#oh my god i hardly ever see mothered fanart

[harpyjoy]

"I can't believe I didn't think of shipping these two before"

After thinking about it for a while I decided that it is better to tell it by a separate publication because it was seriously something too long xD

@rayshippouuchiha here are my delusions while I had a fever from the side effect of the vaccine...

It all started with the scene where Zero absorbs Ichiru towards the end of the second season, well in a way I think this part was a bit influenced by watching Hellsing, because at that point everything was combined with Zero, the fact that for having a life in which everything seems to go wrong (his family was murdered, he was turned into a vampire, he is about to go wild, the girl he loved turned out to be a vampire, he has been used as a pawn by another vampire and has to his brother dying in his arms) feels abandoned by god, so he abandons him in turn and Ichiru's blood flows to him...

(This is where I later realized that it might as well be a nice divergence for another even crazier ship like Alucard x Zero idk, but that's a can of worms I'm not willing to open right now)

...and a voice whispers an offer to him (because there always has to be a mystical and mysterious voice) that if he wants Ichiru to live. Now, I don't remember very well how the deal is going because after all it was a dream in the middle of a fever of like 39ºC but it would be something more or less like the two being born again as twin brothers, but this time there is no hunter's curse, Zero remembering all his past life but Ichiru won't remember anything.

The voice tells him that since it is an exchange of lives, he has to learn to live that new life and pay the price, whatever, between leaving that cell to continue doing what others want and deciding to take the reins for once in his life . Well, it's not difficult to choose, right? Zero chooses and reincarnates in the past as a pureblood baby vampire...

(and then he realized it was a damn cheating offer!)

In the arms of Shizuka Hio smile happily...

(what the hell is my life now?!)

...so apparently the price is to have this bloodsucking woman as his mother and to be a bloodsucker himself too, again ... but come on! at least now he's not going to fall to level E; so even though he's looking at Shizuka Hio's face in front of him now (what the heck? now that he notices it...is it normal for a hunter family to look so much like a pureblood family?) that it seems like now it's his mother, also, if that voice was telling the truth (which is very likely, since not all supernatural entities in the universe have the power to make you a reincarnation / time-dimension travel combo) Ichiru will be able to live a full life...

...and seeing a cute baby Ichiru in the arms of what seems to be his father in this life (that as my brain did not give for more, let's think that Shizuka's lover who was killed in the canon in this alternate universe was also a pureblood Hio cousin or something of her! more than anything because I don't want to think of another last name, and basically because I want her to be happy too) he has high hopes that it's true!

Anyway, the years pass and Zero learns that being a pureblood vampire is not so bad and since in this life Ichiru cuts his hair, Zero is the one who lets it grow (in honor of the Ichiru of his past life) although he still knows pierces because... why not?

Yes, the Council of Elders sucks, he had to live the early years of his second childhood in places without windows and the eyes of some noble vampires when they look at him are somewhat disturbing, but he has his brother safe and sound, and Shizuka...

(when she's not a bloodthirsty bitch fed for revenge)

...is actually a good mother, plus she has more strength in one hand than I could imagine and it feels pretty good to say "to hell with the Kurans", then the war between vampires and hunters breaks out and there are more pureblood gatherings than ever...

(and oh no, the damn Kuran! wait, since when are they three?)

...then, in one of those meetings Zero says "fuck it", because there is a guy who looks like the damn Kaname and a woman who is just like Yuuki ... and these old men from the Council do not shut up! so he escapes to breathe for a few moments and then he meets Rido Kuran and he honestly does not know what to think, he wants to hate him, but so many years have passed, he has Ichiru with him, he hardly remembers his human parents and he has enough with the discomfort he feels seeing Haruka and Juuri Kuran...

...and Rido looks so lonely that Zero almost sees himself in him when he was in his darkest moments in his old life and since Zero is not a heartless bastard he decides to talk to him about something random, and then the guy doesn't stop appearing everywhere!! and he first teases and laughs at Zero and then it seems that he can't understand what personal space is because he doesn't stop touching his hair and playing with the bell braided in his locks that Ichiru gave him and...

then he looks at him like he's...everything.

AND AT THIS POINT!! honestly with everything and my omniscient point of view even I was embarrassed to look at them because I felt like I was breaking into an intimate moment no matter they were just looking at each other because Rido looked so…thirsty.

He's basically a big cat and I think all the love, obsession and longing he felt for Juuri in the canon in this universe is focused on Zero, and the guy is The Yandere…Ichiru isn't impressed, but Zero seems to like him so meh.

And then it seems that pureblood vampires can have babies!! Because...who cares?

(Sincerely Zero no longer believes that something is going to surprise him)

They are not human, they are basically millennial immortal beings, one or two incredible things do not hurt and then the council of elders decides that they want to engage Rido with Ichiru (because he is the youngest), Zero has not even come out of shock when the two involved are already protesting very vocally and aggressively because who the hell came up with such a horrible idea?!, half the world and their mothers know that Rido and Zero are close! and Ichiru and Rido only interact when absolutely necessary (mostly because of Zero), fortunately the Council stops the proposal suddenly before it becomes more than a simple suggestion and...

then...I don't remember if when Rido and Zero get married they are Kuran or Hio?...

BUT, I remember that when you see them together they look like rock stars and they are the most atypical purebloods in history, where the other others look ethereal and fragile, they look dangerous and intimidating but equally or more attractive, like a seductive trap mortal.

They drive the Council absolutely crazy but they don’t care about them and they are a couple of cheeky, like very cheeky, I'm talking about public displays of affection and closeness that has more than one vampire looking away.

And so Zero is Senri's mother? (What the hell?!) Because let's remember that in the canon he is Rido's son with a noble and technically Yuuki and Kaname's cousin (?).... BUT! here his mom is Zero, because when Zero holds his baby for the first time and he is biting his finger to feed him with blood, the little one opens his eyes and Zero knows that look, he recognizes that light blue in apathetic eyes in the past and although now his hair may be more silver than dark he knows who he is, or rather who could have been (and damn he carried it in his womb for who knows how many months, it is his baby of course he keeps it)

THEN I WOKE UP!!  (」° �� °)」

and I was left with a dazed and feverish haze sitting on the edge of my bed staring at a shoe for like 10 minutes desperately thinking what else I could remember about the crazy cool dream I just had so I could take notes on everything, because that was a damn REVELATION!!, and then do something, anything, just something because it was too good to be true and when I looked for Rido x Zero fics on the internet they were all dark and distressing and unfinished fics and that was a big NO! And guess who's scribbling half-formed sketches and ideas with the happiness of a kindergartener right now? I don't know if this is going to end in a fic or a fanart or a comic or what the hell, but now it's my baby.

[killervibe]

you should see me in a crown

Theme: Day 3 - Doppelgängers. 

Words: 7.5k 

Notes: Massive shout out to  @brainynia who helped create this universe and @vibefrost for her awesome fanart for this fic. 

Warning: This is a bit of a dark fic. 

~.~ 

Amalia wiped the rain soaked hair out of her eyes and gritted her teeth, staring down from the high rise edge. Her footing flirted with balance as her dad’s eyes bore into the back of her skull. Dawn peeked from darkness over the horizon of Central City, but it was still dark and bitterly cold here in the shadows. 

 “Where is your suit?” 

 She narrowed her eyes through her goggles, zeroing in on her focal point. A lady with twisted yellow coloured pants hauled her baggage down the empty sidewalk, opening up her bodega. 

 “I don’t need it.” 

 “The hell you don’t,” Reverb growled.

 Amalia stiffened, she did. But only for a moment. Only for a second before stepping over the drop. 

 She braced for the heart pounding exhilaration and drop dead fear of free fall.  For the wind to whip wildly against her face, but a strong hand reached out and pulled her back roughly. Amalia stumbled, breathing heavily as she landed back on the roof, her breach sucking closed. 

 “Dad! What the hell?” 

 She glanced where his gauntlet glove was pressed on her arm. His hand was long gone but her stomach twisted yearningly for it to return there and she hated that. 

 “Wear the fucking suit I made for you or we’re done.”

 She stepped backwards, further from the ledge of the roof to the laddered exit. “Fine with me.” Amalia rolled her eyes. “I don’t even want to frickin' be here.” 

 “Excuse me?” 

 That burning anger in her dad’s eyes never failed to scare her. But she knew how to avoid his wrath just as easily as she knew how to crush someone’s bones with a clench of her fist. “I said. I don’t want to be here,” she snarled. Her hair was starting to frizz under the downpour and she swore under her breath, wiping the rain droplets from her goggles again until she gave up on doing that and hurled them into a vortex that would land on her severely unmade bed her dad had dragged her out of too early this morning. 

 Reverb laughed once, the sound coming out hollow. It was nearly impossible to make out what he was thinking or feeling, with his eyes now covered up again just like hers were, but she thinks she mustered her desired effect. The corner of his mouth curled up. It felt an awful lot like quiet, vile respect. His hair plastered against the back of his neck and he suddenly knelt down in a puddle until his leather pants were drenched. Amalia swallowed down her apprehension as she looked down at him before her, the way he remained calm and chillingly collected.

 “You are a child,” he said. “You know nothing about this world and what it will do to you. And until you excel at everything with the finesse of an expert, you will train. You will work. You will breach and vibe blast every morning until you prove you don’t need me.” 

 “I don’t need you,” she spat. 

 “Don’t lie to me, nena.” Reverb got up from the cracked cemented ground. “Do what I say.” 

 Reverb pointed into the blue circling breach behind her without a care, like he were about to banish her to the hellish underworld. “Go home and don’t come back until you’re dressed properly. Don’t make me wait.” 

 Amalia groaned in frustration, sticking out her middle finger at her unfazed father but obeyed because she had to. 

 Her boots squelched on the hard floor at home. She shucked them off and passed a mirror. She remarkably resembled the likeness of a drowned rat. She sighed, wringing out her hair as she grumbled under her breath. 

 “Fuck this shit. Fuck training. Fuck my life. ” 

 “—Amalia?” 

 Amalia looked up to see her mother still in her black satin bathrobe, her silver hair piled up in a lazy bun on the top of her head. 

  “Mom.” 

 Her mom returned to the master bedroom and emerged with a fluffy towel, draping it over Amalia’s shoulders and drying her off. The teen melts into her mother’s touch and smiles for the first time that day. 

 Killer Frost gave a little smirk as she dried off her daughter, placing an ice cold kiss to her forehead.

 “What’s the matter? Daddy’s causing you trouble?” 

 Amalia frowned at herself for being so readable. 

  That’s dangerous, dad always tells her. It leaves girls vulnerable and exposed to being cheated. 

 Still, she nodded, biting her lip. 

 Killer Frost rolled her eyes with resignation, and kissed her again, resting her cheek against her damp hair. “Tell me he at least fed you.” 

 Amalia made a vague noise. “We had a few twizzlers.” 

 Her mother scoffed. “I meant breakfast. ” 

 “Is that not breakfast?” she mumbled back. 

 The arms around her are not warm, never have been, but they’re the best comfort Amalia has ever known, and she’d cling to her forever if she could.

  “Mama, I don’t want to go.” 

 “I know,” she hushed, running her long nails down her back. “I know, but you know your dad. He just wants you to be your best.” 

 “Doesn’t feel that way.” 

 “No?” Killer Frost smothered her forehead with as many kisses Amalia could tolerate before brain freeze washed over, and she had to gently push her mom away.  

 “I’m sorry,” her mom apologized, walking down the stairs towards the kitchen, the steps frosting over behind her. Amalia watched her step as she followed. “I just woke up.” 

 Killer Frost flicked on a kettle and grabbed her Kill dampener necklace to clasp against her throat. “There we go.” 

 The tech lit up, signaling its activation. The hair on her mother’s head grew duller, not quite so starkly and Amalia smiled at her open arms, running to nestle back into her side. 

 “Amalia, my sweet dangerous girl. Happy birthday.” 

 “It’s really today?” Amalia peered into the cup of tea that was slid to her across the long dinner table. She found it amusing that her parents refused to give her coffee, as if she hadn’t figured out where they kept it on her own. 

 Her mom chuckled, raising an amused eyebrow. “Same day as every year since you were born. Why wouldn’t it be?” 

 “Dunno.” Amalia played with her chipped black nails. “Thought I’d feel older.”

 She took a sip of the black tea, warming up slightly. 

 Nora West-Allen boasted her ass off when she turned thirteen. Amalia thought maybe it meant something then. To be a teenager. But then again, Nora had always been an over-dramatic pathological liar. 

 “Well you look it. Certainly not my baby anymore.”

 “Then won’t dad stop treating me like one?” 

 A funny expression passed Killer Frost’s face. One Amalia didn’t understand. 

 “He’s not treating you like a baby,” she said firmly.

 “Right,” Amalia muttered, irritation itching under her skin. “Forgot how obsessed you were with him and how it warps your judgement.” 

 Her mom’s eyes flashed a warning as she snapped her fingers, instantaneously instilling a cold front that sent chills down Amalia’s back. It was her mom’s favourite form of discipline and it damn worked too. Killer Frost’s dry finger snap echoed loudly as she scolded her to watch her mouth. 

 She knew she wasn’t allowed to talk about her mom and dad that way. But god, why the hell not? The way her dad put his hands all over mom all the time left Amalia oftentimes nauseated. Joss had once taunted her for it. Called her the product of a noxious nuclear family up in flames. 

  “You’re just jealous that my dad knows of my existence,” she’d sneer back and get slapped for it. The sting on her cheek was never so bad in light of the look on Joss’s face. 

 “Amalia,” her mom said now. “Why’d he send you back?” 

 “We’re done for the morning,” she lied. “What’s my present?” 

 A noise swooped above them before Killer Frost could answer, and Reverb came stalking into their kitchen, trailing a river’s worth of water behind him. “Oh, so you’re not dead? Because I can’t think of any other reason for why it’s taking you so damn long to do as I said. ”

 Amalia’s mom glared pointedly. “You were leaving him waiting? You told me you were done.”

 “Lying to your mother now, too?” 

 Reverb leaned his arm across the dinner table to kiss Killer Frost. 

 “Good morning,” he murmured, kissing her some more. She yanked at his collar, dragging him closer to kiss properly. 

 He smirked and let her go, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket with that glassy grin he sported everytime he got his way with her. He smacked his lips, plopping down in his chair, and threw his own jacket on the floor.

  “You’d lie to that face?” He pointed at her mom. “Wow nena. That’s diabolical.” 

 Amalia rolled her eyes. 

 “Back off, honey. It’s her birthday.” 

 Reverb hummed distractedly, stealing her mom’s tea cup and finishing it all in one long gulp. “Oh? Is it?”

 Amalia stared at him, her jaw dropping slightly with disbelief. She could hardly believe his audacity. Her dad didn’t even remember? 

 Killer Frost smacked his thigh. “Cisco.” 

  He looked up from the empty mug, startled, then caught Amalia’s heated glare and snorted. “Oh my god, I was teasing you. I know it’s your damn birthday.” 

 Reverb’s face softened for a minute and he gave her a somewhat fond smile. “Happy birthday, mi pequeña reina.” 

 For one moment, Amalia’s heart soared. 

 “Now put on your suit.” 

 “Ugh!” 

 “Now.”

 Amalia stood up abruptly, screeching back her chair and stomped away. 

 “Whaaaat?” she heard him yelp from down the hall. “Not so cold! It was a shit training session. We got nothing done!” 

 ~.~

 Her room was large, beautiful and lonely. Amalia pressed her palm against the wall scan with little enthusiasm as the wardrobe opposite raised and whirred, exposing the glass case. Her goggles still sat in a wet spot on her bed. She ignored it for now, pulling her long sleeve shirt over her head. 

 She passed her mirror and stopped, looking at her own reflection calculatingly.

  Her hair was too curly. 

 Her face too round. 

 Amalia’s fingers traced over her scars, messy and ugly all over her stomach and arms. 

 The rest of her was... too damaged. 

 Her suit taunted her from its stand, waiting for her to give its attention. 

