#like the only way to achieve what i want is bloody and that’s so frightening that it makes the existence of it worse

[wormsdyke]

when will they make a top surgery that is free and painless and has no recovery time and involves no blood and no one has to look at my chest at any point

[quirkless-accident]

Adopted danny

Mic and Danny hangs out as radio show host. Discovers that Danny has a potential to sing. Build up to ghost

Mic was absolutely ecstatic. And though it wasn't super hard for him to achieve that level of happiness, he couldn't stop the face-splitting grin as he looked over at his adopted son.

Danny had been in his custody for almost a year now. His sister still lived with their parents, and when they weren't home he visited occasionally. Unfortunately he couldn't get his parents for quirk discrimination since there were practically no laws protecting the quirkless, but he could at least provide the kid with a proper environment to grow and thrive.

Danny had quickly came out of his shell. No longer was he the shy, timid kid Mic had met over his radio show. He was confident and happy and Mic couldn't be prouder. Especially when he had accepted Mic's offer of going from Frequent Caller to Co-Host.

The fans had loved him before as just a caller. The views always spiked any given time Mic was on the phone with him, and they stayed consistently high ever since he joined Put Your Hands Up Radio officially. It was kind of surreal at first, but talking smack and dissecting hero fights and controversies with him now felt like the most natural thing in the world. It was like he was born to be behind the mic.

Plus it was a fun way for them to bond. Instead of Mic separating his work and home life, they became one in the same in a beautiful fusion of trust and teamwork. Plus, Danny had really good music taste, so there was that.

mic couldn't help but smile as Danny laughed at his own joke over the air before queuing up another song. When it was playing, he took his headphones off and turned to Mic.

"Can I hang with Sam and Tucker this weekend? They said they had something cool to show me."

"Yeah, I don't have a problem with it," Mic replied. His first mistake. "Just update me whenever you go from place to place, okay?"

-----

He had been hanging out with Shouta when he got the call. It was in the evening, the buildings blocking out the setting sun. Danny had been with his friends all day, and as promised, had been updating him. He was currently at his old house, hanging out with his friends and his sister. Hizashi didn't really feel comfortable with him being over there in general, but it was the only way the siblings were able to see each other since the Fenton Parents barely let Jazz out of her room nowadays. But they were gone for the day. Everything was fine.

Or, at least, it should have been.

Instead, he was getting a call from a frantic Jazz, telling him to rush over as soon as he could.

Without warning Shouta, he started sprinting towards FentonWorks. Whenever Danny visited he wanted to hang close just in case anything happened. That decision seemed to be paying off now, as he was only a couple of blocks away.

When he and Shouta got there, he didn't bother knocking. He barged through the front door, where Tucker was waiting for them. He looked like he was going to throw up as he led them down the stairs to the basement. The only thing keeping Hizashi from throwing up was Shouta's steady hand on his shoulder as they took the stairs two at a time.

He was expecting a frightened Danny. Maybe a little beaten, a little bloody. He had imagined Jack Fenton, standing over his defenseless son with bloodied fists and an anger no man should ever have.

What he found was so much worse.

Jazz and Sam were leaning over Danny's body. He looked much different now, with the jumpsuit and white hair. But it was still unmistakably Danny. Mic collapsed next to them, bringing his son in his lap and hugging him close. Tears were streaming down his face, but he didn't notice past the sheer terror he felt.

"What happened?" He heard Shouta ask. He sounded far away, like he was underwater. Or he was just trying to be calm and collected. Something Hizashi was currently not as he held his son's cold body in his arms. He hadn't been dead for that long. Why was he so cold?

He caught snippets of the conversation. Something about the ghost portal. How he went inside and tripped. How Jazz was going to murder her parents for even building such a dangerous thing in their home.

Hizashi wasn't paying attention. He couldn't. Not when his son was in his arms, eyes closed. He looked almost peaceful, in a way only the dead could be. He brought one hand up to cup Danny's face. Despite having died only a few minutes prior, he was absolutely freezing. Hizashi ran his thumb over Danny's thick eyebrow, and moved snow white locks out of his eyes. It had only been a year. He had gotten only a year with him. It wasn't long enough. Not when he had been planning on sending him to college if he wanted, and hosting radio show events with him and travelling the world with him. Not when-

Wait. Did his nose just...twitch?

Hizashi shook Danny, and his whole face scrunched up this time before he blearily opened his eyes. They were a bright, intoxicating, unearthly green color.

"Hi...Hizashi?" He croaked. "What-what happened?"

"Dude, you were dead," Sam tells him. She's not one to beat around the bush, and while Hizashi loved that about her, it probably wasn't the best way to break the news to his newly awakened son.

Hizashi didn't answer. Instead, he just pulled Danny into the tightest hug he's ever had.

"You are totally grounded when we get home," he said with a sob.

Danny hugged him back just as hard.

---------

A week later things were more or less back to normal. Danny had changed back to his normal, black haired blue eyes self. They quickly found, though, that he could switch back and forth.

They also found that the ghost portal may or may not have given him ghost powers.

Hizashi found out in the worst way, too. Danny had dropped something under the kitchen table. Hizashi had walked past, and asked what he was looking for. And Danny, without thinking, sat up, so only his head was above the table. Going through the table.

Hizashi had fainted, and Danny hasn't let him live it down.

Things weren't perfect, though. They were both having nightmares about Danny dying. There were a lot of mishaps because of Danny's lack of control, and while Hizashi was a patient man, it was exhausting. Too many coffee mugs lost their life at the hands of Danny accidentally turning intangible. Plus, Jazz wanted out. She always had, but the court hadn't ruled in her favor the first time. But with the new evidence of illegal support equipment in their basement, and with some help from Nezu, it was easy enough getting custody of her. Which meant that he didn't have enough rooms. Which meant they needed to move.

But Hizashi wouldn't have it any other way. He had two beautiful, confident children and an adorable cat Jazz had insisted on keeping. Now that he had a quirk, Danny was thinking about expanding into heroics-something he's always wanted to do but was unable to due to his quirkless status.

He had the support of his children, and Shouta and Nemuri. With all of that love, Hizashi knew they could get through anything together.

---------

I'm alive! I might not be as active though because I am currently looking for a part time job as well as doing commissions (which are open if ya'll are interested). So if I don't post as much don't fret! Instead, enjoy some sweet, much needed Dadmic

[sophia-torrenismyqueen]

Jonas Maccabee WIP

So this was supposed to be just a quick one shot but I just had too much i wanted to write about and so it turned into a full on story. This is chapter 1, i guess.  ��   Raymond was dead. It has taken hours for the sting of Jonas’s breaking oath to fade, even now there was a lasting tingle of years of loyalty and hard work towards Raymond and the Scarhands coming to an abrupt stop. The slight itch of his wrist marked the end of an era, the end of a mentor, the end of a friend. 

      It was so quick. Raymond didn't deserve such a meaningless death, just another victim, another statistic proving the necessity of fire escapes. He deserved to be executed at Liberty Square, hanged in front of a jeering crowd. 

     His last moments should be spent staring at the snarling faces of the people he once served, the people who once served him. Just like every other influential gang lord. Raymond deserved to see the impact he had made and the lives he had changed, he could finally see how many people took time out of their lives to see him. 

    Even if they were coming out of anger, they were still coming. 

    Jonas deserved to be there too. Hidden in the crowd, holding Raymond's gaze just long enough to cross his heart one last time and show respect to his Lord at the very end.

    If this was a just world Jonas would go back to Scarhand base and be happily initiated into his rightful place as Lord of the Scarhands with Raymond’s blessing. He would have achieved the one thing he had been working towards his entire life. But this was not a just world.

     Raymond died trapped in a burning building, his gang hearing Raymond’s vulnerable last screams, the one thing they should never hear. They writhed in pain on the ground the moment he took his last breaths, then collapsed in a line to recover from losing their leader, their lifeline.

      Jonas woke up last, he was shook awake by a burly shopkeeper ensuring Jonas had not died. After shakily climbing to his feet and balancing on a concrete wall, his eyes finally focused and Jonas realized his first impression had been wrong. He was not the last person to wake up. 

      St. Morse branded suit ripped and singed, the skin underneath bruised and bloody. Thick curled hair tipped with orb-maker bronze was matted and slick from blood dripping down the scalp. Soft tears dried on hard chocolate colored cheeks. Levi Glaisyer sat hunched against a brick wall, breathing shallowly and occasionally wincing in response to whatever was happening in his unconscious mind. 

     It was now that Jonas remembered what else happened at Raymond’s fiery funeral. Pup had pushed past the crowd of Scarhands gathered around the burning building, joining the confused yet frightened crowd until he finally realized who was inside the crumbling property. 

   Jonas was just a few people away from Pup when an echoing cry of anguish rang from the building, notifying the boy of exactly who the crowd would soon be mourning.

     Jonas watched how his eyes widened just slightly, how his lips parted a millimeter farther apart. Pup’s poker face was too practiced to notice much else. As quick as lightning he pushed and prodded his way to the front of the crowd, eyes only focused on the high window the scream drifted from. He sprinted to the door, ignoring the pleads of well-meaning Scarhands not wanting to lose another person to this fire. 

      Pup took a step back and rammed into the solid oak door. He promptly stumbled back, the door having barely shaked. Then again, thump. The door shook a bit more. Thump. Thump. A low wimper came from Pup as he hit the door once again. He was  going to be sore tomorrow. Thump. Thump. Thump. Finally the door fell off its hinges and Pup barged inside, covering his mouth with a tattered sleeve and letting out a deep cough.

     The crowd watched with a variety of emotions, awe, disappointment, fear, but every one was hoping that Raymond would be saved. It was a shame that hope would be wasted.

     It was a surprise for many Scarhands when Sedric Torren’s muscular cronies ran after Pup into the steadily growing flames, but not for Jonas. He had seen them lurking outside of the building when it caught fire. He had felt rage as hot as the blaze when they laughed to each other at Raymond’s first gut-wrenching scream. But Jonas just couldn’t reason why Sedric Torren would want to kill Raymond. 

    The Scrap Market was where most of his drugs, specifically Lullaby, were bought. Jonas had no doubt he would find out why though. After all, he didn’t become Scarhand’s second for not knowing these things. Well, apparently Jonas wasn’t Second anymore. He should be happy, but a promotion seemed minuscule compared to the loss of the renowned Eight-fingers.

    Skidmark was the first to fall, he was one of the earliest Scarhands. Despite this and the rumors he and Raymond were friends-with-benefits, Skid had refused the position of Second or even Third to the Scarhands, instead recommending Jonas for the promotion. It hurt to see him clutch his wrist and fall to the ground, the burly man whimpering pleads for Raymond before blacking out entirely. 

    Just a second after Skidmark fell Pup’s limp body was being pried out of the burning building, Torren’s men pulling him by the armpits. They paid no attention to the trail of blood being left behind by a fresh wound on Pup’s head, one that they must have caused.

     The crowd sagged, all hope of Raymond’s survival deflating in a collective wail. Only then did Jonas finally start to feel the tingle of his oath to Raymond breaking. It grew steadily into a sharp pain in his left arm, then a consuming fire of his entire body, finally Jonas felt nothing at all.

      His last thought was of Raymond. Eight-fingers. Scarlord. Oily black hair and sleazy gold teeth, but he was so much more. Jonas met him at nineteen years old, in the Deadfish Getaway, of all places. Raised by the New Reynes streets and a sickly single mother constantly making her way in and out of the Hospital, Jonas Macabee had barely scraped together a high school diploma through the depressing North Side public school system. This was a great accomplishment considering his countless absences and suspensions throughout the years, and yet Jonas couldn’t find it in himself to be happy. 

   His mother was still recovering from another debilitating flu, most likely flirting with every doctor and nurse within a three mile radius at this very moment. 

    Due to his introverted and lone-wolf nature Jonas was left lonely and lost in a cheap cigarette-scented bar, the steady drip of what may or may not be water through the shabby tin roof being the only thing to keep him company. Jonas had lived his life one second at a time up until this point, living hard and fast on the edge. Only now did he realize he had no plan for the future, no savings to lean back on, nobody waiting for him at home. 

   And so Jonas took another sip of his cocktail, an ugly pea green thing that tasted of gasoline and lip balm, distracting himself from the fact his future was just as bleak as everyone else drinking their troubles away in this god-forsaken bar. 

     Just then a tall man sat across to Jonas, disregarding the many open seats not directly facing a stranger. He was pale and starved looking, long black hair wrapped in tangles behind him. With a face so rough and scarred, Jonas struggled to even realize his odd expression was excitement. While he was pulling a tattered leather drawstring bag to the table Jonas noticed that his left pointer and index finger had been sawed down to nubs, the skin of his pointer loosely hanging, Jonas watched it flap with a sort of morbid curiosity, still wondering why this strange man had taken an interest in Jonas’s unassuming figure.

     “Hey there, you look down on your luck.”

The man said, finally settling as he stared Jonas down; an excited glimmer in his eye.

     “I bet you're young, lost, tired, and if you're in this sort of place, not particularly law-abiding.”

     Jonas didn't know if he should be offended by the remark or impressed at how accurate it was, so he settled on a sarcastic stare and eye roll to express himself.

     “Not a talker then, that’s alright. What if I told you that there was a way to start a profitable and successful business for, let’s say, some more illicit property. With plenty of like-minded people, of course. A sort of ’Black Market’ if you will. Completely hypothetically, of course.”

     He paused suddenly, dark eyes gouging out a reaction in Jonas’s. Though he really had no qualms about the idea, having occasionally dabbled in selling such things as Mistress or Lullaby himself, Jonas was well aware that the woman sitting a booth behind them was eavesdropping on the Man’s proposal. 

      If she was a whiteboot in disguise or a snitch Jonas didn’t want her thinking he was involved in something that could get him stuck in jail just hours after graduation. Oh how his teachers would laugh if they found out the odd Maccabee boy was arrested the moment he had left school.

      Swirling the half-drunk cocktail in his fingers, small ice cubes clinking at every moment, Jonas hummed and replied. “I don’t typically get mixed up with that sort of thing.”

      The Man’s mangled hand jerked out and abruptly grabbed Jonas’s wrist. The drink slammed on the table, ice stilling while his other hand shook its pointer finger in front of Jonas slowly.

    “No, no, no, don’t lie to me…” He leaned forwards, pale lips almost touching Jonas’s ear. The Man’s warm breath brought his heart rate to a pounding high, the closeness unnatural, his ominous words unnerving Jonas. 

     “You know, I can tell when you're lying.” He whispered. 

“It’s my talent. My mother‘s side. Amy Kitamura, making me Raymond Kitamura. Like she used to say, every time you lie, I can hear it. I can see it.

I can feel it.”

“So I’d advise you to say the right thing. I really don’t like it when people lie to me.”

    The man slowly pulled away, his eyes never left Jonas, who had been still as a stature throughout the eerie warning. 

“Now, I can tell you know your way around a bit of forgery, I saw you walk in and pull out your ID. It said ‘23’ but you can’t be a day over 19.” 

    The man seemed to recover from Jonas’s earlier lie. He was now smiling knowingly, as if he and Jonas shared some secret, which he supposed they did. 

    “Did you do it yourself? It’s a smooth cut, clean, impossible to see with the untrained eyes…” His smile widened more, stretching across his entire face, almost inhumanly.

    “I think you would make a great addition to our market. Meet us tomorrow.”

He pulled out a small piece of paper from his sack, it had an address and time written in sloppy childish handwriting on the back. 

    While Jonas was investigating the Man had slipped out of the bar, leaving nothing but the mysterious paper and an air of promise behind. 

    734 Guillory Street. 5:30 am. No whiteboots.

After a quick glance around the bar, Jonas stuffed the note into his jeans, chugged down the rest of his unpleasant drink, and stumbled through the creaky door after the Man. He was climbing into a large battered truck when Jonas found him. By the time he had in turn noticed Jonas, the Man was already driving away, lending nothing but a wink through the car window to the young man’s wandering glance.

     734 Guillory Street. 5:30 am.

     734 Guillory Street. 

     5:30 am.

    Maybe it was a bad idea to meet with mysterious and greasy men speaking of black markets get-together at five in the morning, hours before Jonas normally woke up, and yet there wasn’t much of a choice. 

     Go back to an empty apartment, no plan for the future, nobody to comfort him, no reason to continue living an empty life devoid of emotion and importance, or take a risk. Trust an obvious criminal with questionable motives and a hazardous idea, get himself into more trouble than he’s ever been in, and break the countless rules of lying-low and keeping out of attention that’s been pummeled into him from childhood?

There was really only one option.

    Tomorrow at 5:30 am, on 734 Guillory street, Jonas Macabee would be there.

[teawaffles]

Forbidden Games: Chapter 4

Alan led the way as the two men proceeded down the corridor to another room. While he walked alone in front, the pair noticed the footsteps of several people following them from behind.

They seemed to be travelling to the back of the building, and apart from the people who were currently moving, there was no sign of life. Apparently, ‘normal’ participants could only play in that large hall from before.

“It’s gotten quite chilly, hasn’t it? As I recall, Mr Holmes, you’re not fond of the cold. Are you alright?” William murmured, his shoulders shaking slightly.

Sherlock himself wasn’t particularly sensitive to the cold, but he kept his expression static as he pondered the intention behind that statement.

In the next moment, William twitched the corner of his mouth upwards in a gesture that only Sherlock would understand. Recognising this, Sherlock understood everything, and promptly played along.

“That’s right. It does seem chilly. ——Liam, could you lend me your coat?”

“No problem, here you go.”

“Thanks.”

William held out the coat he had been carrying under his arm. Sherlock took it and immediately put it on. Then, he straightened the coat as he carefully checked how it felt on him.

“If you’re feeling cold, may I suggest we have a warm drink in one of these rooms before proceeding?”

Alan posed the question with a seemingly concerned tone. It appeared that he had taken William’s words at face value.

“No worries. Anyway, I’m also excited to see what kind of game you have for us. It’s almost like the shivers before a battle.”

At Sherlock’s words, Alan nodded happily.

“Is that the case? As the one introducing you to it, I’m pleased to hear that.”

At last, they reached their destination. Alan quietly opened the door and bid the duo enter. The two men shared a look, and went in silently.

The room was dimly lit, and roughly a quarter the size of the hall they were previously in. In the centre was a finely crafted round table, and surrounding it was a group of gentlemen standing in silence, staring at the new entrants.

It was an ominous sight, as if it were a secret ritual. The men’s expressions were unanimously mild, but there was also a keen sense of malice hidden underneath. Even so, having witnessed countless bloody battles and come out standing, William and Sherlock remained unperturbed amidst the disquieting atmosphere.

Sherlock looked at a corner of the room, and flashed a big grin.

“Yo, fancy meeting you here.”

