#nix writes

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Charles Rowland and Edwin Payne (Ballet Dancer AU)

Then he hears the music.

It’s soft at first, hardly there, enough to be mistaken as the humming of an old building settling. Then it rises to a crescendo so quickly, so shockingly, that before Charles pries his eyes open, he thinks a choir of a thousand angels has descended upon him, ready to rip him away from this hell of a life.

But there are no angels. There is no salvation.

There is someone though, taking centre stage, highlighted by the light shining resolutely on him, following him around with each spin and jump and-

There is a ballet dancer on stage.

Perhaps Charles was wrong earlier; he certainly looks like an angel.

-Nix_Nihili, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die

Alright, one of my favorite fics in this fandom, right from the very beginning! @nix-nihili's grasp of atmosphere is incredibly wonderful and this fic is so tenderly written! You can find it here!

[nixcloud]

EWE single father/surprise fatherhood AU

It's 10 years after the war when Harry, whose life was just starting to get better and to move on, gets a call that Dudley Dursley has died, along with his wife in a horrible accident leaving behind a daughter. Whom to everyone's surprise, though they were survived by his parents, Dudley has her guardianship willed to a Mr. Harry J Potter. He has been requested to take custody following the burial. 

And so Harry finds himself putting on a suit, and trying to calm the rising panic of having to attend a funeral. A lot of things were hard after the war, at Hermione's behest he had been seeing a mind healer to deal with what muggles would describe as PTSD. And things were getting better, truly better. But he would be lying if he didn’t  admit that some things he had never truly been able to deal with. Funerals being one of them. 

He had seen too many deaths in the war, too many bodies whose souls were magically striped from them, too many who were buried in haste without proper goodbye, to many who were buried with their whole family watching. There was something about seeing a body lowered into the ground, or encased in marble that shook Harry to his core, that left him gasping for air. 

When he entered to wake he walked slowly up to the open casket, could feel Petunia and Vernon's eyes on him as they wept loudly for the room to hear. Harry never saw Dudley at this age until now, he still had that same round Dursley face and short black hair. And he looked wrong, so wrong. This man… this boy who had tormented him his whole life looked wrong, and harry could feel his hands shake. He sat in the back pew for the remainder of the service walking slowly behind the crowd as they moved the body into the cemetery. 

That's the thing about freak accidents, you can't prepare, you can't leave a note explaining your crazy decisions or why of all people, you want your child to live with a man who is a stranger, to live with the grown up child you tortured. And Harry doesn't know why he's here, he knows he shouldn't have come. But this was also literally the last chance at closure he was ever going to get with dudley and so he followed the precession. 

It was the worst out on the lawn. The gaping hole in the ground waiting for them all. Casket closed, people huddled close, weeping mixing with the call of the crows. He couldn't breath, his vision was swimming. He could feel his magic threatening to burst out and protect him from this too familiar threat, from this too familiar ending. He knew a panic attack when he felt one and he was desperately trying to keep it to himself. And so he barely even noticed when Petunia was walking up to him holding the hand of a 6 year old girl dressed in a matching black gown. 

“This is Aedelle Petunia Dursley.” She clung tightly to the child's hand, unwilling to relinquish her.  Harry could only stare at her. Petunia was right to cling, it made no sense for Harry, a stranger at best, to take this child from her grandparents as awful as they were, they loved their son, and they would love his daughter. She deserved her family, she deserved to be loved. He would give up his guardianship, he wouldn't take the last thing she knew from her. 

“I don't know why Dudley willed her to you but we will not stand for it.” Petunia whispered sharply. Many faces turned to look at him accusatorily as if Harry had any say in it at all. He wanted to apologize, tell her he didn't understand either. But then the priest was there, and the casket was moving. Harry couldn't hear anything over the blood rush behind his ears. His legs trembling as they lined it up over the great gaping hole in the earth. The dark shadows stretching to reach up and wrap around the wooden box. It was too much. Harry could picture to many faces trapped inside there. To many limp bodies and broken promises. And now he could imagine Dudley in there too. 

And then the screaming started. Loud shrieks, and for a few moments harry thought it all in his own head yet it grew in volume, and the weeping grew in volume, and he knew then that it was real. Dudley's daughter screamed and screamed as his casket was lowered into the earth. Aedelle is old enough to know what is happening and yet still too young to understand. Though Harry supposes no one ever truly gets old enough to understand why their loved ones die. 

A great wind picked up then, pushing flowers from their arrangements. Pulling peoples jackets off their shoulders and empty chairs to the ground. It blew so hard the men holding the coffin stumbled, sending it a little too loudly to the deep earth below. 

The wind was strong, not just in the way it moved the world but in its pressure. That familiar glittering sweep of magic washing over the whole venue. And Harry looked at the girl in front of him whose pain was now washing over the earth, washing over her fathers casket in a great sweep of magic. Pouring out of her like blood from an open wound. And Harry knew then why he was asked here. Knew what Petunia seemed blind too. Dudley had a magical child, and Harry was the only one who he knew could help her. 

And his tears began falling all at once, for the child of magic who had lost their parents, whose closest family couldn't be trusted to love them, for a child with nothing now being thrown into the great unknown. Wept for a child who had seen too much, given more responsibility yet again. 

He crouched to his knees in front of her. Looking at her reddening face and doing nothing to quiet the painful wailing. But he took her empty hand in both of his own, tinier than his own godsons had been at her age. And he whispered “hi Aedelle I'm Harry, I am your dads cousin.” 

And he sobbed openly in the grass, the sound only muffled by the great roar of wind. 

Across the cemetery, a groundskeeper in a long black coat stopped short. He had been lugging great rolls of grass which he would lay over the burial sight once the family left. A burst of wind swept at him, begging him to keep his distance; this happened occasionally when a wizard found themselves at the muggle funeral home. But Draco just walked on, drawing closer and closer to the grave, looking to see who was causing such a great magical disturbance in the presence of muggles. 

Draco had been working here for a good 5 years now, and found a somewhat tortuous path to healing by providing peace and calm for deceased muggles and their surviving loved ones. It had seemed a fitting role for him after all the deaths he encouraged, that he should be able to at least respect their lives enough to keep the grass green and their headstones polished. It was hard work, lonely work, but it worked for him. 

And from a few yards away he could see the small child wailing as he made eye contact with a man crouched in the grass, green eyes dim, face streaked with tears. Who looked just as desperate and scared as the child in front of him. Harry potter, in the place he deserved to never be again, a cemetery. 

[firephoenix2305]

ETERNITY CHAPTER 16 - THE WITCH'S HUT is officially up!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53173069/chapters/165823876

(It won't let me do the pretty link. That's annoying)

Anyway, yay!!!

As always, here's a teeny tiny mini snippet:

-So, in summary - Newt said, his voice flat - What you’re saying is that you’re hoping to save the whole of the universe on a technicality -

There was a beat of silence. Witchfinder and demon stared at one another

-Well. Yes - replied Crowley, seeing no point in denying it.

-Fantastic. Where do we begin? -

I hope you enjoy!!

(If it's your first time coming across Eternity, allow me some shameless self-promotion: It's a post-season-2 hurt/confort with a bunch of action and mystery thriller action throw in and, of course, romance. Featuring all our fave angles and demons plus a very special original character! Also on FanFiction under the username FireFenix05, if you prefer that platform)

Tags: @beerok23

(Am I doing a tag list now? Guess I am 😅)

- Nix🧡

[nix-far-scourge]

everybody remember, there is plural joy out there. you don't have to suffer and be miserable to be a system. sure, might suck sometimes, and some will have their struggles, but you will make it through the dark. Remember the good that comes from being a system, things that happen in headspace, the internal support, everything that you didn't have before that you needed desperately. you will live, we all will. we're all systems regardless of origins and what terms we may use, we need to support each other. and hate isn't fucking punk!

[nixie-writes-aot]

Levi Ackerman Fluff Headcanons

Warnings: None

Characters: Levi Ackerman, unspecified/gender neutral reader

Author's Note: I just wanted to write some Levi fluff but god I'm not good at writing long Headcanons but fuck it 💀

General Headcanons

I've had this idea since Bad Boy got released despite not reading it that Levi probably encouraged Mikasa to go short on her hair. That's because, to him, Mikasa and Kuchel look similar. Too similar. For many, the idea would provide comfort but not Levi

He cares for Mikasa SO MUCH. Probably teaches her specifically how to make tea and clean up (and the others) but of course he's a little "rude". He just wants her to live a long, peaceful life to the best of her ability

In fact, semi related, that's how he feels about Gabi and Falco too. They remind him of not only Erwin and Hange but Isabel and Furlan too. He loves those little rascals!! Especially as he opens up

This man 100% opens up a tea shop at some point in his retirement. Visits Mikasa whenever possible but prioritizes caring for the smallest generation of little ones

Romantic Headcanons

Okay so. Let's go. Levi absolutely adores you. Would make time for you, invite you out to spend time with Gabi and Falco. The works!