 Well. Whatever. Her dad won’t shut up until he gets what he wants, she might as well get it over with. Maybe then she’d get to do what she wanted for the rest of the day. 

 She shimmied into the tight pants and let the glass case open to reveal her purple suit, slipping her arms into the leather and fastening it closed. She put on new socks and grabbed her high tops, lacing them up. 

 After blow drying her hair so she’d no longer catch pneumonia, she slipped her goggles on and came downstairs. 

 Her parents didn’t notice she was back. Amalia stood with her arms crossed over her chest, clearing her throat as her dad had her mother half laid on the table, climbing over her to ravish. Killer Frost’s pale skin peeked out, exposed from the slinky bathrobe slipping down her shoulders as Reverb ran his hand underneath whatever was hiding under there. 

 Amalia gagged, going green. Maybe Joss was half right. This was noxious. 

 “Mom? Daaaad? Hellooooo?”

 Reverb knocked off everything on the table with a haphazard sweep. Ceramic mugs went crashing to the ground. Killer Frost moaned. 

 Amalia threw up her hands and quickly walked away. This entire family was a bag of cats. One minute her dad loses his shit over her not wearing a damn jacket with the shoes to match and the next she bothers to give a damn only to find him sticking his tongue down her mom’s throat like they were on a one tacked-minded mission to make Amalia a baby brother. 

 She peeled off the suit and put it back in on its stand then straightened her shoulders and turned away, changing into something else to wear as she waited for her flat iron to warm up. 

 She ran it over her curls until they were pin straight, snuck into her mother’s bathroom and scoured through the cabinets for her makeup to apply eyeliner and lipstick. She laughed as she messed it up the first time. Nora made it look easy. Soon she was looking the way she felt she should, now that she was a teenager and she contemplated what to do with the rest of her day. 

 Amalia knew she couldn’t breach out of her room without her dad somehow figuring out. 

 He was scarily on point with that. So she got on her hands and knees and pulled out the cardboard box with her old stuffed animals from the back wall in her closet, shifting open the tunnel she had stumbled upon three years ago. Neither her mom nor her dad knew about this exit, and the day Amalia found it she nearly cried with excitement. For a girl who could go wherever she wanted to, she felt pretty trapped. The tunnel was her life boat. She wouldn’t know what she’d do without it. Amalia looped her fingers through her handle of her packed bag, and crawled through the opening until she landed in the dead field off the side of her house.

 She squinted up at the sky. Sunlight now streamed in through the clouds. The dark threatening ones have rolled away. This pleased her as she made her trek down the path, through the secluded forest, and out the back gate. She glanced back at the estate over her shoulder. Killer Frost told fanciful stories of how they acquired the large mansion in the farthest overshadowed edge of Central City. How it was abandoned, and the perfect escape from other powerful meta-families they had to protect themselves from. Amalia used to listen to those stories with wonder, admiring their badassery. 

 She knows now the gaps in the stories. How she had once tripped over an old portrait of the family who used lived here. How her parents most likely murdered whoever this place must’ve belonged to. She wondered what family could live here, luxurious in solitude and equipped with a basement fit for Reverb’s lair. 

 She shrugged, adjusting her shoulder strap. Couldn’t have been any better people than them. 

 Amalia grew tired of walking, and flicked her wrist to open a breach. She landed in Nora’s bedroom. 

 Nora and Joslyn shrieked when she appeared, caught off guard where they were lounging on Nora’s giant canopy bed. 

 “God, and I thought Nora was bad,” Joss muttered once she caught her breath. 

 “Hi Amalia.” Nora flattened her braid. “Oh my god, my dad would have a fit if he knew you were here.” Her eyes lit up with mischief, nearly vibrating in place. 

 Amalia shoved Joss off her spot on Nora’s bed. “Then don’t tell him.” She was in no mood to see The Flash today. Nora’s father gave her nightmares. 

 “I was sitting there.” 

 “Shut up Joss, let her sit. It’s Amalia’s birthday.” Nora leaned forward and hugged her. 

 Amalia froze. Nora was a bit of what she’d call a sporadic whirlwind. Her temper rested on an interval about the width of a hair, her mood pendulum swinging from manic pixie to borderline psychopathic. Her reputation as XS was there for a reason. Just three days ago Nora threatened a hand through her chest when she pissed her off, her eyes burning red with negative speed force. 

 Nora’s fingernails dug into the fabric of Amalia’s shirt, clinging tight. 

 Amalia patted her back awkwardly, shooting Joss a helpless look. 

 Weather Witch stood up abruptly. “Are you coming with us? We were just planning on meeting Raya.” 

 “Where?” 

 “Downtown,” said Nora, pulling away. The speedster zipped off and returned with some fancy looking tech. 

 “Don’t tell Don, but I took these modulators I found from when I was snooping in his room. So shway.” She handed the devices for her friends to look at.  “Dad pawned them from—” Nora looked up. “From your dad actually,” she said, nodding to Amalia. “They make everyone around you easily susceptible to your demands. We can walk into wherever we want with whatever we want.” 

 “Power of persuasion,” Joss said. “I like it.” 

 Amalia liked it too. But she didn’t like downtown. She trained there, sure, but only in the early morning before the rest of the city was awake, so high up and above all the mass destruction, she felt she was touching the skyline. 

 “Doesn’t that violate your parole?” 

 Nora laughed like it was the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. 

 Amalia kicked at an empty Big Belly Burger bag left on Nora’s  floor. A fry carton rolled over littering salt all over the carpet. 

 She hasn’t been to juvie. Not yet, says Joss.

  Not ever , swears Amalia’s parents. 

 No, she hasn’t been to juvie but she has almost been caught and it was always because of Raya and Nora trying to pull off some ridiculous downward spiralling scheme. 

 The girls were somewhat older than her, Amalia the second youngest after Nora of the four. They had seen things Amalia hasn’t yet, and she knows they all have bitterness they keep inside. 

 But sometimes Amalia can’t help but think she’s the only one with a screwed-on functioning oxygen flowing brain. 

Nora turned on her heel, dragging Amalia by the hand out her door. Joss followed closely behind. They passed Nora’s brother in the hall. Amalia lowered her head, refusing to meet his gaze. 

 Amalia feared Don.  

 She tugged on Nora’s tightly clasped hand to urge her to use her powers and speed the schrap up. 

 “Are those my modulators?” Don asked, his voice vibrating in his signature gritty monster pitch, resembling the sound of a broken scream.  

 “No,” Nora said like an idiot. “They’re Amalia’s.” 

 Amalia raised her head, alarmed. She began to stutter, absolutely not wanting to get into Don’s warpath. 

 “Like Amalia has the balls to steal something from me. She wouldn’t dare.” 

 Joss huffed. “Whatever. Nora is borrowing them, leave us alone and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Joss! You bitch!” 

 Amalia’s hair flew into her face as the wind whirled around her. Nora’s hand was no longer clutched on hers. She looked up to find the Tornado Twins brawling against the walls, lightning crackling between them as Nora screamed at her brother. The story goes that the two have been fighting since they were in diapers and Amalia often wondered how far their hatred for the other would go. There was no love between them, not even mutual respect. She held her breath as her stomach twisted with unease when Don banged Nora’s head against the floor, begging this wasn’t the day Don killed her. 

 Amalia turned to Joss. “Aren’t you worried for her life?” 

 The older teen rolled her eyes, raising her weather staff to strike lightning and zolted the twins with a bolt. 

 The twins sprang apart, seizing on the floor as Weather Witch spat in Don’s face. “Learn some fucking chill.” 

 She zapped him again for good measure as he flopped unconscious on the floor. She picked the stolen tech from his limp grasp and returned them to Nora, offering her a hand to help her sit up. 

 Nora heaved, wiping blood from her nose. “I didn’t need that. I had him.” 

 Amalia opened a breach and Joss threw her staff through the dimensional tear into Nora’s bedroom.

 “Sure, XS.” 

 The girls met up with Silver Ghost and put their plan into motion. Nora fastened the modulator to the base of Amalia’s neck, getting really close. “There,” XS said. “It looks like a cool tattoo.” 

 Her skin pinched her under the tight claws of the attachment but she swallowed and agreed to make her life easier in hopes to mollify Nora. 

 The tech worked like a charm. Raya and Joss managed to bankrupt three boutiques with the loot stolen from the two of them, Amalia standing behind watching with internal bafflement as they kindly asked the high end manager to hand over all their expensive clothes for free. Amalia managed to swipe some makeup of her own in her proper colour shade, knowing her mother’s porcelain-like skin would look like halloween makeup on herself. 

 By mid afternoon, the sun was beating on their backs, and their arms were heavy from holding bags with more than they knew what to do with. 

 Amalia swept her dark hair to the side, away from the the hidden modulator. She pried it off like a prickly thistle. Amalia considered the tiny machine. Could she...control dad? If she kept it? 

 Like hell that was a good idea. Tempting as it were. 

 Nora said Reverb made them. Amalia blinked back down at the modulator.

  Had...Her dad ever used these on her? Would he? 

 She didn’t think so. 

 Would her father really sell tech that could make people susceptible to The Flash’s will, of all people? No. She knew Reverb’s trade better than anyone. He wouldn’t give up dangerous tech to him unless he wanted The Flash to have it. Or it wasn’t as dangerous as perceived. 

 Amalia nodded to herself and held out her arm, the bug in the palm of her outstretched hand. 

 “I think I’m done now.” 

 “Says who?” sassed Nora. 

 Suddenly, a blue breach appeared in front of the teens. Its swirling vortex swished menacingly, beckoning Amalia back home. She hid her grin. 

 Silver Ghost snorts. “Uh oh. Daddy’s calling.” 

 Amalia shrugged, making a show of shuffling her feet forward as if this wasn’t what she was secretly (embarrassingly) wishing for.  

 “I gotta go.” 

 “Loser,” taunted Nora, her eyes narrowing angrily. But XS changed her mind at the last minute and instead gave Amalia a smile. “Actually, you know what. It’s okay. You go. Happy birthday.” She pulled a lacy purple bodysuit from one of her many bags. “I got you this. You’ll look great in it.” 

 Amalia shoved the bodysuit into her own bag hastily. “Wow. Cool.” 

 “Bye, Amalia,” said Joss, but she seemed already bored, moving further down the street to follow Raya. 

 Reverb was waiting for Amalia at the other side of the breach with his arms crossed. 

 Home was dark, Amalia thought as her vision adjusted to the lack of light. The breach sucked close behind, locking her in. 

 A finger beckoned her over. Amalia dropped her bags in the hall and sauntered breezily.  

 “Hi daddy,” she greeted innocently, playing up her big brown eyes. 

 “Hmph.” He pointed at the carpeted floor under his chair. “Sit.” 

 Amalia sighed and did as she was told, crossing her legs. 

 “Had fun with your little juvenile friends?” 

She raised a cheeky eyebrow. “Had fun defiling mom on the kitchen table?”

 Reverb’s face first slackened with honest surprise but corrected itself quickly, rearranging into a sly smile sparkled with mirth. He tapped his nose. “Touche.” 

 Amalia spread her hands backwards as she looked up at her dad expectantly, wondering exactly how much hot water she was in and what she could get away with. 

 It was like he could read her mind. 

 “So,” he said at last, leaning forward. “What did we learn on our little field trip today?” 

 “Uh.” Hey eyebrows pulled together in thought. “That Nora’s a bitch?” 

 Reverb laughed, seemingly pleased. Amalia said the right thing. Her shoulders relaxed as her father’s own rigid posture began to melt away. “She’s a West-Allen. We already knew that.” He waited for more.

 Amalia thought of Nora’s grabby hands. “And she’s clingy. It’s kind of creepy.” 

 “Is she?” 

 “Kinda,” Amalia said again, not wanting him to get the wrong idea and ruin the girl. 

 She watched her father toy with an idea with slight trepidation. 

 “Daddy,” she said. “It’s whatever. It’s no big deal.” 

 He waved her off. “Nah, I know it’s not. But don’t ignore it. Work with it.” 

 “—But.” 

 “Use it to your advantage. With time you could probably get her to do what you want. Wouldn’t that be nice, nena?” 

 Amalia didn’t know what to say. 

 “I guess.” 

 Reverb rolled his eyes. “Good. Well. You’re excused.” He motioned his fingers in a little runaway gesture. “Go on. Ditch day’s been hard on Flopsy not me. That’s animal cruelty, you know.” 

 She gasped, guilt eating at her core and she ran up to her room because her father was right. 

 Her bed was unmade, her blankets spilled over the floor from where she was dragged out by, and she nearly tripped over her markers. 

 She scooped her bunny up from its cage, cuddling its quivering body to her chest. She cooed at him, stroking his velvety fur. 

 Flopsy’s nose twitched. 

 “Are you hungry?” she crooned. The bag of imported baby carrots next to his cage was near empty. She took the last three and deposited her pet on the floor, plopping him between her legs. She waved a carrot in front of him, beckoning him to come get his lunch. 

 Flopsy didn’t move. 

 “You dumb blind bunny.” 

 She cupped Flopsy’s fluffy butt, and drew him closer to feed him. 

 Amalia’s thoughts wandered. 

  Thirteen, she thought. 

  Thirteen. 

 Amalia Ramon is goddamn thirteen years old and is celebrating it with a rousing round of manipulative shoplifting, homeschooled supervillain lessons, and a dumb blind rabbit to call her own. 

Fuck. 

 ~.~

  Amalia’s alarm lights flashed around in her room, her alert system she had created which warned that her father was about to breach in unannounced. She threw Nora’s gift and her swiped goods under her bed, scooped Flopsy, and picked up her abandoned sketch book. She just managed to plop into her chair as her father stepped in. She looked up, playing casual. 

 “Normal people knock before entering a teenager’s room,” she greeted dryly. 

 “Oh? Is that what you are now, nena?” He strolled right in. “Your bed isn’t made.”

 Amalia rolled her eyes in disdain. Nena. Baby. How many more years will it take for him to stop calling her that? And does Reverb pull the sheets up his bed? She didn’t think so.

 Amalia didn’t know, honestly. It’s been years since she’s been in their room.

 “I thought we had people to do that.” 

 “I have people to do that. Because I have that power. You’re not there yet.” 

 Amalia turned a page, analyzing her old drawings. “Uh huh.” 

 “Wow, you’re sound so bored Amalia, it’s like you’re begging me to return your present.”

 Amalia sucked in an excited breath, snapping her gaze up at him. “Present??”

 Sure enough, her father had reached into a breach and pulled out a gift box, wrapped in ribbon and paper with blue and gold. “What? You thought I forgot?”

 Killer Frost peeked her head into the room. “I heard the word present.”

 Amalia let go of Flopsy, leaving him to hop over her blanket and made grabby hands. 

 Reverb dropped the box onto her lap. Amalia tore off the lid with a frenzied eagerness, the tissue paper inside going flying. 

 Inside was a crown. She lifted it out of the case, inspecting closely. It had to have been stolen. The gems in it were real, and so was the silver. Her father’s proud smirk confirmed her theory. 

 “Whose was it?”

 “Doesn’t matter,” Killer Frost reassured with a small smile. “It’s yours now.” 

 Reverb went to place it on her head. Amalia grimaced, ready for the crushing weight, but found that it was light. 

 “...How?” she wondered aloud, reaching up to her head to feel for herself. 

 “I played around with its properties. It’s not worth giving you migraines, mi pequeña reina.” 

 Amalia stared at her lap, willing herself not to cry. 

  Stop being stupid. Stop seeking his validation. You don’t fucking care. 

  But she did. 

 Amalia stood up and made her way to her mirror, appreciating her reflection. 

 She rolled back her shoulders, stood tall and made herself look proud. 

 Killer Frost came beside her and kissed her cheek. “Happy birthday. You are our whole world.” Her mom glanced at her father, who merely crossed his arms silently. She shot him an expectant look. 

 “You’re better than anyone in this fucking place,” he said. “Don’t forget that.” 

 Amalia returned him the box. Their fingers brushed, and the tell tale sign of her father being thrown into a vision mirrored her own. She breathed in sharply through her nose as the room tilted, tinging blue. 