Standing there was the noble’s son whom Sherlock had been tasked to find. Just like the other gentlemen, he was dressed sharply. Yet he lacked a trace of the dignity befitting a noble, instead glancing around his surroundings in sheer terror.

Having observed the young man’s appearance, William murmured a question to Sherlock.

“Is he the young man you were searching for?”

“Yep. It looks like he’s alive for now, but judging from his behaviour, it’s not hard to imagine how he was treated by these guys.”

After deducing the situation, they heard the click of a lock behind them.

Turning around, they saw Alan standing with his back to the door, a smile plastered on his face.

“As expected, you’re quick on the uptake. I sincerely admire your excellent deductive abilities.”

Sherlock snorted at his feigned courtesy.

“What’re you talking about? You’re the one who brought us here.”

“I thought it’d be pointless to keep this place a secret once you’d sniffed it out. Anyway, I reckoned I’d make sure to give him a proper welcome too.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Still, what reason could you possibly have for locking up some noble brat? Are all these guys your accomplices too?”

Alan made a show of being astonished.

“We don’t do such perverse things as locking people up. All we pursue is the pure delight of a game, and the comrades gathered here today share in this goal. It is only when pleasure is kept secret that it ascends to a higher realm.”

“——So just like what you did to us earlier, you invited this man here, coerced him into playing some ‘thrilling game’ which he lost, then locked him in this room until he pays off his debt. Is that right?”

“…………”

William’s harsh words stripped away the veneer of Alan’s so-called lofty pleasures, revealing them to be but deceitful tricks. The man raised no retort, and Sherlock clicked his tongue.

“So, are you holding this noble’s son hostage for ransom? Or are you thinking of threatening him so that he’ll make arrangements for you when he inherits his estate? In any case, deceiving and threatening kids makes you no different from a stingy crook.”

Having been bluntly maligned, Alan finally shook his head in sadness.

“It’s utterly regrettable to be misunderstood in such a way. This man consented to play the game of his own free will. However, because he refused to pay up despite his defeat, I’ve had to keep persuading him ardently like this.”

“Persuasion…… so you say,” William retorted.

Having taught students of the same age, he did not hide his displeasure.

Then Sherlock pressed on, openly revealing his irritation.

“Well? Our goal here’s to bring him home safely, but as for you, you’re not going to let things go that easily, are you?”

Alan held out both arms, as if to express his admiration.

“Both of you have been a big help advancing the conversation so smoothly. But there’s no need to be afraid. We have no intention of committing barbaric acts. As I conveyed from the start, all I want to do is play a game with you, with all my heart and soul.”

“Damn you, if this was really just a game then there’d be no need to bet.”

“Doesn’t the risk of defeat just add to the excitement?”

“……Only your ability to make sophisms is first-class, huh.”

They seemed to be getting nowhere trading arguments with this man. Sherlock sighed, as if rendered speechless.

Taking over from the exhausted detective, William spoke up.

“In that case, would you release this man if we win your game?”

Alan nodded in enthusiasm.

“Precisely, since our motto is that all’s fair and square when it comes to games.”

However, Sherlock nudged William with his elbow.

“Liam, you don’t have to go out of your way to play along with them. If you leave it to me, I’ll beat these wimps to a pulp in seconds.”

Hearing Sherlock’s statement, Alan took a step back.

“Ooh, how frightening. In that case……”

He raised his hand. Taking that as a signal, one of Alan’s accomplices brandished a knife and held it to the young noble’s throat. Unable to even make a sound, the young man went white with shock.

“We have no choice but to respond appropriately.”

Alan’s friendly smile had morphed into a brutal one. Having seen the gentleman reveal his true nature, William finally looked at him with disgust.

“In other words, no matter how much we struggle to avoid it, we’ll be drawn into a game…… and although it wouldn’t be outright impossible, it would be difficult to call it ‘fair and square’.”

“This is all simply because we love games,” Alan said brazenly, with no regard for the hostility directed at him.

At that instant, the pair decided to crush this man.

“——Excellent.”

Sherlock spoke up. Even though it wasn’t said particularly loudly, his statement rang out across the room.

William continued in an exceedingly polite tone.

“The extent to which you wish to play games, that I have understood completely. Therefore, regardless of the outcome, I hope you will not regret your decision.”

“……Ooh.”

The pressure exerted by the pair’s fighting spirit had started to make Alan’s entire body tense up.

“I’m glad to hear that you’re in the mood now. By the way, what would you both like to wager on this match?”

At his question, the pair looked at each other.

“We demand that this man be set free. As for the price of our defeat…… Well, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Anything I want?” Alan doubted.

Immediately, William chimed in.

“Then it would be the same for me. In the event that we lose, be it money, my position as a noble, or the fruits of my academic research, please feel free to lay claim to any of them.”

Alan’s eye twitched at their careless manner of speaking.

“……I don’t suppose you both take me for a fool?” he uttered, in a deeply uncomfortable tone.

“That would be outrageous. It’s simply because I have conviction.”

“When Liam and I team up, no one can stand up to us.”

They were outnumbered in the enemy’s hideout. On top of that, the enemy had taken a hostage.

But even though it would seem to anyone that they were at a disadvantage, the duo’s voices were filled with confidence. Any listener would soon realise that it was not an act of bravado. The two of them had complete trust that their intellectual capacity and force of will far exceeded that of these petty villains.

“…………”

Having been struck head-on by William and Sherlock’s unshakeable conviction, an intense, hot hatred welled up in the pit of Alan’s stomach.

——In the past, Alan had been an influential noble with a vast plot of land in the vicinity of Durham. However, he had fallen into economic ruin with the Industrial Revolution and the current of the times. Simply put, he had begun to walk the path of his downfall.

He’d blindly believed his days of prosperity would continue for all eternity. Watching them fade away, Alan had sunk into the depths of despair, and desperately sought a way to assuage this sense of defeat.

To that end, he became absorbed in games. Whenever he and his opponent had agreed upon the rules and engaged in an earnest match, with him coming out the victor, Alan found that those indescribable highs were finally able to satisfy him.

Having grown aware of his appetite, upon finding out that there was a club established with the purpose of playing ‘games’, Alan immediately sought out his old friends in the nobility to gain admission. He then gathered like-minded people from within the club. Among the club members, he then would pick a target, covertly invite them to a game, and use brute force to achieve victory after victory.

Day after day they would rob nobles of their rights, with demands for payment which were unmistakably threats. His accomplices appeared to be satisfied by the profits, but Alan was different. He wanted to look down upon his opponent and use any means necessary to make them surrender.

Therefore, even now, as he held a noble’s son as a hostage, Alan refused to negotiate. He only desired to win the game. No matter what absurd sequence of events was taking place.

However, these young men were different. Even in the midst of danger, they were calm and composed, with no expectation at all that they would be defeated.

Faced with a type of person he had never met up till now, Alan not only remembered what it felt like to be irritated, but also chuckled inwardly to himself: it would surely be a pleasant experience to tear them down.

Once again, he put on a boastful smirk.

“If that’s the case, then I’ll be the one to decide the price of your defeat.”

“Fine by me. Well then, what game shall we play?”

[mirclealignr]

Priceless Debt | r.w

ron weasley x gn!reader

requested by @lillict -> i hope you like it <3

warnings; mentions of death & nightmares, gn pronouns, lowkey dark but still fluff??

word count: 1000+

Ron tiptoed through the tent towards Y/N’s bed where they were tossing and turning relentlessly, whimpering softly in the dead of night. He suspected it was another nightmare, plaguing their mind and throwing them into more fear and confusion than they were already tormented by. They all were, if he was honest with himself. Hunting down horcruxes had neither met, exceeded, nor failed to meet his expectations — he couldn’t have imagined at all what it would have been like. But now living it, it was bloody awful.

He bent down beside Y/N’s bed, whispering their name softly. It hurt him to watch his friends slowly deteriorate the longer they spent on this journey with no definite end. Ron often wondered if their death would be the end; the more days he spent wandering the countryside and the more nights he spent in the tent that confined him to the cruel fate, the more he wondered if any of them would actually make it out alive. But slowly, Y/N opened their eyes, only to be met with sadness in Ron’s face — an all too familiar sadness.

Staring at Ron crouched down beside your bed, you frowned, knowing once again you’d woken him up from his slumber only to burden him. It wasn’t as if tomorrow would be an uninterrupted night, it wasn’t as if any of you got much sleep without your constant disturbances, which only made the guilt weigh heavier.

“I’m sorry,” you spoke, bringing your hand to your forehead.

“I was already awake. Come on,” he offered his hand to you, shaking off your apologies.

Ridding yourself of the light sheet that covered you, you took Ron’s hand and climbed down from your bed. Carefully stepping over discarded items and around furniture, Ron led you outside, his hand clasped in yours, guiding the way. The crisp night air felt as if it’d travelled directly to your head, cleansing it of all your darker thoughts and leaving it an empty, blank slate, ready to renewed. However, you knew it would not take long for the same darkness to overrun; but at least for now, you were free of it.

The dampness of the forest had its own distinct smell that you had familiarised yourself with, and learned to associate with some sort of safety. But it was Ron who led you to it every time you needed it. He was your lighthouse, and though what you really craved was the land, it would be impossible to achieve without him. So, overtime, you’d learned to crave your lighthouse and simply settled for the land.

There were no stars in black sky above, there hadn’t been for a long time. Though logically, it would be assumed the winter weather had kept them at bay, you couldn’t help but feel they were frightened to be exposed to such a world, now that it was crumbling. Ron shifted uneasily beside you, and you knew that he was preparing himself to ask the question you never answered.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ron asked, certain he knew the answer before it was spoken.

“Not particularly,” you replied, “It’s just the same old, I suppose. And only anxiety that brings it on,” you added.

Ron nodded, for he knew words would provide no more comfort than a simple touch in such a situation as this. He removed his jacket and laid it out on the ground beside him, before taking a seat on the damp leaves below. Gesturing for you to sit down, you obliged, sitting atop his jacket; refusing would have been the wrong thing to do, you thought. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, his arm slung around your waist as you looked ahead into the foreboding forest, not a hint of light to indicate just what, or who, you were looking at.

After a while, it felt comfortable enough for you to rest your head on his shoulder as he drew circles into the small of your back. There were no butterflies in your stomach, no blushes creeping up onto your cheek; nothing about the life you were now living was innocent or naïve. Instead, a sense of belonging, a sense of home, encompassed you that dull night, resting in Ron’s arms. There was no one else in the world you wanted to be with in that moment, and strangely, despite your situation, nowhere else in the world you would have rather been.

There was no spoken emotion, nothing spoken at all, as Ron turned his head against yours, causing you to turn to him the same. Nothing was explicitly clarified or addressed as you leant in slowly, intoxicated by his scent. There was nothing but pure instinct and gut feeling as Ron too, leant in further, inches away from your lips. And as they connected there was tranquility accompanied by overwhelming security as he cupped your cheeks with his hands, falling deeper into you.

In all the world and all its unfair and brutal dealings to those who simply played by the rules, you counted yourself incredibly lucky to exist at the same time as Ron Weasley. Even if that also meant the tragedy of war, there wasn’t a time you wish you could escape to if it meant Ron were to be left behind. Despite popular belief, you really did think it was possible to miss something you’d never had or experienced. Whatever it was that granted you Ron, you would be unable to fully pay back.

But for him, you would try your hardest, to pay him back for all he made you feel. The happiness, the safety, the sense of belonging that you could never have felt with another soul — even on the brink of war and destruction, Ron could make you feel the most alive and protected. And on that winter night, surrounded by complete darkness while you rested in Ron’s arms, you smiled into the face of Death, knowing it could never really take that feeling from you.

[textsfromthefifthbasement]

I finally finished MAZM: Phantom of the Opera! I’m leaving the review under the cut because it’s long and also spoilers for some elements of the game that aren’t in other Phantom adaptations.

General

First off, I loved the art style of the game. The character designs were quite adorable, and it definitely seemed like they made an effort to follow the original Leroux character designs. They had a blonde Christine and an olive-skinned, dark-haired Meg. I also thought they did a great job with Erik’s character design (though there was too much hair). The sets were beautiful. The majority of the main plot of the game does follow the Leroux book, which I really appreciated. There were some favorite moments in the book that I wish had been incorporated, such as Raoul waking up to find Erik watching him sleep (don’t judge I just find it freaking hilarious), but they incorporated so many other small scenes from the book, such as the managers trying to prevent Erik from taking his salary by using the safety pin. As a history nerd, I also really appreciated the collectible notes giving historical context to some of the discussions, including about three notes on the Paris Commune/Bloody Week. I wished the characters would have had different outfits rather than wear the same outfit the entire story. At the very least, I wished they had made a Red Death outfit for Erik during the masquerade.

I also want to point out and give a warning to anyone who has suicide ideation before they try this game. Pretty early on in the story, you play an episode in which you control Joseph Buquet after he’s dropped into Erik’s torture chamber, and eventually, you have to walk to the noose and pick it. The scene cuts right before he hangs himself. About partway through the story, when you control Christine, there’s a scene in which she has to talk Erik out of killing himself with a shard from a broken vase. At the end, when Christine and Raoul go down to Erik’s house to bury him, they found that he had committed suicide.

In all, I spent about 23 hours on the game from start to finish. I still need to go back and replay a few episodes to complete the achievements. I missed quite a few of the historical notes, and there are parts where you can make different decisions to influence what happens.

In this game, the studio added a lot of subplots that didn’t exist in the book and expanded on some canonical subplots as well. I did enjoy quite a few of these.

The Dancers

Meg, Jammes, and Sorelli are all major characters in the game, and I loved seeing them have more characterization and actual character arcs. Jammes, as a character, doesn’t change as much as the others, but she is only a child. As in the book, she is pretty frightened of ghost stories, strangers, and the Phantom, but in the game, she also loves and takes care of the stray cats living around the opera house and does turn into a bit of a spitfire when her friends are threatened by the various happenings at the opera. Sorelli has a knife and is not afraid to use it, and she comes to realize that her fear of being alone led her to stay with Philippe de Chagny in spite of the fact that he would never officially acknowledge her. Meg, in the beginning, seems afraid of her own shadow, but throughout the game, definitely comes into her own and also develops a much healthier relationship with her mother.

Union

This had to be hands-down my favorite subplot of the game. In the beginning, when Moncharmin and Richard first become the managers of the Palais Garnier, they mistreat Christine and mass fire anyone who mentions the Phantom of the Opera. When Christine goes missing for several weeks, Meg, Sorelli, and Jammes finally decide they have had enough and basically unionize the ballet dancers. There’s an entire protest, a performance in which the ballerinas refuse to perform, and they end up getting a promise from the managers to stop indiscriminately firing and mistreating people.

Christine’s Ending

GUYS. When I joked about Christine just traveling the world and performing instead I had no idea that was an actual choice you can make for her. It’s such a bittersweet ending, but I personally hope that one day she would have emotionally healed enough from her ordeal to come back to Paris and reunite with her old friends.

That being said, there were also a lot of additions/changes that I…really wasn’t a fan of.

Melek

So, for context. During Christine’s first stay at Erik’s house, she decides to do some exploring while he’s gone. While in his room, she hears a woman’s voice behind a wall and goes to investigate. She discovers a hidden door, and behind that hidden door is Melek. We find that Melek is a blind Turkish woman who had been one of Erik’s servants during his time in Constantinople. She had refused to marry him, and so he had kidnapped her and had kept her locked in that room for ten years.

Yes, I have a lot of problems with this.

I think the first thing is that when Melek was introduced is when I really realized that the game was never going to go in the direction of presenting Erik as a character who was sympathetic at times and not so much at others. The game had already painted him as a very unsympathetic character up until then through showing how he had gaslit Christine as the Angel of Music. Introducing Melek really drove that point home, which was kind of disappointing seeing as how the literal point of Leroux’s Le Fantome de l’Opera was that we should pity Erik for how he was treated because of his face.

Additionally, Melek’s character just…didn’t do anything. The more she was around, the more I wondered what the point of her character was. She does offer Christine support half of the time, and then the other half of the time is her being upset because Christine wants to change Erik rather than murder him. Ultimately, it’s my point of view that her character was not a great addition to the game and would have preferred a closer adherence to the book in that regard.

Hatim and PTSD

*sigh* This part seriously pissed me off. While Raoul and Hatim (the Daroga) are in the torture chamber, Hatim tells Raoul the story between him and Erik. We end up playing through a flashback of when Hatim discovers Erik living at the opera house ten years ago. As they discuss their past, we and Hatim quickly realize that Erik has PTSD, and mentioning the Shah of Persia is a serious trigger for him. Which, alright. That does make some sense story-wise.

And then through other flashbacks, Hatim proceeds to use this against Erik. Like he literally would trigger him purposefully as a punishment. And say that he was doing it for his own good.

Like, excuse me, but. What the fuck. What. The actual. Fuck. No. Don’t ever do that, that’s shitty.

Anyways by the end I was legitimately rooting for Erik to punt him.

Erik’s Ending

In the original Leroux novel, Erik presents Christine with a choice: turn the scorpion, and she will marry him, or turn the grasshopper, and the entire opera house will blow up. Christine chooses the scorpion, kisses him on the forehead, and he is so overwhelmed by the action that he saves Raoul’s life and lets them go together. The only promise he extracts from Christine is that she will come back and bury him when he dies, which he believes will be soon. Two weeks later, an ad runs in the newspaper that reads simply, “Erik is dead.”

Yeah. The game really went off the rails here in respect to following the Leroux book. After Christine turns the scorpion, Erik pulls Raoul into the lake and leaves him there, thinking he’ll drown or freeze to death, and then returns to force the marriage. He does eventually let Christine and Melek go, as Christine tells him that she will never love him and that she believes he is a monster, all while he is on his knees begging her just to love him a little. There is no forehead kiss. To the end, Erik writes and tells Hatim that Christine is the devil, and that she abandoned him in hell and wants her to suffer for the rest of her life knowing what she did to him. Yeah, I wish I was making that up.

There is one point where Christine tells Erik it’s not her job to save him. Which I agree with. I feel like whoever wrote the story had a misunderstanding of the ending of the book, or else thought the idea wasn’t explicitly stated enough. The forehead kiss does, in some respect, save Erik. It makes him realize how badly he’s treated everyone and yet Christine is still willing to extend kindness towards him. But it’s not Christine saving him, it’s him coming to that realization on his own. Ultimately, the game traded that idea for a way more heavy-handed “I am not here to save you, I am going to make my own decisions from here on.”

And then, in the face of all that, we’re also missing Erik changing and redeeming himself despite the fact that he’s close to death. Instead, he dies while leaving basically a suicide note to Hatim saying that Christine is the devil and he made her promise to return to bury him to hurt her. Which is so out of character if we look at the book characterization.

Like I knew I was signing up to get my heart ripped out, I just figured it was going to maybe be the brand of Christine having to choose whether or not to stay while Erik dies. And damnit, I just wanted a single forehead kiss.