His ideal date is one that doesn't require going out. He's a homebody. Maybe a nice movie, some tea. A night spent being really cozy and comfortable

Levi isn't used to affection. If you sat down and really pampered him, he wouldn't know what to do. In a good way! Lean into your touch, staring into your eyes with his own unreadable expression and consider your placement in his life. How lucky he is and how special you are

Levi 100% hesitated introducing you to Hange and Erwin. If you ever ask though? He will do so without a doubt. You asked after all! But he will drag his feet. It's not about you, or even them really. It's about the idea of what it means for him. How much he has committed to the idea that you and him will last

Levi is 1000% bad at feelings

[mazegays]

4- “warn me next time!” and Thominho for the prompt ask? 🫶

(Ann aka @get-the-medjacks from main 🙂)

hi!! thank you for the ask! i had a great time with it : ) I hope that you don't mind that i combined it with friends to fiances; i wasn't intending to but once it started heading that direction i didn't fight it so this one is longer, so it is headed to ao3... but i'm already past my bedtime so not tonight!

Thomas glances behind him. This exercise has a purpose, or so their cross-country coach insists, but Thomas skips out on it most days and the only person who consistently beats him is the person he’s looking for.

And they’re on the same team, so it hardly matters if they just switch places now and then.

Minho said that there’s something he’s supposed to be looking for in here, but the woods are dense enough that he could be going in circles all day and not find it.

There’s a rustling to his right, but that could just be the wind or an animal. Thomas doesn’t see anything when he turns to look.

“Come on, you haven’t found it yet?” Minho calls out. Thomas can’t place where his voice is coming from before he’s face-down in the dirt. “Oh, shit.”

Minho’s flipping him over before Thomas even has the chance to try. “Dude, did you really break your nose by falling into the dirt?”

“Warn me next time, yeah?” Thomas mutters, blood thick in his mouth. He hates nose bleeds. “Nah, it doesn’t hurt, just a nosebleed.”

“If you say so.” Minho helps him sit up, arranging them so Thomas is practically in his lap.

“What was I supposed to be finding, anyway?”

“It’s not as fun if I just tell you.”

“You could lead me there, then.” Minho’s not usually this cryptic. Maybe when they first met, for all of three minutes. And definitely not since they got their apartment.

Their apartment. When he thinks of it like that, he can pretend that they’re together. There have been times when he thinks that Minho might say something, or kiss him, but nothing’s ever happened. Not even when they’ve gotten drunk at parties; their friends would never shut up about it if they’d, like, made out or something.

“I guess I have to. Clean up your face first. Don’t want people thinking I’m murdering you or something.”

“You are, by proxy. Coach is gonna kill us.”

“Hey, our training today is all in here. Coach doesn’t know shit.”

“Whatever.” Thomas rolls his eyes and tries to stand, his ankle immediately folding under him. “Oh, we’re so dead.” If he’s sprained his ankle now… he’ll be lucky if no one catches on. His connective tissue sucks at its job, so he’s very used to sprains and rolling his ankles, but that doesn’t mean that he’s supposed to run on them.

“How bad is it?”

“Probably about a two, by feel. Don’t know how swollen it is yet.”

“Do you still want your surprise?”

“What kind of question is that?” And the longer they can avoid going back, the more time he has to figure out if this is something he needs to go in for or if he can handle it himself.

“You’re not walking, though. I’ll carry you.” Minho doesn’t give him a chance to protest, moving so he can put a careful arm under his knees.

“This really isn’t necessary.”

“It really is. We’ve got races to win.”

“You mean I have races to win.”

“We’ll see about that.”

It’s nice, being in Minho’s arms; Thomas spends more time staring at them than he’ll ever admit to.

When they’re making dinner together, moving around their tiny kitchen like they’ve been doing it their whole lives. When they’re running, when they’re studying, when Minho’s lifting weights.

… Okay, Thomas can see why everyone else makes fun of them all the time. He can’t think of a single time they’ve been apart for longer than an hour all week. All month, probably.

What would Minho do if he just kissed him, right now? He could.

Thomas settles for nestling his head into Minho’s neck instead.

It doesn’t take long for Minho to get to Thomas’s surprise.

“The clearing? Why didn’t you just say that, dumbass?”

“Not just the clearing, look around.”

“Did you hide a picnic basket in a tree?” Thomas can barely see it through the leaves.

“Yeah, and I have to get it down now, so you’re gonna have to sit tight.”

They go out, yeah, but they don’t do things like this.

What if Minho’s moving out and he wants to break the news gently?

Minho has blankets and everything--one for the ground, and one to wrap around them as they eat. It’s not that cold, but now that he’s not moving, Thomas is getting a little shivery.

“This is nice.” Thomas can’t think of anything else to say. He doesn’t know what Minho wants with this. 

“Yeah, I thought you’d like it. And I got red velvet cake for dessert, from that bakery that you insist is the only place that does it right.”

When did Minho have time to put this together? They’re around each other all the time. Thomas’s favorite pasta salad is in there, and his favorite type of juice, from the brand that he thinks tastes the best.

“Minho…”

“Thomas, I know we’ve been friends for a long time. The first time I saw you, I was so annoyed by you, and honestly I still am, sometimes. But you’re my best friend. We live in each other’s pockets and I don’t want to do anything without you.

“So I asked our friends to help me set this up so you wouldn’t think anything was wrong, and keeping it a secret hasn’t been fun. I wasn’t even sure it was a good idea, because I don’t want our lives to untangle in any way.”

Okay, so he’s not moving out. Minho takes a breath, his lips parting, and Thomas can’t take it anymore. He’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss Minho right now.

So he does.

He loses track of time as they kiss. Ants are probably getting into the picnic basket, all over his red velvet cake, but it doesn’t matter when he’s kissing Minho.

Nothing matters when he’s kissing Minho.

As soon as they stop kissing, Minho wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close.

“Marry me?” Minho says, wonderfully breathless.

“Are you sure that’s the next step here?” Thomas asks, but he’s out of air too. “Yes, Minho. Any day. Every day. Why weren’t we doing this before?”

“Because you’re bloody idiots!” Newt steps out from behind a tree.

“Have you been watching the whole time?” Minho pulls the blanket tighter around them, like they have something to hide.

“Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t die out here!”

“And, what, you volunteered?”

“No, we did rock-paper-scissors for it. And I lost.”

“You’ll have to play against Minho to make yourself feel better then.” Thomas laughs.

���There may also have been an agreement that you might end up engaged before you even started bloody dating, so I have something else for you.”

“Newt, if you picked out our engagement rings I will throttle you.” Minho says. “At least let us decide.”

“You lost that chance when you didn’t get together in high school. I didn’t pick them, your families did.” Newt hands them the rings; one is Thomas’s grandfather’s wedding band, and the other is from Minho’s father.

“Can I stay for cake, at least?” Newt asks, after they’ve put the rings on each other. They don’t fit quite right, but that can be fixed. 

“No. Get out. Don’t come back.” Thomas says, not looking at him.

He’s got a fiance to kiss. goal wc: 250 or less wc: 1235 (are we noticing a theme with these word counts? i don't think i've had one of these actually be 250 or less yet)

prompts list here on ao3 here

[astranix]

12.03.25 i think i am so very afraid of failure

[iknowtheendnatural]

[nixcloud]

Jiang Cheng x Lan Xichen ABO drabble

just a little scene from a fic im drafting ~

He could hear the threads cracking beneath his fist as he yanked Wei Wuxian higher off the ground. Two tanned hands tapped at his own where he gripped the collar of those black robes. His brother had always had a talent for provoking him, and he couldn’t even remember how this argument started. Still, rage coiled hot in his gut. Zidian crackled at his wrist. His jaw ached from how tightly his teeth were clenched, barely holding back the vitriol he so desperately wanted to spit out.

The red anger clouding his vision only beginning to clear when he saw the semi glassy look of Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Jiang cheng took in the face of his brother, he had noticed too late the way his cheeks were slightly too pale, and the way redness was starting to tinge his under eyes. Too late, he realized this fight had long since veered from an argument between brothers.

When they were younger, Jiang Cheng was excellent at recognizing this look. Even when he pushed too hard, even when he refused to stop yelling, he knew when his brother was actually hurting. Sad. Never quite able to hide this from his shidi. 

But in this new body, he was slow to pick up on it, Jiang cheng released Wei Wuxian’s robes like he had been burned. 

Watching as he dropped onto the ground awkwardly. A pit growing in his stomach as he looked down at the man he had spent his whole childhood looking up at to yell. 

Suddenly Jiang Cheng felt small again. And all that irritated rage that had been bubbling up boiled over into a new rage. The hurt rage, the painful rage that was attached to blood and family. 