 There, she saw herself throwing a powerful blast as her father slammed someone down by the jaw against a table. They worked in tandem. Her eyes were hidden beneath the goggles, but her body language screamed that she was at ease turning enemies to bones and dust.

 The image flickered, and there she were again, older, taller, with long nails like her mother and the very same crown atop of her head. She gave a conceited smirk, perched on her father’s ‘throne’, the ornamental furniture which centrepieces Reverb’s basement lair. Her legs were lazily swung over the edge, her head tipped to the side in amusement. The gauntlets on her gloves were smoking.

 She raised an eyebrow challengingly, acknowledging her. Hello nena.

 A chill ran down Amalia’s spine. They both gasped out of it, her father a bit more loudly. 

 He gave her a sidelong glance, his mouth twitching at the corners, pleased. But she was scared of what he saw, and what it means. 

 He put his hand on her back for a second. Amalia felt his warmth through her clothes. “You’re better than anyone in this place,” he repeated once again, his voice sounding far away. “I saw it.” 

 Reverb walked out. Killer Frost watched him go. She studied Amalia, unable to read what just transpired.

 “We’ll go shopping in the morning,” she informed curtly then nodded. “We can have dinner at seven. Tell me what you want and I'll make it happen.”

 Flopsy nibbled at her toes, thinking they were carrots as Amalia remained frozen in her bedroom, wearing her beautiful crown. 

 Fuck. Fuck.

 She was thirteen with a promising career in terrorizing in front of her. She had to change this future.

 ~.~

 “Again.” 

 Amalia gritted her teeth, pushing the pulsating energy from her clenched fists. The sonic boom bounces off the mirror and she ducked, narrowly missing the fatal blow. 

 “Again, nena.” 

 She cries out, blasting the mirror. Shards of glass shattered and she covers her head, letting her breach swallow her feet as she crouches to avoid the impact. She hears Reverb swear as the woosh goes past her ears but she doesn't have the time to turn her head and make sure she hasn't struck him. 

 She falls through blank space flailing, and screams. Her heart leapt to her throat as her hair whipped against her face. She tries to focus, thinking of a place to land, realizing she never sent a signalled destination. Was she going to fall through dimensions forever? 

  Home. Bring me home. Bring me home! 

 She lands hard on her ass and drops to the ground, panting. She covers her heart, her eyes still squeezed shut as she regains her composure.

 “Dad?” she croaked. 

  She took a deep breath, then frowned. 

 It smelled. It smelled funny. Her nose tickled, and Amalia slowly opened an eye up at the sky. 

 She saw trees. 

  Trees with colour.

 Her hands brush against the prickly mass underneath, twigs and sticks and leaves? She’s in a bush. Amalia sits upright with alarm. 

 She’s in a bush. There are tall trees all around blocking the sky with obstacles, the sun is bright. She can’t see skyscrapers. She can’t see the broken city. She smells nature. 

 She’s in a fucking bush. 

 They lost vegetation in Crisis. Central City didn’t have bush. It has roots and tall dying forests with barren oaks and birch. Empty, dark melancholy places to hide mansions and practise crime. 

 The last time she saw a full tree was in an old picture book. 

 A car honks and she jumps out of her skin. She plasters herself against the rough bark of this tree in the vividly green park. 

 She doesn’t understand. She said she wanted to go home. She’s never failed at breaching before. How could she? She’s been training since she was six. This was downright mortifying. How could she have end up so far away? She needs to go back. Now. Like. Five minutes ago. Her dad is going to skin her alive. 

 The street is not busy, but not quiet either. Amalia calculates the likelihood of being caught breaching in the open. Such open. She has nowhere to go. Where were the crooks and crannies built into infrastructures designed by every American urban planning map? The ones crucial to protect from lethal meta attacks? 

 Is she no longer in the right country? 

 It won’t matter. She’s not staying here in this creepy place. Her ears picked up a sound, and she looked up at the branches to see birds flitting around a nest. Amalia gapes, watching robins feed their young, chirping and singing. Healthy. 

 “—Amalia!” 

 She startled, turning her head to her father’s voice. Relieved. Her dad came. He came to rescue her from this place. He’d learned his lesson, finally. She began to smile. “I’m—“ 

 —Here!!” A girl calls, stumbling out of the large house across the street. She pants, her hands on her knees.

 “I’m here! I overslept! I made you something, Daddy. Before I go. You know how you said Ellie kept getting into your prototype cabinets? Well, I present to you…” She straightened up, rummaging through her blue backpack and pulls out a contraption. “A solar powered lock with a frequency distributor! It’s Ellie proof! Well—Breacher proof. I tried it myself. Can’t get in. Cool, huh?”  She bounced on her heels. 

 The man with her father’s voice turns around, his face, delighted.  

 “What!? Mini me, that’s genius. ” He high fives her, and she throws her arms around him. He reciprocates. 

 Amalia stares, horrified. She stumbles back. 

 It was dad. That was dad. But he wasn’t calling her. 

 “Amalia!” A woman calls, coming out of the house. “You forgot your lunch!” She stood tall and slender, with beautiful brown hair and kind eyes. Eyes with spark. With light, unsuppressed.  She wore a white blouse and a blue ruffled skirt, and waved a biodegradable bag. She looked nice without straining effort. Gentle, even. Caring. 

 Amalia tilted her head, tingling with anxious unease as realization hit her like a truck. 

 That was mom. 

 A blue breach swirled open and the woman tossed the bag into it. Her lunch dropped into Dad’s outstretched hands. Dad passed it to the impostor, and kissed her cheek. “You’re going to kill it at camp, Ace.”

 Ace smirked up at him with Amalia’s wicked grin, the one that made Reverb chuckle and call her devious. “I know.” Her smile fell, and she shifted, looking sad. “I’ll miss you.” 

 “I’ll miss you too, sweetheart,” dad promised. He wasn’t lying. “I love you. Now remember, no breaching in plain sight, but if you’re feeling homesick, you just give me a call and I’ll be right over.” 

 “Yeah. I know.” 

 Amalia’s fingers dug into the bark, scraping blood. Dad packed a suitcase into the vehicle. 

 The beautiful woman called into her house. “Kids! Say goodbye to your sister! Her bus is here!”

 Two boys walked out. One tall with long hair like dad’s with a shock of blond at the tips. He held a skateboard painted with icicles. The other, smaller, quiet, holding a really little girl in pigtails. 

  She has a baby sister?  

 The kids huddled together, sharing a group hug which mom joined. Dad looked at them all squished together, and laughed. A real one. Not maniacal or dangerous. 

 It sounded free. 

 She gasps out loud. 

 Ace turns her head. Their eyes meet. 

 Amalia yelps, throwing her shaking hand behind her as her legs give out. She chaffs against grass, tears burning her eyes. She falls into a pit, and cries out in alarm as her breach sucks her back into the ether.  She didn’t mean to open a breach! She didn’t want to leave— damn it. 

 She wanted to go home. The real home. With Ace. Who looks happy, and loved. Who wore short sleeves and had no scars. Who looked pretty with bouncy curly hair that actually suited her fucking face. If Amalia touched Ace’s skin, would it be cold to touch? Would it numb her fingertips, did she need to thaw like Amalia did? 

 Of course not. Of course not. Of fucking course not! Not this Ace. Not this Amalia. Not this stranger who went to camp because that existed here in this utopia . This imaginary real life place where life didn’t suck! It didn’t suck at all! It was a life, a meaningful one. The one she should be in. The one with a family and a home and birds and green trees. Those three kids all younger than her. Siblings. Brothers and a sister. Amalia wasn’t even allowed to have one to share the lonely mansion with. Ace gets three??  Where was she? Where could this possibly be? How could she go back and hoard it all for herself? 

Where her mom isn’t white and frosty, her hair is brown (normal!!!!!!!!!!!!) and her smile is warm. And this version of her father, of Reverb, with the biggest grin on his face. Who fawns over scraps of melded metal instead of pawning, killing for it. 

 Whose laugh is like music. 

 Amalia falls and Reverb catches her ankle from the edge of the roof. He snarls, murderous. She twists, jutting her hands out for the ground, away from the drop, refusing to look down. She could’ve fallen to her death. 

 She lands roughly, it would’ve scraped her skin if she weren’t wearing gauntlets.

 “Get up,” Reverb says. His eyebrow trickled down blood, a new gash peeping out from where his goggles would’ve ended their protection on his face. 

 Amalia caught her breath, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “Did I hurt you?”

 She reached for him with trembling fingers as he bent down, but he evaded. 

 “It doesn’t matter. Get up.”

 Her guilt washed away, contempt taking its place. How pathetic could she be? Begging for scraps of affection. She was never going to get it from him. Now that she knows what he’s capable of. 

 Reverb cocked his head to the side when she didn’t obey immediately. “Where did you run off to?”

 She wanted to scream at him that he was failing at the world’s simplest job. That caring about her should’ve been easy. Should’ve come natural. That he was doing everything wrong.

 But he’d ask her why and she’d tell him about the utopia. He’d think her powers were unchecked. That she’d need further training. He’d push her limits. He’d make her go back and—And ruin it. The utopia. He’d make her snap her fingers to crumble the earth, to shatter their beautiful homes and captivating brothers and adorable baby sister. He’d destroy them all.

 That’s what Reverb always does. 

 Amalia couldn’t let him do that. Not to Ace. 

 “Nowhere,” she bit out. “Blank space. I liked it.”

 “It nearly got you killed. You’re crying.”

 “I thought you said risk was part of a breacher’s life.” 

 Reverb drew back on his heels. Wiping at his blooded brow. He studied her with an eerie intensity. 

  Tell me you love me. Just tell me you’re proud. Give me one reason to stay. Smile at me the way you did at Ace. 

 Reverb’s eyes widen at her pleading, needy expression and scowled. “You’re right. I did. Get up.”

 ~.~

 Amalia hovered against the door as she watched Killer Frost pour antiseptic into gauze, cleaning her father’s cut. 

 She wondered if the mom from Utopia was a real doctor. With real patients. A real clinic, not a room with equipment stolen from hospitals. 

 Reverb hissed as Killer Frost pressed against the wound. “Stay still,” she cautioned, her voice hard. 

 It was hard. It was absolutely hard. There’s nothing soft and kind about that sharp tone. Amalia was horribly mistaken to have ever thought otherwise. 

 She knew better now. 

 Amalia waited until her dad was fixed up and gone before hedging her way in. 

 Killer Frost was screwing close caps, reorganizing. Amalia’s gaze fell to the Kill dampener necklace against her mother’s throat. 

 “Mama?”

 “Yes?”

 “Have you ever thought what life would be like without your ice?”

 It was a weird question. Killer Frost’s hands paused over her supplies. Her mother was born a Snow. Both of her parents carried the metagene for ice. It was all her mother knew. 

 But her answer surprised Amalia. 

 “I have.” 

 “And?” 

 I lived it, briefly. It was some time ago now.”

 Amalia stepped forward and sat on the medical cot. “What was it like?”

 “Thrilling. Every thought came with deliberation. I felt with my heart.”

 Sounded like utopia. Amalia swallowed down her trepidation. “And what did you do?”

 Killer Frost gave her an honest look. “I had you.” 

 Amalia let her words sink in to digest. She closed her eyes slow and careful. Her mother was a different type of villainy than her father. One who was born into isolation and cold. Killer Frost was not compatible with what mothers were supposed to be made of. Compassion, gentleness, patience. And yet, Amalia could not help but discover little pockets of those qualities sprinkled into her mother’s personality anyways.

 If Killer Frost was given a different life, if she wasn’t born Frost, if she didn’t crave apathy, what would she be? She was detached, indifferent to life and death, with only enough room to care for two people. Her daughter and her husband. But what if circumstances changed to allow growth for more? 

 Her father was the opposite. It was not that he was indifferent, but too involved. He was powered by his emotions, always passively angry, and it made him unpredictable and dangerous.  Reverb was notoriously clever in his calculations, deliberate and senile with a burning hatred for this world, and a passion to destroy everything but his own kind. He sought out the bad and shaped his own image to reflect their broken world to build his own kingdom and increase his gain with little regard to consequence.

 Everything fit into his puzzle, but Amalia, even after all these years had yet to understand what would be his final completed picture. 

 Amalia didn’t know what kind of evil she was. Catastrophic like XS? Spiteful like Weather Witch? Heinous like The Flash? Malice like her father? 

 She was young and bitter who wanted too much. Who expected too much in the meaningless crap of a life she was given. She was never going to be anyone. She was never going to be anything. 

 Every morning she was trained to perfect her skills, to become the perfect protege of Reverb, but she didn’t even have a name of her own. She had no reputation, left no mark on this city. Maybe she was like her dad, maybe he’s right to think she’s his to create. Her temper was driven by her own problems, which she’s always thought were worth being mad about, but what were they really? She had two parents and a house and a handful of friends.

 But something niggled at the back of her mind, whispering that she didn’t belong here, that she deserved more. That she saw what she could have and she should grab and take it.

  Her evil must be greed. 

 “If I could be happy. If I could be like that. Would you want that for me?” Amalia asked her mom, thinking about Ace in those stupid flip flops and flying curls. 

 Killer Frost thumbed her daughter’s cheek, her long nail scraping frost against her skin. “I want nothing more.”

 Something stirred in her chest. Amalia never considered that maybe she didn’t have to be like them. And what if, then? 

 “What if I—“

 Mom’s face clouded over, the tenderness, gone.

 “No.”

 “—But if I could.” 

  “No.”

 Amalia clenched her teeth in frustration. Her mom didn’t even know what she was going to ask!

 “Mama—“ she pleaded. “Just listen.” 

 ““Don’t run away again, Amalia. This world is dangerous. You know how so.”

 That wasn’t fair. She had run off thousands of times, yes of course she had, but they wanted her stuck in this house like a puppy on a leash. Sure, she was brash and idiotic half of those times, and yes, Amalia had once made a terrible mistake of leaving. 

 But this was to someplace good. Where people didn’t hunt others down, where watching your back was more of a precaution than what was necessary to survive. 

  Yes. This world is dangerous. Dark and hopeless. 

 But there are others. And if there’s anything she had learned from Reverb, it’s this: Impulse is dangerous and wild but necessary. If her gut says she wants, then she wants. There’s no use denying that. 

  In this family, we take what we want, nena. But only if I say so. 

 Amalia will find her way back to Ace and steal her life. Amalia glanced at Killer Frost, who had resumed cleaning her supplies.

 She’ll just never tell them. 

[madamebaggio]

What is going on between Sansa Stark and Arthur Pendragon?

The whole country has been following closely Stark and Pendragon’s feud, but apparently, the line between love and hate is thinner than we’ve thought. Although some earlier reports considered the covers further provocation between the two artists, some people now think it might have been playground flirtation. Arthur is famous for his charming ways and Sansa hasn’t dated since her relationship with Joffrey Baratheon ended. So maybe what we see right now are just the sparks flying. The question is… Will they fizzle out, or are we about to see some fire?

Chapter 5

Catelyn Stark was a force of nature, there wasn’t a person in this world that was brave enough to disagree with her when she used her mom’s voice.

This was the reason that one Saturday a month, no matter where her children were, they all had to go back home to have dinner. That meant all the Stark children had to find a way to get back to Montana, no matter where the hell they were. Robb once had to fly in from London and then go back in less than 12 hours.

There were no excuses. (Sansa, Arya and Jon learned not to have concerts scheduled on the first Saturday of the month. It was that serious.)

Sansa normally loved those dinners -it meant she could see her parents and her siblings -but today... 

“I just think that boy is extremely rude.” Cat Stark commented as she cut her steak.

“Arthur Pendragon is the coolest guy ever!” Rickon protested.

Cat glared at her younger son.

“He apologized.” Arya reminded everyone. “Sansa even forgave him.”

“I’ve accepted his apology, it’s different.” She indicated.

Arya arched a brow at her sister. “That’s why you two are exchanging covers now?”

Sansa showed her tongue to her sister.

“The internet likes it.” Bran commented. “They’re shipping you guys.”

