

From roger that: asshole

Bucky grins and fires off a quick text to Clint with an address.

This is going to be fun.

[sachertortes]

Hi! i love Wintershock, BUT i’d love some Clint/Darcy with Mythical Creatures #3 (if you’re really feeling adventurous, how about Clint/Darcy/Bucky).

@huskiesfan-olicity-wintershock YES GOING THE ADVENTUROUS ROUTE WITH CLINT/DARCY/BUCKY ;) i reworked some teensy things from the prompt but the general idea is still there! I hope you like it - Darcy and her sharpshooter boyfriends, aww

Prompt: Mythical Creatures, #3,  “i keep getting into arguments with one of my classmates about things because they keep saying i’m wrong so i finally scream, ‘how would you know?!?’ and they’re like, ‘because i was THERE!’ and that’s how we all find out that there is a centuries-old vampire taking our British history class”

Pairing: Clint x Darcy x Bucky

Rating: M

Note: There’s vampires, descriptions of blood and blood drinking, etc.

The second Clint notices her, he can feel it. His boyfriend sits up just a little straighter, he stops breathing for a second. Clint was in the middle of telling him about “this sweet new arrow” he’d just customized for himself, but he trails off in the middle of his sentence.

He can’t blame him really.

She’s hard to miss when she walks into their British Art History class, with her long, dark hair, pale skin, and lovely red lips.

Their class is a night class, and every night she’s got a huge travel mug of coffee in her hand.

The professor calls on her often, and her answers are often correct and pretty insightful.

They learn her name.

Darcy.

“You think she’s cute,” Clint teases him one night when they stop by a burger place after class.

He sips at his soda. “Hell yeah.” Then, tentatively, “Don’t you?”

“Yeah, man. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. And smart as hell. Remember what she said about Greek Mythology and that Waterhouse guy?”

“Well now I know you think she’s cute. You were actually listenin’ tonight.”

Clint chucks a French fry at him, which he picks from his shirt and chews on happily.

He shrugs. “S’okay, Clint. I like her too.”

Clint smirks at him from across the formica table.

One Wednesday night, she walks in and her lips are again a deep shade of red. Almost maroon. Her hair is glossy under the fluorescent light. Clint reaches over to place a hand on his knee.

She’s wearing yoga pants.

He’s got Clint pinned to their couch, shirtless and skin soft and warm.

He palms the blond over the front of his jeans, gently grasping at his hard cock through the fabric. Clint gasps and then retaliates by sucking a mark onto the side of his neck.

“You thinkin’ about her?” Clint growls into his ear. “Thinkin’ about what it’d be like to have her with us? Underneath us?”

“I am now,” he rasps. He nimbly undoes the button to Clint’s pants. “I wanna see her suck you off.”

“Fuck.”

“She won’t know how you like it,” he murmurs into the shell of Clint’s ear and smiles when he feels fingers press into his biceps. “So I’ll have to show her. Maybe we can take turns on ya.”

“Fucking hell,” Clint whimpers and presses himself closer.

There’s not much talking after that.

On Friday night, Darcy is already at her seat when they walk in. He flushes, slightly ashamed of how he and Clint used her image the last time they fucked. He looks over to Clint, and he’s seems a little pink too.

Christ, they’re pathetic.

The lecture begins and they’re doing their usual thing of trying to pay attention but not really.

“You there,” the professor says, pointing straight at Clint. “You in the purple sweatshirt.”

Clint’s head jerks up then he looks behind him. Bucky tries to hide his laughter. As if anyone else in this class wears a purple sweatshirt.

“Why do you think so many members of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood painted their muses as mythical creatures? Nymphs, goddesses, witches?”

Clint shrugs. “Maybe for accuracy? Maybe they were witches,” he says, and their classmates titter.

“They were not witches,” Darcy declares, turning back to glare at them from her seat in the front.

“Well, how would you know?” Clint asks. “You think a lady is just gonna admit that she’s a witch?”

Bucky groans.

“No, but – ”

“Then they could be witches.”

“They’re not!”

“’Cause you knew them personally, right?” Clint snickers.

“I know because I was there!” Darcy yells back.

The class is silent.

Darcy’s mouth is open in shock. She blinks rapidly for a bit then hurriedly begins shoving her papers and books into her bag. She slams the door shut behind her when she leaves.

Even the professor looks shocked.