None of this would’ve happened if Wei Wuxian hadn’t invited him to Gusu.

The letter had arrived a week ago, scrawled in that messy handwriting. Jiang Cheng couldn't fault the man for at least attempting the impossible. Wei Wuxian wrote almost weekly since returning from the dead. Usually fickle stories of  night hunts, or rules he broke in Gusu. Occasionally he would include a nostalgic paragraph or two. Or ask after the Jiang clan. 

But this letter had been different. A request to come to Gusu. Not for a day or two like they'd attempted in the past, but for an entire month.

A joint night hunt conference. To be co-hosted by the Lan clan and the Jiang clan. A project designed, apparently, to "strengthen inter-sect bonds" after everything that had happened at Guanyin Temple. (Lan Wangji's words, no doubt.)

It made sense on paper. In the 2 years since the fall of Jin Guangyao the sects had been unstable. Trust was in short supply. Every alliance frayed thin, each one questioning which seemingly docile omega or outspoken alpha was hiding darker intentions.

But logic didn’t account for emotion. And Jiang Cheng had written back immediately: No. That the Lan sect could deal with a conference themselves. 

But in the coming days mail carriers from Gusu rained down on lotus pier, each with more letters then the last. And in a moment of weakness… here they were. 

The deal had been: Gusu this year, Lotus Pier the next. If, of course, they didn’t kill each other first.

“Jiang Cheng, look, why don’t you just—”

His voice grated against him. Of course his idiot brother couldn't shut his mouth even when he was already upset. Trying to smooth things over as if he wasn't the one that started this whole thing. 

Jiang cheng was trying not to completely lose his temper, he had always been quick to anger. But ever since he started raising Jin Ling he had made at least an effort to rein the worst of his outbursts in. Sometimes more successful than others. But in the last few months he was uncalmable, and now he could feel his throat straining as he yelled back 

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “Don’t stand there pretending you're so calm, so fucking reasonable! You don’t know anything about—”

The redness under his brother's eyes only intensified but he stood still, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. 

And that made it worse.

Because somehow, somehow, his impulsive once alpha brother, revived as an omega for fuck’s sake, was still calmer than him. More controlled. More stable. Able to keep a better handle on his emotions and omega instincts then Jiang Cheng ever could and he's been an omega his whole life! 

Though he supposed (from what he's been taught) that mated omegas, especially those who were blessed enough to find their fated mate, had a much easier time regulating their instincts. And his brother, his brother whose fate is of the utmost convoluted nature ended up with both. While Jiang Cheng, was struggling with his suppressant regime as the last barrier between himself and the cultivation world. 

It's not that omegas couldn't be cultivators, in fact omegas had potential to be some of the strongest cultivators, much more so then a common beta, whose senses were so much weaker it made most nighthunts, and connections with the spiritual world twice as difficult. But omega’s were rarely allowed the dignity of authority. Omegas were those who bore legacy, those who kept morale high, those whose life cumulated with serving and soothing those more dominant then them. 

So when the Jiang’s had their first son, they’d hoped for an alpha. After their beta daughter, they’d prayed for a leader. But Jiang Cheng had presented early at fourteen, just after his brother, and his father had never looked at him the same again.

His mother, in her attempt at his best interest, had wasted no time. She locked him in his room with a jar of suppressants and strict instructions: Take it with a meal each morning. No exceptions, no missed days, no mistakes. 

And he obeyed. Every day, for well over a decade. Long past when anyone said it was safe. A medication frowned upon by the cultivation world. He obeyed and he pushed down every omegan instinct until everything inside him went silent. 

And it was for this reason that he couldn’t be surprised that after so much medicinal abuse of his instincts, all his hormones were out of sorts. His inner omega clawing out of its cage.

It was rage, it was volatile mood swings, exstream territorial tendencies, it was textbook feral omega. He had grown up with children teasing each other about it, or claiming an omega was so unwanted that they'd go feral, that no one could ever want a feral omega. And here he was actively creating one in the privacy of his own body. 

He never resented this choice, knew it would give him the life his parents wanted. It had allowed him to be an unquestioned sect leader, even if he was underestimated as a beta and not an alpha. So then why, why had he been feeling so damn lonely lately? 

His brother came back, his pack alive again, and all he felt was lonely. 

That first year, he’d ignored every letter out of spite. Lan Wangji hated him, and he hadn’t trusted Wei Wuxian not to leave again. But over time, he responded. Small missives. A visit or two. The beginnings of something like family again.

But no matter how angry he was, or how guilty he felt, Wei Wuxian kept reaching out to him. Trying desperately to make a spot for one and other in their lives. 

And fate might have other plans for them both but he could try, and so he was feeling particularly lonely when that ridiculous night hunt proposal arrived, and he came to Gusu

And all that came of it was this bullshit. 

The dust swirled beneath his boots as Jiang Cheng surged forward, shoving Wei Wuxian hard. He watched his brother stumble back. A frustrating wetness started to gather at the corner of his purple eyes.

And then, a growl. 

The commanding, cold, terrifying growl of an alpha who's been wronged. 

Suddenly a large hand wrapped around Jiang Cheng’s arm and yanked him backward. 

“Sect leader Jiang.” Lan Wangji’s voice was deceptively calm. If it weren't for the way his eyes glowed gold, the way all lan alphas did when their instincts were taking charge, Jiang Cheng might have mistook it for his regular speaking voice. 

Something in the back of his mind wanted to cower, but Jiang Cheng is one of the strongest sect leaders, he is a proud beta, the purple lightning protecting his people, and he will not bow to any Lan. Zidan crackled defensively at his wrist. 

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan!”

Wei Wuxian’s light hearted calling broke the static, the way his voice shook on the last word the only thing that gave away their reality. 

“It’s okay! Don’t get so upset, it’s just my little shidi. I teased him too much, that’s all! Just let him go!”

His little act of talking down his husband should have soothed him, and yet it only added more fuel to the fire. Jiang Cheng wanted to scream, and cry and stomp his feet like a petulant child. Because his once dead brother was still doing everything to protect him. Even when he knew that Jiang Cheng was the one to start this fight. 

On top of it all, for anyone, even a betta, to put their hands on a mated omega, that was grounds for a duel. At minimum. 

An apology wasn't on his tongue, but whatever was was beginning to taste like regret. He met Lan Wangji’s gaze, intent to speak, when—

“Enough.”

A new voice. Calm. Commanding. Soothing.

Lan Xichen.

Unlike his younger brother who moved with near deadly silence, most of the time one knew when Lan Xichen was coming. His clothes rustled like the wind stirring grass. And the jade token tied at his waist chiming softly with the few beads strung below it, so delicate it was almost as soothing as Jiang Cheng’s own clarity bell. 

Still Jiang cheng startled, blinking in disbelief at the looming ethereal presence before him. Of course, this was the Lan compound. And Lan Xichen was still their sect leader, technically. But as far as Jiang Cheng knew the older Lan had been in seclusion. For years. And yet here he was luminous, and composed,  and incharge. 

The iron grip on Jiang Cheng’s arm finally loosened, and he yanked it free, clenching his fists.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Wangji said, voice sharp as a blade, “It would be best if you joined Xiongzhang in the library.”

“Fine.” Jiang Cheng grit out, before storming past him, barely missing knocking shoulders with the taller man. And he didn't stop to look at Lan Xichen as he passed him either. He didn't have any patience left for niceties. 

His boots struck the ground hard, each step disturbing the tranquil Gusu afternoon. But he wasn’t walking alone. Every one of his steps was being punctuated with that quiet chime of Lan Xichen in the distance. 

Slowly allowing the noise to settle his riled omega instincts until he finally reached the library pavilion.

“Allow me, Jiang Zongzhu,” came that voice again, deep and calm like heavy snowfall. Refreshing in the afternoon heat.  

And he finds himself stepping aside without protest. The larger man opened the door, welcoming him into the cool quiet library. It had been a long time since he was here, and it had changed so much since he was a child, both the building and what it contained. But it still smelled like sandalwood, and it still dwarfed any library Lotus Pier had ever built. 

Lan Xichen led them to a low table at the center of the room and gestured for Jiang Cheng to sit across from him. Watching carefully as those large hands began to pour him a cup of tea. 

He hadn't seen the older man in nearly two years and yet he looked much the same. His robes hung in soft layers over his broad shoulders. Carefully continuing their slope into muscular forearms. He kept his posture perfectly straight emphasising how tall he was even among the Lan’s.  His silky black hair had been brushed into a simpler hairstyle then Jiang Cheng remembered of him, but it still cascaded carefully around him, framing his form in all its Lan perfection.

And yet something was different.

His beautiful face graced by his sharp jaw, soft lips and surprisingly gentle eyes, was drawn thinner than Jiang Cheng remembered. Lan Xichen looked so much more tired than the man he had grown familiar with over the years. It aged him slightly, and yet reminded Jiang Cheng too much of his face during the reign of the Wen. Slightly too hollow. Slightly… unsettling. 