Ned stopped cutting his food. “Shipping? Where to?” He asked confused.

Arya snorted, and Jon hid his grin on his napkin. “No, dad. It means they want them to be a couple.” Bran explained.

Ned frowned. “I don’t like this.”

“Dad, that’s just people talking.” Sansa assured her father, after sending a glare to Bran. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Fortunately.” Robb grumbled from his place.

Rickon and Bran started trading strange looks, then Bran shook his head urgently.

Cat arched a brow at the display. “What is going on?”

The two boys traded guilty looks. “You guys didn’t see his interview?”

“What interview?” Arya asked

“He gave an interview to a podcast.” Bran explained. “We heard it…”

Sansa threw a suspicious look at her younger brothers. She was well aware that Rickon liked Camelot, but she didn’t know Bran was also a fan.

“Did he say something about Sansa?” Robb demanded.

“Kind of…” Rickon shrugged.

“What was it?” Jon asked, clearly bothered by it.

“Jon.” Ygritte, his girlfriend, rolled her eyes. “Relax. He just talked more about the whole thing. He even apologized again.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him.” Talisa, Robb’s wife, cooed.

“You’ve heard it?” Sansa asked Ygritte.

“Yeah.” Ygritte confirmed. “It’s a cool podcast, and they have good interviews. Haven’t you checked your phone? Because it’s probably blowing up because of it.”

As a matter of fact, Sansa hadn’t checked her phone since she’d arrived at her parents’ house, because her mother always complained when they did it.

She shook her head.

“I have it here.” Bran offered.

“Show us now!” Arya demanded.

“No!” Sansa protested, but it was too late, her brother had already pulled his phone.

“I don’t like phones at the dinner table.” Cat reminded her son.

“It’s short, I promise!” Bran indicated, then just went ahead. He found whatever he was looking for, fiddled with his phone for a while and then...

“…some interesting covers.” A male voice Sansa didn’t recognize.

The chuckle that came after was all too familiar to her. “You could say that.”

“So, what’s up between you and Sansa Stark?” The man pressed.

“Just friendly banter.” Arthur replied, and she could just imagine that prick, sitting back, completely relaxed.

“People are saying your kids would look great.” The interviewer teased.

“If they took after her, they would.”

Arya snorted.

The man laughed. “And you say nothing is going on?” It was obvious he didn’t believe it.

“Nope.” He popped the p.

“But can we expect something soon?” The man pressed. “Maybe a duet?”

It was Arthur’s turn to laugh. “Who knows?” Sansa gasped at his audacity. “The thing is, I was an asshole, and I have no problem admitting it. I’ve repeatedly said I was sorry, but I’ll say once again. I shouldn’t’ve said what I did. Sansa Stark worked a lot to be here, and I have no right to call it bullshit just because my style is different.”

“People are saying you’re only apologizing because you got caught.” The man pointed out.

“I’m more concerned with Stark’s forgiveness.” Arthur threw back, completely unaffected.

“And has she forgiven you?”

“If she hasn’t, I can always cover ‘When you pass by’.”

Bran stopped the audio. All the heads turned to Sansa. “I’m going to murder him if he covers ‘When you pass by’.” She hissed.

Arya decided it was the perfect moment to laugh her ass off. “This is the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jon, Talisa, Ygritte and Rickon were also laughing.

“He did sound contrite.” Ned observed.

“I still don’t like him.” Cat decided.

“I second that!” Robb hurried to say.

“This is not a vote.” Sansa pointed out. “And there’ll be no more covers and definitely no duets.”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“What?” Sansa asked, resigned. Besides, Jon was the quietest among them. If he had an opinion, normally it was worth listening to.

“I just think you guys would sound nice in a duet. Your voices would compliment each other.” He offered.

Robb protested and Sansa threw a piece of bread at her cousin. Her mother was not amused.

XxX

Sansa almost called Arthur to ask what the hell he was thinking about. He was only adding gas to a fire that was burning quite well on its own.

After dinner finished and she went to her old room to hide, she decided to check the internet to see if people were really shipping them.

Oh yes… They were.

There were some fanarts and a dozen fanfictions. It was embarrassing and it reminded her why she shouldn’t Google herself.

She didn’t read anything and ignored the terribly photoshopped montages of them.

Tomorrow it would be gone.

XxX

Why Sansa was still so optimistic was a mystery to herself. Of course nothing was gone in the morning.

It was actually worse.

God worked fast, but fangirls worked even faster.

In the few days after the interview, someone had made a fan video of one of her songs. Which, fair enough, happened sometimes. But never like this!

They picked a song from her second album -when she was under Cersei’s influence -called “Love won’t let me go”. She wasn’t fond of this song anymore, because she basically wrote it to say she loved Joffrey too much to leave, even though he was an abusive fucker.

However, they hadn’t used only her image for it. They’d used Arthur’s as well.

Shiiiiiit!!!

All in all, it was ridiculously well done, and in many moments it actually looked like they were together in scene. The person who’d done it used scenes from Sansa’s and Camelot’s music videos, a few from red carpets and even Arthur’s special participation on a biker series.

They also used some other actor and actress to complete some parts. Sansa was pretty sure some scenes with Arthur were actually shots of Scott Eastwood’s back.

It obviously wasn’t official or real, but it still looked good. A for effort and dedication.

And the person had posted and tagged them both in it.

Now, Sansa was tagged in a lot of fan posts, so she hardly ever saw them all-unfortunately- but this time, Arthur had replied to it.

“Hey, I don’t remember recording this. How drunk was I?”

Was he serious? Did he want to die?

A mischievous voice that Sansa hardly ever listened to, told her to say something clever back. He always thought he was oh so charming, right?

“Plenty, but you were very cooperative.”

That would show him.

XxX

And once again she'd overestimated Arthur's common sense. She shouldn't have encouraged him.

“Can’t believe I forgot it. Can we redo it? I don’t like my hair on this one.” He’d attached a still that was quite obviously not him, one of the parts where whoever made it used Scott Eastwood.

Who said things like that? After the interview and now with this, people were seriously thinking they were about to work together on a song.

How would something like this even work? It wouldn’t! Arthur had to stop encouraging those rumors with this type of comment.

Honestly… His agent should take over his Twitter account.

“Just answer him!” Shae insisted.

“Do not!” Brienne cut in. “I’m already drowning in phone calls. Everybody wants to know if you’ll be recording something together.”

Sansa snorted. “Sure we will. As soon as he learns how to dance.”

“Don’t say that to anyone, even as a joke.” Brienne begged.

“Let her have some fun, Brienne.” Shae rolled her eyes. “There’s a hot rockstar wanting her attention. This is the American dream.”

Brienne was clearly unamused with the idea. “I can talk to his agent if you want.” She offered Sansa.

“Please, don’t.” Sansa asked. “It’d be embarrassing, like my parents are calling his. I’ll deal with it myself.”

Brienne didn’t seem convinced. And when later Sansa tweeted a reply to Arthur -“Sure. Get your people to call mine.” - Brienne made sure to show her displeasure over text.

Sansa didn’t mind. She was having fun.

XxX

Sansa had just finished rehearsal with her uncle Benjen when she saw Shae waving her cellphone, a smirk on her lips.

She didn’t even have to ask to know who it was.

“You can’t possibly be serious.” She said by way of greeting.

“You did tell me to contact your people, Red.” Arthur drawled from the other side. “I have to say that I looked amazing in some parts of that video, not much in others.”

Sansa snorted. “You have way too much free time. Don’t you have a song to record or a beer to drink?”

“Now, that’s offensive, Stark.” Arthur said dramatically. “Is this how you see me?”

“I see you as the annoying man who won’t leave me alone.” She threw back, but there was no bite in her tone. She wondered when she started enjoying these little chats with Arthur.

“Talking about my stalking techniques…” She couldn’t hold a laughter at that. “Do you have a date for the Grammy’s?”

She leaned against the wall and glared at Shae who wasn’t even pretending not to be listening. “Yes, and his name is Benjen Stark.”

He groaned. “Fuck, I can’t compete with that.”

That made her arch a brow. “Do you want to compete with that?” Shae seemed curious about this question, and was unashamedly demanding to know what was going on.

Arthur’s chuckle was rich and made Sansa blush for some stupid reason. “If you have to ask, Stark…” He drawled. “You haven’t been paying attention.”

She was still sputtering when he say goodbye and hung up on her. Shae let out a low whistle. “That boy is good. He’s got you blushing like a school girl.”

“I think…” Sansa cleared her throat. “I think he just said he wants my attention or something…”

Shae snorted. “Darling, he’s been desperately trying to get your attention for a while now. At this point… I’m pretty sure he wants your body too.”

Sansa just gaped at Shae, getting red all over again.

Notes: There you have it!

OMG ARTHUR! Can you believe this man? lol What should Sansa do now?

A few things...

1- I thought it’d be adorable for Ned to be confused with the term ‘shipping’. I couldn’t resist.

2- “When you pass by” is another Brazilian song that is sickeningly sweet. It’s a girl saying how her heart beats when the guy she likes passes by. It’s cute and catchy. “Love won’t let me go” is another Brazilian song, this one about a girl who is suffering but can’t let go of the idiot she dates. So... ahahah i just went with them.

3- I almost made my own terrible photoshopped picture of them, but I gave up, because I suck at it (even if it was just to prove Sansa’s point about fangirls). The story about the videos is actually inspired on these fan videos we see on youtube that are glouriously well done. I myself made a few of them, but enver uploaded.

I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Next chapter... Sansa gives an interview and Arthur realizes he’s deeper in love than he might’ve originally thougt.

Let me know your feelings.

[p-alex]

it’s another one of those times where i read about certain people not cutting toriel some slack so i started thinking about why i like him more than her (and, on a broader level, what might cause that reaction in general), and the conclusion i’ve drawn goes like this:

toriel as a character is written in such a fashion that she’s frustrating if you don’t buy wholesale into her gimmick.

think about it like this: can you think of any moment during the game where toriel’s principles are questioned to any degree? the only instances of anyone even voicing something like discontent towards her that i can recall is her being rejected when she tries to propose peaceful human-monster relations after asgore dies and undyne going “oh my god!” during the “into the trash” bit in the postgame.

“wouldn’t that be enough?”, i hear you ask? no, not really, because the latter is an off-hand remark that she doesn’t even react to and the former... well, that’s gonna take a bit longer to explain.

see, the discussions about toriel’s decision to go into the ruins are really grating because 99 percent of the time, all parties involved, regardless who they side with, seem to think it’s the outcome of a binary choice. either toriel chooses to stick around in new home and talk asgore out of his rage or she goes to the ruins to stop the humans from getting killed.

i want to propose a third choice called “go to the ruins, wait for the heat to cool off and slowly work on convincing monsters that the war against humans is a Bad Idea”

“wouldn’t that take way too long?”, i hear you ask again, which i ask back: “how much time do you think toriel has at her disposal?” people seem to underestimate just how much time must’ve passed between them getting sealed in the mountain and being freed at the end of it. a total of eight humans fell down, seven of which during the timeframe that matters the most, and given that asriel got shot with arrows when he left through the barrier and society depicted in the end credits seems to mirror our own, it should be easy to assume that this whole thing took at least a few hundred years. the only ones implied to have lived throughout that entire timeframe are three in number, two of them don’t age and the last one’s a turtle, which are known to have long lifespans, so his lifespan’s probably absurd as well.

point being, time is hardly an issue. and there’s even more! as the mother of the child whose death caused this escalation in the first place, wouldn’t she have one hell of a trump card in arguments? wouldn’t anybody want to at least listen to a woman that, despite right in the middle of this disaster, is unwilling to let blood be paid with blood because no matter how heinous her son’s death was, the pain and anguish she felt was so great that she wouldn’t want anyone else to live with that burden?

then how come it feels like she never really tried to resolve this? the frustration comes in when you consider that toriel is refered to as the brain to asgore’s heart, yet all the smarts she could muster amounted to “locking up any human that falls into the mountain, only for them to slip through regardless despite her warnings”? it wouldn’t make sense for her to tell you less than the previous humans unless she somehow banks on reverse psychology by hoping that knowing less about how dangerous the underground beyond the ruins is would make you want to stay in the ruins more? and even within the ruins, she seems to have failed to communicate her point, since she just glares at that one froggit at the start to shoo him off and a later dialogue scene reveals that they’re terrified of her.

and to bring this back around to what she does in those neutral endings... why would she ever think anyone would listen to her then? i can buy that trying to bring up peaceful relations right after asriel‘s death is a dumb idea, and that she couldn’t handle the strain. but then asgore dies, right after a human shows up, and it’s then when she decides that they want to talk? did she not notice how much asgore was adored by his people? was all the time she spent talking with sans wasted on nothing but knock-knock jokes and asking him to keep an eye on you throughout your journey (while somehow missing that he’s so fickle that he outright admits to you that he would’ve killed you if she hadn’t)? she had a frighteningly large window of opportunity to do anything useful, but only decides to take action after it had passed?

which gets me all the way around to toriel being frustrating to think about. i don’t have any issue with believing that she wants the best for everyone and is, ultimately, a good person, but the way she seems to actively sabotage herself in the pursuit of her goals makes me wonder how anyone can consider her “smart” seeing how she rivals asgore in how boneheaded her decisions are in the long term. by comparison, asgore has tried to find a way past the barrier that wouldn’t require sacrificing humans (which failed spectacularly, but was, in fact, attempted) and was willing to die for a kid he’d known for five minutes just so someone could leave that place and do something about the issue at hand. but those shouldn’t be points that i’m giving to the guy predisposed to be your final roadblock. i should be looking at toriel and think to myself that she did what she could to ease the tension, but failed in face of all the pressure instead of as the anti-guts to asgore’s anti-griffith.

look, i don’t want to have issues with toriel’s character just for the sake of it. i’m not even going to pretend that i don’t have at least some bias for asgore despite how much of a fuckup he is. who knows, maybe i have missed something that would make me respect her more, and i really want to believe that i do. but despite having kept my eye on the fandom for so long now, i never felt like those issues i had were adressed to a satisfying degree. maybe the occasional piece of fanart that was willing to portray toriel’s approach as flawed at the very least, but those are few and far between.

either way, i figure i should just put this out there and hope for some interesting responses since this post is clearly way too long already and i still feel like i’m missing at least half my argument here.

[lower-east-side]

Part Two of the fic for that simply gorgeous art by @camael-fanart

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five

***

Laurel, willow, oak. Every tree has spirits, and the ones along this river were no exception.

Myrtle ran her hands through the water and playfully splashed the boy sitting on the bank. He was of course a boy no longer, fully in the flower of his manhood - if one could call it that -  but Myrtle was ancient and still thought of him as a youth.

“Stop that,” Draco commanded in his imperious voice that made her laugh.

“You're the one come crying at my river. I'm only trying to cheer you up.”

“I'm not crying.”

“Brooding, then. Oh, don't give me that look!  You know I love your company.  No one else will come to see me.”  She lay back in the water, seeming to blend into the eddying flow.  “All the heroes chase the pretty nymphs in the forest.  The ones who think they are too good for me.”

“Maybe if you didn't annoy them so much, you'd have more friends,” Draco grumbled.  He idly drew the tip of one wing back and forth through the stream, unwilling to get his feathers any more wet than that, but enjoying the cool temperature.   It had been scorching lately.

He was unsure why he still came to see Myrtle. She wasn't even a proper dryad, never in her tree but always in the river.  Still, it wasn't as if he could expect his mother to listen to him, and he most especially couldn't talk to the others in his tribe.  They were satisfied with snatching bread and fruit from unsuspecting humans, bickering amongst themselves, and practicing dark arts by moonlight, praying to Hecate.  

Draco longed for something else.  He was restless, and lonely.  He sometimes allowed himself the pleasure of the company of young shepherds who came through the hills, but most of them hoped for an afternoon of bliss with a nymph or a muse, not a strange male creature of the air.  And Harpies had a bad reputation for feasting on human flesh rather than caressing it - a reputation well-earned by his mad aunt.  