The class is uncomfortably silent for a bit until someone makes a comment about “stress during midterms” and everyone chuckles, relieved.

“C’mon, we’re apologizin’,” he whispers to Clint as he gathers up their things to go after her. Clint nods. They sit in the back, so they manage to sneak out just fine.

They find her easily in the parking lot. She’s leaning against the hood of her car while sipping from her tumbler.

She rolls her eyes when she spots them.

“What do you want?” she asks, icily.

“To apologize,” Clint answers, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “I don’t know what I was thinking, I shouldn’t have…needled you like that.”

“He thinks he’s funny sometimes,” Bucky supplies giving her what he hopes is a winsome smile. “But he’s not.” Clint elbows him. “What? Sometimes you’re not that funny!”

Darcy smiles a little looking down at the shoes.

“I’m so sorry. I was an ass today and it won’t happen again,” Clint says, reaching for her coffee. “Let us buy you a coffee? Or, wait, if you don’t want coffee, maybe hot chocolate or something.”

“It’s fine,” Darcy insists, trying to get the plastic tumbler away from Clint.

“No, really please let us –”

“Seriously –”

And then Darcy yanks it back from Clint too hard and the container falls to the ground with a thump.

They all stare at the upended tumbler and thanks to the parking lot lights, its dark red contents spilling thickly onto the asphalt.

It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his eyes, for his brain to form the word, ‘blood’.

“So…I might have meant it when I said that I was there. In 19th century England. I’m kind of a vampire?” she said.

“Kind of?” Bucky says.

“No. Absolutely. I’m absolutely a vampire.” Darcy sighs, tiredly. Bucky tries not to notice the way she’s still staring hungrily at the spilled…stuff…on the ground. Like she’d crouch down and lick it up if she weren’t in front of company.

“What are you gonna do now? Laugh at me? Refer me to university counseling? Try and drive a stake through my heart?”

“Nothing,” Clint says, with a finality in the word.

“…Nothing?” Darcy asks.

“Yeah. You’re a vampire. We’re human. It’s…fine,” Bucky finds himself saying. He means it.

Darcy blinks at the both of them, a pleased look forming on her face. “Okay.”

Clint tilts his head, leans across their table at the campus Starbucks to whisper, “Where do you get your…blood?”

“I have an arrangement with someone. A volunteer,” Darcy answers, picking at but not eating her slice of lemon pound cake. “No worries, my dude, everything’s 100% consensual.”

“Mirrors,” Bucky asks, while flipping through the pages of the textbook they’re supposed to be studying from. He’s curious and also kind of doesn’t want to be caught off guard when they have to walk past one or something.

“No reflection in mirrors, but I show up in pictures and stuff. I don’t know, it’s weird,” Darcy answers. “And Clint, don’t write in that book, it’s mine!”

“What about sunlight?” Clint asks. Darcy’s at their place again, scrolling through their Netflix. She puts a hell of a lot of cooking competitions onto their Watch List for someone who can’t even eat.

“Hm. Not a fan. Hence all the night classes.”

“Dirt,” Bucky says simply one evening when they’re driving.

“Wow. That’s kind of an obscure one. You got that from Bram Stoker, right?”

“Uhh. Not really,” Bucky confesses. “The 90s movie. With Winona Ryder.”

“Nice choice,” Darcy laughs. “But I don’t need to sleep in my native soil. Sounds like a pain in the ass, actually.”

“I thought you were gonna say pain in the neck,” Clint says from the backseat.

Bucky and Darcy groan in unison. “Bucky, stop this car, we’re making him walk home.“

“Soooo…” Clint trails off.

“Yeah?”

“Can you or can you not turn into a swarm of bats and fly away?”

“Oh my god.”

“So…yes?” Bucky asks.

“No!”

“I…kind of have a problem,” Darcy says when they open their apartment door for her. She looks even paler than usual, ashen even, and she seems unsteady on her feet. They usher her inside and she slumps onto their couch before continuing. “The ‘volunteer’ I told you about? Ian moved back to England like two weeks ago. I’ve been holding off and drinking animal blood since then but…I’m not feeling great, to be honest.”

She looks at them and then away, ashamed. “I know we haven’t known each other too long and I never would even presume to ask otherwise –”

“You can drink from me,” Clint says quickly, and Bucky wants nothing more than to smack him upside the head. They were trying to work out a way to ask Darcy to go with them first, to see if she even wanted to, if she even liked humans. This – this is way too much, too soon.