Anyways, I really enjoyed the game up until the ending. I just seriously disliked the ending for the most part. If you’re more of a fan of the idea of Christine being on her own and finding her own path, that is an enjoyable option to go with. I still need to play through that episode with the marry Raoul choice and see what happens with that option though.

[storms-path]

Day 22 - Veracity

“They are gods, after a fashion, yes,” declared Emet-Selch. “But no different from the kind of which you are so intimately acquainted.” Arashi wanted to deny it, wanted to deny him, wanted to shunt out the truth of his words with her own comforting lies. Hyadelyn? A primal? No, it wasn’t possible, it didn’t make sense, it-

Arashi’s head burst into searing pain, the world around her growing fuzzy. Emet-Selch didn’t even seem to notice, barely raising an eyebrow as she staggered into Stalwart’s waiting arms. Y’shtola and Urianger were rushing towards her, Minfilia and Thancred not far behind. Why did they look so frightened?

Cassandra stared at the assembled Convocation in naked horror. “You can’t be serious. Have you all lost your minds?” In front of her was their proposal, if such a horrid thing could be called such. Zodiark, they called it. A creation of supreme umbral might, built for one purpose and one purpose alone: the salvation of their world.

But at what cost? The lives of half their people? No salvation was worth such a price. Not if they had to cut themselves down the middle to achieve it. Cassandra’s gaze raked across the gathered attendees. The masks concealed their faces, but she knew them well enough to see right through them. Lahabrea’s stiff, proper pose, every muscle tensed to clamp down on the emotional wellspring. Mitron and Loghrif, neither quite able to meet her eyes as she pierced them. Nabriales, trying to rationalise the grand murder he would be party to. Hermes, looking like he was going to be sick but still standing resolute. And Elidibus, oh Elidibus…

“This is the only way,” he spoke with a leaden voice. By all that was good, he wanted to try and convince her of this madness. “If our projections are correct, which I am certain they are, the star will be corrupted beyond repair in a matter of weeks. Amaurot burns. If we must sacrifice some to save the rest-”

“Some? SOME?!” She could bear it no longer. “An entire HALF of our population, Themis! That is not SOME. And how would we decide who becomes fuel for this creature, hmm? A lottery? A VOTE? And if some of you are selected, will you go nobly to be eaten by this thing? Or will you weasel out of it, claim responsibility in shepherding the remaining people you decided to spare?” Nobody spoke. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak up, to say that of course the Convocation would be exempt from this. They had to channel the magics, had to stabilise the confluences, had to protect their own sorry arses as the world burned.

“And what, pray tell, would you have us do instead?” Hades. Cassandra stared him dead in the eyes as he plucked up his courage. “You are the Traveller, are you not? Have you found anything on your adventures that might save us? Some hidden scrap of knowledge to produce at the last minute and spare us this sorry fate?” She could hear the crack in his voice, knew what his next words would be and how deeply they would hurt him. She didn’t care. “Or are you simply afraid of bloodying your own hands to save what we can?”

Cassandra expected to be angry at him. She expected fury, despair, overwhelming emotion. Instead she just felt… cold. “Very well then.” She strode forth into the centre of the room, making damn sure all eyes would be on her. “If this is your decision, this utter lunacy…” She placed a hand to her crimson mask, pulling it off and shrugging off her hood. “Then you do it without the guidance of the Traveller.”

CRACK! The mask broke into pieces and scattered to the floor. Silence reigned for a precious few moments. Then pandaemonium broke loose. Hades demanding to know what she was doing. Themis begging her to reconsider. Lahabrea for once losing his cool. Hermes, dear Hermes, trying to reach out with words of understanding. All good friends, in their own way. All dead to her now.

With head held high, Cassandra made her exit from the Convocation, leaving them to embrace their own damnation. She would shed no tears for monsters.

“...ashi… Ara… Arashi!” Sanda’s voice, stricken with worry. And yet it was Emet-Selch’s face leaning casually overhead that drew her attention. The slimy smile and half-hidden curiosity.

“Terribly sorry, did I bore you to sleep? And here I thought you heroes had better constitution than that.” Arashi brushed off his lazily offered hand and climbed to her feet. She looked around, expecting to see at least Fareena on the ground, but everyone else was on their feet. Odd, usually an Echo vision that strong would have claimed the others.

“I’m fine,” she said to the gathered Scions with a little more conviction than she felt. “You were saying something about Zodiark and Hydaelyn. About what they are.” All eyes once again fell onto Emet-Selch. The Ascian smiled as he once more became centre of attention.

“Ah yes, so I was. Now, where was I…” Emet-Selch closed his eyes, head lowered in what could almost be seen as pensive nostalgia. Almost. “They are gods, as I said. But gods you are well familiar with.” He gestured off-handedly in Arashi’s direction.

“The eldest, and most powerful… of primals.”

[queenangst]

uraraka-centric fic recs

it’s time for my best girl! here’s a collection of 27 gen, uraraka-centric fic recs. a mix of mostly canon compliant fics and some aus; hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, and everything in between. 

for more fic recs, please check out my:  ‘fic rec’ tag | ‘bnha fic rec’ tag | ‘weekly fic roundup’ tag (bnha)

Starfire by Anonymous

gen; 2.6k; chapters 1/1 complete

Stars create gravity, and Uraraka wishes on herself.

It was impossible to make her own shooting stars, but that inspiration sounded like a touch of divinity. Only the imaginings of a god with their versatility of powers could be capable of involving outer space. Uraraka...dreamed of that.

Home for Christmas by sobakasuai

gen; 1.2k; chapters 1/1 complete

Ochako feels slightly pitiful about herself as she loads a few more cups of noodles into her shopping basket. Christmas Eve was a time spent with family— a time for gifts under the tree, multicolored lights in the windows, and sending cheesy postcards in the mail.

Yet here she is, stocking up on sustenance as she rushes to get back to the dormitories before it gets too dark to be comfortable with walking back alone. A violation of Christmas spirit in human form, feeling not unlike Ebenezer Scrooge.

Barology by MissAquarius

gen; 4.6k; chapters 1/1 complete

Barology: the study of gravity.

intersection by kiroiimye

gen; 1.2k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & bakugou

“Getting coffee, obviously.” She doesn’t want to meet his eyes and it’s only happened once before; the first times had been intimidation from hardened crimson eyes. But as the years went on, she had grown past that stage; he was more a classmate than enemy. “Would you like to—

“Nope.” It’s flippant, over-the-shoulder, but Bakugou makes no move to leave and Ochako can’t help but smile wryly.

It’s the sort of thing he’d pull when they were younger.

Ochako runs into Bakugou after graduation.

momentous by kiroiimye

gen; 2/6k; chapters 1/1 complete

She’s in the middle of a math lesson, ignoring the whispers behind her back when the rumbling starts. It’s a dull roar in the beginning, and it’s when the pens start rattling on her desk that she stops the lecture. Even the students have gone quiet in their seats, the room stilled with tension.

“Uraraka-sensei, what was that?”

Ochako squares her shoulders, lowering her voice. “I don’t know, but stay alert.”

And then the water comes rushing in.

Becoming a teacher was not part of Ochako's post-U.A. plans, and yet here she is. Standing in front of a raucous class of about twenty teenagers, who all seem to have it out for her. Really, why is she here again?

The Hunger for Survival by SingingCookie

gen; 6.2k; chapters 1/1 complete

People say your early life shapes you, really molds you into the person you’ll become. Likes, dislikes, the habits, the tics, and the pet peeves… A majority of that when you grow up is influenced by where you came from.

Ochako’s early life shaped her into someone who knew how to survive—but it was always the living that fell just out of reach.

one hundred percent by UnidentifiedPie

gen; 2.2k; chapters 1/1 complete

White like bone, Uraraka thinks, mind flashing back to the people she saw on the street. Civilians lying all around, eyes blank and staring and dead. The defeated hero, body a mangled mess, spilled organs and shattered, bloodied bone.

She’d watched that hero die. The villain Uraraka had fought had gripped him by the neck and supercharged his blood, contorted his body into something twisted and terrible. She’d run for him, something screaming in her heart and lungs and nononono-

-but she wasn’t fast enough. And it didn’t matter anyway; the man had been dead before he’d hit the ground.

Patchwork by bishounen_curious

gen; 6.8k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & 1a/1b girls

At the beginning of Third Year, Ochako suggests to the girls in the Hero Course that they make a patchwork quilt to commemorate their time together at U.A., their friendship and their solidarity as women in the hero profession. Something private and special that they all can share for years to come.

However, the quilt doesn't get finished. And it never does.

at long last by Quintessence

gen; 2.7k; chapter 1/1 complete; uraraka family

"Her parents were proud. The kind of proud that came from decades of unrelenting hard work matched in intensity only by their miserable luck. The kind of proud that made them refuse the money Ochako sent after her every paycheck. The kind of proud that was going to make a gift of the magnitude she planned to give go down as easily as a mouthful of chalky pills without water."

In which pro-hero Uravity finally achieves her lifelong dream of giving her parents an easy life.

got your six by Quintessence

gen; 1.6k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & bakugou

“Oh, yeah, they rejected my application,” Uraraka says, like it’s nothing, which, Bakugou decides, fists clenched under the table, it most certainly isn’t. “They’re mostly a combat-based agency, and they thought I’d be better suited for a rescue oriented one. So I’m gonna keep looking. I mean, Kurashiki Agencies isn’t the only game in town, so I’m a little bummed, but it’s okay.”

And then she has the nerve to smile, making her full, pink cheeks even rounder, shrug, and take a sip of her drink. Bakugou has to breathe deeply before he replies, because he really is working on not lashing out as much anymore, but the anger burns and bubbles like boiling water in his stomach.

“That’s the biggest fucking load of bullshit I’ve ever heard, Round-Face.” His teeth are clenched as he speaks, but at least he’s not yelling. “I mean, have they even seen what you can do? Or did they just take one look at your Quirk and fucking write you off?”

In which Uraraka gets rejected from a hero agency, and Bakugou is her most aggressive (and I mean aggressive) supporter.

Like an Onion by BigDangoFamily

gen; 3.7k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & aoyama, background/minor uraraka/midoriya

It was strange, Uraraka thought, how someone so sparkly and so over-the-top could fade into the background so easily. Even with his theatrical nature and his showy costume and his (quite literally) dazzling Quirk, Uraraka had somehow never noticed Aoyama that much.

He was a piece of the background; he helped make up the landscape of their class; he was a figure her eyes automatically skipped over in her search for her friends—which, when she put it like that, made it sound pretty harsh.

It wasn’t that she particularly disliked Aoyama. She would gladly enjoy time spent hanging out with anyone in Class 1-A (well, maybe not Mineta), and she was friendly to all her classmates. That was how she was. It was just that, somehow, her eyes had always seemed to glide right off of Aoyama.

Well, now her eyes definitely saw him, and quite clearly too.

OR: Uraraka unexpectedly comes to respect Aoyama.

Determination by chockfullofsecrets

gen; 1.1k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & midoriya

If Uraraka wants to win this sparring match, she’s going to need to find a way to put a stop to Deku’s endless determination.

perfidy by khattikeri

gen; 500 words; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & midoriya

She pressed the knife harder against Midoriya's throat.

Just Keep Floating by ProPinkist

gen; 2.9k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & all might

Ochako runs into Toshinori, hiding away alone in the dorms, who might could use a helping hand.

Luckily, in this case, she's just the right person for the job.

Uravity: (Kitten) Rescue Hero by TenyaTrash

gen; 1.4k; chapters 1/1 complete

Childhood Ochako is always looking for ways to excel as a rescue hero. She wants to help her parents, her friends, and the world.

And wouldn't you know it? She's got a knack for finding animals that are purrfectly in need of a rescue or two.

Every hero has to start somewhere!

Freefall by Cornflower_Blue

gen; 2k; chapters 1/1 complete

The first time it happens, it is an accident.

The first time it happens, Ochako is just walking around her neighborhood.

Cold Tea and Hot Tears by Wolfie_Dragon

gen; 2.6k; chapters 1/1 complete; minor uraraka/midoriya

When Ochako and the other work studies students are back at the dorms after the Shie Hasaikai raid, things are supposed to go back to normal. But Ochako finds she can't forget the horrible events. It's only in the dark of night that she finds that Deku is just as traumatized, if not more.

Scars by All_five_pieces_of_Exodia

gen; 2.4k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & dekusquad

When Ochako is training one day and gets injured because of it, she starts to wonder about scars and what the people who have them think of them.

But does she even want to know?

Normalcy Has Its Place by Madam_Chauncey

gen; 3.2k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & yaoyorozu

Sometimes a day of kickboxing with your gal pal is all you need. Or; Momo and Ochako decide to make the best of a bad week.

foundations by blueberrytree

gen; 2.5k; chapters 1/1 complete

Ochako drums her fingers anxiously on the surface of her desk. Why does she want to be a hero? It had seemed so clear before last night’s phone call—make money to support her parents and give them an easy life. Now, though? 

Gravitational Pull by Sky_King

gen; 2.9k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & dekusquad

Despite having been friends for a while now, Izuku soon realizes there's a lot he doesn't know about Uraraka.

And on the other hand, Ochako discovers that opening up to her friends might not be as frightening as she suspects it to be.

Sleep is for the Weak by baggytshirtsandtiredeyes

gen; 2.9k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & aizawa

Exhaustion was as familiar to Ochako as breathing. She was only fifteen but she felt more like she was edging on forty. But it was okay. She could just power through. She couldn’t stop now. Not when she was living her dream.

Catch Me When I Fall by baggytshirtsandtiredeyes

gen; 2.1k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & asui

Ochako feels like she's falling behind her classmates so she starts training alone. One night Tsuyu finds her and offers to help. If only they could have known what was going to happen.

If the Dress Fits by calamansifresh

gen; 2.4k; chapters 1/1 complete

It’s the day of the Annual Hero Awards Gala and Uraraka Ochako is in attendance as the recipient of the Rising Star Award. While she’s certainly proud of her heroic accomplishments, impostor syndrome rears its ugly head and she wonders if she really belongs in the spotlight.

caution, handle with care by SpiritusRex

gen; 2.7k; chapters 1/1 complete

It was an accident. Ochako reminds herself, as she cups her hand to her mouth and tries to keep the hot, bright blood from dripping through her fingers. It was an accident.

But Ochako knew, had witnessed, just how severe an accident could be.

She pulls her hand away, and her palm comes back with a jagged chunk of a tooth cradled in the center. The sight blurs in front of her eyes; a dot of white in a small pool of red.

Ochako takes a page out of Deku's book, and makes an impulsive, painful decision.

All Might for a day by PurpleCarSeat

gen; 9.3k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & all might

What had he been about to say?

Ochako expects it’s more of the same “push beyond your own limits!” stuff that he likes to spout, which always feels a little hollow coming from him because All Might doesn’t have limits. Despite what he claimed, she doesn’t think All Might has ever been weak. He’s the number one hero, perfect in every way. He can move faster than the eye can follow and jump so high he’s practically flying. He was probably trying to make her feel better – it seems like the sort of thing he’d do.

Or: Ochako learns the hard way that strength is more than just physical, and that the people at the top are only human too

Sacrifices and Jogging Routes by Quillium

gen; 5.8k; chapters 1/1 complete; uraraka & dekusquad

"We're heroes," she says instead, simply, quietly. It's hard to be excited about becoming a hero... every child's dream, what everyone idolizes... when you know the likely outcome. Most of her friends will die before her or she will be dead before they've even begun to sport wrinkles.

OR

Uraraka tries to figure out what it means to be a hero and the sacrifices that it entails.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Soulmarks, Part 18