Pouting, Draco rolled on his back, his wings splayed out around him.  He was ever so bored. Another handful of water caught his white-blonde hair, sticking it to his forehead, and he lobbed a rock at Myrtle in irritation.  It hit her with a splash and caused her body to ripple.

“Ooo!  So cruel.  Just for that I shouldn't tell you what I heard from the Oreads yesterday.”

“As if I care what those mountain sluts get up to.”

“You should, it's about that boy you always fight with.  The one who stabbed you.”

“Harry of the Kerameikos?”  That did catch Draco's attention.  He sat up to face Myrtle, his wings perked up behind him.  “He didn't ‘stab’ me, it was just a scratch.  What did the Oreads say?”

“They said he's been cursed,” she reported gleefully.  Myrtle always did love drama.

“Cursed to be a self-righteous pain?  That's hardly news,” Draco said, trying to hide just how interested he was.  That Harry was a constant bother.  Draco had come up against him repeatedly over the years.  The man had a knack for disrupting their best raids, the ones with fat pigs roasting during a festival, baskets of cakes and piles of fruit strewn about.  The Harpies weren't stupid enough to take an offering from an altar of the gods, but the human’s portion was fair game.  Not when Harry had his way, though. He'd appointed himself the protector of the weak and downtrodden, and made appearances at the most inconvenient times.  Secretly, Draco liked these appearances; it broke up the monotony of his life, and Harry was certainly something to look at.  Dark, tousled hair and bright green eyes, and a propensity for eschewing all clothing except a simple pteryges and chlamys, which showed off his warm, brown skin.  Yes, Draco enjoyed looking at him very much.

“Cursed to lie with a monster!”  Myrtle glided through the water and ended up uncomfortably close to Draco.  “The Sibyl on the mountain told him -”

“The Sibyl is a fraud.”

“Told him, in a trance no less, that he would die unless he ceased fighting and lay with a serpent.”

“What, a regular sized one? Or like the Python?”

“Who knows?  He has to ‘turn battle to ecstasy’ and ‘make peace with his nemesis’ and ‘love a dragon.’

Draco had opened his mouth to refute the possibility - oracles were notorious con artists, and peace?  For Harry to quit fighting, that would take a miracle - but ‘dragon’… that gave him pause.  Any prophecy worth it’s salt was surely a riddle, and not what it seemed on the surface.  If it was true, then ‘dragon’ most likely did not mean the real thing.

‘Dragon’ was also exactly what his mother called him, day after day.

***

After his unsettling encounter with Sibyl, Harry continued north along a dirt road.  Three days into his journey, he came to a village that was having wolf troubles.  His reputation preceded him, and they begged him to slay the beasts.  It was a fairly easy task, and he found himself the center of a celebratory feast once more.  He didn’t actually like the attention, but he gracefully accepted the honor.

The sacrifice was planned for later that day.  In the meantime, Harry asked for information on the Harpies.  Sure enough, they had ravaged this land, stealing olives and figs.  No one knew where their nest was, though.  Carefully, Harry also inquired if anyone in the village was versed in prophecy or riddles.

“Oh, you’ll want to talk to Horatius, down by the pond.  He’s a philosopher and a healer.”

And so Harry found himself yet again at the doorstep of someone who might be able to parse his future.

The pudgy man who opened the door looked delighted to see Harry.  “Come in, come in!  I’ve been expecting you!  As soon as I heard you were nearby, I knew you would want to see me.”

Had news of the prophecy spread somehow?  Harry had told no one since his trip up the mountain.  He hated when rumors spread about him.  “I didn't realize it was common knowledge.”

“Everyone knows who you are.  And of myself, of course.  Notoriety is a blessing and a curse, eh?”

“I hadn't ever heard of you before, actually,” Harry told him honestly.  “Someone in the village thought you might be able to help me with a riddle.”

This seemed to disappoint his host.  “Horatius Limacis?  Alchemist and scholar?  Host of several philosopher’s schools?  No?”

Harry shook his head.  Horatius sighed.  “It's just as well you're here, then.  We should become acquainted.  I can introduce you to many influential people.”

That was the opposite of what Harry wanted.  “I'm really just here for advice, before I continue on.  I have several things I can trade,” he added, pulling a few choice small gems he'd taken from monsters lairs along the way.  Horatius’ eyes lit up and Harry knew he'd made the right move.

“Yes, sapphires like that are very useful… and I suppose it's my duty as the most educated man in these parts to share my knowledge…”  He selected the largest stone from the pile and settled on a cushioned bench.  “So, tell me this riddle!”

Harry recounted the prophecy as best he could remember.  Horatius nodded and looked thoughtful.

“Riddles and oracles usually only repeat themselves to make a point very clear.  You are sure it mentioned a nemesis and a foe?  They are likely the same thing, or person.  And serpentine imagery repeated, as well.  Surrender, ecstasy, lay with - honestly, it sounds rather sexual.  The swift wings, hmm.  Are you by any chance mortal enemies with a marathon runner, or anyone you would associate with snakes?  A gorgon you battled, perhaps?”

“I’m not.  I don’t know if I’m really ‘mortal enemies’ with anyone, not since, well.  You know.”

“Well, it isn’t much of a riddle, I’m afraid.  More of a standard instructive prophecy, couched in metaphor.  Sleep with someone you consider your rival, that you associate with those things.  Surrender.”

Horatius leered at him, and Harry became uncomfortable with the conversation.  He could have figured most of that out on his own, anyways.

“Well, thank you for seeing me.  I should really get to the feast.”

“I’ll see you there.  I do, of course, have a place of honor here.  Sit near me, we will share some of the choice vittles.”

As Harry turned to go, Horatius laughed.  “And do have fun with your ‘‘winged serpent,’ whoever they are, but be careful.  You know what they say back in my country.  Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.”  Harry shot the man a startled look.  “Draco what?!”

“Are you not versed in Latin?  ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

***

The celebratory feast began in the late afternoon.  Harry was too distracted to pay attention to the sacrificial rites, throwing barley at the appointed time but otherwise lost in his own thoughts.  Once Horatius had said that name, it all clicked into place.  Could it really be that he was fated to lay with that beautiful, terrible creature, or else die?  He stared into the flames, wishing some god or another would whisper the truth in his ear.

The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it made sense.  Draco the Harpy was a plague, he did have wings, they had done battle.  And he was named for a dragon.  If he hadn’t been such an evil thing, it wouldn’t even be a hardship for Harry to be near him, as stunning as he looked.  But to go as far as the prophecy commanded…

Harry had never been touched like that.  At first, it was just timing.  He was young and always engaged in warfare.  After that, it always seemed like people wanted him for his fame, and didn’t know him at all.  He liked to help, to set things right in the world, but it wasn’t for acclaim or glamour.  At the end of the day, he just wanted a good house on some good land with a good… person.  

There was no way he’d ever get Draco to be with him, anyways.  He despised Harry.  They’d only ever spat invectives at each other.  The last time they’d clashed, Harry had managed to get one good swipe at the other man with his sword, catching him across the chest.  The look of absolute hatred that Draco had thrown his way before he retreated, bleeding, had struck Harry to his core.  At the time, he thought it was a bit of fear of eventual retaliation.  But maybe it was that deep down, he didn’t want that lovely face to be twisted in such malice, especially directed at him.

Now he was second-guessing every encounter with Draco.  Was this always there, under the surface?  Isn't that what fate meant?  He’d been guided by oracles his whole life, now was not the time to start doubting them.

It was just Harry’s luck, that after everything, his death came down to this.  

***

The villagers were passing around kylikes of wine when the flutter of wings drew Harry’s attention.

He spun around on full alert, ready for the Harpies to descend on the feast, but to his surprise only one dark shape loomed in the trees at the edge of the clearing.  Horatius and everyone else around him were already quite drunk, so it was easy to slip away.

As he approached a spreading oak tree, he came face to face with the subject of his confusing thoughts.  Draco, half-hidden in the leaves, leaned out and stared down at him.

“I heard something very interesting about you, Harry.”  Draco laughed at Harry’s obvious surprise.  “All those years in the wilderness, and you still don’t understand.  The trees have ears, the mountains watch, the waters speak.  I know all about your oracle.” 

It was a taunt, but it seemed like Draco wanted to discuss it.  Harry knew the avian beings had human speech; he’d traded insults with this particular one for years.  But that didn't mean they could be reasoned with.  Many of the monsters created or sent by the gods had the power of tongues.  Sphinxes, Gorgons and Cyclops could all converse, but that didn't imply they had the rational mind of a man.  They were driven by base desires.

It was those desires that Harry was supposed to inflame, though, if the prophecy was right, so he decided to risk it.  Maybe the Harpy was more like a person than he’d previously thought.

“Why don’t you come down from that tree and talk to me like a man, Draco.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and dropped down a branch.  “You never call me by my name.  It's always ‘foul bird’ or ‘wicked pest’ or the like.  Or you skip the words entirely and prick me with your sword.”

“I know.  But this time I don’t want to fight.  Get out of the tree and speak with me like a civilized creature.”

Draco snorted.  “Civilized.  I've got a civil word for you.  No.”  He was still suspicious of that blade at Harry’s side.

Harry bit back his retort.  You lose with victory.  “Please,” he ground out.

The first kind word that Harry had ever thrown his way seemed to intrigue the Harpy, and he jumped down to the lowest branch that nearly grazed the ground.  “Go on.”

“Well, you’ve already heard the prophecy, so I don’t have to explain it to you.  Do you think you know what it means?”

“Hmm.  Yes.”  He idly brushed a leaf off a bare arm.  Harry stared at the pale skin, then realized he was blushing and continued.

“Do you have any opinions on that?”

“Are you asking me to fuck you?” Draco answered blatantly.

After a moment of shocked silence, Harry turned away.  “I guess I was asking you to help me.  I don’t really want to die.”  He wasn’t even sure how it would happen.  Would he drop dead?  Lose a battle?  Oracles worked in strange ways when they predicted death.

“That's not my problem, is it?  Are we both going to die?  I've got no reason to help you.  You’ve tried to kill me several times, if you recall.”

“I’m defending things that don’t belong you, it was never personal.”  That was a straight up lie, it had become personal fairly quickly, but Harry was trying to be diplomatic.

Draco’s wings stiffened behind him.  “It’s predator and prey, out here.  Do you want us to starve?”  He glided the rest of the way down and approached.  “I think you do.  I think you see us as nothing but disgusting animals.”

“You aren’t disgusting,” Harry said quietly.  He’d never been this close to Draco without swinging a weapon.  His eyes were storm-grey, and he smelled like the forest.  

“But you don’t see us as people.  That’s fine, I suppose, we aren't.”  His wings spread and shook as if to illustrate the point.  “We live differently than you.  But I have thoughts and feelings like a man.  I don’t want to die, either.”  He glanced down pointedly at the sword that Harry was still touching lightly.

Bravely, Harry dropped his arms to his side.  “Would you like something to eat, from the feast?  There’s roast pig and honey cakes.”

Draco froze, and then sneered.  “Really?  Are you going to just walk over there and ask for more food?  ‘Oh, I need a portion for my would-be lover.  He’s one of those monsters you ask me to murder, but it’s ok, I need his cock in me if I’m to keep gallivanting around the countryside like a proper little hero.’  I’m sure that will go over just fine.”

“It’s my feast, I can get food if I want!  And wait, in me?  Who says I have to be the one to take-”

A rustling in the woods drew both their attention.  “Is your family here?” Harry asked warily, his hand going back to his sword.

Draco jumped back and spread his wings wide to take off.  “Dammit.  I told them not to follow me.  That smoke from the altar just smells so good, though.”  He swooped halfway back up the tree and clung to the trunk, peering back into the forest.

“Stop!”  Harry called out,  Draco turned back around, and Harry thought he caught a glimpse of regret on his face.

“I don’t want to deal with you right now.  I’ll tell them this is a bust, nothing good, and a nasty do-gooder waiting to attack.”

“Oh.  Thank you.”  Harry was pleased at the concession.  “I didn’t want to fight tonight, especially not with you.”

Draco sighed.  “I’ll consider that a last request, then.”  He took off from the tree, and hovered in the air just above Harry.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.  Oracles are a bitch.”

“Wait!”

It was no use.  As Draco flew into the night air, Harry wondered if he’d change his mind.

***

End pt 2

Oh, Moaning Myrtle, you gossip in any era.

Next time on Historical AU/Wingfic/Shag-or-Die, Draco is torn between his desire and anger, Harry is pissed off at fate, we meet a certain queen, and tensions between our two enemies come to a head.

If anyone was wondering last time, the three Fates, or Moirai, are: Clotho who spins the thread of life, Lachesis who allots the fate, and Atropos who cuts the thread. 

pteryges : skirt of leather strips

chlamys : cloak  

‘Limax’ is latin for ‘slug.’

Also, since I haven’t gotten to the actual porn yet, I’m indecisive: I have no preferences for top and bottom in Drarry fic (and honestly headcanon them as both pretty switch-y) so… ???   

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

“Telling” Asks

Because I’m relaxing today and I’ve never answered some of these before.

From: https://beyondthetemples-ooc.tumblr.com/post/185158056997/weird-asks-that-say-a-lot

--

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans? Teacups would be ideal, but the reality is more water bottles.

2. chocolate bars or lollipops? Honestly? Neither. (Unless it's a really good chocolate bar, like 85% dark, or Cadbury's~)

3. bubblegum or cotton candy? Both are too sweet for me. (Though, maybe once a year, I'll indulge in one of each.)

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups? Bottles, if it's not soda! (Good for multi-tasking and not spilling!) But otherwise, glass cups. Unless the plastic ones are really pretty or have a very nice grippy shape to them.

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear? Oh always goth, all the way. Technically a more "formal" goth (romantigoth is the label i'd choose if i HAD to pick one),

7. earbuds or headphones? That depends. When I'm active, or when it's hot outside? Earbuds. But when travelling, trying to work in a loud environment, or generally needing sound cancellation: definitely headphones.

8. movies or tv shows? Oh, that REALLY depends on the content. Movies are easier on the ADD, and most TV shows are paced TERRIBLY in the long-running format, but then there's, like... cartoons, basically, that have satisfying stories in each episode AND a great overarching plot.

9. favorite smell in the summer? Pre-Thunderstorm Static.

10. game you were best at in p.e.? I wasn't the best at ANY game in PE... ;P Honestly, my best "game" was probably....... tag, but the kind where they're running away from you as a form of bullying, so you just embrace it and "touch" them just to mess with them.

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day? I don't. (I don't feel hungry most mornings.) "First lunch" is usually a piece of fruit and maybe a granola bar.

12. name of your favorite playlist? I don't do "playlists", I do "play every album by this artist in chronological order"! But I guess my Epica and Evanescence stations on Pandora come pretty close, huh?

13. lanyard or key ring? Neither actually; I use those bungee-like things you can stretch to hold my things. I literally attach my wallet to my bag's handle with those so I don't lose it.

14. favorite non-chocolate candy? Peppermint? Candied ginger? Do s'mores count?~

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment? Oh DAMN that's hard... Let's see. If AR Summer Reading projects count: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire? The Invisible Thread (by Yoshiko Uchida)? Fahrenheit 451? And if those don't count, maybe The Scarlet Letter (by Hawthorne, of course).

16. most comfortable position to sit in? Your classic lotus position. I'm essentially in it right now.

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes? Work shoes, but outside of work? Black flip flops.

18. ideal weather? Realistically: 65, light breeze, and lots of clouds with a little rain. But my absolute FAVORITE weather was something I've only ever seen ONCE, and that was a thunderstorm in the middle of a snowstorm. It was incredible and the image of lightning against the snowfall is forever seared into the core of my soul as one of the most gorgeous things I've ever experienced.

19. sleeping position? Varies night by night. Safe to call it a general Flop.

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)? It depends on the draft! First drafts are best done for me in notebooks (usually, unless it's a scene with No Chronology Yet, it's in the notebook meant for the story)! But also, anything that's on hand whenever a new scene strikes me works too. I've written on napkins, calendar pages, doctor notes, and Greyhound bus tickets.