Jiang Cheng chewed the inside of his cheek to keep his opinions on this to himself. He didn't like it. But after everything that had happened, what else could he have expected? He hadn’t even expected to lay eyes on the man.

“I was surprised,” Lan Xichen finally spoke, “to hear you agreed to co-plan this night hunt with us.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes snapped back to the soft gold ones, embarrassed to realize he’d definitely been caught letting his gaze roam over every inch of the older man.

“Obviously I didn’t easily agree so much as get pestered into it,” he said sharply, chin lifting. 

Lan Xichen chuckled softly. “Don’t take it the wrong way,” he said, an unreadable glint in his eye. “It’s good to see a familiar face. Especially after so long in seclusion.”

“I hadn’t known you left it.”

“I haven’t left it entirely,” Lan Xichen replied, with the ghost of a smile. “Partial seclusion. I can still manage writing invitations, at least. Especially if Jiang-zongzhu is willing to assist me.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth felt inexplicably dry. “Well. Let’s get it over with, then.”

He stretched a scroll of parchment out in front of himself, dipping his brush into the inkstone while Lan Xichen murmured the phrasing for each letter. They worked in companionable silence, copying names and titles with practiced strokes. Though if it were a competition, Jiang Cheng would have lost because just like all other pristine elements of the lan clan, their writing was obnoxiously perfect. 

They scripted out invitation after invitation. And Jiang Cheng couldn't help but let his mind wander, every few words his thoughts turned back to the man across from him, the shock of his presence yet to wear off. 

Sometimes when he had nightmares of his past, the face Lan Xichen made that night would linger in his mind too. The pain, the blood on his sword, the way he crumpled into a broken mess when all was said and through. The love of his life murdered at his own hand. 

Jiang Cheng had been quietly watching Lan Xichen his whole life, from the respectful distance of allied sects, from across conference halls, from the desks of Cloud Recess's lecture hall.  So it would have been hard to miss the way the older man looked so fondly upon the Jin disciple. 

Everyone had known, or at least suspected, that Lan Xichen had loved Jin Guangyao. Many whispered that they had been secretly mated, that Jin Guangyao simply hid the mark beneath the high collar of his robes. They always sought each other in a crowd. Leaned close when they spoke. And the great and honorable Zewu-jun would never tolerate a harsh or damning word against his sworn brother.

Jin Guangyao had been an omega. Loyal to his sect. And so, there was never any true way to marry outside his clan and preserve his dignity. Or at least that’s what everyone thought. Still, many expected them to eventually go public. A dominant alpha so clearly enamored with a brilliant, hospitable omega, an ideal mating.

But then everything happened at once. In the blink of an eye, Jin Guangyao was no longer  the son of a prostitute but a sect leader. With power came the need for image, and he took a wife. Untraditionally, it was another omega, raising eyebrows but also preventing any power imbalance. They seemed happy together. And to be honest although uncommon for two omegas to be together formally, it was more acceptable then two alphas, or an unmated omega, and so most did not question him too harshly. 

And in an even more unconventional show he bonded with her, and she had shown off her mark proudly like any sect leader's wife might. No one ever knew if his wife bit him back as was custom with omegas. He still wore his collars too tight, too high.

A gap between Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao seemed to grow and grow. Still Jin Guangyao looked happy in any public appearance, and Lan Xichen never showed interest in another omega or even beta. 

So when Jin Guangyao was exposed as a traitor, a murderer, and, in the end, was killed by the one man he claimed he would never harm… it wasn’t surprising that Lan Xichen retreated into seclusion.

It was said that a broken bond  between mates, especially soulmates, was an empty kind of grief. It left one split open and bleeding for one's whole life. There were ancient tales of fated mates dying in succession. It was always a romantic idea, to live and die with your love. But the reality of it was so much more bitter. 

Many feared Lan Xichen would waste away after the fall of Lianfang-zun. And in some ways, he had. Yet here he was. Very much alive. Sitting at this low table across him.

Jiang Cheng chose to blame his perseverance on his strong golden core and Lan will power. 

Well over an hour passed, and they’d finished the invitations for the major sects. For a while now Lan Xichen had been musing over who else he thought should receive an invite. Weighing pros and cons of different peoples from all over their lands. But to be honest Jiang Cheng hadn't been paying much attention to him since he mentioned the Jin clan maybe half an incessant stick ago. Just nodding and watching the way his lips formed around his words. 

“Zewu-jun. It’s good to see you. It’s been a while.” The words spilled out of him unbidden, and he realized too late that he had cut Lan Xichen off mid-sentence. That little surprised “o” of his mouth confirmed it. 

A red blush crept up Jiang Cheng’s neck at his own rudeness.They stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment before Lan Xichen’s expression warmed again. 

“Thank you. It has been too long, hasn’t it?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Wangji asked me to help plan this conference. And, ah… I couldn’t say no to my little brother.”

Jiang Cheng huffed and sat back, forcing his eyes onto the half finished scroll in front of him. “Well then it seems we have something in common then. Except my insufferable brother didn’t ask. He sent a dozen damn letters like it was some kind of hostage negotiation.” he slapped his hand down on the table jostling their discarded brushed “And stop smiling like that,” he added, sharper than necessary. “This isn’t some grand reunion. We're working.”

Lan Xichen smiled at him then too, expression out of place with how rude Jiang Cheng knew he came off. But soon they were back to discussing whom to invite, and inking more letters, working together in comfortable quiet as the sun plunged from the sky.  Making way for the cold light of the stars. 

Only interacting when one passed a complete invitation across the table for the other sect leader to stamp on their official clan insignia before folding it neatly into the pile for couriers.

And maybe it was his imagination, but Jiang Cheng was fairly certain that as he worked those gold eyes were burning holes into him, and began glowing when they passed the other a letter and their hands brushed.

authors note: tried to write a abo smut scene ended up with this character study tragic siblings monstrosity with 16 pages of plot bullet points.... gona try and actually write it all. i have 15 scenes plotted out and this is just the first one so who knows if ill finish but for now. xicheng abo characters study i guess

[firephoenix2305]

Whoops, is it Thursday already?

I'm an expert in missing wip Wednesdays, me.

So...I guess...WIP THURSDAY?

WIP THURSDAY! YAY!

Little snippet of ETERNITY Chapter 18 (we're in the Home Run now!!). I'm not giving you the title till I publish it this time though :)

Estimated ETA: Next week? Probably? Again, don't quote me on it. I'll try to get it done as soon as possible.

-Oh, fuck off! - the demon bit back, stepping closer. He’d reached the stairs to the Basilica - We didn’t do shit, you did all the work yourself like a big boy - he taunted The Voice of God, his tone infantile. Then Crowley’s expression turned serious - But why? Why go through all that trouble? The pact with Satan, this whole elaborate plan…what could you possibly have to gain? ‘Cause, in case you forgot, you’re the second most powerful being in crea… -  There it was. That flinch. That slight flaring of his nostrils, that small twitch of his nose, that flash of something deep and dark behind his eyes.  -Ohhh… - the demon relaxed into his smirk once again - It’s that word, isn’t it? Second - he pronounced every syllable, as though relishing in the other’s escalating rage - Oh, it makes you furious, doesn’t it? Once a man, always a man, ey Enoch? -  -You will stop using that name - The Metatron growled, barely containing the eruption boiling inside of him. -Why? You prefer the other one? - Crowley played with him, pushing exactly the right buttons - Metatronos. The one behind the throne, sat on a squeaky wooden stool, drooling over God’s golden chair. But you got tired. Admiring the throne from afar wasn’t enough, so you decided to take it. How very human of you -  -Silence - 

Hope you like it when it comes out!!

(Link to the fic from Chapter 1, because shameless self promotion)

Tagging @beerok23 and @celticseawych for the update :)

-Nix🧡

[nix-far-scourge]

since this would be useful for others, too much of a pain to do it ourself

burning text gif maker

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minecraft logo font text generator w/assorted textures and pride flags

windows error message maker (win1.0-win11)

FromSoftware image macro generator (elden ring Noun Verbed text)

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vaporwave image generator

microsoft wordart maker (REALLY annoying to use on mobile)

you're welcome

[nixie-writes-aot]

Reactions to S/O with Abusive Family

Warnings: mentions of abuse and trauma, abuse of power/status, mention of murder, threat of bodily harm, hurt/comfort, fluff

Characters: Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith, Hange Zoe

Author's Note: The third and last part. Honestly these headcanons were so fun so I might do more hurt/comfort in the future!