First part

Previous

~~~

Tim hugged himself. He was, in a word, shaken.

In many words, though, he was absolutely terrified of what Inamovibi-Lady had become. From dropping him and Bruce off a building to murdering Harley and Joker in gruesome ways, she was extremely amoral in how she achieved her goals. Sure, he’d known that akumas have their own moral code, but it had never really sunk in until he’d been faced with it.

And the akuma had told him that Marinette was inside there, and that she wasn’t particularly against anything she was doing.

But how true was that?

It appeared that she was just now starting to process what she’d done. She was shaking a little bit, her eyes wide. He hesitated and detransformed momentarily to get his jacket and then draped it over her shoulders. It wasn’t a shock blanket, but it would have to do.

She looked at him for a second and seemed to smile a little more (it was hard to tell) before looking down at her yoyo.

He went back to standing a careful distance away, his eyes wandering to his family. Everyone seemed a mix of sickened and frightened by what had happened.

Adrien was full on crying, curled up on the floor with his head in his knees. Fair enough, this really wasn’t his night. He’d found out his father was the supervillain he’d been fighting for years, had his best friend akumatized, had difficulty communicating with everyone, and now an akuma that he’d helped create had brutally murdered two people. A breakdown was pretty much inevitable.

Dick sat down next to him and pulled him into his side. Adrien didn’t seem to know what to do with the affection for a second before burying his face in his shoulder.

“Master Fu’s house, please,” said the akuma, bringing his attention back to her.

He hesitated slightly.

He was definitely going to be alone for this one. Even if he could break the moral barrier keeping him from taking a crying Adrien along to fight her, he doubted that he would be of much help.

But it wasn’t like he was really getting any choice in this. Her next target after the ‘Master Fu’ person was definitely going to be Hawkmoth and, though he could admit that she was stronger than normal, they definitely weren’t prepared to fight him. He had to beat her.

How, though? Sure, he at least knew that she wasn’t trying to hurt him (he’d just found out what would have happened to him if she had actually wanted him dead), but that didn’t mean much when she went to drastic measures to ensure that things went her way. He didn’t know how lenient she would be with him if she actually thought him a threat, because she obviously didn’t --. 

He felt a hand rest on his arm and pulled himself from his thoughts to send Inamovibi-Lady a smile.

“Sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and crossed her arms over her chest. He tried not to think about the bloody handprint now on his arm as he glanced at his family. Still no help. Great. How dare they be in shock?

He gave Inamovibi-Lady an awkward smile and opened a portal underneath them.

When they dropped into the tiny shop it took everything in Tim not to slam his head against a wall. Master Fu was just sitting at the table, drinking tea and eating sandwiches. He’d had a five hour warning, why the fuck hadn’t he even tried to run?

She twirled her yoyo, her black eyes narrowed to slits.

“Hello, Marinette.”

“Inamovibi-Lady,” she corrected. Her head tipped to the side. “You’re not going to run away?”

“If you’d like to air your grievances, I would love to hear them.”

The akuma, if possible, looked even more suspicious. “Really?”

Master Fu shrugged and gave a tiny wave of his hand before leaning back. “Mhmm. Go on.”

“I…” Inamovibi-Lady began, then stopped. There was a few times where she opened and closed her mouth, unsure what to do in this type of situation, and then she shrugged and brought her microphone to her hand. “Right, um… citizens of Paris! I’m back, and I’m here to do hearing number five! Well, four for you guys, but five total! With us today is Wang Fu!”

The old man caught Tim’s gaze and then flicked his eyes to the side quickly. Was Tim sure it had meant something? Yes. Did he have any clue what this guy was trying to say? No.

“Now, what he did was particularly messed up. Imagine, you’re a kid on their way to school, and you see this old man about to get run over. You help them. And, because of this, this random guy decides to give you the responsibility of making sure the entire city of Paris never falls to a superterrorist!”

“You must understand --.”

“Shut up. I’m not done.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and took a few short steps back so he could hopefully stay out of this conversation.

He also took the chance to detransform out of Inamovibi-Lady’s view. He didn’t know if Hawkmoth could hear and see everything that the akuma could, but he wasn’t going to test it. Kaalki floated over to Master Fu and stole the bread off of his sandwiches before settling herself on Tim’s shoulder to eat.

“Let’s skip over the fact that you asked two thirteen-year-olds to protect an entire city for now, because let’s talk about the fact that I didn’t have a choice!”

“You could have refused at any point.”

“Like hell I could! The city was under attack and it was obvious no normal person could do it, and then after that I was too popular to just disappear! At least the Americans recruiting kids ask them if they want to do it before they set them up as vigilantes!”

Tim transformed again and crossed his arms over his chest as he considered what to do.

He kind of wanted to let her attack the old man -- he knew first hand exactly how stressful being a vigilante is, and the idea of being thrown into it without warning was enough to make him wince -- but, at the same time, letting her do that would be kind of messed up of him.

Also, he had no plan at all, which was kind of a problem if he was going to be trying to stop her.

“So, now for your judgement.”

Shit!

“How about…” She tapped her finger on her chin as if in thought for a moment before smiling widely. “I take those miraculi off your hands. You’re clearly too old to make proper decisions about who to give them to, and I have someone better in mind.”

He needs a plan! And now!

Ah. There’s one. A bad one. But one nonetheless.

He launched himself at the akuma from behind and they both cursed as she stumbled and threw them off-balance.

But, instead of just falling to the ground for a wrestling match, her back hit something invisible and they screamed in a mix of panic and confusion as the illusion broke to reveal that they were in the turtle miraculous’s shield. They had bigger problems, though, as they rolled through the room.

They came to a stop when they hit the wall, which was unfortunate considering they were at the top. They fell the few feet to the bottom of the hamster ball and groaned.

Tim peeled his face out of her stomach and slowly pushed himself up and looked around.

Master Fu was wearing both the turtle and fox miraculi.

Well, now he knew what he’d been trying to tell him earlier: to move so he wouldn’t be caught in the hamster ball, too. Wow. Wish there was a hand motion for that or something, because Tim was not eager to be back inside, and especially not with a particularly angry akuma.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, she was taking this remarkably well (for an akuma). Inamovibi-Lady laid back in the hamster ball and started doing tricks with her yoyo.

“You can’t keep this up forever, Fu. You have to sleep. I don’t.”

Oh. That made sense. Unfortunately.

“Besides, since Hawkmoth knows you have miraculi here, I’m expecting him to come by at some point. Gonna protect yourself and the miraculous box or keep me in here?”

Can she please stop making sense? Just for a few minutes?

He sighed and covered his ears. He needed to concentrate. He needed a plan. He had quite a bit of time, he assumed, but the faster he fixed this the faster everything could work out.

Well, not work out, they were long past that point, but at least it would be over.

His eyes found their way to her yoyo. Of course they did, it was moving around wildly, and the human eye is attracted to movement. But…

Tim shrugged to himself. A terrible plan came to him, it was really too bad they were desperate. He grabbed the akuma’s arm and opened a portal underneath them.

And they were falling.

Inamovibi-Lady screamed obscenities as they plummeted towards earth, the Eiffel Tower whizzing past them at lightning speed. He pulled her actual yoyo from his belt just in case he was wrong in how he thought this would play out...

She pulled him to her side and he breathed a sigh of relief as she threw her yoyo. She hooked it around a beam and their fall came to a jerking stop that he was not ready for. He swore he left his stomach about ten meters up.

But no time to think about that! He wrapped his arms around her as well.

“That went to plan,” he said.

“Really? Your plan was to almost die, then?” He couldn’t tell for sure, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. “You’re literally so stupid. You and Chat should have a stupid-off.”

He grinned.

She looked around for a safe place for them to land. “You might need to climb the string to get up. How good are you at that?”

He gave a tiny shrug and made a move to push himself up, only to pull the earring from her ear.

Relief flooded through him as purple and black engulfed her and her weapon. Done. Finally.

He only came to realize his mistake the moment her yoyo started to disappear.

And they were falling again.

And she was barely conscious.

And he had no idea how yoyos worked as weapons or grappling hooks are you kidding me?

He looked at the one in his free hand and shrugged mentally. He either doesn’t try and they both end up dead, tries and fails and they both end up dead, or tries and actually succeeds. He hooked his arm and legs around her as tightly as he could and prayed that it was even slightly like his grappling hook as he threw it.

They swung to safety. Kind of. He caught them pretty close to the ground, and the yoyo didn’t really hook around the beam all that well, so it mostly just slowed their fall, but outside of a few bruises they’d probably be fine when they took off their suits.

He groaned quietly and crushed the earring in his hand and caught the akuma.

And then he let himself lay down beside a confused and groggy Marinette.

Tim watched the sun start to rise and sighed, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes.

It had been a long night, but it was over now.

~~~

Next part

Taglist

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[monstersandmaw]

Male orc (Vilugh) x male reader (sfw) - Part Two

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This should have gone up on here yesterday, and has been available on my $5 Patreon tier for a week as the fourth ‘early release’ story on Patreon in July (every Wednesday).

You may recall the first chapter that I posted as an unedited WIP (Tumblr link) a while ago and had lots of encouraging comments about and some interest in seeing more from Vilugh and the prince. So, here it is! Sorry it's a bit late - things have just been nuts here lately. I wanted this to be the final chapter, but... plot happened. So... there'll be more in the future!

Content: continuing on from last time where our scholarly prince with the unfathomably dickish king for a father was told he was going to spend six months with the orcs, we see Vilugh again, meet his sister, and finally, get to the encampment. (tw: brief mention of past death of reader’s older brother, and constantly being compared to him by the aforementioned dickish king...)

Wordcount: exactly 4000. *nice*

Part One

To say that I was furious with my father for only deigning to inform me of my new situation for the next six months would have been an understatement. I knew I wasn’t the ruler-son that he’d envisaged taking over from him, but I had thought that my rather impressive record for strategy and tactics spoke for itself, not to mention that I was responsible for almost single-handedly planning and instigating massive economic reforms that not only refilled the monarchy’s gradually-dwindling coffers but promoted trade and gave our floundering, stagnating economy a huge boot up the backside. And yet, still, I was not enough. I was not my brother.

Fuming, I strode along the corridors from the great hall up to my chambers and nearly flattened a poor serving girl as she left one of the rooms along the way. “I’m sorry,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Highness,” she chirped, dipping into a curtsy and scurrying away before I could explain myself.

My reputation had gone from ‘scholar prince’ to ‘Royal Monk’ by the time I was twenty five, but I was also known for being moody and sullen, with a perpetual scowl on my lean - I thought gaunt - face. No wonder I’d frightened her. As I stared in the speckled mirror in my bedroom, I saw a face and body that would hardly impress the orcs to whom I was about to be packed off like a spare bit of cargo for six months. Why? What what did my father have to gain from sending me to a group of people who, until my teenage years, had been our enemies? They weren’t exactly our best friends now either.

The orcs right across the continent had begun to think about trade with us since Khraxh and her warband had first agreed to peace talks, and while the mountain orcs were still ferociously opposed to any kind of truce or trade talks with the soft, plains- and forest-dwelling humans, Khraxh had clearly seen the advantages that at least a ‘polite understanding’ would have with us. We had the monopoly on iron ore with our goblin-run mines to the east, and due to our superior charcoal burning techniques, we were able to forge steel like almost no one else, save perhaps the goblins themselves.

Goblins, like humans, had a long and turbulent history with orcs. Historically, encounters between the two peoples mostly ended in absolute annihilation of entire goblin communities by the larger and stronger orcs - hence their very slight preference for dealing with humans. It really was only a slight preference, however. Goblins were wary and untrusting of most folks, but it was understandable. They were a skittish, intolerant folk, quick to be offended and even quicker to give it.

Staring into that age-freckled mirror, I saw my lacklustre, pale skin, with no distinguishing features, save perhaps for my mother’s dark eyes and a slightly hooked nose. Where Dannan had been the golden boy of our family - qujite literally with his curly blond hair - I was the proverbial and, of late, the literal, dark horse. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression…

Needless to say, I got little sleep that night, which added to the dark shadows beneath those dark eyes. I turned it over and over as I lay amid the fine silk sheets. In the end, I came to the rather unsettling conclusion that my father hoped I wouldn’t survive my time with the orcs so that he could install someone like my cousin Balgrun on the throne after his demise. Not that anyone imagined that a king as tenacious and bitter as my father would ever give up his hold on life; he was simply too stubborn to die, I was sure of it. True, I was useful, but I was not a leader. I honestly crumbled to a trembling, stammering, sweating mess if I had to address the public myself, and I considered more than three people to be an abhorrent crowd. He’d raised me to be the shadow to my brother’s light, and I fulfilled that role too well to be trained to shine in public now.

Gritting my teeth the next morning, I stood on the sweeping steps of the royal castle, awaiting the arrival of the orcs.

The squeal of a war boar from the far side of the castle’s curtain wall announced their presence before the trumpets and shouts did. I drew a deep breath and kept my skinny hands folded behind my back. No need to let them see me shaking. The king emerged from the doors behind me and fixed me with his usual, emotionless glower. “Don’t embarrass me, son,” he muttered under his breath. “They do us great honour by taking you to the heart of their lands for so long a time.”

I raised my eyebrow. My mother had been able to do that, according to Rigmore. The castle steward and she had apparently been good friends, and when I had learned to do it, he had laughed and said I was the picture of my mother. Naturally, I did it around my father whenever I could just to rile him up. “Tell me, father,” I said with carefully controlled coolness in my voice. “What exactly do you hope to achieve out of my royal stay with — what was it you called them yesterday? — oh yes… ‘those beasts’.”

His lip curled and his eye twitched. “You will do well not to repeat that, boy,” he snarled.

I laughed and shook my head. “Out of the two of us, I seem to be the only one who values my hide, father. Fear not though, I have no intention of pissing off my captors.”

“Captors? Guardians, more like. The honour of hosting the son of the most powerful king on this continent will not be lost on them,” he said fervently, grey eyes drifting to the portcullis and main entrance to the bailey behind me.

“Surely you had some mission in mind for me then?”

“Win them over with that naive charm of yours,” he said dismissively, still not looking at me. “You could have charmed your way into the beds of half the nobility of this kingdom, despite your… physique… Fuck them if you have to,” he said in a hiss in my ear, “But I want them in an advantageous trade deal by the end of next spring. Butter them up, win their trust, and we’ll have the brutes in our pockets.”

“And if I don’t manage that?” I asked.

His eyes flashed. “Then you really aren’t of any use to me at all, are you?”

It wasn’t a wholly unexpected answer. The man was always the king before he was my father, but still, I barked out a loud and undignified laugh just as the orcs entered amid a clatter of cloven trotters and squealing war beasts, feeling empty and hollow. “Goddess be merciful,” I cursed. “You just want me out of the way while you wine and dine Balgrun in my absence. Oh yes,” I chuckled back at him over my shoulder, practically skipping down the stairs and strangely looking forward to my six month ‘holiday’ from the backstabbing and conniving of the castle. “I asked around; I know you’re asking my dear little cousin to stay. Perhaps you can show him the ropes in six months, and perhaps the orcs will decide I’m more useful as a toothpick than a diplomat, and you’ll have a reason to go to war with them again, wipe them off the plains, and then nothing will stand in your way between the coast and the mountains.”

And with that, I left him sputtering on the steps, his face a rather nasty puce colour. I’d figured out his alternative plan, and if he thought for a moment I was going to let him have it, he was a dotard.

“Greetings,” I said, addressing Vilugh in the common Trade Tongue. “Regrettably I have not had the chance to learn your language yet, otherwise I would have greeted you in your own tongue.”

The orc swung down from his boar and dropped the reins to the flagstone floor, ground-tying the beast the same way I might have ground-tied my mare. Starling was, to my relief, already saddled and ready for me, standing with her bridle in the hands of a groom and stamping her hoof in anticipation of an outing.

Vilugh was every bit as colossal and imposing as I remembered him from the last time I’d seen him, if not more so. I knew he had to be ten years or so older than me, and if he was thirty five, he was still in his absolute prime. His green-skinned chest was largely bare, save for the leather strap that reached diagonally from one hip to the opposite shoulder, holding up the leather hunting skirt that hugged his hips and hid very little from the imagination. He didn’t have the defined abs of the veiner fighters I’d seen who liked to show off their lean, oiled bodies for the attention of the crowd, but his middle was packed with solid fat and muscle that spoke of the strength of two or three oxen. His thighs could have crushed one of our warhorses to a bloody slurry if he’d fancied trying, and his hands were as big as the buckler shields favoured by fancy duellers in the city. Small for a shield, but very big for a hand.

His eyes were still that unnerving black that I recalled from my youth, and they were every bit as perceptive as I remembered too. He raked his gaze up my slim form, no doubt also cataloguing my physical features and sartorial preferences. That day I had chosen simple buckskin leggings, suitable for long distance riding, and a loose, linen shirt. My hair was tied back in a practical style at the nape of my neck, and across the front of my saddle, I had instructed my servant to tie a leather hunter’s jerkin for when evening drew in and it inevitably got much colder. In my saddlebags I had had simple, comfortable clothing packed, with none of the fripperies and fineries with which a prince might be expected to travel. Orcs were a pragmatic and practical people, and having a whiny prince demanding to stop for wine and grapes halfway there would win me no favours with them.

“We can teach you to speak orcish if you want,” Vilugh said in a voice like a rock slide.

I couldn't help but grin at the chance to learn something else, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that. I can’t promise to be any good, but I’ll try.”

To my surprise, Vilugh laughed. “From what I hear, you’re a quick learner, prince. You’ll catch on quick enough I reckon.”

Relief washed through me. The warrior was polite and had a sense of humour. As much as my father’s court frustrated me, I knew where to tread there, and how far I could push and poke before I risked too much. With the orcs, I had no idea yet what might provoke them or amuse them. I also had no idea how they felt about this arrangement, or how my presence among them would be received.

“If you’d like to rest or feed your mounts, and seek the same for yourself, then please make yourselves comfortable, otherwise I’m ready to leave whenever you are.” I left it up to him to decide, and after a quick look at my father, still standing on the castle steps like a lone lion on a rock while hyenas prowled below, Vilugh shot me a look of a different calibre.

“These boar can ride all day without stopping for food or water; three days without rest,” he said in a measured voice, walking at my side and casting my entire body into shadow with his immense height and breadth.

He was testing me, and I didn’t fall for it. “And yet the ride from your mother’s bastion is four days from here,” I replied with the same even tone.

Vilugh’s eyes glittered with amusement. “The piss you people drink for ale should be enough for now.”

It was easy enough for me to take a chance on his sense of humour with my father’s bowmen lining the walls and the honour guard ranged up the stairs nearby. “For you or for the boars?” I quipped, turning away and inviting him to follow me.

Again, the massive - and honestly quite intimidating - orc let out a long, loud belly-laugh of amusement. “Hay will do for the boars just now, though they prefer meat when they can get it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I muttered.

The boars were seen to, and I led Vilugh and the two other orcs who had accompanied him up to meet my father. Neither Vilugh nor his fellow warriors bowed or bent the knee to my father I was pleased to note, and it got my father’s hackles up like a like a bristling tomcat. I almost could have kissed the enormous warrior just for putting my father on the back foot already, but honestly, what did he expect? Did he think the orcs would prostrate themselves before him? They’d hardly done that last time, so I couldn’t imagine he’d be so conceited as to think they’d do it this time.

“Your majesty,” Vilugh said.

“Welcome,” my father said, his tone more tightly-clipped than the box hedge in the castle’s knot garden. “Will you be staying for some refreshments before you return to your people with my son?”

“Just long enough to give the boars a breather,” Vilugh said with easy diplomacy.

The other warriors he’d brought with him were the older, one-armed orc I’d skittered away from as a child, and a female I didn’t recognise but who had the most incredible, blue eyes I’d ever seen. Vilugh must have caught me admiring her in the great hall because he leaned in close and growled without real sting, “Stare too long at my sister and she’ll most likely cut out your eyes, princeling.”

“I was just admiring hers,” I yipped quickly, regretting the rather boyish note to my usually hoarse tenor. “Blue eyes are not so common in these parts, that’s all. I meant no offence by it.”

Seated beside him at the table, she leaned close to her brother and barked something in orcish at him. He looked briefly back at me, and then responded in the same. They conversed for a moment and I sat there with my spine dead-straight and my jaw clenched. When Vilugh turned back to me, he grinned. “Rhana says that if the pretty human princeling wants to stare at her, he can, but he’ll have to answer to her wife when we get back.”

“Far be it from me to come between an orc and her wife,” I chuckled anxiously.

When Vilugh translated, they both laughed and Rhana reached behind her brother and cuffed me on the shoulder hard enough that I was almost sent reeling off my seat and onto the floor, which got another laugh out of them and drew a glare of daggers from my unnerved father. Good. Let him be baffled that I was already getting along with these warriors like soldiers in the barracks. He’d clearly not expected me to have any idea how to behave around them, but while I didn’t spend my spare time in our own guards’ barracks, I observed the way everyone in the castle interacted with each other. It was what I’d been trained to do, after all: notice things and remember them.

All in all, the orcs didn't linger long, and we were on our way within an hour.

The pace of the first few hours of the ride alternated between a brisk walk and trotting, though my mare jogged excitedly for the first hour of that until I finally convinced her that we were in it for the long haul. The grooms kept her fit and well-schooled since I couldn’t step away from the castle regularly enough to do it myself, but by the end of the day, even my indomitable Starling was beginning to flag. I patted her neck and murmured that we’d probably break camp soon, and, sure enough, we did.

Once a small fire was lit, with the dry twigs of plains brush-scrub, and carefully warded in a low pit to stop it spreading across the arid plain, I drew out my rations from my saddlebag and Vilugh shot me a look of mild surprise.

“What?” I asked, nervous that I’d committed some inadvertent transgression by digging in before they’d started eating.