21. obsession from childhood? Ooh, Teen Titans, still to this day!

22. role model? ...Rrrraven? (And/or, my Actual Mentors. But it's very much a "don't be me, just let us try to teach you some things so you can be the Best You".)

23. strange habits? ...oh gods, where do I even begin. I meditate and practice energy work on the daily. I touch things almost any time I'm walking anywhere, like just reach my hands out a little and touch whatever's closest. I tend to ask a lot of questions when I'm talking to someone, lots of "why is that". I compulsively read Every Single Ingredient on every box I buy and research anything I'm not familiar with. Does taking like 15 pills and vitamins every day count? And also my "nesting" behavior, any time I'm somewhere I feel it's not rude to re-arrange, I grab pillows and blankets for support.

24. favorite crystal? Damnit, all my favorite stones are actually not "crystals"?! But crystalline azurite is close enough. (It kind of depends on the day and what energy I'm looking for. Stone/crystal work is another one of those weird habits. ;P )

25. first song you remember hearing? The "Arthur" themsong. I remember going to my mother and being like, "They said A! A is a letter!" And it wasn't for another, like, 3-5 years that I'd realize, they're saying "hey", not "A".

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather? Stay inside. (Anything that counts as "warm" rather than "cool" is too warm for me....) But if I had to pick ONE thing, definitely swimming, in a lake (because I have a mild chlorine allergy).

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather? ALL of them! Just being outside as long as it's not too sunny! Hiking, meditating, I used to do all my spiritual rituals outside, reading, walking, hell even at work when we have dogs to take on walks, I love walking in the park with them. Being outside when it's snowing. And then curling up in my room, on my soft bed, with a cup of tea and a book (or a great fanfic) after...

28. five songs to describe you? Teen Titans themesong, Bakura's Theme, What's the Use of Feeling (Blue) 1. End of the Dream, by Evanescence [ x ] 2. My Demons, by Starset [ x ] 3. Underneath, by Tarja [ x ] 4. Paradise (What About Us), Within Temptation ft. Tarja [ x ] 5. Reality Fringe, by Alex Dalliance

29. best way to bond with you? Talking, communicating, while respecting boundaries, with patience and sincerity.

30. places that you find sacred? Honestly, the biggest answers are a part of the Nexus and I don't think I'm ready to talk about that here;; Let's just say, astral adventures have gotten wild enough that my spirit guide and I have meeting places that are sacred, my leader-goddess has shown me a few places, and there are some "places" within my own mindscape that are sacred enough.

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names? Oh honey, that depends entirely on my mood. And the situation. I have multiple cloaks, some closet cosplays, I wear skirts every day, business jackets, and I can mix and match them however I please. It REALLY depends on whose ass I'm kicking.

32. top five favorite vines? I know I really like Thomas Sanders? But specifics-- Oh. Oh crap, wait I have to visit my vines tag to remember my favorites. DEFINITELY "This bitch empty. YEET" because I didn't know the vine OR exclamation before I saw a fanart that had me DYING OF LAUGHTER, thinking someone just made Blue Diamond yell the word "YEET" for no reason. "FREE-shuh-VAH-cuhdu" makes me die every time. "There's only one thing worse... A CHILD" is TOP QUALITY, genuinely hits at least 3 critical notes of my sense of humor. I love the one with the guys playing the piano (I don't know what genre but it's old-school and chill) and the guy comes in and starts club dancing to it. And the umbrella one with, "Run".

33. most used phrase in your phone? ...probably "if you want"?

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head? I haven't seen an ad in literally years. (get uBlock Origin, it works way better than adblock! also, i don't Internet on my phone.)

35. average time you fall asleep? 11pm? (Work nights: 9-10:30, depending on my exhaustion levels. Not work nights? 1-3am.)

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing? The actual LOLcats website!

37. suitcase or duffel bag? Neither; I actually use a mid-sized messenger bag and only use Personal Item Sized Bags for airplane trips. Free baggage, y'all. ;P

38. lemonade or tea? Oh tea, definitely tea. (Unless it's too-sweet iced black tea; then that watermelon mint lemonade wins.)

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie? Iiii actually can hardly eat either one, but Starbucks' lemon loafs were addictive (but really bad for my system) and I do love lemon meringue flavored things~

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school? M e . (I did weird shit like practice reading auras, accidentally warp the moodscape of everyone around me, and get an A on a pop quiz the teacher didn't lecture about for more than five minutes.)

41. last person you texted? An old high school friend I recently reconnected with.

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets? Jacket, since I don't wear pants (unless work forces me to, ew).

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket? I have no idea what differentiates them. =w=;; Cardigan probably, because I know they have really long flowy elegant ones I like to wear sometimes.

44. favorite scent for soap? ...ooh, that's tough... Lavender's always a good bet, rosemary-mint was a delight, I cucumber-eucalyptus was nice, and I have no idea what scent it was, but a local soap-maker at the farmer's market in the city I lived in for a couple years had this one that was made with, like, honey and red clay, and it felt AMAZING.

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero? Damnit, don't make me CHOOSE like this! I mean, for writing obviously Superhero because I write fanfics like hell for that genre, but I guess my Pokemon fanfics count as fantasy? And, come to think of it, most of my stories center around metaphysical weirdness is some way or other, so... straddling the line between fantasy and superhero.

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in? Nudity.

47. favorite type of cheese? ...provolone maybe? ??

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be? Pomegranate, probably. Gotta do some work to get to the good stuff, strangely unavailable most of the time, and once you get past all the drawbacks, it's just absolutely loaded with compartmentalized goodness.

49. what saying or quote do you live by? Bold of you to assume I only have one quote! Here's just a small sampling. ~ "Don't you want to feel? Don't you want to live your life? How much longer are you gonna give into the fear?" -Disappear, by Evanescence. ~ "Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night." -Edgar Allen Poe ~ "Be yourself, everyone else is already taken." -Oscar Wilde ~ "Guilt is a powerful motivator. Redemption, even greater." -The Unforgiving, by Within Temptation et al. "When you know in your soul who you are, you can never be corrupted again." -Raven, from the Games graphic novel. + Various quotes from my organization, along the lines of things like "Any Tom, Dick, or Harry can do your job, but only you can be there for your friends, family, and accomplish your dreams", and "When you understand WHY we do what we do, WHAT we do makes more sense".

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have? My girlfriend? Most of those vines I mentioned? "OH TITS IT CAN FLY"?

51. current stresses? j o b

52. favorite font? Arial, simple yet elegant. Easy to read. I write all my stories in Arial, so I'm biased. l3

53. what is the current state of your hands? They're in Ohio with the rest of me? 8F No, but seriously, lowkey aching a bit around the finger joints from constantly dragging dogs around for a whopping 60 hours this week, but they're not burned and there's only one Tiny cut I got at work, and I still don't know why, but that's almost gone already. I like my fingernails too, they've been breaking at the corners lately but they're still Decently Long.

54. what did you learn from your first job? "Turn tables" are not, in fact, the name of a band, but an item of musical arrangement. (I worked at the Exchange and someone asked if we had anything like the turn tables. I thought they meant musically similar to a band named Turn Tables.)

55. favorite fairy tale? Does the epic poetry of the Kalevala story count? (Finland's national epic!) But I'm not a big fan of the Grimm style fairy tales.

56. favorite tradition? Going to Evanescence concerts at every single available opportunity? Wearing a bracelet my gf gave me and a ring my mother gave me any time I travel? I'm not one much for Generational Tradition at all, I do kinda like forming my own though~

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome? Literally just, myself. 1. Overcoming my doubt in myself. 2. Overcoming my social anxiety re: Starting Conversations. 3. Overcoming my phobia so I could, you know. Eat food.

58. four talents you’re proud of having? ?! How do you even define what constitutes a "talent"? 1. WRITING! (Creativity re: characters and the plots they're in. Descriptive writing. My mother always acts blown away whenever she reads my writing re: "how you get into the character's head".) 2. I can speak very eloquently and articulately, most of the time. And not just via verbiage; I know how to say things that Matter. 3. I can cook a fantastic stir-fry! And, apparently, really good soup. 4. I'm proud of my (non-numerical) eidetic memory, sometimes. It's kinda just There, and I'm not, like, ACTIVELY proud of it, but it sure makes things easier re: remembering friends' triggers, fandom trivia, etc.

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be? What makes you think I don't create each response on demand? (There's... really not something I think I say often enough to count as a catch phrase. So I legitimately have no idea.)

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be? Is "dark magical girl anime" a thing? Because that'd be MY thing.

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.? See above quotes.

62. seven characters you relate to? 1. R A VE N that's it that's the list Theeee only other ones I relate to are kinda awkward answers to give for this (re Synpathy and such related topics), but then again there's hella sympathy for Raven too, so.... 2. Ryou Bakura 3. Blue Diamond 4. Lapis Lazuli 5. Malachite (it's Complicated) 6. Sucy 7. Crona

63. five songs that would play in your club? Just insert any five Alex Dalliance songs here, I don't listen to a whole lot of Club Style Music. (Unless.... does, like, Cascada and Caramel count? Because I still kinda like their styles.) My "club" would be more like orchestrals by Danny Elfman and Evanescence instrumentals and/or live music from local rock bands.

64. favorite website from your childhood? TitansGo.Net! Screenshots, transcripts, even the forums... I browsed that site on the daily.

65. any permanent scars? Oh boy, are you sure you're ready for this? My scars fade quickly, but you'll see them if you know what to look for. One on my forearm from when I fell off a bed onto a broken fan grate at age 5 (it's a 3-inch long gash), on my left pointer finger from being bitten by an angry rabbit, scars on my heels from my comic!Raven cosplay shoes, scar on my right hip from using rubber cement to attach a scar prosthetic for a Kary cosplay (at my supposedly practical-effects-knowledgeable father's advice-- not good advice at all, for the record, don't put that shit anywhere NEAR your skin), tiny spot on my right hand from the time I became too emotional at my girlfriend's house and scraped it on her carpet, tiny dot on my left shoulder from a protruding nail in an old (pavillon without a roof thing?) we once had in the backyard, tiny line on my right ring finger from the time Belle nearly fell from right next to me and I caught her (she tried to grab something and wound up scratching me), and a scar on my right elbow from cleaning the tortilla press at Chipotle. (They didn't tell me there were protective gloves to use. They really should've told me that.)

66. favorite flower(s)? Oh gosh, I don't know. I like almost all flowers, really. I love the scent of lilac and magnolia in the air. Rose and hibiscus make lovely teas. Seeing mint and lemon balm in bloom always makes me feel contented. Willow and basswood flowers remind me of happy childhood memories at the nature reserve. Pink hibiscus flowers have Very Special Meaning to me (for the other blog, really). And of course, flowers with energy or aromatherapeutic effects like lavender are favorites, too.

67. good luck charms? Look, I don't NEED good luck.~ Confidence, strategy, and being alright with whatever happens are my "good luck charms". (And throwing a little magic at it never hurts when I REALLY want something...)

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried? ....I'm not comfortable answering that (phobia memories, just not gonna think about that okay.)

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned? ...Remember that eidetic memory I was talking about? Every single little tiny fact I'm thinking about, I can remember how I learned about it.

70. left or right handed? Ambi, actually! 55% right. 45% left.

71. least favorite pattern? That depends on what it's for. Wallpapers? Floral (it kills my ADD, but floral patterns can make some very pretty dresses and blankets). Furniture? Paisley (but some people rock it in clothes). Furniture? any kind of fur trim (but again, it looks good on clothes). Clothing on me? Leopard and zebra (but I like it on lots of other things). My room? Checkered and tartan (but again, good patterns for other things, esp. clothing and interior styles that AREN'T associated with my room in particular, my room's just so noncomforming and cluttered that Busy Patterns like that aren't). I guess overall I'm just not a fan of highly stripey or square-y patterns?

72. worst subject? Math. Always has been. Probably always will be.

73. favorite weird flavor combo? The weirdest and actually not the grossest I tried was, out of curiosity to see what Tamaranian food might ACTUALLY taste like, I mixed sushi with ice cream. It really wasn't that bad! That one's my favorite for fandom reasons. 8P I don't do a whole lot of "weird" flavor combos otherwise.

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen? (Those... those are the same thing, buddy.) 8 or 9. NSAIDs, especially naproxen and ibuprofen, really irritate my stomach, so it has to be worth a week or two of Lowkey Constant Nausea to take it. For example, the last time I was waking it, I had dry socket. You know, that thing that happens when you get a tooth extracted and the blood clot doesn't form, so YOUR ACTUAL BONE IS EXPOSED for two FUCKING weeks..... and before the dental stuff, I would only take it when Monthly Stuff would get so bad, it could leave my crippled and crying on the bathroom floor for an hour. (Might've been longer if stepmom hadn't gotten me n0aproxen.....)

75. when did you lose your first tooth? Hell if I know what age that was, I think I swallowed it.

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)? Potato soup, especially my mother's! But I also like BAKED fries (actually fried fries tend to be... Really Badly Received by my system;;), kettle chips are pretty good in small amounts, and I love those criss-cross cut fries at Mr. Hero (I just can't eat more than, like, five at a time, guh).

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill? I absolutely LOVED having my lemon balm. But it got the aerial blight from my peace lily, and it died with all the rest of my houseplants. :c

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store? Sushi from a grocery store, just because this place called Giant Eagle makes some fairly good sushi for like $5 on certain days of the week, and I think they make it every 3-4 days. Fresh, like you can see them making it right in front of you.

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo? My passport is actually my best, I think~ Though my college ID didn't look bad, either.

80. earth tones or jewel tones? Depends on what they're for. Clothes, I guess jewel tones because I like blue and purple. But for interior decorations, earth tones like deep rich browns and black are my go-to.

81. fireflies or lightning bugs? They're.. the same thing? ??? I've used both interchangeably.

82. pc or console? PC, mostly because that's all I've had most of my life, and of course DC Universe Online was on my PC so maybe I'm biased. 8F

83. writing or drawing? Oooh, writing for me, all the way~ (Though I gotta do SOME drawing now and again!)

84. podcasts or talk radio? Neither, they're both too long for my ADD. And I don't... really care about most people on them? The only one I've ever seen was Amy Lee on short talk show interviews and the Steven Universe podcast with MKAtwood of course.

84. barbie or polly pocket? Neither. (I had both. Played with Polly Pocket because it came with a lot more animals, but those got lost way too easily, and I never got into the Barbie.)

85. fairy tales or mythology? They're both equally important and equally fascinating! Mythology has more Spiritual Resonance, and fairy tales have more Societal Resonance.

86. cookies or cupcakes? Depends on what kind! Oatmeal raisin cookies beat chocolate cupcakes, but red velvet cupcakes with a cream cheese frosting beat chocolate chip cookies.

87. your greatest fear? I have emet*phobia. You can look up what that means yourself because I don't even want to type the word, thanks.

88. your greatest wish? Just, freedom.

89. who would you put before everyone else? Damn it, I'm too compassionate for that answer. Whoever needs it more at that very moment.

90. luckiest mistake? Being so antisocial that the people running the ALP program made me sit with my girlfriend. I asked "Do you like Teen Titans?", and the rest is history.

91. boxes or bags? Boxes for long-term storage, bags for the daily.

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights? Lamps, generally. Candles trump them all, but LED lamps are a lot less fire-hazard-y when you might fall asleep. lD;;

93. nicknames? RHS, RWT, Shadow, Zira (means "Shadow"), closest friends call me Rae.

94. favorite season? Winter~ It's the kindest to my easily-overheated sensibilities.

95. favorite app on your phone? Prooobably the voicemail app my or/ganization uses? I don't do much else on my phone besides, you know. Phone stuff (talk/text).

96. desktop background? PC: A shot of Raven meditating in the forest from Justice League vs. Teen Titans, with the incense and glow and her head bowed and focused and everything. Laptop: The sky as Lapis looked up at it, the gorgeous Homeworld constellation from "Ocean Gem".