Levi Ackerman

Levi, like Mikasa, is also not terribly surprised. I don't think any of the veterans would be honestly

They all are too used to what the world is like and how cruel it can be even to those who don't deserve anything like that. Especially Levi

Now there are two different reactions Levi might have depending on which Levi 

If its Levi from the Underground, sorry but your family is dead

Thug Levi has killed for much much less. Hell, he killed a group of thugs just for getting in Isabel's way and upsetting her. So the chances of actual abusers surviving after you told him what they've done? Not bloody likely

Levi will, of course, hold you close and bury his face in the crook of your neck all to comfort you

He's very emotionally repressed so you shouldn't expect much else 

Now Captain Levi?

Much different story. For example, unless they were an active threat, particularly in s3, he wouldn't kill them. But oh boy 

Levi is someone who can easily, and will without hesitation, calmly rip into someone just for wasting his time. After all, Levi is one hell of a composed and stoic motherfucker

Now, the worst he might do for non-threatening is harsh words and maybe his own threat, albeit empty

But an active threat? Much different story. Levi learned from Kenny and the Underground that active threats must be taken out

Now regardless of him killing your family or just making them hate him, he is dragging you into his office. The one time he doesn't sweat the potential filth on your clothes, simply pulling you into bed with him and burying his face in your chest

"I wanted to kill them."

His statement is meant to be reassuring, that it would always be you and never them in his eyes

But also Levi is one very emotionally repressed bitch 

Erwin Smith 

Honestly Erwin probably already knew you had a rough home life, not many parents would just sit by and let their children become Scouts under Keith Shadis

The Scouting Legion is still viewed poorly when he takes over, don't get me wrong, but we're talking about a man who had a mental breakdown in the middle of the street and in front of not only all his men but the public too

Erwin would never

Now Erwin knowing and being told is two different things. Erwin could probably only think about his own childhood when you told him so he pulls you close, into his lap and starts playing with your hair and massaging your scalp. As he does, Erwin tells you about his dream and the will of his own father way back when

Erwin has accepted what happened by the time he's Commander Erwin but he still doesn't feel great about it, obviously, so its a moment of weakness for both of you

And thats exactly what Erwin wanted you to see. That you opening up and being vulnerable didn't have to be so one sided even if he was your commander

Now Erwin has a lot of power to throw around, especially if your family weren't anyone like the merchants or nobles or the Wall Church

So Erwin uses that power, lets you see how beneficial he can really be with that always so polite smile on his face even if he's currently ruining the lives of those who ruined your own life

"There are some that simply do not know how to behave, those should either keep quiet or have every dirty little secret spread among their peers."

Like I love Erwin but dude lowkey manipulates a lot of things into happening. Especially when it was concerning Levi in the No Regrets OVA

Hange Zoe

Hange is probably the only shocked veteran when you open up

They are appalled 

"But why!? Titans should be the concern, not each other!" 

And you even almost hear them swear but when you only shrug, they pull you close and sigh. They are well and truly refusing to let you go for even a minute. Hange is very clingy during the night you tell them and even the following day

Only Levi, Miche, or Erwin would be able to pry them away. Maybe Moblit 

They just want you to feel reassured and comforted by their presence

Hange probably takes you out to train with the ODM gear just to give you a proper outlet. They know they like training when upset

Dear god if they see your family? It is one of the very very few moments you see them angry. Even Levi seems nicer in comparison. Hange storms right up to your parent, decks them and stands over them 

"If you touch them again, I will personally make sure you don't have a hand to do that with again."

You probably have to pull Hange off your parent actually

And afterwards, Hange is clingy all over again. They're wrapping their arms around you, shoving their face into your back and sighing loudly 

Hange probably spends the next week making sure you know how much they love you and how much they would do just for you

Normally, you're an average soldier but Hange keeps dragging you away from your squad to their own squad, doing science stuff with them and Moblit

[mazegays]

Can't number the ways I love you

The first thing Thomas learns about the new kids on the block: They like to fight. Each other, specifically. Not anyone else.The new kids are loud, but they don’t really hit or pull hair like some of the kids at school do.

The second thing he learns about the new kids on the block: They’re going to be in the same school–in the same grade as he is. That means they’re probably a little older than him. 

The third thing he learns about the new kids on the block: They’re funny. When he's sent to give them a ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ cherry pie, he’s laughing so hard he can barely walk the whole way home.

There aren’t a lot of kids in the neighborhood; all of his friends live in different areas and he’s not ‘big enough’ to ride his bike over there alone.

Maybe, if he takes the new kids with him, he can go and visit–and introduce them to all of their new classmates before school starts, of course.

The fourth thing Thomas learns about the new kids on the block: Their names. The girl–a little older, she insists–is Brenda, and she wants to ride motorcycles when she grows up. Thomas doesn’t think that’s a job, but it sure does sound more exciting than whatever boring stuff his parents do. The boy–the cooler one,he insists–is Minho, and he wants to make it into the Boston marathon one day. Or go to space. Or be a cowboy. He hasn’t decided yet.

Thomas hasn’t decided yet either, so that’s okay.

“Think we’ll be in the same class?” Minho nudges him as they wait for their parents to catch up, already. Maybe, if Minho and Brenda come with him, he’ll be allowed to walk to school this year–it’s right across the street.

“I don’t know, fourth grade has lots of classes.” Thomas says. “We can check the list when we’re there, I guess.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to sit next to each other?”

“Maybe if we’re not too loud.” Thomas can have trouble with that, sometimes. He thinks he’s being quiet when he’s really not, or he just gets bored. “And only when we don’t have tests.”

“Are there a lot of tests?”

“I think it depends on the teacher.” Thomas doesn’t know a lot about it. “Remember Sonya?”

“Little blonde girl with the weird accent?”

“I told you, they moved from like, London.”

“That’s a city, not a country.” Brenda pushes Minho out of her way and walks backwards between him and Thomas.

Thomas cannot walk backwards very well–he always falls over–but Brenda makes it look so easy.

“And people can still move out of London, Minho.” Thomas rolls his eyes. “Her older brother is a grade above us, and two above her. He had lots of tests, but his friend Alby didn’t. And they had different teachers.”

“Why didn’t we get to meet Newt when you took me over there?”

“Because he was at Alby’s, I think. They’re best friends. They’re in a different building this year. We’re the oldest kids in the whole school!”

“Does that mean we get to boss the kindergarteners around?”

“No, I think we’ll have to stay in our classrooms. We won’t have lunch or recess together.” Thomas doesn’t know where Minho got that idea.

The fifth thing Thomas learns about Brenda and Minho: Minho’s worst subject and Brenda’s best subject are the same–math. Minho’s best subject is geography, even though he sucks at drawing maps. Brenda’s worst subject is English, because she doesn’t like sitting still to read the books.

“Sometimes I read upside down.” Thomas tells her. “I don’t know why, but it helps.”

“You like reading, though. And you’re fast.”

“I don’t really like sitting still either.” Thomas says. “But it’s easier upside down.”

“If you say so.” But Brenda tries it, and it works. He doesn’t have any tricks for math–he’s not allowed to do any homework that involves writing upside down anymore because ‘it’s not legible’–but he can help Minho practice times tables over and over until they’re really fast at getting them all right.

The sixth thing Thomas learns about Brenda and Minho: Their birthdays are exactly a month apart, and they hate joint birthday parties.

Thomas never gets the story of why they hate joint birthday parties, but going to two parties is fun–Brenda’s is motorcycle themed and Minho’s is cowboy themed.

It’s less fun when they want to know which party was better, cornering him at lunch with questions.

“I liked them both,” He tells them, truthfully. There were a few more girls at Brenda’s party than at Minho’s, but most of the kids were the same and Thomas didn’t know any of the adults aside from their parents, anyway. “They were both fun!”

“That’s not how it works, Thomas, one of them has to be better!” Minho crosses his arms. “You should know that.”

“Why does one have to be better? They were different parties and different themes, it’s not like you can compare that way.” Thomas asks.

“It’s a sibling thing, Thomas, you’re not gonna figure it out.” Gally says from across the table.

“And how do you know? It’s not like you have any siblings.”

“Sonya and Newt do it all the time.” Minho and Brenda don’t pay any attention to them, still fighting over whose party was better.

At least they’re not yelling like they did at the beginning of summer.

finish on ao3 or under the cut

The tenth thing Thomas learns about Minho and Brenda: When it comes to sports, they’re the worst losers around.

“You never did this in gym class.” He complains as he and Minho bike home from their sport of the season. Track, “since our middle school doesn’t have a football team”. If Minho were playing football, though, Thomas wouldn’t play with him. Track is just fine.

“That’s because it was gym class. And if you think that was bad, wait until softball season starts.”

“I refuse to believe that Brenda is worse than you. Minho, you ran into three people and nearly hit another four. I was close behind you for most of practice. I know.”

“You’re gonna regret saying that.”

After Brenda’s team loses their first game, she sulks for days.

“She used to slam her bat and helmet on the ground!” Minho tells him. “But her coaches didn’t like that, so I guess they made her stop.”