After a moment, the orc heaved himself down onto the ground beside me, long, black plait thwacking against his back at the motion. Then he said almost conspiratorially, “You’re not what I was expecting.”

Unwrapping the bread and hard cheese from their waxed linen wrappings, I frowned. “Just what were you expecting, might I ask?”

He shrugged a massive shoulder and drew out a similarly wrapped parcel - much larger - with dried meat and a hard looking biscuit that I thought would probably crack my own teeth before it broke. “Honestly… going off the last time I saw you, and from what your father said of you in talks with my mother… I thought you’d be a fragile little bird. You’re not.” He looked at me, dark eyes glittering in the fire like polished onyx and added, “You are skinny as a bird, but you’re not weak.”

“How would you know?” I scoffed. “I could be too weak to draw my sword. It could just be strapped to my waist for show…” In fact, it was now unbuckled and lying behind me with my saddle and bags, while Starling was hobbled nearby and looking rather disdainfully at the slim grazing afforded by the scrubland where we’d paused. Finest high-summer hay, it was not.

“You move like a dancer,” he said, and I immediately choked on a breadcrumb.

He had to slap me on the back and offered me a skin of water. I washed the offending clog down and gawped at him. “What would you know about human dancers?” I asked without thinking.

“I’ve travelled to the cities on the coast,” he said. “They dance in the marketplaces on festival days.”

“Oh,” I said. And then my cheeks flushed. “I’m not… You know… those dancers are… uh… paid to do more than dance… shall we say.”

It took Vilugh a moment to catch on, but he seemed embarrassed at his mistake. “I meant no insult by it,” he said. “They’re very beautiful.”

“That they are,” I admitted. My father had tried to entice three of them into bed with me after one evening spent in the company of one of his duchesses, but when I’d shown more interest in her library than her twittering prostitutes, he’d given up. Apparently the finest courtesans in the land weren’t going to make me proper man in his eyes, so it wasn’t worth trying.

Vilugh must have seen my memories swirling across my face, because he didn’t bring it up again, and we ate in a rather awkward silence after that. The orcs drew lots for the watch, and Vilugh drew the first and insisted that as their guest, I should not be expected to deprive myself of sleep. Plus, apparently, the next day’s riding would be harder and he didn’t want me falling out of my saddle when I dozed off. Also orcs’ eyes were more like cats’ eyes in the dark, I discovered, when I looked up and saw Rhana’s glinting at me from across the fire and nearly had a heart attack. She laughed and wished me pleasant dreams.

Taking their well-meaning jibes in my stride, I nodded and bedded down in my humble bedroll. It was the type that hunters used, made of breathable buckskin and lined with fleece to keep off the chill of the plains, and although I’d only spent one or two nights in it in my life, I slept better that night than I had in years, not waking until Vilugh's surprisingly gentle touch at my shoulder stirred me not long after dawn.

Over the course of the next few days, Starling developed a comical rivalry with Rhana’s boar, the two taking every opportunity to bite or scuffle with each other, though it never seemed to get truly vicious enough for either of us to worry about, so we let it play out to our amusement. Perhaps because of that and perhaps because I just simply liked them for their gruff honesty, by the time the wooden palisade walls of the orcish war-band’s permanent stronghold drew into view on a wind-blown hilltop, I felt relatively comfortable with the three orcs who had been sent to fetch me.

The older one with one arm was called Rhakak, and was apparently Vilugh’s cousin. He was taciturn and unflinching, watchful and grim, but not aggressive towards me. I still gave him a wide berth though.

But if I’d thought Rhakak was intimidating, it was nothing to Vilugh's mother.

I remembered her from her visit to the castle, but nothing could quite have prepared me for the sheer presence the matriarch had amongst her own people. She was standing waiting for us as we rode up to the walls of the stronghold, and even though Vilugh had told me that Khraxh wouldn’t hold me to the same etiquette as she would a visiting orc, I still nearly shat my pants in fear when I got off Starling’s back and found her surveying me with a distinctly unimpressed look on her weathered, beautiful face.

She really was beautiful. Her body was honed and muscular, but her movements were sleek and efficient, and in much the way a war galley cuts through the water and bristles with power, so she moved with the dormant power of a life-long warrior. Her long, thick hair had turned grey in the intervening decade since I’d seen her, and she’d lost half a tusk too, but the way the gathered orcs arranged themselves around her reminded me of a wolf and her pack. She commanded absolute obedience in them, and unyielding loyalty. In that moment, I did feel afraid, and suddenly very much not up to the seemingly impossible task I had been set.

With a rather endearing patience, Vilugh had taught me the phrase to speak in orcish upon meeting her, and once I could finally get my tongue around the complex vocal gymnastics of the orcish language, he said I would not be flayed alive for completely embarrassing my tutor.

Thus, upon our first meeting, I nearly sprained my jaw, but I gained perhaps a modicum of respect from the veteran war chief. As the three orcs sent to the castle to fetch me had now bowed, neither did I, but I did incline my head as I spoke. There was no need to act like a prideful brat after all.

If my father was expecting me to make enemies of these people and inadvertently lure them into killing me and sparking a war, then I was bloody well going to do the opposite. I wasn’t a warrior, but I had my mind, and I was damned if I was going to fuck things up and go down in history as the skinny little prince who kicked off the orc-human conflict all over again.

Humble but not meek, studious but not annoyingly curious, polite but not obsequious, opinionated but not obnoxious… I began to feel my way through the stronghold’s hierarchy, and miraculously survived my first week there without insulting anyone.

One week down, twenty three more to go…

___

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

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You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier!

Currently I’m also running a CYOA for all tiers, with episodes releasing every Friday.

__

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[miss-kittys-magical-library]

60. “have you always been this beautiful?” + 68. “You owe me a kiss.” for sean/reader plssss?

Glitter in The Air (Sean X Reader)

A/N: This is just pure Sean Falco bubble gum cotton candy fluff just for Joz ☺️☺️😍

You held your finger above the mouse and debated which road to take:

Add him. It's only been four years, but he's bound to remember you.

Forget it. It’s been four years, how would he ever remember you?!

Without a second thought you clicked add friend on the Facebook name “SeanFalco92.” You typed out a little note just in case.

Hey, Sean.

I'm sorry about what happened at the University. You're a bit infamous. Not every day the quiet Irishman gives it to the campus police. That fire hydrant was ugly anyways.

Y/N, The Dark Room Princess

Then you switched off the internet to prevent yourself from nervously checking every ten minutes to see a response. So you poured yourself a cup of coffee and put your headphones in. It was gonna be an all-nighter on your grad school thesis.

Your computer made a loud ping noise that startled you from sleep you didn't realize you had fallen into. You raised your head and looked at the time “11am.” Thank God, still a few hours until you had to turn in your thesis. Then you were free to never worry about university again, until the loans rolled in. You groaned.

Still you adjusted yourself and your glasses to read the message that had come up alongside the friend request acceptance.

Hey! Yeah it's totally been awhile. How have you been? I felt the wrath of my parents when they bailed me out. Due for a bit of community payback for a few months. Sorry “Service.” Next time I won't get nicked.

Not quite sure about the dark room reference, but was thinking you should meet me at the carnival on Friday. I know I shouldn't be on campus, but I had tickets before everything went down. Care to be my reason for still showing my face after all that humiliation?

Sean

You shook your head and laughed. He definitely didn't remember you, and you weren't exactly sure what he was up to. Who turns down an opportunity to spend the night with Sean Falco?

You took your time replying. Showering. Eating lunch. Printing your thesis and assembling it. Not wanting to appear eager in your reply. He pinged again.

You there? It looked like you were online. Sorry, didn't mean to appear so needy or forward. I just thought it’d be nice to be reacquainted.

You cocked an eyebrow, cheeks flushed a bit and finally returned a response.

Yeah. I would like that. I live in the Madison apartments. Get to Union station (I'm guessing you lost your license?) and we’ll take the Gold Line back to campus. See you at 7.

Sean's comeback was immediate.

It's a date!

Your face grew even hotter. Fuck, it's a date.

-----

You couldn't help but be nervous as you paced around the front steps of your apartment complex. You felt confident in the cute outfit you rushed out and bought impulsively. Or how you bit the bullet and got your hair done too after you delivered your thesis. You claimed it was in celebration of the rest of your life and nothing to do with the tall, lanky Irishman now headed your way.

“Sean!” a bit startled as you turned around in his direction.

Curly hair a bit wild, his jeans looking industrial but you knew they weren't bought that way. The purple tee-shirt he wore somehow made his leafy green eyes positively stunning. His hand was outstretched with a flower held towards you.

“T’ought I might go a bit old-fashioned t’night,” you took the --- from him. “Maybe a bit o’ congratulations for finishing your t’esis paper.”

Glad your hair covered your ears because you knew the tips were bright red. You never remembered his lilt being that strong or noticeable. Maybe for some strange reason it was his nerves too?

“A Peony? Sean, these are my favorites! How’d you know?” you smelled it briefly before you tucked it away behind your ear. Pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”

“I may have creeped around your photos a bit, hope ye don't mind?” Sean raised his hands and crinkled one of his eyes shut.

“This is my first flower from anyone, so I'll take some light stalking in the meantime. We should hurry though, the train leaves in ten minutes.”

The two of you side by side. You sat turned to face him, back towards the window of the car. Sean faced forward and stole sideways glances while you talked.

“So what does a young lady with a Masters in Art History do fer livin?”

“I want to restore old paintings at the Met in New York, but I'll probably be stuck here in Portland till I'm thirty. What about you, think you can bypass a degree and still be a photojournalist? Maybe and Irish Ansel Adams?”

Sean laughed, “How did you know any of that?” He looked directly at you with a gleam in his eyes.

“You really don't remember me do you?”

You took a chance and slid your hand into his to prevent him from picking at a loose thread in his shirt. Sean easily enclosed it without hesitation.

“Mostly!” Cheek hidden in his smile. “I just thought something about ye clicked in my brain. Can't figure out why, but was hopin’ going out with ye would jog my mind. Is t’at ok?”

There was no time to answer. Soon enough you were back on campus. You talked Sean into some french fries and corn dogs before tugging at his hand excitedly.

“Ok, the Ferris Wheel! Let's do that first? We should be able to see downtown, and it'll be dusk by the time we get on.”

Sean hesitated as his eyes glanced up towards the top. A flash of nerves behind his eyes, but he gave up and shrugged. Obediently following you in line while he ate, a bit sullen.

Surely the guy who just fought a fire hydrant and a cop wouldn't be scared of heights, you thought. Then you flashed back to that day Freshman year and Sean's panicked voice in the dark. His ragged breath and palms that sweat through your tee shirt as he held onto your shoulders.

You shoved a cheese fry in your mouth as the line staggered forward slow and steady. The conversation had died quite suddenly, but you knew you had to take the chance. Cheesy romantic comedy as this all was, who doesn't want to be with a hot guy alone stuck on a ride?

“Uh y/n?” The giggle was back in Sean’s voice now as you broke from your reverie. “You've got some..” His thumb swiped at the corner of your mouth before he lifted it to his own. “Cheese.”

“Thank.. you?” The tension was silent and awkward.

Then, as the two of you simply stared at each other, Sean let out a sound somewhere between a strangled laugh and a snort. It was infectious, and you instantly joined in. That type of laughter you aren't sure how people achieve, but it leaves you breathless and annoying to everyone in your sight.

“I don't know.. why..I licked.. my thumb,” he wheezed around the most childlike giggle. “It was like a weird compulsion.” The way he said the word came out like “way-rd,” and instigated more laughter from deep inside you.

It seemed to ease Sean’s apprehension as the two of you began to board the ride, though. A calm coming over him as you both quieted down. He white-knuckled the bar as it clicked into place over your laps. Eyes wide as it lurched into motion.

You brushed your fingers tentatively over his clenched fist. Sean had a glazed look in his eyes as you slowed and stopped multiple times. You inches towards the top. He really was frightened.

“I've just gotta get over this. I'm confronting my fear is all.” He sounded so serious with a hint of pride, you stifle a chuckle with a bite of a lip.

Sean peered slightly over the edge of the car and looked downwards. Then it halted suddenly and he grabbed your hand and covered it with his massive one. You squirmed around to hold it properly as he squeezed his eyes shut. The car swung back and forth a bit on the precarious side, even for you. One last time, and it would start spinning in its giant lackadaisical circle.

Forward. Pitch to a stop even harder than the last few. This time Sean buried his face in your shoulder, and you relished this surprising role-reversal. But then he looked up at you in the most serious manner.

“Have you always been this beautiful?”

At the same exact time you said:

“First claustrophobia now heights”

You both sat up straight and gaped.

Again simultaneously.

“How d’ye know I'm claustrophobic?!”

“Did you just call me pretty?”

For the moment, Sean was no longer afraid. Your sentiment about his fear distracted him long enough that he loosened up immensely. Long fingers scratched at his mess of curls while deep in thought. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, heart beating wildly in your ears.

Sean tugged at his chin with a forefinger and thumb. Obviously deep in thought as he gazed off into the sky. It was like a lightbulb finally popped on over his head.

“Jesus (jaysus) Dr Bacher’s photography course. Freshman year!”

You smiled, “By Jove I think he's got it!”

“T’at’s how ye know me. We got right stuck in that darkroom door. It was like a pitch-black tube really. Man I bloody well panicked.”

“I thought you were screwing with me at first! Your hands were so sweaty my tee-shirt was wet from where you were groping me. I kept thinking how every single girl in our class would've killed our professor to be stuck with the hot Irish guy. All that heavy breathing, my teenage brain thought it was sexual tension.”

“I was 18 wedged in a small space with a cute girl. It was claustrophobia, but it was also sexy.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and smiled. The two of you ignoring the ride and it's slow rotations. Still holding hands.

“I don't think I imagined that..” you struggled with the next line.. “parts of you were totally poking into me.”

Sean's mouth dropped open but he repeated his prior sentiment. A bit higher pitched. “I WAS 18 IN A SMALL SPACE WITH A HOT GIRL!” His lilt was more pronounced.

“Who gets a fear.. boner,” you rolled back into the hysterics from earlier on the ground.

Sean's face a deep crimson as his mouth tightened into a straight line. He looked away, but you knew he was playing along. Those eyes betrayed him with a hint of a smile.

“You told me if I got us out you’d take me on a date.”

“I said I'd kiss ye if we got out alive. Never knew how long it’d be til someone found us.”

“You did!” you agreed excitedly. “The door just needed hoisted up and back on the track. Which I did! Then we stumbled out and I practically threw myself in your arms for that kiss.”

“Wait, did we?” Sean turned back to you as the Ferris wheel slowed to another stop. Neither of you remembered it moving.

“No. Stupid ass Derek Sandoval was in the classroom waiting for you.”

“Oi! Watch now, he's still my mate.” Sean's turn to tease now.

“I bet he is.”

The two of you sat back in the car. Your fingers still entwined but the fright had melted away. Sean let out a long steady breath as he really looked out on the carnival and the multicolored lights as they danced around you. The stars blanketed the sky.

“Sean?”

His face heavenwards. “Yeah y/n?

“I think you owe me a kiss,” your words soft, almost a whisper.

Sean’s gaza came back down from the clouds. The music and noise from the crowds seemed to fade away as your breath caught in your throat. Without a second thought, he let go of your hand and put his arm around you. That soft mouth leaned over and almost melted with yours. Your bodies enveloped in a hug as Sean slid the tip of his tongue between your lips. Your own darted forward to fight with it.

Then the car hulked into motion again and you broke apart. A smirk on Sean's face revealed a dimple, and you joined in with a grin of your own.

“Well, that was worth a four year wait.”

Tag list: @joz-stankovich @robertsheehanownsmyass @magic-multicolored-miracle @elliethesuperfruitlover

[jae-daddy]

magic (7)

Draco Malfoy fanfic 

one / two / three / four / five  / six /

pairing: Draco x reader genre: shifting realities, romances  plot: you were shifting realities for the lols, but ended up in harry potter universe with Draco Malfoy as your companion  a/n: long time, but hope y’all enjoy this <333 

____________

The sharp branches cut your skin, the rocks painfully dug into your feet, but you kept ongoing.

The silence of the damp dark forest grew louder in the darkness of the endless shadows. Your heartbeat in your ears, your lungs burned from running too long, your legs beginning cramp.

But you weren’t stopping.

You didn’t stop no matter how much it hurt. Because deep in your heart that shivered with the fear, you knew if you slowed down, or stopped, you would get caught by the thing chasing you. You didn’t know what it was, you couldn’t remember exactly what had frightened you so much that you wouldn’t stop running even when as you throat began bleeding from dryness.

You could feel the coldness closing in around you. It licked your ankles, teasing you as your fear rose.

“No.” You begged in your mind, desperate. The words slowly falling onto you your lips, “No. No. No.

“No, please, not like this.”

You rose in your bed just as Draco entered the dark dorm room. His piercing light eyes met yours in confusion, and then with a flick of a finger, the fireplace lulled to life.

“Naptime, muggle?” Draco scuffed walking in, clearly still displeased with you getting him detention with Granger.

“It’s the only thing I can do apparently,” you shrugged as you got out of the bed. You wondered if you should tell Draco about the dream.

But it was just a dream. A dream you’ve been having for many nights now.

But, nonetheless, it was just a dream.

“What are you doing here?” You clicked your tongue at Draco as he settled on the armchair loosening his tie and throwing his head back.

Images flashed through your mind. Your mouth on his pale skin, your tongue tasting his skin. Your fingers loosening the tie, slowly opening his white shirt and letting him take over your mind.

Draco’s lips curled into a smile, before he snorted, “I can feel you ogling me, muggle.”

“You wish,” you tore your eyes away, as your cheeks flamed red. You kept your eyes cast on the wall as you hid your hands in the holes of the sweater you had borrowed from Draco’s closet, “Shouldn’t you be at detention?”

Draco snorted as slid backwards over the arm of the armchair, his legs hanging over the edge as he sighed, “Taking a rest before I get tortured, thanks to you.”

“Fine,” you frowned looking at him, but he kept his icy blue eyes on the ceiling, “if it’s so terrible, I’ll come along and suffer with you.”

Draco looked back to you, a knowing smile spreading onto his lips, “Be my guest muggle.”

“Enjoying yourself, muggle?” Draco sneered over his shoulders, peeking back to find you struggling on the uneven surface.

You gasped almost tripping over an overgrown root but catching yourself before you fell onto the dirt. “I really thought you guys would have detention like normal people, or I don’t know, at least together.”

“Don’t think, muggle,” Draco replied, as he stepped over a large root, and then watching you as you followed him. Once you were over he continued walking, “Whenever you think of something, it never works out.”

“That’s not true,” you frowned.

“Well, you thought of helping me suffer through this detention, yet all you have offered is your company,” his blue eyes twinkled with humour as he checked back at you with a smile, “which is quite honestly making this whole thing less bearable and more torturous.”