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized? Three. Mine, my girlfriend's, and only because she had the same phone number since I was like 8 years old, my stepmother's. Everyone else's keeps changing.

98. favorite historical era? The answer I want to give is Nexus-related, but I don’t think I have a real favorite era. I know too much about the history of misogyny, racism, colonialism, variation between eras around the world, and generally fucked-up shit in every era I've ever learned about.

[pumpkins-s]

Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink

Read on AO3 Here

Read the Other Chapters on Tumblr Here

Lance Alexander Rafael McClain is born in the middle of a summer storm, thunder cracking and rain slamming onto the roof of an old ramshackle house that had seen more than its fair share of children.

The miracle baby, that’s what the family had called Lance. The unexpected son to a mother of five daughters.

(In which family is always complicated, Lance’s life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, and he and Keith are really emotionally constipated for each other.)

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationships: Keith/Lance, significant platonic Lance & Hunk

Characters: Lance, Lance’s family, Hunk, Keith, Shiro, Pidge, Allura, Coran

Chapter 6: Live

(( Author’s Note: Heyo, new year, new update!

This wasn't originally going to be its own full chapter, but after doing the math on length and having just suffered through writing a 15k update for another fic (I'm serious, I did that, kill me), I decided to split the planned chapter up. Hence this. Now, before anyone asks, a lot of you have been asking about Keith, so I'll just say this-- They meet when Lance is 15. He's 11 now. How fast we get to Keith depends on how much of the next 4, Very Important, I'll add, years of Lance's life I cover, so please be patient, k? You'll get Keith in a chapter or two.

And!! Before we begin!! This fic has its own first piece of fanart!! I've been told it's a WIP, but it's still amazing so I have to show it off-- So everyone go check out Peachlance's gorgeous art of young Hunk and Lance. It's beautiful. I yelled in the middle of an airport when I saw it. (BTW if anyone ever does fanart for this fic and I miss it because it's on another site or whatever, please tell me in a comment on this fic or an ask to my tumblr with the link, I'd hate to miss it!!)

Also!! I'm on Twitter now since there seems to be a significant portion of the Voltron fandom that prefers that to Tumblr. I don't post a ton on it, but I'll be putting out update notifications from now on, so if you want those and my all-caps tweets yelling at Aiden, my irl Keith friend, feel free to follow me, yeah?

Ok that's it you can ignore me now here's Lance have fun y'all.))

Come September, Lance and Hunk pack their bags and move into the dormitories at Greenwood, accompanied by their moving team of the entire McClain family, plus Hunk’s grandmother— The whole lot of them piling into the old family jeep and pickup truck and Hunk’s grandmother’s tiny, ancient Toyota with an assortment of random things they’re each separately convinced Lance and Hunk are going to need.

Lance imagines they make quite the sight, pulling up to the pristine parking spaces outside the Greenwood buildings and piling out of the cars in a haphazard mess of long limbs and a loud mix of Spanish and English that blends together into a background noise that is comforting in its familiarity against the apprehensive mystery that is Greenwood. They certainly do get their fair share of stares as they cram into the entry building for student check-in, confirming that, yes, they are indeed all relatives, and are here to help Lance and Hunk move in.

Honestly, Lance has to admit they’re all pretty restrained, all things considered. Everyone knows how important this is to him, and to Hunk, in his own way, and his family is hardly inclined to mess this up for them, so there’s a fair degree of… what Lance might dare call caution in their behavior. They’re loud, and talkative, and move around a lot, because they’re McClains and that’s what they do when they move as a pack, but Karen doesn’t try to play soccer in the dorm hall, Igraine doesn’t punch anyone, even Marcie restrains herself from commenting loudly on the hairstyle choices of the people around them.

…Ok, yeah, she whispers a few comments under her breath to Lance, but that was still a marked effort on her part, and she was right that one guy’s undercut had been so sloppily done it was painful to look at, even Lance could agree on that.

Karen hadn’t seen anything wrong with it but, then again, that was Karen, who’s thought processes concerning her hair began and ended at where the nearest scrunchie was to pull it up into its perpetual bushy ponytail, much to Marcie and Lance’s horror.

If anything though, Lance thinks they just get odd looks because they’re… them. A large, loud, Cuban family who clearly don’t have the money to be here, let alone the pedigree.

“Fuck em.” Igraine mutters firmly under her breath the first time a mother helping her son with his bags scoffs at them when they pass by in the dormitory hall. “You’ve earned your right to be here. At least you didn’t buy your way in.”

“Igraine.” Aunt Rosa snaps, slapping her on the arm, and Lance snorts loudly, earning a victorious smirk from his sister even as she whines and cradles her arm as if it’s now broken. The burst of noise only earns them more side-eyes from the people in the hall, and Lance ducks his head sheepishly, scratching at the back of it nervously. He’s still not used to his short hair, really, and when he’s anxious he tends to find it feels quite itchy. At least the bangs that frame his face are just long enough to play with and twirl with his fingers. He thinks he’d lose his mind otherwise, far too used to having long curls to twirl and braid and tie into loose knots when he gets fidgety— Honestly, he has no idea what he’s gonna do in class now to keep his hands busy.

Eventually, they get all the boxes into his and Hunk’s room (and thank God for that little blessing, Lance doesn’t know how he’d function if they hadn’t been allowed to pre-choose their roommates), stacked up along the walls and all over the floor. Frankly, it seems like far more than the two of them will need to Lance, especially given they barely live an hour or so away, but a good portion of the boxes are things he can identify as not having packed himself, snuck in amongst all their other belongings, no doubt random pieces of junk his family has decided they require. Lance wouldn’t be surprised if he found something as random as a paper towel dispenser or half-empty bottles of shampoo, honestly. Knowing his family, it’s far too likely. He still remembers with a kind of abject horror the mess that was Carlos and Rachel moving into their new house.

It’s… different, bringing all his things in here and trying to make it a living space. Lance has only had one room his entire life, and if he ever slept in another room in the house, it had always been with Loraine. But… Loraine isn’t here anymore, and this is not his house.

Luckily, the adults largely take over once they get everything in, rearranging the school-provided furniture, getting the beds made with sheets and quilts and extra pillows, and unpacking the heaviest books. It only takes about ten minutes before Uncle Jesús, Lucas, Igraine, and Lance’s grandfather are kicked out of the room under orders to go get food for everyone, once it quickly becomes clear Lance and Hunk’s dorm room is not large enough to have all of them milling around in it. As it is, they still barely fit, shuffling past each other and ducking out into the hall as they work to make room. It’s a mess, but… nice. Lance is going to miss not being around his family every day, and so the squished hustle of it all is something he chooses to savor rather than be frustrated with.

When it comes time for families to leave, the extended visiting hours for the move-in day coming to an end once night falls, it’s a long, drawn-out procession of goodbyes. Lance has to patiently remind his mother and sisters that he’ll see them all again come the weekend, but even while reassuring them, he himself can’t help but cling to them tightly when they embrace him, memorizing his mother’s warmth, Marcie’s fruity smell, Karen’s chapped lips when she kisses the side of his head, the sharp dig of Igraine’s multiple ear piercings against his cheek when she hugs him tight. Each of them distinct in the little things that mark them as who they are— Marcie and her guiding softness, Karen’s grounding reassurance, Igraine’s fire, Evie’s quick wit.

His sisters.

…And Lance, the shadow to the all-encompassing, insurmountable ocean.

“Are these… Christmas lights. Yep, they’re Christmas lights.” Lance glances up at Hunk’s bewildered words, and snorts loudly, shaking his head in slight disbelief. Even with their families’ help, there’d still been plenty left to unpack once they left, and apparently they were hitting the boxes of weird stuff now.

“Just throw them on one of the desks for now.” Lance says dismissively, turning back to his own box, while Hunk bemusedly gathers up the lights in his arms and stares at them.

“…We could string them up along the ceiling? Like college students do in the movies?”

“Wouldn’t that be a safety code violation?” Lance asks, unfolding the flaps on the box in front of him and blinking in surprise. “…Why.”

“What?” Hunk says, frowning, and Lance sighs, straightening up and pulling out the large Cuban flag he’d found stuffed in the top of the box.

“I bet my abuelita put it in— She does realize I was born in the U.S., right?”

“Maybe she just wants you to be proud of your heritage. It’s a good thing.” Hunk says mildly, and Lance rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, come talk to me when you find your giant New Zealand flag then.”

“Actually…” Reaching into the new box he’s just opened, Hunk pulls out a miniature New Zealand flag on a stick and waves it back and forth. “It seems my grandmother had a similar thought pattern.” Idly, he peers into the box. “…Oh look there’s an All Blacks flag there too.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s over there.” Hunk says, pointing at the crucifix sitting on Lance’s bedside table, also a gift from his grandmother, Lance suspects.

Lance grabs the pillow off his bed closest to him and chucks it at Hunk’s head.

Hunk dodges easily, not even sparing Lance a look as he pulls a few books out of the box and sets them on his desk. Lance huffs in irritation and chucks the flag onto the edge of his bed to deal with later, emptying the rest of the box to find… yarn, lots and lots of yarn.

Wincing, he runs a hand over the closest ball, a light pink that’s soft to the touch. He’d learned to knit from Marcie, who’d in turn learned from their grandmother, as something to do with his hands when he was feeling overly fidgety. It had been nice, something he enjoyed, even if he’d mostly only made scarves and blankets, but since Loraine’s death he hadn’t touched his knitting needles, the whole activity too drenched in memories of being tucked up on Loraine’s bed with her watching a movie as he moves the yarn through his fingers.

He gives it a moment of hesitation, and then folds the box shut and pushes it under his bed.

Knitting’s probably not a normal boy’s thing anyways.

“Hey help me with this box.” Lance startles, standing up and going over to where Hunk is standing next to a large box, helping him push it into the spot they’d cleared for emptying and sorting boxes and cutting the tape on the top. Hunk opens the flaps and reaches in, pulling out a mess of fabric. “Clothes. Guess we missed a box earlier. Looks like these are all yours.” Lance takes the bundle of shirts from Hunk and opens a dresser drawer, dropping them in before moving onto the next handful. They’re all plain or with simple logos, old things he’d gotten from Lucas and Carlos, a few of Karen’s old things when she wore more masculine clothing for a while when she was younger. He’d purposely made sure to leave out all the old floral-patterned tops and frilly blouses along with the other clothing hidden in the back of his closet when he’d picked out what to pack— He hadn’t needed too many clothes, anyways, since the school had uniforms. This was mostly just for lounging around the dorm or days when casual wear was permitted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hunk reach for something in the box, pulling out an old grey shirt and staring at it, brows furrowed and a question clearly on the tip of his tongue. Before he can say anything, Lance quickly snatches the shirt out of his grasp, throwing it in the drawer with the rest of the clothing and shutting it firmly, ignoring Hunk’s questioning eyes even as they follow him as he folds up the now empty box and drops it into the pile with its brethren in the corner.

He knows Hunk has noticed the change in his clothing, his mannerisms, as distinct as his hair, but he’s not ready for the questions yet.

…He’s not yet come up with an answer.

“How many boxes do we have left?” He asks pointedly, kicking the pile of empty boxes into a more reasonable shape.

“Oh! Uh…” Hunk startles, and glancing back Lance watches him peer around the room. “Nine or ten? We’ve gotten all the big ones, we could always do the rest tomorrow after orientation.”

Lance frowns. “If you’re tired, you can sleep now. I want to finish tonight so we don’t have to worry.”

He’s too jittery to sleep, honestly. Nerves and fears and excitement about being away from Veradera, from home, but being here, colliding together in a mess of emotion and displaced energy. Hunk hesitates, shaking his head, and Lance can tell he feels much the same.

“Nah, let’s just… get it all done tonight.”

Lance nods, grabbing a box off the stack and passing it to Hunk before grabbing one himself, setting it on top of his bed and opening it up. Once he gets the flaps on the top open, though, he freezes, feeling ice trickle through his veins and under his skin as he stares down at the box. “…Dammit, Marcie.”

“What’s wrong?” Hunk asks behind him, and Lance jolts.

“Nothing. Just. Stuff I told her not to pack that she put in anyways.”

In the box sits the things Marcie and Lance had bonded over for years, the skills she had taught him— The child-size makeup case she’d given him, filled with bottles of tacky nail polish in bright, sparkly colors, the lip gloss set Mavis had sent him along with others his sisters had gifted him, a couple old, thick pen eyeliners Igraine had given him, a cheap set of cheerful eye-shadows Carlos had bought him from the dollar store as a present last year. Next to the makeup case is the little box of hair ribbons he used to use, and with a pang of hurt at the sight, Lance wonders why Marcie would even put those in. He cut his hair. It’s done, no changing it.

It’s done.

That Lance— Lancie, Loo-Loo, whatever, whatever he was, is nothing now. Just a pile of memories buried away with his old clothes in the shadowed places no one will think to look.

With only a second’s hesitation, fingers drifting over the top of the makeup case, Lance folds the box top shut, picking it up and shoving it under his bed, crawling under after it to make sure it is pushed to the furthest corner against the walls, and then shoves the other boxes being stored under his bed around it for good measure, until it’s hidden from sight.

There’s no room for that… person anymore.

“Hey, you alright?” Lance feels a foot prod the back of his leg as Hunk’s voice pipes up, and he yelps, shooting up and slamming his head against the underside of his bed, pain blossoming through his skull as his vision blurs.

“…Ow.”

“Lance?!”

“I’m fine, just…” He groans, wiggling back out from under the bed and staring up at Hunk tiredly. “You surprised me.”

Hunk grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m just… hungry. They said there’s snacks left out in the dorm lounge tonight, right? Since a lot of students skipped dinner to unpack.”

“Yeah.” Lance nods, wincing when that sends another spike of pain through his head. “You want to go get some?”

“Please.”

They barely make it five steps down the hall before the whispers, the sidelong glances start— There’s plenty of other students still out in the hall, curfew rules given some leeway due to the fact it’s move-in day, and out here Lance and Hunk stick out like sore thumbs. In uniforms Lance imagines they’ll look much like everyone else, but everyone’s milling about in casual clothing right now, and Lance and Hunk’s worn, clearly hand-me-down sweaters and jeans with their tears in the knees make a sharp contrast to the neat, new clothes the other kids sport. Glancing down uncomfortably, Lance tries not to stare too hard at his own bare feet in comparison to the clean-looking shoes many of the others he can spot are wearing.

He hadn’t even thought to put shoes on. His sneakers were for the mud of the park and the cracked gravel of the street, not for indoors. Lance is pretty sure his mother would kill him if he ever wore his grubby shoes on inside. Even Marcie’s pretty work pumps that she had saved for months for and looks after with religious zeal come off at the door at home.

He’s so preoccupied with his little thought derailment of the etiquette of shoes on versus shoes off, Lance doesn’t even notice the boys rounding the corner until he quite literally slams into one, their chin connecting with his forehead, sending him reeling back in surprised pain, Hunk catching him with a startled yelp.

“What the fuck?” Someone says in a surprised, vaguely annoyed voice, and Lance glances up cautiously as he straightens back up, wincing when he makes eye contact with an older-looking boy with pale skin and short red-blond hair who is currently glaring at him like he’s a particularly disgusting piece of gum under his shoe.

“S-Sorry.” He stutters on instinct, taking a step back and slamming into Hunk, who Lance had conveniently forgotten was right behind him.

“Sorry? You damn well should be!” The older boy says with a kind of miffed outrage, crossing his arms as the other boy next to him looms over Lance and Hunk. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you to watch where you’re going?”

“He said sorry.” Hunk says, taking a step forward, and Lance gratefully ducks behind Hunk. It’s hardly his proudest moment, but these boys are at least a head taller than him and could probably bench-press him easy— Lance is tiny even for an eleven-year-old, and Hunk, lucky bastard, sits rather tall and large for a twelve-year-old. Between the two of them, Lance likes Hunk’s chances of at least getting the other boys to back down, given they can’t really risk their scholarships by getting into a fistfight on their first day.