The eighteenth thing Thomas learns about Minho and Brenda: They’re even worse losers at board games than they are sports.

They don’t play Monopoly, or chutes and ladders, or anything like that anymore. Thomas taught them War once, and then they went home and destroyed a deck of cards playing.

It’s really just better if they don’t talk about it.

The 32nd thing Thomas learns about Minho and Brenda: They’re more likely to switch clothes than they are to dress up for family photos. The photos actually look really good, but as they get into high school, the more they both try to deny it ever happened.

If they looked a little more alike, then maybe people who don’t know them would believe it when they said Minho was Brenda and Brenda was Minho.

Everyone else, though? No way.

Thomas doesn’t ever tell them, but he keeps one of the pictures hidden away–so they can’t destroy it, of course.

The 50th thing Thomas learns about Minho and Brenda: They’ve very overprotective.

“It was an accident, guys, it’s not like Frypan meant to hit me with that ball.”

“He gave you a concussion!” Minho protests, arms folded across his chest. He’s started working out, now that they’re in high school sports–he never has gone out for the football team, though.

“He didn’t even know I was there!”

“Well, he’s not allowed in until he apologizes.” Brenda is ‘standing guard’ at the door, though she’d rolled her eyes when Minho demanded she do it.

“How is he supposed to apologize if he’s not allowed in?” Thomas asks. “This is silly. I’m fine, the doctor said so. It’s mild, I’ll be back in school by next Wednesday and most of that is an abundance of caution.”

“Ugh, I’m just gonna leave if you’re gonna talk like that.” Brenda says.

“Like what?”

“Like one of the stuffy adults our dad works with.” Thomas rolls his eyes. He does not sound like that.

“Can Fry come in now? Actually, just let everyone in.” He says. “Newt and Alby are going to college in a couple of years, and you want me to not see them while they’re asking to be let in?” They’ve been getting gross lately, sneaking out of class to go make out in bathrooms and give each other hickeys. With how much he teases them, Thomas is never going to live it down if they ever find out that he kind of wants to do that with Minho.

“We’re going to college in a couple of years, Thomas.” Brenda sighs, but she does move out of the way. Frypan is the first one in, and it’s clear that Minho’s hovering makes him a little nervous.

No one else pays it any mind, though.

The 90th thing Thomas learns about Minho: He likes biting Thomas’s bottom lip when they kiss. The 91st: He likes pulling at Thomas’s hair, even if it’s really too short to pull. 

The 92nd: He can pick Thomas up and carry him across a room. (It’s really hot.)

The 93rd: “I’ve been trying to get your attention for a long time.”

“You’ve had it, I’m always watching you.”

“But you never said anything!”

“Neither did you.” By unspoken mutual agreement, they decide that making out is more important than fighting about it.

The nth thing Thomas learns about Minho: He’s only good at keeping one secret–and somehow can get all of their friends to help him keep it until the moment he can get down on one knee.

Thomas says yes.

[nix-far-scourge]

neither was a happy ending, both just endings, nothing has to be a good or bad end. that's how they work, sometimes things just end

I've Heard This Story Before

The little blue-haired girl with magic stones...

...and that invention that HAD to work...

...to save her big sister...

But they had such different endings...

...and I can't, for the life of me, figure which ending was the happy one...

[nixcloud]

A Face For Radio: POV Harry

Drarry - Sports Reporter x Star Quidditch Player AU

Ballycastle Bats team | Draco's POV | Authors Note @ end Ballycastle Bats vs. Chudley Cannons – International Cup Qualifier to determine who will  represent Britain in the World Cup

“Ooohhhhhh!”

“There he is!”

“So nice of Britain’s MVP to finally grace us with his presence!”

Harry dramatically buried his face in his hands and blindly stumbled toward his locker, thunking his forehead against the metal with a groan.

“Ugh!”

“Oh no,” Seffana gasped, eyes wide and voice dripping with mock horror as she waved around her bat. “I didn’t know the Chosen One was going to be here today! D’you think I could get an autograph?” She held out her heavily tattooed forearm and a marker dramatically.

“Shut it,” Harry mumbled into his locker, throwing his duffle inside without looking.

“You're 20 minutes late, what happened?” Julia asked, arms crossed, punctuating the question with a loud crack of her gum. Eyeing him distastefully.  

“Slept through my alarm…” 

“What do you mean you slept through your alarm? The rest of us couldn't get a wink because we were too nervous about this big game.” Adelaide chimed in as she stepped out of the lav, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. 

Harry shrugged, peeling off his hoodie. “Well, only one thing really keeps me up at night” and he spun around to face his teammates “and that's voldemort's ugly mug!”  He used one finger to flatten out the point of his straight nose for emphasis. 

But…. No one laughed….

They all just blinked at each other awkwardly, and Harry continued to squish his nose to his face…

”...get it because he doesn't have a…” and he pressed down on his nose again, and still it was met with silence “…not funny?” 

“Bro,” came Riordans tired drawl, “No.”

“Yeah… real mood killer, mate.” Dhruv, one of their reserve chasers, called from where he leaned against his locker. 

Everyone stood around awkwardly. Harry still squishing his nose.

It wasn’t until Westly, their gangly mischievous beater, let out a snort he tried to disguise as a cough that the entire locker room exploded into laughter.

Harry bent over, holding his stomach as he laughed. His wild hair flopped into his face, stubble still unshaven, bronze cheeks glowing with amusement. He had been a bit nervous at the beginning of pre-season when the Ballyastle Bats had picked him from the draft. 

He had missed out on a lot of the training most other pro athletes had gotten in their youth, he had been busy then… 

So when he decided to go for quidditch tryouts he was under no illusions, he knew that his name would take him farther than his skill, but still he had been excited when he had been signed to the Appleby Arrows. It had been a long time since their hay day and it seemed to have done a number on his then teammates' confidence. Because none of them invited him out for a pint or joked with him, or mentioned him by anything less than Mr. Potter. Even though he was a decade younger than most. 

It wasn't bad. He loved quidditch, and flying with such experienced players gave him a great opportunity to strengthen his own skills. But it hadn't been the life he had hoped for. When he told the Arrows’ coach he wasn’t renewing his contract and was reentering the draft, they’d had an argument.

Harry wasn't proud of his anger…. He had gotten good at managing it, but he struggled with authority even on a good day, and that bastard had a god complex. So who could blame harry for telling him “Just because your Patronus is a bloody whistle doesn’t mean you get to go around demanding people jump at your blow!” and when he started yelling Harry MIGHT have hit him with a hair loss curse. But no one was around. And that was hearsay.

Anyoneone who knew Harry wasn't surprised when he showed up in the draft with absolutely nothing positive on paper from his old team.  However he had been surprised when so many teams made a bid for him after 4 years of mediocre seeker showmanship. 

And even more surprised when the manager of the Ballycastle Bats had asked him to a private dinner to discuss a contract and what she envisioned for his future. It was kind, it sounded great, and even though his favorite team had also made a bid for him, it was for a reserve position…

It didn't hurt that Harry had always been partial to red uniforms…despite his love of the team, imagining being donned in an orange frock to fly laps gave him a headache. 

Ron nearly strangled him when he turned down the cannons, but the Bats, they had a lot to offer. 

They weren’t nice, exactly. But they were fiercely loyal. They challenged each other. The worst player each week bought the first round of Friday night drinks. They sent flowers to his parents’ graves when Harry missed practice for their death anniversary. They were... good. And he hadn't been this happy in a while. 

For one, he hadn't laughed this hard in ages, the room was filled with laughter and snorting, and people slapping their lockers, and gasping for breath. 

“WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON IN HERE!” 

Immediately everyone's mouths shut with an audible clack of teeth. Spines straightened. Their coach's face was already turning redder than her hair as she stalked in. 

”Ok to get us started….” Another voice came from around the corner to the locker room entrance, steps getting closer “OH MERLIN WHY ARE NONE OF YOU DRESSED!!! If you’re not in full uniform by the time I drop off this press kit, I swear I’m terminating all of your contracts!” Their manager screamed, and before it could echo off the tiles Lockers flew open. Players scrambled. Flying trousers were yanked on in every direction.

The trousers were easy, soft and smooth fabric. And the color? Red uniforms were classic, nostalgic, romantic even. Harry always felt it was the best uniform color. 

He whipped off his shirt and propped one foot on the bench, bending low to strap on his knee and calf guards. Velcro ripped through the room like applause.

He stretched once, deeply arching his back to pop something stiff in his lower spine. His wingspan flexed as he rolled his shoulders, before righting himself. 

All his teammates stood in a shirtless circle around the bench. Everyone looking somewhat grim, their muscles and skin on display. 

Of course their fearless leader, their team captain Julia, took it on herself to speak up. “Alright. Which Bat’s up first?” 