You glared at his back, not being able to find a good comeback. However, the answer dissipated as a small smile started on your lips. Your eyes followed his robe elegantly falling over his shoulders as he walked through the enchanted forests. The buckets in his hands wobbled overwhelmingly at tricky steps making some of the bile brown water to splash onto his black material.

Draco hissed as another splattered wet his robe before he turned around to face you, “This could all have been avoided if you had just listened.”

“Listened?” You chortled, as you stopped in your tracks and stared at him glaring at you. The smile gone from your lips, “I should have listened? No, this wouldn’t be happening if you had just agreed, or at least tried to talk to me about it. You really left me with no choice.”

“No choice?” He snorted darkly, his tongue poking the corner of his rosy lips in frustration. His piercing blue eyes turned back to you, the intensity causing butterflies in your tummy.

You held onto every bit of self-control you had to stop yourself from looking away from his gaze.

“If I’m not mistaken it was you who made me blurt out in class to Professor Hambridge that cost us this bloody detention in the first place. I was given no stupid choice; it was you who made the decision.”

“Right, blame the muggle.”

You strutted past him, bumping your shoulder against him. You smiled wickedly as you heard him grumble as a new wave of the potent liquid fell onto his robe.

You heard him sigh after a moment, and began following you. Draco caught up next to you, taking the lead once again. Once he arrived at the pond, he placed the buckets down, lifting one up to empty it.

You grabbed the other splashing the water out of the bucket and into the pond following Draco who was doing the same. A smile sprung on your lips as you took in his light blonde hair flopping against his forehead freely, and a foul frown etched onto his lips.

“Disgusting,” he grunted as he jerked his hand, trying to rid whatever imaginary droplets had remained onto his long elegant hands. His gaze flickered towards you before it settled on you with a confused frown on his lips.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” You shrugged, looking away from him and onto the pond swarming with brown unknowns, your face void of any emotions.

“The way that you were,” his blue eyes narrowed, as he took a dangerous step towards you. You couldn’t help but look back up meeting his questioning stare. “What are you thinking of, muggle?”

You swallowed nervously as you looked away from him and his icy blue eyes that pulled you in closer.

“Your hair,” you kept your eyes averted, but you could feel your cheeks flame under his gaze as it remained on you. “It looks nice like that.”

Draco stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening before he quickly looked away too. Your eyes flickered between him and the gloomy forest that was suddenly filled with sunshine.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot when you noticed the rosy blush on Draco’s cheeks.

“Whatever,” you muttered, turning on your heels. The empty bucket swung around with you as you marched into the tree line. You kept walking speedily, trying to outrun your racing heart.

You were an absolute idiot flirting with Draco Malfoy.

It was different when you were trying to shift realities and meet Draco. That Draco Malfoy would be whoever you wanted him to be. He would’ve been spicy, but he wouldn’t be the muggle-hating Draco Malfoy who stood by the murky pond right now.

He wouldn’t have hated your existence, and your survival wouldn’t have depended on him either.

This was not okay, you can’t flirt with Draco Malfoy. It didn’t matter how insanely beautiful he was, or how much he made your heart skip a beat, you will not. You could not risk it.

Not unless he tried something, but that was near impossible.

You were so lost in your thought that you didn’t realise where you were walking.

“You stupid muggle!” Draco caught up next to you, his hand on your shoulder stopping you in your tracks. Your skin burnt even through the thick layers of Draco’s autumn clothes you had piled on. Draco’s face pulled into a sneer as he gritted through his teeth, “You are going the wrong way.”

“Oh, sorry,” was all you could mutter, as you looked away from his eyes.

Draco didn’t say anything, taken aback by how easily you gave in.

“This way,” he looked at you sceptically, leading you towards another direction.

You followed Draco through the dark and gloomy forest. Your eyes flickering between the uneven ground, and his soft light hair that remained perfect even through the trek.

“What is the future like, muggle?” Draco asked, after a while, his eyes looking straight ahead.

You bit your lip thinking about it for a moment, before saying, “Muggles have magic.”

Draco’s wide eyes turned to you in shock, making you laugh.

You threw your head back, the laughter bubbling out of your chest as your voice loudly echoed through the dense forest.

Laughter flowed out of you so easily, that it made your heart sink. You realised how long it had been since you had last laughed so freely. You wiped away the tears from the laughter and hint of sadness and pushed down the feeling that was trying to creep out from where you had hidden it.

Right now wasn’t the time.

Draco watched you for a few moments, his lips in a tight line but his eyes soft. He cleared his throat and looked forward once again, continuing down the path. He spat out the question, “Magic and muggles?”

“Well, it’s technically not magic magic,” you followed him, your eyes wandering through the thick trees. “It’s magic achieved through technology.”

“Technology?” Draco sneered, peering back at you, annoyed. “That already exists.”

“Yes, but there is a lot of advancements,” you replied. “We have moving pictures too! But you need a laptop or a phone or something digital to see it in.”

“A laptop or phone?” Draco murmured, confused. Before offering, “A telephone?”

“Yes, a portable telephone,” you caught yourself, almost tripping over a fallen branch. “Do computers exist right now?”

“You are meant to be the muggle,” Draco sighed, but nodded nonetheless.

“I have bad memory,” you pouted slightly, before continuing, “A laptop is a portable computer that fits onto your lap-”

“Hence the name,” Draco nodded. “Makes sense.”

You chuckled, nodding, “And a phone is a telephone and a computer in one, and fits into your palm.”

Draco looks back over his shoulder, staring at you blankly. He slowly blinked and looked away, nodding, “That is quite impressive... for muggles.”

“I mean, there are really bad things going on too,” you softly continued. “While the good is good, the bad is really bad, and there’s too much bad in the world.”

“Bad?”

“The people, the society,” you sighed. When Draco didn’t say anything you continued, carefully. “You know, how the magic world has purebloods and mudbloods and muggles, and all that bad, stupid and senseless stuff, we have that too. But it’s race instead.”

“Race?”

“Depending on the skin colour, the ethnic features of a person defines how they are treated,” you explained shrugging.  

“We’ve learnt about this in muggle studies,” Draco turned and looked at you. After a moment he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

You felt the breath kick out of you, as you looked away from him.

“It is all senseless stupidity,” Draco said, still looking at you. You nodded, keeping your eyes low.

And then you finally lifted them to meet his icy eyes, glowing with the warmth. You bit your nails into your palm to stop yourself, but you couldn’t help yourself, “Then why do you do it?”

The softness in Draco’s eyes instantly vanished as darkness swirled in them. His jaw locked and fists clenched by his side.

“The divide between Purebloods and Mudbloods is nothing but labels. It literally means nothing, it’s nothing but hate and pointless childish tantrums. It’s exactly what muggles are doing, it’s no better.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a long moment. His throat bobbing, as he swallowed nervously, before meeting your eyes, “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Whatever it is, Draco,” you took a step towards him, your voice desperate. “It can’t be --”

“That is enough for today,” Draco turned, his voice cold again. There was no curiosity or lightness in his voice. You sighed and followed him down the forest that looked the same to you no matter which way you turned.

Your eyes travelled up towards the sky as you took a deep breath to calm yourself. You reminded yourself that maybe not now, but you need to have this conversation with Draco.

However, your thoughts changed into confusion when you saw something move along the treetops. Your eyes narrowed to watch more carefully; your heart and feet stopping once you realise what it was.

“Draco,” you rasped, not looking away from the branches that were slithering. “Is this the right way?”

“I am certain I know this forest better than you, muggle,” Draco spat, his tongue sharp, but the easiness slowly returning. When you didn’t reply, he looked over his shoulder to you.

He turned around as he let out a tired sigh, “What’s the hold-up? Spot a good place for a little tea, princess?”

You kept looking above noticing the slithering of the branches increase. You felt your tummy drop as you croaked out through a whispered cry, “Draco, look up.”

Draco groaned, muttering something under his breath, but whatever it was, it died immediately.

“Do not move,” he whispered under his breath, “Do not speak or breath. Do not make the slightest noise.”

You just nodded, your sweaty palms holding onto the empty bucket tightly.

“Now, walk over to me, carefully,” Draco told you. Your frightened eyes finally moving away from the creatures above to his alarmed cold eyes.

You tried moving but your knees felt made out of rubber and your feet cemented to the floor. Your heart shook in your chest and lips bit with fear.

Draco’s sharp eyes softened as he slowly lifted a hand towards you, “It’s okay, there is no need to be afraid. They won’t hurt you.”

You held his gaze, as golden swirled in your chest.

You wouldn’t get hurt, not because those slithering creatures won’t hurt you. No, you won’t get hurt because Draco Malfoy won’t let them hurt you.

There was no need to be scared. It’ll be okay.

You took a deep breath in, holding it as you took silent steps towards him and his outreached hands. You lifted your shaking hand, your eyes not leaving his piercing blue ones, watching you, waiting for you as you walked towards him.

You placed your shivering hand in his cold ones. The breath you were holding in slipping out of you, as you took a step closer towards him. His cold fingers wrapped around yours, his eyes watching yours for a moment longer, before he turned away slowly.

His hands tightened as he led you out of the forest.

You followed him in a daze. You no longer noticed the branches that slithered as you walked past them. Even when glowing eyes blinked open and followed you, you weren’t scared.

Electricity danced through your veins, as his cold hands gave you the warmth of a summer afternoon. You watched his broad shoulders, the robe that elegantly draped across them. The paleness of his neck, and the snow-kissed strands of his hair that tickled the nape of his neck.

You let him take you away.

You trusted him.

__________

You observed from Draco’s side as you walked towards Hermione Granger. You watched as she physically tensed up, spotting the boy who looked like winter walk towards her. Her big eyes concentrated on Draco as he strolled closer to her.

She wasn’t paying attention to whatever the student standing in front of her was saying; all her attention was on Draco.

Your eyes flickered to Draco, his face cold and sneering as always. But he didn’t have that cocky smirk or smile that he normally adorned before he began relishing the torture of his peers.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Hermione spat before Draco even reached her.

Draco snorted, reaching back into his robe and pulling out an old-looking book. He held it out to her, a mocking smile on his face but his words kind, “Here. The library said you wanted to have a read. You have three days before I want it back.”

Hermione stared at him, her brown eyes round with shock before narrowing with suspicion, “Whatever prank you are trying to pull, it won’t work, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes, a corner of his lips lifting with darkened humour before he threw the book at her. Hermione caught it before the hardcover could collide against her nose. She gasped in surprise and anger as she glared at Draco who stared at her with a cold smile, “Three days, mudblood.”

Before she could say anything, Draco already began walking away. His hands tucked into his black trousers under his robes. You followed hot on his trails, his eyes meeting yours for a moment as he rose his eyebrows, excited.

“I don’t think calling her mudblood has the desired effect that we want to achieve, Draco,” you clicked your tongue at him as he led you through the shortcuts to the Slytherin dorms.

“I don’t think there’s anything else I could call her,” Draco spat back, his tongue dripping with distaste. “What would I even call her if not that?”

“Hermione? Granger? Bro?” You offered.

“Bro?” Draco frowned, confused, “That sounds crass.”

“Right, cause mudblood is honourable,” you retorted, entering Draco’s room. You made a beeline towards the bed, collapsing onto it letting out a guttural sigh. “I am so exhausted.”

“And who’s fault is it that we got detention?” Draco asked as he discarded his robe.

“Well, technically it was you who got detention.” You called out as you stared at the ceiling your arms and leg spread open.

Draco just snorted in reply, before disappearing into the bathroom. When he came back out, you turned to lay on your tummy watching him as he dried his hair with a white towel.

Your cheeks heated as you gulped nervously.

Draco Malfoy was a sight to behold in his everyday polished black suits and black robes, hair done to perfection. But nothing could compare to the white-blonde haired devil standing in front of you at the foot of the bed, looking down at you. A hand rubbing his white strands with his long fingers, the first few buttons of his black pyjama set opened revealing his pale skin.

You wanted to reach up and unbutton it more.

Your cheeks flushed more as you thought of the things you wanted to do to Draco Malfoy. While being friends with Draco was one the main object of trying to shift realities, you had realised that getting railed by him would not be a such a bad added benefit.

Indecent images raced through your mind. His long fingers tangled in your hand, pushing your head down as he groaned. His cold rings digging into your neck, cutting out your breath as he chocked you and spat in your mouth.

Oh lord.

“I’m going shower,” you rose up at once. You didn’t look back at Draco as you walked into the bathroom, discarding your clothes instantly and walking into the cold shower, yanking it to the heat from hell.

You walked out calmer. Your hair rolled up in the towel on the top of your head, and you straightened Draco’s plain black shirt as you walked out.

“Don’t you have any t-shirts?” You groaned, fidgeting with a button, as you groaned into the armchair opposite Draco. When he didn't reply, you lifted your gaze to find him with a book in his hands.

A different book, but same subject, “Do you have a paper on consciousness?”

Draco didn’t say anything, he just sighed and put the book down. He lifted up the basket bringing out tonight’s dinner.

You shot him a sweet smile grabbing your plate from him.

Draco only sneered at disgust, but didn’t comment and settled into his chair and began eating.

You watched him for a moment. It was quite surreal seeing Draco Malfoy; the Slytherin Prince, sitting in an armchair, eating dinner awkwardly from his lap. You felt your heart swell as he took a gruff bite of his bread, frowning as he struggled to balance the plate.

Draco could easily eat in the dining hall with everyone else, like a normal person on a table. But instead, since the first day you had arrived, Draco would always eat with you in his room. You couldn’t deny, even though he struggled, he had improved a lot at eating so unmanneredly.

“This is uncivilised,” he sneered as he took a sip of his wine. You bit your tongue to stop yourself from saying something that might ruin this moment.

“I think the food is delicious,” you gave him a cheeky smile, making him roll his eyes at you.

“So what,” Draco rose a perfect eyebrow as he placed his plate onto the table. “All we can do is wait for that mudblood to join us?”

The fireplace crackled, the shadows of the flame falling over you both as you snuggled into your armchair with your dinner plate.

“Us?” You rose your eyebrows mockingly, making him roll his eyes as he slumped into his seat. “There are other things we need. For instance, Luna and Neville.”

“Are any of your required things not students I loathe?” Draco sighed, rubbing his forehead in annoyance.

“Oh, and Fred and George too.”

“Merlin, muggle,” Draco groaned. “Not the Weasleys.”

“They’re the only ones!” You defended, putting the plate down. Draco flicked his finger with a ring, and it disappeared instantly. “You like Fred and George.”

“Yes, far away from me,” he replied instantly.

“Okay, fine,” you folded your arms, as gave him a smug look. “You name a group of people who you know you can trust completely and would help us.”

“Well, Pansy and Blaze, for starters.” He stammered, his eyes widened in a slight panic as he tried to come up with more names. Once he couldn’t think of any more, he groaned once again, sighing a frustrated, “Fine.”

“Fine,” you shrugged, “they can join us too, but are you sure you can trust them?”

You wished instantly you could take those words back, as soon as they left you. You watched Draco flinch, as the looseness in his body from the afternoon, tightened instantly as he straightened up.

His piercing eyes met yours, burning you with its coldness.

“Can’t trust us, muggle?” Draco spat, his voice low with distaste. “Scared we’ll go running off to our Death Eater parents and ruin your little plan?”

“Draco,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Your hands wanted to reach for him, to hold his hand and take him away from the darkness that began to shadow him. “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cut you off, your gaze following him as he got up from his seat. He leaned in closer to you, his warm breath kissing your forehead, as the smell of green overcame your senses. His eyes burned so darkly, your heart sunk low, “It will never matter what you think.

“Never forget what you are, y/n,” your heart stopped as he said your name. He didn't ever say it after the first night you showed up in his room. But now that he did, he said it with so much bitterness and hatred it pierced through your heart painfully, “You are a muggle.

“You are nothing.”

His fingers curled around the edges of the armchair, as he leaned over you. His face a few inches away from yours. His rosy lips curled into a cruel sneer, his tongue sharp and dripping with venom.

Your eyes burned with tears as you stared into his sharp eyes shining with the bitter victory. His lips turning into a sinister smile, as he took into your frowning lips. He enjoyed seeing you hurt, he enjoyed seeing you affected by his poisonous words.

You tore your gaze away from him, looking at the fireplace instead.

Draco remained for a beat more, before chuckling darkly and moving away.

He walked away from you and into his closet, returning with a coat on. He didn't have to say it, you could tell he was not returning back to the dorm tonight.

“I trust you,” you spoke softly. Draco halted in his steps, not moving. He didn’t look back at you. He didn’t say anything, he just remained still. You studied his back, as it got rigid with every passing second. “I trust you, Draco Malfoy, with my life.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He remained still for a few more moments, and then his blonde hair disappeared behind the heavy dark wood doors.

And then a few moments later, a piece of chocolate cake and hot chocolate appeared.

You bit your back, trying to hold back the tears, but you couldn’t stop them. You curled into your seat, crying as you watched the hot chocolatey beverage and the delicious piece of chocolate cake.

Prick, you thought, as you took a bite of the cake.