“What are you, his bodyguard? Back off, lumpy.” Big and scary scowls. “I’m talking to the twig.” He raises an eyebrow at Lance, and snorts. “How the hell did you get into this school? What are you, a Mexican?”

Lance flushes, pushing past Hunk with every intention of informing the boy that he is Cuban, thank you very much, and that he can, frankly, fuck right off, when a serenely cheerful voice beats him to the punch.

“Demonstrating a deep and layered understanding of the various nuances of the Hispanic identity as always, Travis.” A girl says from an open door on the left, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. “Then again, you’d probably know quite a bit about Mexico, right? Given your daddy gets his cocaine stash from there.”

The boy turns red, spluttering. “Fuck off, Ritchie.”

“Oh, right.” The girl hums, lifting a hand to inspect her nails. “I suppose I could fuck off? Could fuck off right to the headmaster’s office. I’ve been meaning to look in on my granddad since I arrived.”

The boy pales, and his friend grabs his arm, pulling him away. “C’mon, man. Not worth it.” The two turn, disappearing around the corner, and the girl watches them go with a satisfied smirk.

“Bye!” She trills, and then turns back to Hunk and Lance with a raised eyebrow. “You two all good?”

“Uh.” Lance glances at Hunk, who shrugs, eyes wide in confusion. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problemo.” The girl says happily. “Travis and Jordan are mcfucking pricks. I like any excuse to tell them to fuck off.”

“…Okay?” Lance says awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. Subconsciously he brings a hand up to play with his hair, like he usually does when he’s nervous, only to meet air and flinch, pulling his hand down as he remembers there’s nothing there anymore.

“Ritzie!” An exasperated voice calls from inside the room behind the girl, and a boy with short black hair, dark eyes, and a scowl appears in the doorway. “Stop harassing new students.”

The girl gasps, placing a hand over her heart. “Me? Never. I’m only introducing myself.” Sticking a hand out to Lance, she grins. “Isabel Lamae, but everyone calls me Ritzie. At your service.”

“…Lance. Lance McClain.” Lance answers, carefully taking her hand and inspecting the girl before him. Ritzie is tall and willowy, probably two or three years older than him, if he had to guess, with thick blonde hair pulled up in two pony-buns on the sides of her head in a style Lance finds reminiscent of Sailor Moon, and wide, thick-rimmed purple glasses. She’s pretty, he guesses, in an eclectic kind of way, and her easy confidence reminds him a bit of Igraine. “That’s Hunk.” He says, pointing over his shoulder, and Hunk waves.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Ritzie parrots back cheerfully. “The grumpy one who yelled at me is Yuu, my roommate.” Behind her, the boy’s eyes narrow, fixing a glare at the back of her head.

“I thought boys and girls couldn’t room together?” Hunk asks curiously, looking between Ritzie and Yuu.

“They can’t.” Ritzie says, sticking her hands in her pockets with a self-satisfactory smirk and pursing her lips, blowing a bright pink bubble out that explodes after a moment with a quiet little pop.

“Then…”

“Her grandfather’s the headmaster.” Yuu sighs, seemingly giving up and approaching them to stand next to Ritzie in the doorway. “Which means she does whatever she wants.”

Hunk pales, staring at Ritzie with wide eyes. “Oh my God your grandfather’s the headmaster.”

“Chill.” Ritzie says, idly waving a hand. “You two are new, right? Scholarship, I’m guessing? No offense but you can usually guess.” Lance winces, and Ritzie shoots him finger guns. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad, you two look like you deserve it.” She nods to herself, looking pleased. “I have an eye for these things.”

“Well, she thinks she does.” Yuu says, rolling his eyes.

“…Great.” Hunk says faintly.

“Yep.” Ritzie nods, pausing for a moment, head tilting, and then pulls out a small packet from her pocket and offers it to them. “Bubblegum?”

Lance blinks, glancing at Hunk who subtly shakes his head, eyes wide.

“…Sure. Why not.” Lance says, already reaching out.

And that is how he and Hunk end up accidentally befriending Ritzie Lamae and Yuu Itami, the livewire princess of Greenwood and her sounding board slash handler.

Slowly, they fall into something like a settling at the Academy, or at least a semblance of it. It’s… undeniably odd, being even this far away from Veradera on a daily basis, but Lance finds it’s somewhat the change he needs. He misses home, of course. He misses it like hell, but he still gets to come back on the weekends, to revisit his sisters, his family, the worn staircases of his home, the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, the cracks in the concrete outside his driveway, the crab-grass riddled front yard of Hunk’s small house where his now aging dog sleeps in the afternoon sun, the white, bright sand of Veradera beach, the creaking pews of the church, the feel of Loraine’s gravestone against his back.      

And this way, he’s still alleviated from the… pressures of his home. Lance will never say he feels unsafe or unwelcome in his house, because there would never be a bigger lie. His family would protect him with their lives. But… it’s also hard being there sometimes now. The gaping loss of Loraine, while scabbing over, is still achingly fresh in all their chests, and while Lance doesn’t have the heart to place any more undue burdens on his family in their grief, pretending to be okay all the time is, frankly, exhausting.

Because, ultimately, Lance is very aware he isn’t okay. He’s better than he was— He’s learned to function again, to survive, but a mediocre duct-taped job holding together solely on hope and a prayer doesn’t fix something firmly broken. Lance is never going to be whole again, not in his soul or his heart, he knows, in a way he can’t put into words. Even once the worst of the grief and the agony has been worked through, one day, this is something he will never move past. The connection between himself and Loraine was intimate and fathomless in a way he shares with no one else. He holds something similar with Hunk, he thinks, but it’s different. Hunk is someone he feels close to, like they hold a connection beyond their time together, but Loraine was like… the other half of his mind. Losing her fractured something deep inside his soul, well beyond the definitions of his short childhood or his yet unlived years.

Sometimes, he wonders if this is what the oceans might feel like, if someone came along and placed blocks between them, severing Pacific and Indian and Artic. That’s not the way things are meant to be, he thinks. Water is meant to intermingle and run together. You can’t take one piece of water and say it is different from another, when they are meant to be one.

Lance’s only other comfort in his thoughts, to rival that of knowing his family doesn’t have to see these broken pieces of himself, is that Hunk is here with him. Hunk, who picks him up and puts him back together when he falls. Hunk, who listens to his nonsensical ramblings about water and souls and Loraine with an understanding and patience beyond his years, and cleans up Lance’s messes afterwards, coaxing the blades from Lance’s skin before he can do more harm to himself, and forcing him to sleep and eat and keep up appearances in class.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Hunk, Lance really isn’t sure if he would have survived those first few months at Greenwood.

The other surprisingly consistent presences he finds at his side are Ritzie and Yuu, who seem to take an attachment to Lance and Hunk after that first encounter on move-in day. Or… at least Ritzie does. Lance suspects Yuu usually just goes along with whatever Ritzie fancies, either unable or unwilling to talk her out of her ideas, instead simply hanging around for something like quality control, and to make sure Ritzie doesn’t get herself killed.

Ritzie is easy to get along with, Lance finds. She’s beyond privileged, as pretty much almost everyone at the Academy is, but not arrogant or obnoxious about it. She has an ego, but only for the things she achieves herself— Not beyond showing off, largely the opposite honestly, but only for her own brilliance, never her family’s money or influence, unless she threatens it to protect an underprivileged or younger student who’s getting shit from the kids who do think their money entitles them to everything.

Lance has never been able to hold a friend beyond Hunk, too smart and too little and too different to give him much popularity before, but he… he likes Ritzie. She’s just as smart as him, as many others here are, and fun. She doesn’t care about his age or size, judging him by his kindness to others and his “interestingness”, as she puts it. He doesn’t tell her about… Himself, about the Lancie-Loo of Veradera beach, and Loraine, and promises to stars, but those are secrets reserved to Hunk and his heart, for a dead child who can no longer be to survive and do what he plans to. Still, he enjoys her company, embracing her loudness and her quirkiness and her spitfire energy. Hunk is slower to warm up to her, but even he can’t avoid her cheerful charisma.

Yuu is trickier, Lance finds. Despite his disgruntled complaints, he shows himself to be very attached to Ritzie, her right-hand man. He’s dismissive towards Lance and Hunk at first. Not in a mean way, but just as if he assumes they’ll soon get tired of Ritzie, or Ritzie will get bored and that will be the end of it, but with time, he seems to unfurl, accepting Lance and Hunk as occasional presences in his and Ritzie’s space. Yuu and Hunk get along well, once they both get over their personal cautions. Yuu is analytical design and portable game devices and formulas for circuitry and wires, and that clicks well with Hunk’s easy joy in technology, in science, in creation.

Ritzie is more… charm and exploratory whim. Bold words and the written truth in print and demand for answers to everything and anything. They’re traits Lance and her share, in part, and he figures that’s largely why they mesh so easily.

And so, while he and Hunk remain partners in crime, formed by unbreakable trust, Ritzie and Yuu also become on-and-off presences in their days, offering new company and idle chatter.

It’s… nice.

Adjusting to the academic side of Greenwood is its own bag of worms though, Lance discovers.

For once, Lance is no longer the youngest, smallest child in his grade. Instead, he finds his classes filled with a mix of different kids, sharing space with children several years younger than him, as well as those older, including Ritzie and Yuu occasionally, despite them being a year older than Hunk and two older than Lance. Class in general is less regular— They don’t take the same classes all the time, and aside from some basics, the curriculum is a lot less regimented.

Greenwood is, as Ritzie calls it, “a true magnet school”, dedicated to producing students who rake in accreditations and awards for the school. As such, Lance finds that pretty much every student is dedicated to one or two clubs or particular talents, be they academic, artistic, or athletic.

It only takes a few weeks before one of their science teachers pulls Hunk aside and recruits him to the competitive robotics and engineering clubs, his talent for schematics and building the impossible out of scraps, long honed from years hanging around Igraine and Lance’s uncle at the repair shop, quickly coming to light. As for the rest of Lance’s miniscule social circle, Ritzie is part of the school’s elite debate and mock trial teams, and Yuu the mathematics team, along with the same robotics team Hunk is dragged into.

Lance himself doesn’t really find an easy niche. His specialty, much as it can be called that, has always been being moderately decent at everything. It was what had allowed him to jump a grade, given there was no one subject he was significantly less proficient in than the rest. He has odd skills he’s picked up, but they’re all what he’s learned from his family— An intricate knowledge of makeup and hairstyling techniques thanks to Marcie, basic understanding of an engine via Igraine, some easy programming skills and how to hedge a wifi signal he’s locked out of courtesy of Evie, etcetera. Regardless, if he has any particular skills, they’re not any he can identify or that immediately stick out.

The thing is, Lance’d be fine with that, normally. So what if he’s not an expert in anything? He’s relatively good at most academics, speaks two languages perfectly, can keep up in P.E. just fine, and knows quite a bit about astronomy. But, the problem lies in the inherent purpose of Greenwood— To pull in as many accolades as possible. To not have a talent that can bring awards to the school is to be useless to it, and not a position he can afford to be in as a scholarship student.

Honestly, he stumbles across his saving grace completely on accident. It’s one of the lunch breaks when Hunk and Yuu are off with the robotics team for… something, it kind of goes over his head, and Ritzie is nowhere to be found, possibly off trying to break into somewhere she’s not supposed to be. Lance is left alone and bored, and accidentally finds some other students, a couple of which he gets along with well enough, playing chess in one of the common areas. On a whim, he asks to play, and one of the older students, who is known to be a bit of a cocky bastard, agrees with a smug smirk, probably assuming he can beat Lance easy as he explains the rules of each piece with a breezy air.

He isn’t smiling when Lance beats him five minutes later, his eyes wide as he stares at Lance’s equally shocked expression.

By the time Lance has thoroughly thrashed the next three others that challenge him, each of them waiting for Lance’s lucky streak to end almost as much as he himself is, one of the upper-grade math teachers finds them, and pulls Lance into her office for a… talk about his sudden new skill.

Within the next month and a half, he plays through three chess tournaments and ends up with two grandmasters coaching him that the school hires the minute he somehow wins his first competition.

Turns out he’s really fucking good at chess, not that Lance would guess that any more than most people would either.

“Of course you are.” Is what Mavis says to him when he tells her over the phone, ever as much the confidante to him she became over the end of summer. “You’re good at reading people and have a head for analysis, Loraine always talked about how smart you are. Try some language and statistics courses, that kind of thing. I think you’ll be fine.”

So Lance does.

The first Christmas home from Greenwood, and the first without Loraine is… odd. Christmas has always been a big deal with their family, and it’s his and Hunk’s first extended break home from the Academy, so while it’s nice to be back its also feels vaguely overwhelming. Lance really isn’t sure how being around his family, people he sees almost every weekend, can be exhausting, but it’s… difficult, to try and come back and get into the holiday cheer. Sleeping in his room in the house for more than a day or two feels odd, and Lance is grateful that by day two Hunk gives up the ghost and migrates over to the McClain house with his pillow for pretty much the rest of winter break.

It’s not bad. It’s nice being with his family and having a couple weeks to hang around Veradera, but there’s still an absence that sticks in Lance’s throat. He misses Loraine, achingly so, and being back home only emphasizes that.

It’s hard, knowing that this situation isn’t going to change, that she’s… never coming back.

Mavis avoids coming home completely for Christmas, a point Lance loudly berates her for over the phone, but she waxes poetic about not having the money and then mails him down a less-than-cheap looking dark blue sweater and a chessboard as Christmas presents.

“Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite.” She says, with put-on melodrama, when he calls her about the presents. “Besides if you have to dress like… that, it might as well be nice stuff.”

That’s another aspect that makes Lance’s skin itch uncomfortably about being home. He hasn’t allowed himself to touch the discarded clothing of his old life in the back of his wardrobe any time he comes home for the weekend, and he holds himself to that over the break as well. It’s not worth the risk, really, and part of him is afraid that, if he indulged, he might not have the heart to give it up and go back to living as this new image of himself at Greenwood only a couple weeks later.

Practice makes perfect. Surely, with time, he will come to accept this boyish, awkward version of himself he sees in the mirror.

So, he remains as he has taught himself to be, despite the worried glances his family still sometimes cast at him, and comforts himself with the familiarities of home. He spends time with his sisters, his mother, aunts, and uncle, he visits Carlos and Rachel two streets over, plays with Josie, no longer a small baby but an excitable toddler eagerly awaiting the promise of a sibling from her parents, walks the beaches with Hunk, chases the cracks in the gravel on the sidewalks on the way to the dairy shop, and sits in the garage under león’s shadow, the hoverbike preserved lovingly by Igraine and waiting, promised to Lance once he’s big enough, because of course it’s his, Loraine would have wanted him to have it.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, when the sun isn’t quite yet risen and the last of the stars are yet to sleep, Lance will sneak out to the churchyard, will dust the snow off Loraine’s gravestone and sit with his back to it, ignoring the chill of the wind and the nip of the snow against his fingers, because he always forgets gloves, always, and tells her about Greenwood, about his life.

Lance wonders, occasionally, if she would be proud of him, of what he’s doing to preserve their dream, her dream.

He hopes so. He really, really hopes so.

He wants more than anything to be the legacy Loraine deserves, to be worthy of the pride and the love and the confidence she had always held in him.

He feels closer to her, oddly enough, there with his back against the stone, or with his head pressed to it as he traces the words on the stone, and occasionally, on the ever slowly re-healing scars on his skin.

Loraine Ophelia Eliza, Loraine Ophelia Eliza, Loraine Ophelia Eliza.

Please forgive me, he asks in his silent mantra. Please protect me. Please let me get this right, for you, for me.

It’s not that bad, Lance tells himself, and that’s the important part, right?

And when he goes back to Greenwood with Hunk come the new year, and Ritzie and Yuu break into their room almost immediately, the former’s mouth running a mile a minute about all the boring socialite parties she had to attend, with the air of someone who has walked through a war zone, while Yuu patiently half-listens and shows Hunk and Lance his new video games behind Ritzie’s back, it’s not too bad either.

He’s surviving, rising on up on the way to the stars, and that’s all that matters.