No one volunteered for a long minute so Harry grabbed Westly’s arm and tossed him into the middle of the circle ignoring his indignant yelp, someone had to get the ball rolling on this. 

“Bastard!” Westly yelled, reflexively catching the large purple bottle their captain chucked at him. 

“You all better be gentle, this is an important game," he grumbled. 

Flipping the lid open and pouring a generous amount of lube into his palm, warming it for a second before beginning to spread it over his chest, down onto his stomach and then onto his back and shoulders. 

“Assume the position!” Their captain barked, Harry was sure he could hear the huff their coach off in the hallway, but paid her no mind as Westly raised his arms straight above his head and bent at a perfect 90-degree angle, sighing like a martyr. 

“Westly don't move, everyone else get ready.” 

Riley and Kieu approached him, high ponytails swaying behind them, holding shiny black fabric, 

“Ok there we go stretch it wide.”

And then the two bats began to stretch the compression jersey over his arms, tugging it roughly so the spandex wouldn't get stuck. Finally the shirt made it down the tops of his shoulders. Riley and Kieu grabbed Westly’s hands to keep him steady while the 2 other chasers began to pull the shirt slowly down his back, everyone careful not to let it bunch up. There was nothing worse then when the too small shirt got stuck all bunched up suffocating and hard to untangle. It was everyone's worst nightmare, and the shirts were so tight they were nearly impossible to put on on one's own, which is how this team building  tradition started. 

During the last 2 weeks of their pre-season the manager and coach had presented them with the new tight uniforms, and it had taken literally an hour for everyone to get them on, their manager assured them they would stretch out and the benefit was being more aerodynamic. But after a week none of them could get it on, and at friday night drinks their captain had drunkenly suggested they raid the chosen ones locker for lube and everyone had cackled. But come Monday morning no one could stop thinking about it and well... There were few problems a bit of lube couldn’t solve.

And so, a new pre-game ritual was born. Lubing up and suiting up. 

Everyone took turns lubing up and having their compression shirts stretched over them. Occasionally someone would shout “Add more lube!” or complain about someone else’s oversized head, but eventually, everyone was clothed. Gleaming. Slick. United.

“If we’re not the most aerodynamic team in the league, I’ll eat my broom,” muttered Riordan, giving them all a frankly illegal once-over.

Their manager returned, box in hand. “You’re dressed. Good. I was beginning to think I’d have to commit career suicide.”

Everyone chuckled nervously.

The coach joined her and the team crowded onto the locker room benches. 

“Ok first things first let's go over our starting lineup, and innital plays.” The coach tucked her long red hair behind her ear, flipping around her black and red clipboard to show a few hand drawn plays. Everyone listened intently, asking relevant questions and confirming their roles. 

“OK!” their manager clapped, and all eyes were on her, she smiled wide “I have presents!” she spun around her red robes accentuating her movements and her long dark braids fluttering about. A reverent silence fell as she opened a large box. 

“Since this match decides who represents Britain in the Cup, we thought it was time to pull out the big guns.” She smiled slyly. “Not to count our Mandracs before they sprout, but we’d like to remind everyone who they’re cheering for.”

“WOAH!” 

“BLOODY HELL THAT'S AWESOME!” 

“MERLIN!” 

Gasps echoed through the room as she held up their brand new capes. The ones they had only heard about in hushed whispers as their admin was preparing for IF they won today. 

They were pure, perfect black. So dark they held no reflection, so dark they made the rest of their uniform look gray. The fabric was cut to mimicked real bat wings, with crimson embroidery tracing the lines of imagined bones. Heavy leather straps hung across the shoulders like harnesses. It was eerie and perfect. 

And then their manager flipped it around revealing red block numbers, 16, “Captain come claim your prize!” 

Their captain approached mouth agape, and she carefully took the fabric in her hands. “It's so light… stunning!” she whispered in awe. And the manager just smiled, that soft warm smile she had. 

One by one, capes were passed out.

Harry’s was last.

The manager approached him quietly, pressing it into his hands like it was something sacred.

Then she leaned in, and spoke low enough so only he could hear.

“You definitely need a shave today”

Harry grinned sheepishly.

She rolled her eyes, fond but exasperated, and tapped her earpiece. “Just got the ping. The Silver Snitch is in the press box.”

“OHHHHHHhhhhhhhh,” Westly drawled behind him.

But Harry didn’t stick around long enough to be teased. His team had wrung every possible joke out of his Silver Snitch obsession weeks ago. He doubted there was a single pun, insinuation, or faux-sultry impression of the man’s voice left to try.

He ducked into the lav, heart beating a little too fast, and stood before the row of mirrors above the sinks.

Right. He wanted to look good today. Great, even.

He splashed a bit of cold water on his face and leaned in, eyeing the stubble he hadn’t managed to shave that morning, slowly beginning to glide his razer over his jaw. 

Today was important, he loved Quidditch. Not just playing. But listening to it, obsessing over stats. Collecting the player cards charmed to smell like broom polish. 

Of course, most of this fanfare was born from Ron, who’d introduced him to the Chudley Cannons during their first year at Hogwarts like it was a sacred rite. It had been life changing. Not because of the Cannons, though he’s supported them for years out of stubborn loyalty, but because that was how Harry learned to love the sport. Really, properly love it.

His dad had been a great Seeker, sure, but Harry hadn’t known that until after he’d fallen in love with flying. Like most kids from Muggle households, he hadn’t even heard of Quidditch before Hogwarts.

So when Ron started playing radio reruns in their dorm after class, Harry had soaked it in like a sponge. The roar of the crowd. The dry wit of the commentators. The details, lineups, fouls, play styles, rivalries, it was like learning another language, and he’d become fluent overnight.

Even during the war, they’d kept that tiny radio in their tent. Mostly it played music, or grim updates from Potterwatch. But now and again, they'd catch a recording from the Hogwarts pitch or an international match not yet canceled by the Death Eaters. It had kept them sane. Or at least distracted.

And Harry had never stopped listening. To pre-match shows. To post-match breakdowns. To entire broadcasts of games he’d just played in.

He liked hearing how the experts spun things. Liked hearing what he could’ve done better. Liked hearing him.

Because right around the time Harry joined the league, a new broadcast had popped up. It was cleverly titled Post to Post, a live play-by-play for British teams.

He’d tuned in on a whim, and he had never recovered. 

It was some match he didn’t even care about. He’d joined halfway through and missed the host’s name entirely. But that voice wasn’t one he’d heard before. It was—

Deep.

Buttery.

And laced with this wicked sort of wit that made Harry laugh even when nothing funny was happening. He could describe a routine throw like it was poetry. Could slow down a play to analyze it and still have time to slip in a perfectly timed dig at a player’s haircut. Harry had found himself on the edge of his seat and anticipation, breath caught, spine tingling.

By the time the game ended, his heart was pounding in his chest. 

He asked around, of course. But no one seemed to know who the broadcaster was, or where the show came from. It wasn’t official league programming, that was for sure. No sponsors. No glossy production. Just an anonymous voice and a good microphone.

And so Harry became one of the Silver Snitch’s first regular listeners.

The next time it aired, he made sure to catch it from the start.

“Welcome back to Post to Post with the Silver Snitch,” the voice had purred through the radio.

He couldn’t decide if the pseudonym was arrogant or brilliant. But regardless he knew that there was no way he was putting a face to that radio voice. It painted a very nice mental picture though. 

Harry had been obsessed ever since.

He’d listened religiously to every game. Every post-match interview. Every debate show, every throwaway segment where the Silver Snitch broke down plays with precision and charm. It wasn't a rare occasion for him to fall asleep at night to that warm syrupy voice whispering in his ear. 

And now… he was here.

At harry’s match.

Harry turned back to the mirror, eyes flicking across his reflection. Jawline decent. Cheeks flushed from adrenaline. He tousled his curls with a little Sleekeazy’s until they framed his face in soft, windswept waves.

Then, carefully, he began to strap on his cape, fastening the harness across his chest, and rejoined his teammates.

“Ohhh, there he is! The handsome, the unstoppable, the Savior of the Wizarding World! Potter himself!” Seffana started up again. 

Harry rolled his eyes as he walked back in. “Save it.”

“You got all cleaned up to meet the man, didn’t you?” came Noemie, mockingly affectionate.

“Oh, absolutely,” Dhruv chimed in. “Bet he’s a silver fox. All posh, wears cravats to breakfast. There’s no way that wizard’s under forty.”

Everyone laughed.

“I’m holding out hope shes a hot milf using a voice charm,” Riordan said solemnly. “Plus, Harry would make a good dad. It’d work out perfectly!”

A chorus of hums and grunts followed, everyone nodding along as though imagining it made sense.

“Alright, alright,” Harry groaned, waving them off as his ears turned bright red. “Forget it. Aren’t we supposed to be on the field already?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Kieu smirked. “We’ll see for ourselves soon enough.”