And you could swear you heard the faintest chuckle in your head, but you brushed it off as imagination.

not edited

[atiny-piratequeen]

alright i found a decent translation of the old grimm version of the fairy tale

~~~

A widow had two daughters, the one was beautiful and industrious, the other ugly and lazy. She greatly favored the ugly, lazy girl, because she was her own daughter. And the other one had to do all the work, and be the Cinderella of the house.

Every day the poor girl had to sit by a well, next to the highway, and spin so much that her fingers bled. Now it happened that one day the reel was completely bloody, so she dipped it in the well, to wash it off, but it dropped out of her hand and fell in. She cried, ran to her stepmother, and told her of the mishap. She scolded her so sharply, and was so merciless that she said, "Since you have let the reel fall in, you must fetch it out again."

Then the girl went back to the well, and did not know what to do. Terrified, she jumped into the well to get the reel. She lost her senses. And when she awoke and came to herself again, she was in a beautiful meadow where the sun was shining, and there were many thousands of flowers. She walked across this meadow and came to an oven full of bread. The bread called out, "Oh, take me out. Take me out, or I'll burn. I've been thoroughly baked for a long time." So she stepped up to it, and with a baker's peel took everything out, one loaf after the other.

After that she walked further and came to a tree laden with apples. "Shake me. Shake me. We apples are all ripe." cried the tree. So she shook the tree until the apples fell as though it were raining apples. When none were left in the tree, she gathered them into a pile, and then continued on her way.

Finally she came to a small house. An old woman was peering out from inside. She had very large teeth, which frightened the girl, and she wanted to run away. But the old woman called out to her, "Don't be afraid, dear child. Stay here with me, and if you do my housework in an orderly fashion, it will go well with you. Only you must take care to make my bed well and shake it diligently until the feathers fly, then it will snow in the world.* I am Frau Holle."

Because the old woman spoke so kindly to her, the girl took heart, agreed, and started in her service. The girl took care of everything to Frau Holle's satisfaction and always shook her featherbed vigorously until the feathers flew about like snowflakes. Therefore she had a good life with her: no angry words, and boiled or roast meat every day.

Now after she had been with Frau Holle for a time, she became sad. At first she did not know what was the matter with her, but at last she determined that it was homesickness. Even though she was many thousands of times better off here than at home, still she had a yearning to return. Finally she said to the old woman, "I have such a longing for home, and even though I am very well off here, I cannot stay longer. I must go up again to my own people."

Frau Holle said, "I am pleased that you long for your home again, and because you have served me so faithfully, I will take you back myself." With that she took her by the hand and led her to a large gate.

The gate was opened, and while the girl was standing under it, an immense rain of gold fell, and all the gold stuck to her, so that she was completely covered with it. "This is yours because you have been so industrious," said Frau Holle, and at the same time she gave her back the reel which had fallen into the well.

With that the gate was closed and the girl found herself above on earth, not far from her mother's house. And as she entered the yard the rooster, sitting on the well, cried:

Cock-a-doodle-doo, Our golden girl is here anew.

Then she went inside to her mother, and as she arrived all covered with gold, she was well received, both by her mother and her sister. The girl told all that had happened to her, and when the mother heard how she had come to the great wealth, she wanted to achieve the same fortune for the other, the ugly and lazy daughter. She made her go and sit by the well and spin. And to make her reel bloody, the lazy girl pricked her fingers and shoved her hand into a thorn bush. Then she threw the reel into the well, and jumped in herself.

Like the other girl, she too came to the beautiful meadow and walked along the same path. When she came to the oven, the bread cried again, "Oh, take me out. Take me out, or else I'll burn. I've been thoroughly baked for a long time."

But the lazy girl answered, "As if I would want to get all dirty," and walked away.

Soon she came to the apple tree. It cried out, "Oh, shake me. Shake me. We apples are all ripe."

But she answered, "Oh yes, one could fall on my head," and with that she walked on.

When she came to Frau Holle's house, she was not afraid, because she had already heard about her large teeth, and she immediately began to work for her. On the first day she forced herself, was industrious, and obeyed Frau Holle, when she said something to her, because she was thinking about all the gold that she would give her. But on the second day she already began to be lazy, on the third day even more so, and then she didn't even want to get up in the morning. She did not make the bed for Frau Holle, the way she was supposed to, and she did not shake it until the feathers flew. Frau Holle soon became tired of this and dismissed her of her duties. This was just what the lazy girl wanted, for she thought that she would now get the rain of gold.

Frau Holle led her too to the gate. She stood beneath it, but instead of gold, a large kettle full of pitch spilled over her. "That is the reward for your services," said Frau Holle, and closed the gate.

Then the lazy girl went home, entirely covered with pitch. As soon as the rooster on the well saw her, he cried out:

Cock-a-doodle-doo, Our dirty girl is here anew.

And the pitch stuck fast to her, and did not come off as long as she lived.

~~~

so in the very first versions it wasnt her stepmom but her mom, so it wasnt a cindarella situation. frau holle has a few different names, one being hulda.

in some versions the girls also have to clean the windows, for the sun to shine in the world.

the girls also have names, both being called marie (in later versions, because stepmom and stuff) and after they come back its goldmarie and pechmarie (pech being german for pitch)

if you have questions about german tales i am quite certain i can help you with most or at least find something and translate it for you :D

OH I ADORED THIS ONE TOO THANK YOU FOR SHARING!

[artemuerto]

Shelby Household Manor

Pairing: Thomas Shelby/Male Reader

Trigger Warning: Intent of Kidnappin, Someone gets shot, Charlis is an Angel, Tommy is still Soft.

Author Notes: The begining scene is the reason why i even started writing part two, but after i finish it, i didn't feel like ending the whole story with such a bloody end and a bad punch line, so instead i made a bonus chapther for this story that seemed to grow by its own.  @sallyjacksontheweirdauthor you said, you would like to read more about the Shelby House.

Part One

Part Two

Read on AO3

Bonus

The Master

—5—

There was blood on the carpet.

There was. So. Much. Blood.

Everywhere. Everywhere he looked, he could see the vicious, sticky colour blooming around the house, the walls; there was a trail of crimson red following his steps combined with shattered glass in a path of destruction, the servant soundlessly walked, relentless, non-stopping and with only one goal in mind until he stood cold in the middle of the empty office, half seated on top of the desk while embracing a silent Charlie who refused to let him go as his tiny fists had an iron grip on his clothes.

He has never seen hell but after a night like the one they just had, the young boy had an idea, a though that maybe this was what hell looked like. Aching limbs, dry throat and broken lips, torn muscles for the continue used and a rising mind with no time for a break, for fresh air and calmness. The servant boy had only one goal in mind and with all his might he would achieved it.

The boy was able to hear the voices approaching. Loud and clear they came as the doors opened up letting through a couple of people he didn’t know, although, by the likes of it seemed as the newcomers were part of the Peaky Blinders, if he had to judge their appearances.

A double pair of eyes set on the shivering boy and started to scream at him once they recognized the quiet shape of Charlie resting in his arms.

“We found him!” One of the boys shouted at whoever was standing by the hall. However, no sense of security it came from the view, he didn’t recognize any of the faces coming toward him. “Boy—” it was cleared by now that those men didn’t knew him either and so did not trust him with having Charlie in his grasp. “You betta give me the child.” Their words were thick with hatred that the boy was not used to hear, no less in his place of work such as the Shelby Household Manor where he got accustomed to listen to Charlie’s laugh at any time of the day.

The boy was about to move when a still frighten Charlie hugged him harder and so in his need to comfort the child, the servant retracted shielding the youngest Shelby from the strangers.

“Listen ‘ere you motherfuck’r…” the Peaky boys started to close onto the servant, trapping him into the desk and by doing so sending Charlie into a frenzy of whips that sent shivers down their spines. The mere thought of their boss finding his son crying was absolute not pleasing even when the man was no way around. “Give me the child.” The tread was made and gun soon followed.

Something broke within him. Who could aim to a baby?

The servant hugged Charlie hiding the child’s face to his neck and yelled.

“Stay away from me!” The adrenaline flooding through his body was burning and busting, his sense of fight or flight was back even when his brain told him it was safe to stay with the Peaky Blinders. They were looking for Charlie after all, they would bring Charlie to his father, the servant knew that, the servant wanted to believe that; but it was, in fact, that belief that led them all to that faithful night of horrors. Someone had passed off as a Peaky boy and tried to Charlie away while his father was gone.

So, no. The young boy could not trust those man. He would not trust those man. He would fight with nails and teeth to protect Charlie until mister Shelby came for the boy.

“LISTEN YOU LIL BITCH—” The obvious threat was forgotten as the servant shot the gun he had in his trembling hand at the unknown gang member. The noise itself was enough to stir something dark and scary. He failed, the young boy was by no means good with guns, he didn’t even have a good aim when playing ball with Charles, but his message was known. If any of them came close to Charlie, they would get a bullet. The Peaky boys were not expecting such a harsh reaction, it was only a scrawny boy, bit tall for his age, with marks and bruises all over his face and disheveled clothes. What harm could the lonely boy do?

Now, they knew.

Nobody moved and Charlie had time to calm down when Arthur came in bursting into the door, his voice loud and clear with orders.

“What the fuck in going on here?” He had heard the gunshot and ran as fast as he could, fearing the worst, when a sheer of light crossed his features. Arthur recognized the darken face that was staring at him in fear and horror. Arthur knew that boy, he knew this servant.

Arthur said his name with a sweet gentleness unknown to others and ordered for the rest of the boys to lower their guns in a silent gesture.

“C’mon now, boy. You know me.” The servant was still tilting the gun at the newcomers before realizing who was talking to him. It was one of the Shelby brothers. It was one of his master’s brothers, the servant knew he could trust this man with his life such as Mister Shelby did.

“Arthur, sir.” The hint of formality even after such a hectic night and moments made Arthur laugh against his best judgement.

“Yes, boy. It’s me.” Arthur smiled looking at the servant boy while relaxing his shoulders. “Good ol’ Arthur.” The young one wanted to smile in return when Charlie turned in his arms and called for his father.

“Sir—” His frighten demeanor and worry was obvious even for the usual clueless Arthur. “Mister Shelby…” The boy didn’t need to finish his request when the oldest Shelby let him know that Tommy was on his way.

It’s alright, Charlie. It’s alright, baby. You’re ok now. You’re all good. He had said to the crying boy as he ran for their lives escaping whoever was after them. The young servant was out doing his usual runs around the manor, locking doors and checking windows when he found an open window thanks to the waving curtains that moved by the tune of the summer wind. Closing it, double checking and turning off the lights, he left and while he was about to go upstairs, he spotted an obscure figure holding a struggling Charlie. Charlie was meant to be put to sleep long hours ago, and Anna had bed him good night respectfully, so that raised a bunch of questions, starting with: Where was Anna?

Anna rested lifeless by a man’s feet.

He had run to Charlie with unknown force to himself, pure panic flood through him while imagining the worst, Charlie called for him and he knew then he wouldn’t trust that man.

Now, still standing in Mr. Shelby’s office with a nervous Arthur trying to calm him down and putting the rest of the boys to a hold while waiting for Tom.

“Tommy’s coming, Charlie.” Arthur reassured his nephew and he could see how the boy calmed after hearing about his father. Soon, shouts were heard. The distinguished voice of one and only Thomas Shelby was hard to miss, the man cried for his baby boy bearing his gun at anyone who dare to cross path with him.

“You hear that, Charlie?” The young one spoke with a tired, raspy voice catching the baby’s attention. “That’s daddy. Daddy’s coming to get you.”

The have both hid in one of the rooms. The servant fought the intruder with a fearless conviction, his need to save the youngest of the family was deep in his bones surpassing his non-existent skills or his lack of knowledge. With angry fists and sharp nails, he hit the man and scratch his face, kicked him between the legs just how mister Shelby had taught him once as he begged for Charlie to go, to hide away but the stubborn boy stood close by crying for him until the kidnapper seemed unconscious enough so they could leave together.

Charlie had whimpered against his clothes and when he went to hug the boy, he realized he was covered in blood. Not his blood, but still. Anna’s blood. The man had shot her after she had tried to elude him and by doing so saving Charlie from getting hurt, dropping him to the floor. The servant took his vest off staying in his shirt only and cleaned Charlie’s face from all trail of heaviness.

“I want daddy.” Charlie had said to him before they tried and looked for a way out. The servant could hear voices looking for them, it seemed someone had planned to attack the house while the head of the family was out doing business for the night. Tommy had left with a short smile and a warm touch Charlie still remembered, his father had promised to spent time with him on the weekend after a long week of work and he was looking forward to it. Charlie had been practicing his violin lessons by playing in front of the servants and other people in the house.

They all compliment him and Charlie only hoped his father would also like it. He had practiced hard all week until the tip of his fingers hurt.

The boy looked at the Shelby child and promised him, they would see his father. He would do everything in his power and would not stop until Charlie was with his father again.

“Don’t worry, Charlie. Daddy’s gonna come for you. Daddy will always come for you.” Little did the boy know, Tommy would search for them both in an equal fiercely need. “You’ll see daddy soon.”

Also, the young one didn’t know how close they would be to find the head of the family.

After hiding in mister Shelby’s office, the boy took the gun he knew Thomas kept in his desk and waited. The voices were long gone as guns were fired, screams and sheers of pain were heard, and an eerie calmness took over. A stillness proper of disaster was approaching and somehow he feared the worst, but what they got were waves of another Peaky Blinders lookalike right before Arthur showed up.

Arthur kept to himself imitating a guardian dog as the young servant whispered to Charlie in anticipation to meeting his father once again, the child held the comforting body of the servant before shrugging at the sound of the door bursting one more time.

Mister Shelby was a mess, to say the least, long forgotten was his pristine suit. The jacket was lost and even when his shirt was still bottom up, it was all wrinkled, the shoulder holster was visible, the shiny straps wide in the open and while his gun was still warm in his hand, the young one couldn’t help but shield Charlie’s view to the bath of blood that was his father, even for a little. Tommy was covered in blood. Both his shoulders were splashed as well as his chest. But what shocked him was mister Shelby’s face.

Thomas’ high cheeks were covered almost completely, barely any spots were left untouched; his forehead had a big stain right in the middle with moving lines that painted him as he walked and moved, the young one didn’t even fathom to imagine how mister Shelby could have gotten blood in his ears and so his lips. His piercing steel blue eyes and his red right hand supporting his warm gun was truly a sight to behold. His expression was wild and non-centered, Thomas was loosing his mind at the thought of loosing his baby boy, the only truthful memory and gift from his long lost wife. So, of course, he had butchered every single one of the people behind that disastrous plan and sent Arthur back to the manor after a tortured man told the true and how the original idea was to take Charlie from his bed that night. Only they hadn’t count with a feisty little thing who fought for Charlie with his life.

Seeing Charlie after being lost in sorrows for so long was like a waterfall of happiness had bath him in peace. His baby boy seemed held together and in one piece, sheltered between protective arms that refuse to leave him alone even after Tom was in the room.

Thomas stood near the door, he could see and hear how the fearful boy whispered to his baby trying to calm him and easily managed to do so. Charlie trusted the boy holding him and so Tommy’s heart was set. Mister Shelby gave Arthur his gun and walked pass him reaching for his son, only to be shock by a sense of cold surprise as the servant dodge him in terror. Tommy felt denied, he felt rejected and almost screamed in need to hold his son and take it away from any harm but soon understood that his baby was in no danger as Charlie melted in the boy’s embrace.

The young one kept whispering slowly not really realizing mister Shelby was in the room, his brain was high-wired in horror, and the only reason he was still in place was because he knew Arthur was close by and the man wouldn’t let anything happen to them. Tommy cleaned his hands and half kneeled trying to relax, showing the boy he had nothing to be scared for; tilting his head to a side, Tommy called the boy by his name like so little times he had done in the past.

The ring of his name awaken him from his lethargic stupor and in his eyes was clear the surprise to be so close to his master. The servant boy straightened his back and met his master eyes with a pinch of uneasiness, as if fearing he had failed mister Shelby and so, the man would be mad in any way. Thou, he had.  He had failed to keep the house safe even with the non-spoken protection of the Peaky Blinders, enemies had managed to enter the house and were almost successful in taking Charlie away from them, away from his family. He had failed Tommy and Charlie almost suffered from it. The boy was about to cry.

Tommy could see the boy’s distress even for moments he thought it was caused by something else. His house was a disaster, chaos and violence was a path he knew very well but had worked so damn hard to keep his son apart form and even the ones that lived with him at the manor. Now, he could see he had been sloppy, Tommy thought by now people would not try and threaten his family, his family name had a price, a status, a terrifying power that only fools would try to break; and there were fools who had tried, he could see it now. Having a couple of Peaky Blinders posting as guards hadn’t been enough for the night and his family had suffered the price for his lack of meticulousness, but no more. He was home now and he would make it all alright.

“Little one…” He called one more time and finally had a reaction from the boy. Tommy could see the boy trembling harder than leaves in winter and with each passing second where he detailed the younger’s appearance, he could see trails of anger, violence and hatred all over his body. His boy lacked his usual clothes and noticed Charlie was missing clothes also, his boy’s hands that still grasped onto Charlie with almost paternal feistiness were splotched with blood being washed away from past struggles. His hair was all over the place but it served a purposed to show him how much his servant had been rough out. His boy had a black eye, cuts all over his face and a nurturing bruise on one of his cheeks, blossoming marks around his neck with a split lip that had stopped bleeding a while back and it only made Tommy ached. Ached for not being there and staying to protect what mattered to him, to keep and safe from harm everything that was important to him. Tommy moved narrowly so after the boy shifted to show his body and his son.

“Mister Shelby…” His voice was low and raspy, missing every little tint of happiness Tommy learnt to love with time. Charlie jumped from his arms to his father with need and shame, the baby started crying; Charlie had been so brave, stood still in silence and seemly unfazed waited for the moment he was reunited with Tom. “They killed her, sir.” The boy mentioned Anna with hollow eyes and Thomas remembered the cold body laying by the stairs lamenting his boys had to be witness of something like that; they had to take care of her family and give a proper burrier. The younger one felt finally at ease and about to give the man a smile he was when his legs failed him after all and almost fell back.

Tommy reached out for him and the boy calmed his nerves by smiling openly with an unknown warmth. That’s it until his senses fully recovered and the realization of his actions hit him harder than a brick. He had shot one of the Peaky Blinders, he had almost killed someone and doesn’t even want to start asking what was about the man he left unconscious in the living room, but yes, he had fired a gun and there was a mark on the floor.  

“Mister Shelby,” the concern was clear as air. There was a gunshot on the floor. And so much blood everywhere. “I’m sorry…” Tommy arched an eyebrow unsure of what would leave his servant’s lips. “There’s blood on the carpets.”

The head of the Shelby family laughed wholeheartedly after so long.

“Sweetheart, you just save my son. I don’t care about the bloody carpets.”

—6—

Tommy played dead. Charlie was resting in his arms as the boy refused to leave his father sight and protective embrace, so the father didn’t want to disrupt his baby’s sleep even when his own mind was thinking, planning and webbing; Charlie curled into his chest and in a mere thought Tommy held him by placing a careful hand on top of his head.

“Daddy,” Charlie still spoke in whispers and low murmurs as in fearing he would be heard and someone would finally come to get him away from home.

“Yes, love?” Tommy kissed his son’s forehead and started at him, letting him know he had his whole attention.

“Can we go?” Where? Tommy wanted to ask but with one look at his son, he knew where the boy longed to be at those moments, even after that long day and tiresome hours, even resting assure in his father’s arms, Charlie still worried for the young boy who kept him safe all this time.

The knock on his door startled him making the boy jump only remaining calm when the known figure of a sleepy Charlie was able to his eyes.

“Charlie? What are you—” his half question wasn’t answer when he saw Tommy going into his room following the steps of his son who had him by the hand. “Mister Shelby!” With a gesture Tommy let him stayed in his sit, half laying on the bed.

The servant didn’t have time to focus on the bizarre feeling that was having his boss in his room when Charlie asked if they could sleep with him that night. “You, what?” Tommy hid an amuse smirk and let Charlie asked for what he wanted that moment.

“Can we sleep here tonight?” The boy was so confused as to why the poor boy wanted to be with him at those hours, he had his father after all, why go for him? “I’m scared someone will take you away.” Charlie confessed after a while and the young servant felt his heart breaking; Charlie had lost so much already; he didn’t want for more people to leave his life.