“Clint,” he rumbles, lowly.

“What? Look at her, she doesn’t look good. No offense, sweetheart.”

Darcy shrugs one shoulder.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. “Alright. If you want to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll need to eat after,” Darcy says, perking up a little. “Lots of iron, vitamins, that sort of thing. For the blood loss.”

Bucky’s on his phone in seconds, googling madly and then mentally putting together something from the meager contents of their kitchen.

“I just want to reassure you that um,” Darcy fiddles with the hair tie on her wrist. “Some of the more traditional vampires, especially the older generations intertwine the whole sex and blood drinking thing. Us younger ones,” she continues as if she wasn’t alive when horse-drawn carriages were a thing. “We don’t really do that anymore, so you don’t have to worry about…” she trails off, sliding a significant glance between he and Clint.

Before he can even formulate a response, (his brain is still stuck on the imagery of sex and blood and Darcy), Clint beats him to it.

“That would be alright, though, if you wanted.”

She looks at them, confused. “If I wanted what?”

“Y’know, um. The sex thing. And…more.”

Darcy blinks owlishly. “Oh! But I thought that you two, aren’t you…?”

“Yes, we are,” Clint explains. “But, uh…” He’s getting pink and he rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“We’d been planning on askin’ you out,” Bucky finishes for him. “Both of us.”

“Both of you,” Darcy repeats.

“Yeah. But I mean, if you don’t want that –“

“No! Oh my god, I mean yes. Yes, I’d want that too!” Darcy shyly looks up at them, smiling a little and he can’t help but grin back, relief shimmering through him.

And with that, they get started. He’s nervous like he was for his first date with Clint.

“Okay, so, I’m going to drink from your neck. It only hurts for like, a second then you should start feeling…really nice. Kind of woozy and sleepy and happy.” She pauses and waits for Clint to acknowledge that he understands. Clint nods and she continues. “Afterwards, I’ll lick your wound to close it and then you should have a little something to eat and drink. Okay?”

Clint nods again.

“Alright. Umm, how about you sit here in front of the sofa. That way I’m behind you and I’m at the right height.” Darcy begins to tie her hair back.

“Should I stay?” Bucky asks, not sure if he’ll be breaching some sort of etiquette.

“Of course. You can stay if you want. Especially if all three of us are – if we’re going to be…”

“Oh.” Bucky smiles gently. “Then I’m staying.”

Then she leans down to Clint’s neck, and places her mouth over him and begins to drink.

Clint is silent and he begins to worry that he’s hiding his pain until Clint moans. It’s the same exact one he draws from him when he’s got his hand wrapped around his cock.

Darcy looks up and stares at him, through her lashes. He’d never seen her like this before, eyes bright and alert, with her cheeks flushed. He supposes it makes sense that she always seemed only pale and placid - she is a vampire. Her pretty lips are still attached to the curve of his boyfriend’s neck where he can see the slight throbbing of a vein as it pumps blood into Darcy’s mouth.

He doesn’t feel jealous. On the contrary, a soft groan is torn from him when he takes in the sight of Clint baring his throat, of Darcy’s slim fingers threaded into his boyfriend’s hair to hold him still.

When she’s done, when she’s laving over Clint’s neck to close the wounds, he’s not surprised to find that his dick is half-hard.

Still, he goes into the kitchen to prepare a glass of orange juice and a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Clint manages to drink and eat without issue, albeit just a little slowly.

Afterwards, they position Clint into a comfortable position on the couch. Darcy even pulls a blanket over him.

“Hmmmmmm,” Clint says, smiling as his eyes drift shut. “S’real good. Thanks, Darcy. Thanks, Buck.”

Darcy giggles, brushes spiky blond hair off of his forehead and says, “Clint will be out of commission for an hour or two at least.”

She walks over to him, then crowds him until he’s on back on the armchair. There’s a carnal gleam in her eyes when she sits on his lap and straddles him.

He swallows against a dry throat. A drop of red is at the corner of her lips. He reaches up with his thumb and pushes it back into her mouth. Her tongue is still slightly warm from the blood and he can’t hold back a noise from the back of his throat when she sucks on finger so hard her cheeks hollow.

She releases his thumb, and murmurs, “Any ideas for what we can do while we wait?”