Harry rolled his eyes again, but the fluttering in his chest didn’t stop.

Everyone grabbed their brooms and began lining up. Their team captain strolled down the line, eyeing each of them with mock scrutiny.

“Well,” she said, pausing at the front. “Even if we’re not aerodynamic, I know one thing, we’re the best looking team in the league.”

“What do you mean? With jerseys this tight, we better be getting a speed advantage,” Kieu muttered, tugging at the clingy fabric stretched over her abs.

“Well, for most of us, yeah,” Riley said. “But Potter and Seffana over there? Not so much.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Seffana demanded, disgruntled. 

Julia smirked and strolled over. Without warning, she grabbed the harness straps across Harry’s chest and yanked them sharply, cinching them even tighter.

Harry choked out a startled sound as the straps pressed snugly against his pecs.

“For you two,” she said, eyeing the both of them, “these jerseys aren’t helping with aerodynamics. They’re just rubbing it in our faces how flat chested the rest of us are.”

The room exploded with laughter, Harry included, even as he tried to cover his face.

“I swear to Merlin,” Riley wheezed, “I’ve been wearing two bras and I still can’t get this jersey to do me any favors.”

“Meanwhile,” she gestured at Harry’s chest dramatically, “Potter over here’s got Quidditch titty physics working in his favor.”

“Should’ve been the Chosen One for that alone,” Dhruv snorted.

Harry groaned. “You’re all deeply unwell.”

Just then, their coach clapped twice and strode into the locker room. “Alright, alright, save the tit talk for after we win, yeah?” 

Everyone scrambled into position, falling into two neat rows facing the tunnel.

Their manager jogged to the front, voice raised over the rumble of the crowd just beyond the stadium walls.

“What are we?”

“BATS!” the team shouted.

“What do we do?”

“CASTLE!”

“How do we win?”

“ECHOLOCATION!”

She grinned at their ridiculously serious chant, raised a fist, then turned on her heel and flung the tunnel doors open.

The roar of the stadium surged in like a tidal wave. And the Ballycastle Bats launched forward in a blur of red and black. 

The euphoria was instant, the whole stadium was alive with their colors. Glittering confetti was raining over them. Harry kept his body low to his broom just like they practiced a hundred times. Speeding out as the leader of their sharp pyramid formation. He felt the way his cape thundered behind him, and could tell that the crowd was building on their ambiance. 

They messed around alot in the locker room and during practice. But as soon as they set out for a match they sobered up quickly. Each of them slipping into their intense, hyper focused personas. They were bats, they flew fast, they traveled in packs, and were known to be blood thirsty. 

The Seeker always flew point. Not just for the drama of it, but for control. He set the route. He controlled the pace. And he never had to look behind to know the rest of the formation was right there with him.

He banked upward, shooting toward the upper stands where the team’s guests were seated.

The wind stung his eyes, but he could still spot the bright orange blob in the front row of Bats fans. Ron, predictably, was still decked out head-to-toe in his tragic Cannons gear, standing tall and shouting like a man possessed. Hermione beside him had conjured an elegant banner with Harry’s name in charmed ink that shimmered when it caught the light.

Luna, Nevil, and Ginny took the row behind them throwing as much red and black confetti as they could manage. Harry even spotted Andromeda tucked among a few of the Weasleys, wrapped in a deep crimson shawl.

But he didn’t see the one person he was most desperate to spot. Until he looked farther down the aisle.

There. Being lifted above the crowd by Arthur Weasley, held aloft like a prized trophy, was Teddy. Hair shifted into the perfect shade of Ballycastle red with a bold streak of black. His little hand stretched as far as it could reach, grinning

Harry slowed them down just enough that everyone could put eyes on their people, remind them who they were playing for. 

 He reached out and high fived the young boy who squealed with excitement. It was exactly what he needed. 

And so with gusto he turned their formation zooming around the arena in a full loop before coming to float in formation near center field. 

The sun warmed Harry’s skin through his uniform, but inside, his stomach was a mess of butterflies and liquid nerves. They were minutes away from the quaffle being tossed. But first: Press.

One by one players broke from the wings of their pyramid, and zoomed toward the press box to be formally introduced over the stadium. Got to pose at the box and lock eyes with the man whose voice had lived in his head for months. Meaning Harry, nervous, sweaty-palmed, hopelessly lovestruck Harry, was dead last.

Adelaide took off first, her cape’s bright red twelve gleaming in the sun as she rocketed toward the press box. From formation, Harry could already tell she was milking it, tossing her hair about and striking fun poses. She was reserve only because their starting beaters were top 10 in the league, but don't let her flirtation fool you; she was a terror on a broom. 

He could here her introduction boom around the arena, as the non partisan announcer began alternating introducing players from each team. 

Adelaide zoomed back toward formation, screaming with laughter.

“YOU WON’T BELIEVE IT, POTTER!” she shrieked, blazing past him too fast for any follow up. She spiraled down to the sidelines, still howling.

His head whipped desperately between her and the press box, but was stuck in his formation till it was his time. 

Dhruv Bakshi was up next, and it felt like an eternity before he returned his laugh echoed from the sideline.

“Potter, you’re done for!” he called gleefully.

“OMG HES HOT”  Noémie Leveret, shouted as she plummeted towards the reserve bench. 

Riordan MacEvenny returned from his introduction, breathless: “I cannot believe.”

Their captain was particularly damning as she shouted, “You’re never hearing the end of this, you know that, right? This is our entire personality for the rest of the season,” before peeling off into her starting position.

Harry wanted to fly away and hide. This was his nightmare.

A beautiful, terrible, sultry-voiced nightmare.

He hovered alone at midfield, white-knuckled on his broom. Sweat prickled at his hairline. Harness pressing a bit too tightly into him on every inhale. 

And then, finally, it was Harry’s turn. 

He was a Seeker. He had to show off his speed. That’s what he’d tell them later, when they inevitably mocked him for breaking the sound barrier just to get to the press box.

He was moving so fast he could barely see, but when he’d asked their manager to send a personal invitation to the Silver Snitch, he’d begged her to place him dead center in the press box. So there’d be no mistake. No confusion.

Harry did a dramatic flip on his broom, got the crowd going and gave him the perfect stop, meer meters from the reporters. And there he was. 

Haloed in sunlight. Sitting impossibly upright in his chair, all long limbs and posh posture. Platinum blond hair gently tousled beneath oversized headphones. A soft blue suit, glowing in the over saturated room. 

Draco. Bloody. Malfoy.

Harry barely breathed. His heart went supersonic. Every sense flared, white hot, as their eyes locked across the balcony.

Those grey eyes were wide with recognition, just as stunned as Harry’s.  But Draco had known, hadn’t he? He’d accepted the invitation. He was here. Harry froze, unable to speak, unable to look away.

Then Draco leaned into the mic, the pale column of his throat bobbing with a swallow, and without charm or magic, he spoke.

It was like warm honey poured over silver spoons. It was velvet and smoke and old magic and every dream Harry had ever refused to admit out loud.

That voice. That voice. Coming from that mouth, the one Harry knew could be haughty and whinny, and mean, and nervous and clever and so, so kissable.

His past obsession had just collided, violently, with his current one.

His name deep and smooth off those wet pink lips Draco breathed “Harry James Potter.” 

Harry licked his dry lips. Let his eyes drag over every inch, suit, headphones, flushed cheeks, the badge on his chest, and god help him, the red and black lanyard around that pale throat. His colors.

And then he took off toward the starting lineup.

Ruined.

Absolutely, gloriously ruined.

He was definitely going to win this game.

#Authors note: this is just a little AU i have been playing with on bluesky! the team is all OC's with no real bg info for now! not sure if ill every really write anything more then HC's for this one tho! - Nix

[firephoenix2305]

ETERNITY CHAPTER 17 - RAPHAEL IS UP!!

Told you it would be a weekish 😅🫶🏼

As per usual, a little snippet as incentive! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, it was definitely a fun one to write, mainly for spoilery reasons I can't yet disclose :)

-Yalda shel or. Child of light - the archangel outstretched a bony hand which she instantly took, kneeling down beside Crowley - You have freed me. Thank you - -Pleasure - she smiled, placing her other hand over theirs. -Remember this - they whispered, loud enough for only her and the demon to hear - A good phrase should never be left unfinished - -Told you they spoke in riddles. No offence - Crowley quipped, startling a giggle out of God’s daughter and drawing a small smile on the archangel’s face - Listen, Raph, we need to… - -Ask me something, yes - they interjected, releasing Eleyn’s hand to sit themselves up straight against the wall - Tell me what it is you wish to know. It is the least I owe you -

AO3 link (from chapter 1)

FFnet link

I hope you have a nice read!! We're heading full-on to the finale now!!! 😈🫶🏼

Tag list: @beerok23 @celticseawych

-Nix 🧡