“It’s alright, love. You can stay here.” Unknown to the servant was how mister Shelby called his son in private but it was a pleasant surprise for Tommy to discover, they both called Charlie the same to reassure him their love and affection. Charlie jumped to the bed and hid under the covers trapping the young one to the wall, only to reappear when he realized his father wasn’t there with him.

“Dad?” Now was the time for the young boy to look mortified while mister Shelby look his old impassive self, as if his own son inviting him to another’s bed was the normal thing to do.

“You go to sleep, Charlie.” Tommy sat near the bed and lighted a cigarette, flicking the light in front of his eyes. He stayed with his back to the wall watching as mister Shelby smoked slowly, dragging every breath and enjoying the peace and quiet. When Tom didn’t say anything else, the boy awkwardly went back to bed, joining Charlie between the sheets; with his head on the pillow, the three of them shared a moment in silent.

Charlie fell asleep short after, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with him and the Shelby boy drifted away in dreams with sweet gurgling, holding onto the servant with a hand. The young one played with Charlie’s hair until he felt the baby stopped being worried and was left to rest.

He felt himself falling asleep with the combined scent of diluted Tabaco and the passing cologne of Tommy with the dying spark of the cigar that slowly began to be extinguished, by then, Tommy sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on his servant boy’s hair.

“Sleep now, little one.” Tommy began to played with his hair imitating what he had done for Charlie hours prior. “You’re safe now, so sleep.”

“Thank you, sir.” He was so grateful for his master, for showing he cared, he appreciated all of them and every person working for him, but specially those taking care of his family. “Thank you.”

Thank you for coming back for me.

[serendipitous-posts]

I see your Au’s where Klaus is the one with his powers suppressed and I raise you an Au where Ben’s power is the one suppressed

(May call this Cthulhu au? Sounds about right. I also somehow made Reginald worse??)

So, Reginald Hargeeves is a dick, but he’s also pragmatic, right? He doesn’t care for these kids, as long as they can live up to his expectations

He is absolutely determined for them all to reach their full potential, mental and physical safety be damned

So in this verse, he doesn’t give up on Vanya. He remains certain that he can control her and that she can control it

It takes a lot of time, but he’s persistent in his belief she can achieve greatness, which would be amazing virtue if he wasn’t such an abusive ass

The violin, he learns, helps a lot, helps hone her abilities and fine tune them to her advantage

The press love the little musician, with her big shiny eyes and careful nature and gentleness

You know who the press doesn’t like? Ben. Hates him actually. 

Or rather, they hate what is inside of him. They hate the Horror

(once, when ben was very young, he had tried to explain to three that he was the horror and the horror was him. like conjoined twins, but she had looked so disgusted that he had shut up)

Because it’s hard to spin a weird eldritch abomination that kills people into a positive light, and in the aftermath of every mission there’s always a group, growing louder and louder with each one, arguing that just because they were criminals doesn’t mean they should be murdered. That the Umbrella Academy were playing judge, jury and executioner when they shouldn’t, that they had no legal power and what were they doing?

An even smaller group, but potent in it’s ferocity, points out just how terrible it is, forcing a child to kill people

And normally Reginald would write it off, ignore it except-

Except he can’t ignore the way the Horror has been acting lately-hungry and aggressive and mad. But not towards the other kids, no. Towards him. He steps into the room and Ben’s skin starts crawling and twisting.

(if he didn’t know better, he would say it was trying to protect him)

And Hargreeves, as we see in season 2, is an experienced fighter, but he’s not going to kid himself. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance against the Horror. The only ones who might are his siblings

But, as he realises with horror, he doesn’t know if they would side with him against number 6.

Because Ben is the shy, quiet kind one. If he ordered them to kill them- Number One might do it, but the others? No, no way, he sees how they look at him sometimes, all quiet fuming hatred and anger and-

They’d probably try and kill him themselves

But they’re young, and easily manipulated so he starts - leaving suggestions really- makes them watch any videos of the Horror attacking, showing it’s rampage as Ben wilts before them all. Suggests 6 shouldn’t be near the cameras anymore because he’s too frightening. TV shows now have movies like Alien and documentaries about parasites that burrow under the skin

They see a hulk figurine in the store one day and he makes sure to tell One, loud enough for everyone to hear, that he’s not a hero, he’s a monster, because he can’t control his impulses

At the end of every mission, he finds a reason to critique the Horror and Ben and their brutalness, all the while sending them out to do so anyways

The Horror, perhaps sensing the amount of bullshit that is happening, grows worse, grows even more agitated over time

4 and 5 and 7 rally behind him, because 5 and 7 are his isolation buddies and 4 and him have been friends forever. But 1 and 2 and 3- they start to pull away, little by little

Because they believe that he’s going too far that their father may actually be right, at least on this, it is a little freaky, and it’s not just their father saying it, it’s everyone and they can’t all be lying

He makes them all sit in on Ben’s special training- killing a rabbit, and now Vanya starts to flinch whenever he comes into the room, stops inviting him to her recitals

(it’s not a coincidence that rabbits were her favourite animal)

Five stays loyal though, making a point of going with him to the libraries or talking to him about books he’s read. Ben’s- he’s paler now, even quieter, but he enjoys the company and the Horror always seems to settle down in his presence

Then Five disappears one day and never returns. 

Reginald is torn because on one hand- he’s one asset down and Five was always a very useful asset and very very clever but he always thought he was so clever, working around all of his rules

Vanya and Five were the closest and now she’s alone. And even though Vanya is one of the nicest people out there, she just lost her brother, and she needs someone to blame to lash out at and she remembers how Ben and Five would talk for hours about Five’s powers

She yells at him, screams at him that this is his fault, and Klaus tries to intervene but it doesn’t really work, because in this universe Vanya isn’t forgotten or ignored, she’s the most powerful and that comes with a certain amount of respect.

She’s more confident and sure of herself and she is sure that this is Ben’s fault

The Horror, sensing Ben’s stress, lashes out. It slams a tentacle down on the ground in front of her, causing her to scramble back, suddenly aware of the fact that she is in a room with someone who has a literal monster in his stomach

Diego walks in on Ben attacking their sister and immediately grabs his knife, stabbing into it and Ben howls, the tentacles sliding back under his skin

Diego is praised for his quick thinking, one of the few times his father ever compliments him and he holds it close to his chest

(she’ll realise her mistake much later of it not being Ben’s fault, but she doesn’t apologise, too scared of the Horror and what it could do to her)

(she full on avoids him now)

All that leaves in Klaus, but to be honest? He has his own issues to deal with. At first, he clings to Ben because he gets it, the absolute hatred you have to your powers

And Ben is so so so happy to have someone be there for him, someone who hates their abilities as much as he does. They comfort each other after their own personal lessons, talk about which powers they would like to have, how they would love to get rid of their powers entirely

And then Klaus does. Get rid of them. 

Well, kind of. Drugs as it turns out, cancels out his abilities. They learn this during a mission and he’s so happy. And Ben is so happy for him

Except . .  after a while, Klaus starts to pull away too, so caught up in the world of drugs and addiction and leaving him behind to deal with his own issues

He tries to confront him on it, but Ben was always the meekest of his siblings, and it doesn’t go well

“You’re just jealous” Klaus spits “you can’t turn off” he gestures towards Ben’s torso “that thing.”

All the while, the Horror is growing more and more agitated, squirming under his skin like an itch, stretching it and bruising it, awful and visible. His siblings, sickened by this display, start to avoid him, which just makes him agitated, which just makes the Horror agitated, which makes it more active, which makes his siblings avoid him more, rinse and repeat

(he can’t move, somedays, from the pain of it all, muscles stretched beyond their limit by the thing that should never be beneath a persons skin)

And then- and then, after a very bad mission, where his siblings had all looked away as he emerged bloody from another room, his father tells him he doesn’t have to do missions if he doesn’t want to

Holy hell. Holy fucking shit

This is- it’s- everything he has ever wanted since his first ever training exercise 

He says yes, of course

(The Horror hasn’t been this calm in years)

And he doesn’t have to go on missions anymore! He gets to stay home and read and be alone but in a good way and it is everything he has ever dreamed of and more

(in another room, their father announces that Ben is too dangerous to be allowed on missions anymore, and that he won’t be training with them anymore)

His siblings are torn between relief-that they won’t have to see another killing spree, and jealousy-because he doesn’t have to go on missions or have personal training

(none of them are relieved for ben, who always hated going on missions)

Klaus especially is jealous, and is snippy towards Ben for the remainder of the week, but he’s on cloud freakin’ nine, and he doesn’t really notice any of his sibling’s odd behaviour

But as time passes, Ben starts to feel more and more left out and excluded. The main reason why the siblings are so close is that they go on missions and train together, and Ben is no longer doing that.

He also notices that the others are . . . blaming him a lot. Even for things he didn’t do

“Why is there a hole in the wall?”

“Ben must have let the Horror out”

“You’re bringing an animal inside the house? Don’t let Ben see it”

It’s lonely, but the alternative is going back to training, and he would actually rather die. It’s just- he’s being selfish. The Horror is a monster (he is a monster) so it makes sense that others would think he was the one doing Bad Things

And Ben spent his entire life trying not to be a Bad Person, but everyone keeps saying that he is a Bad Person, and he isn’t sure what to do. Sometimes people recognise him on the streets, pull back, hide their kids, some the same age as him

(once Allison and Luther were with him when this happened, and they looked at the woman shielding her baby with something like-understanding? empathy? whatever it was, it made Ben’s stomach open, but not in a Horror way in a Bad Way)

He breaks down in tears, finds his mom in the middle of the night, feeling like a baby because he is fourteen years old and he shouldn’t be crying except this morning Diego had turned to Luther and asked “where’s the freak?” and Luther had grinned and said “Ben’s still in his room” and neither had realised he was standing behind them

(family scapegoat syndrome is a very serious thing.)

He goes to her, crying and wishing that it would just go away, that awful, awful monster in his body, why won’t it just die already?

Grace tries to comfort him, but Reginald knew this would one day happen, and put certain  . . things into her coding, things she can and can’t say.

She sits there and tells her son awful things about him and the thing that lives inside of him, a parasite, she is forced to call it, to call him

(and you may think Diego hates Reginald the most, but that title has, will and always shall belong to Grace)

“You’re disgusting” she tells her son and thinks of the man who made her

Ben wails, loud and strong, and the Horror responds to his horror, jumping to life and slamming into Grace and then Ben is screaming and he can hear his siblings footsteps, rapidly approaching, but he’s trying to get to his mom and-

He blacks out

He wakes back up in the infirmary, where Pogo is waiting for him. He explains how their mother is damaged, and will take a while to fix

He has to go about his day with Diego’s glare scorching his back. Breakfast is burnt porridge and milk.  The first chance he gets, Diego accosts him, knife missing by inches

“A-a-asshole!” He shouts, brandishing a knife “h-how could you?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Ben squeaks, because he was always the shortest brother and his brother loves their mom and he hurt their mom and his brother is armed

“Diego stop” Vanya says, tugging on his arm “you’ll anger it”

Ben looks down to see his skin ripple and flushes, pressing himself even further against the wall

“You saw what happened with mom” Allison chimes in, glaring at Ben because their breakfast that morning was awful

“He’s not worth it” Luther says, and for once it seems they’re in agreement, because Diego turns and walks away, the others trailing behind him

Klaus stops, and gives him a sad look before scurrying after them, leaving Ben alone

Afterwards Ben is pulled into dad’s office and he’s handed pills. “To suppress your more . .  animalistic side” he said by way of explanation. 

Six blinks up at him. Suppress? As in . . get rid of? No more Horror

“It has come to my attention that you are far too dangerous to have running around unchecked” dad says when he asks, and Ben wilts

He takes the medication, and tries not to get his hopes up about it, but the Horror is gone

Instead of the usual aching chasm in his stomach there’s nothing. Just a sense of stability, of calm. He doesn’t feel like bursting into tears or crawling away in shame

(he doesn’t . .  he can’t feel much of anything really)

But he does feel excitement. His siblings are going to be so amazed- no more Horror!- and- and his dad can give Klaus some medication too, so he doesn’t have to use drugs anymore- or other drugs anymore!

His father pulls him aside and tells him that he must never tell anybody about this medication. His siblings have to keep thinking he can summon the Horror

Ben loves their father so much, wants to impress him, wants to make him proud. Except-Klaus. Klaus deserved to have this medication too, right? His- his powers were way worse than Ben’s

Reginald tells him, point-blank, that if he tells anyone about suppressing the Horror, he will take him off the medication

And that is-Ben feels kind of muffled right now, as if he’s under a weighted blanket but-

Terror is the only way to describe it, because he just found peace and now it is being threatened to have it ripped away

He lies about the Horror. The others continue to avoid him, but he also avoids them now, guilt over his lie causing him to cut himself off from Klaus, who cared for him, who deserves to have this as well, but Ben is just so selfish-

The second he hits eighteen, Ben leaves the house. He’s been on medication for 4-5 years now, and it shows. His emotions are basically gone.

He stays away from everyone until the funeral, when Five returns, telling him about the apocalypse, and he believes him, wholeheartedly believes him

He’s so frazzled by the announcement that he goes off his medication, forgotten in the moment of the literal apocalypse

(Reginald Hargreeves was a man trying to play god. He tried to lock away a beast too strong to be tamed)

(Someone should have taught him;when you cage a beast, the beast will get angry)

[dollvein]

RISEN: THE DAY THAT DEATH DIED

By Fred H. Berger

Yes, I have quite literally walked with angels and wrestled with demons, not on purpose but through circumstances which were not of my choosing. Perhaps it was my position as publisher and editor of the quintessential goth magazine Propaganda which drew them and other mysterious entities and phenomena to me. It’s amazing how those kinds of experiences can open your eyes and pull you in ever deeper, revealing through observable cause and effect reality and deducible facts what others can only arrive at through imagination, hallucination or blind faith.

One such incident, which was particularly profound, resulted from the overdose death of a very close friend in 1981 – he was only 18 years old and his name was Scott. It was the greatest tragedy of my life up to that time, particularly because of his tender years and the special bond that we had. When I went to the morgue with his grandfather to identify the body I was astonished by his extreme pallor, bluing lips and dark sunken eye sockets. I found the sight of him lying on the gurney, with a white linen sheet covering his wet just bathed body up to his chest, serenely and hauntingly beautiful. Although emotionally numb at that point, when I returned home I went into seclusion for three days during which I wept continuously and uncontrollably. I finally snapped out of it just in time to attend the wake, and thereafter slowly adjusted to the emptiness of life without him. For years thereafter I had extraordinarily vivid dreams of Scott, and considered them a resurrection of sorts. Little did I know that these dreams would prove to be incredibly prescient in that I would meet someone in 1990 who not only bore an uncanny resemblance to my dearly departed friend, but who also had the same first name, a very similar personality, and a birthday which was just one day removed, although they were born eleven years apart. This chance encounter came the day after I finished reading the 1982 vampire novel “The Delicate Dependency” by Michael Talbot, whose protagonist was a young apprentice and model of Leonardo da Vinci. The character Niccolo is the undead androgynous youth you posed for the angel figure in da Vinci’s painting “Madonna of the Rocks,” and in my mind's eye he appeared as the deceased Scott. When I’d finished the book, and saw the living Scott at a barbeque the next day, I was utterly shocked, and even frightened, thinking I had seen a ghost. Shortly thereafter he was modeling for me and appeared extensively in Propaganda Magazine over the next five years. Not only was he among the top-3 most popular Propaganda models ever, but he also worked for the magazine as a reporter and office assistant – in effect assuming the same role for me as Niccolo had for Leonardo in “The Delicate Dependency.” Moreover, it was as if I had retrieved my beloved from the realm of the dead, something which his doppelgänger acknowledged but never opened himself entirely to, which was probably for the best all things considered.

Although the tale of the two Scotts was limited to my own personal experience, and was not a true resurrection in the strictest sense of the word, I can’t help but see it in biblical terms as a metaphor for Christ’s triumph over death. From a purely historical perspective, the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Jesus marked the most pivotal point in human affairs, so much so that the timeline of events is divided into two eons – BC and AD. But an occurrence of such monumental import must surely have empirical evidence to substantiate the extraordinary claims made in the Gospels – and indeed it does, namely Jesus’ burial cloth, Christendom’s holiest relic known universally as the Shroud of Turin. Bearing an intricately detailed photo-realistic image of a crucified man, it has been determined through extensive scientific research since the 1970s that his likeness was not created with paint, dyes or pigments – instead it was lightly burned into the fabric by a burst of intense electromagnetic radiation. Such a highly distinct visual effect could not be achieved through any naturally occurring process or pre-20th century technology, and even if such a phenomenon or method existed in ancient or medieval times it begs the question – why is the Shroud of Turin the only artifact of its kind in the entire world. Furthermore, it reveals a body bearing all the injuries that Christ is said to have suffered due to his torture and crucifixion, including those unique to himself, specifically cuts from the crown of thorns and the lance that pierced his torso. With respect to its age, the lineage can be definitively traced from 13th century Constantinople to 14th century France and finally to 16th century Italy where it has since resided in the city of Turin. But it was not until 1988 that it was subjected to carbon-dating, when it was mistakenly concluded that it originated in the 13th century – the error occurring due to the test sample being taken from a piece of fabric that had been mended during the Middle Ages. This fallacy was not officially acknowledged until 2005 at which time another carbon-14 test was requested, but it was then learned that the relic had been fumigated with pesticides three years earlier due to an insect infestation, thus hopelessly corrupting it from the standpoint of such a dating method. Even so, over the next five years researchers used alternate means to ascertain the age of the Shroud including chemical and stress tests that placed its origin in the 1st century, which correlates with the year of the Crucifixion – 33 AD. During these last tests, the means by which the image of the corpse had been reproduced on the fabric were duplicated for the first time by bombarding a facsimile of the body with enough electromagnetic radiation to kill a man, except in this case it was used to prove a process by which a man may have been raised from the dead. The result was an image that approached the lifelike detail of the one appearing on Christ’s burial cloth, and which also possessed its remarkable and totally unique 3D properties. No matter how one wants to interpret these findings, the fact remains that mainstream science for the most part now considers the Shroud of Turin to be the world’s most significant preternatural artifact, meaning there is no way to determine at the present time just how such a thing could have come to be in the first place.

In conclusion, these were too tangibly real instances, one in the microcosm the other in the macrocosm, that may have not only mocked Death, but heralded its demise and the breaking of its monopoly as the final arbiter. This is the essence of the Easter celebration, and the hope of all mankind.

Left photo: The Shroud of Turin displays the bloody image of a man who was tortured and crucified according to the description of the Passion of Christ in the Gospels. For the full-body image see the comments section below this article.

Right photo: Propaganda supermodel Scott Crawford appeared extensively in the printed and video versions of Propaganda Magazine from 1991 to 1995. (Photo by Fred H. Berger, 1995)