#this reminds me of little child me and how strictly I followed rules

[dumb-doll-lips]

duhhh of course you follow the rules cuz like you just do what you're told 😘💖

Mhm lol. Always been such a rule follower. Or at least following as well as I know how to, lol. It’s def way nice knowing being told something and just following.

[saika077]

Twst w/ Asirpa!MC *Strictly Platonic*

Disclaimer: All of my hcs are platonic but this one especially is very strictly platonic.

Asirpa!MC seems cold, withdrawn and barely show any emotion at first but is actually pretty playful and childish once they warmed up to people, enjoys cooking and enthusiastic about hunting.

They act mature for their age, "the weak get eaten" as they once said. But at the end of the day, they're still a small child. (I was actually contemplating on putting epilogue Asirpa who's like 16 years old(?) but the idea of a small 12 year-old child who knows about a hundred ways to kill a man and got isekai'ed to a magic highschool is so funny to me personally)

Ace: "what's with this... Sassy lost child?"

Ace may often mess with them due to their lack of knowledge about modern civilization, but he's the one who taught them how to use a pencil, read, write, etc. Meanwhile Deuce tries his best to help them adjust into the modern world and often generally looks out for them.

Grim and ADeuce being the frequent victim of their sutu (disclaimer: sutu or punishment rods are absolutely not to be used lightly)

That aside, I feel like overall they would have a fun sibling-like relationship with them.

MC standing in front of ADeuce and Grim: "excuse me, they asked for no pickles"

I'd like to think that MC calls student "(Name) nispa" except Ace and Deuce bc I feel like they don't respect them enough to do so. Ace specifically, is Sisam (derogatory)

They are basically the polar opposite of Riddle when it comes to following rules and I will elaborate.

While Riddle blindly follows rules and traditions without a second thought despite how ridiculous and outlandish they are, MC deeply respects rules and traditions but actually thinks about why those rules were made in the first place and often dismisses them when they don't make sense to them.

the first time they met Leona, they stepped on his tail and he growled at them (what's he gonna do? Fistfight a child?). But then they just kinda stared, points at him and said "sinna kisar" while making this face 😐

Ruggie did NOT appreciate the trap they set for him back when ADeuce were chasing him in Book 2. They're one quick thinker though, he'll give them that (he still managed to get away).

Main story events aside, he actually likes having them around (like a little sibling of some sort) bc of their vast survival knowledge and how they don't let anything go to waste, "wow they're just like me fr fr" he thought

Jack would never admit it, but he has somewhat of a soft spot for them, he has younger siblings back home and they kinda remind him of them. "I've only had MC for a day and a half but if anything happens to them I would kill everyone in this room and then myself" (he would never admit or say this out loud). I can totally see them calling him "Horkew nispa"

They'd also somewhat become attached to him because he reminded them of their wolf companion back home.

The first time they met Azul in B3 they quietly hid behind Jack while muttered "ikatkar cironnup..."

they would cringe at Jamil's overblot form bc of their fear of snakes

I can sort of see them and Jade going on a hike in the mountains. "Look, Jade nispa! Osoma!" "Well, indeed it is"

Jade would also be fascinated by how resourceful they are and their pragmatic way of living and how they treat the nature around them with respect. Kanto orwa yaku... As they said (Nothing is sent down from Heaven without having a purpose)

Jade thinking that the weird small child with a fasciation for animal droppings who can singlehandedly take down a bear being scared of snakes of all things absolutely hilarious.

I actually would like to think that they met Jade when they joined the Mountain Lovers Club prior to the main story, so in Book 3 they'd be like "Jade nispa from Mountain Lovers Club????"

I feel like Jade would like to learn their native language just to talk smack about Azul around him, because I firmly believe that whenever Jade learns something new, his immediate thought is "how can I ruin Azul's day with this information?". Floyd joins shortly after, much to Azul's confusion.

Rook would simply adore them like "aww look at this young hunter!" Or something like that. It's like seeing a younger version of himself (it really is not). He'd love to hear them talk about their way of hunting their quarry and the poison they use.

Epel and MC could share their love for each of their respective hometowns and their grandmas.

they pointed at every beastmen and fae they met while saying "sinna kisar"

They called a lot of faes sinna kisar but Malleus is THE Sinna Kisar Nispa

Malleus: "I've only had MC for a day and a half but if anything happens to this child of man, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself" (yeah they just has that kind of effect on people)

Y'know this is how Lilia must have felt, he thought to himself.

Silver's animal friends fear them.

Y'all can fight me on this, but the first years would be their squad of protective older brothers (yeah, that includes Ortho, just bc he's taller).

And you know what? Whenever MC is feeling homesick, they'd make citatap together and hear them talk about their home world, their way of life, their Kotan, Huci, Aca (though they'd notice how MC gets sad whenever they talk about their Aca, they'd also notice that MC is scared of being abandoned).

omg imagine them feeding the first years salted brains, Grim being the only one enthusiastic over this.

Sebek initially refuses, but MC gave him this look 🥺 and he just gave in. Also because Ace and Deuce called him a chicken for not wanting to eat the raw brain (he also almost refused to citatap, how dare he).

Speaking of Grim, he would be very well fed under MC's care. He'd be like one of those cat whose owner feed them raw everyday. He'd also enjoy their cooking in general.

Yeah this is all just the general stuff and a lot of these are just a play on the Beloved Ainu Child thing Asirpa has going on in canon, honestly one of my favorite running joke in the manga (I still find it hilarious how these gruff, grown ass men can not say no to her).

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi! I loved reading your character bingo analysis so far, could I please ask for Riddle and Ortho?

Ortho Character Opinion Bingo here!

Lilia Character Opinion Bingo here!

Ah, it’s not really meant to be analysis 😂 I’m just expressing my opinions! I only really go in-depth when I’m explaining where I think the fandom does a character dirty.

***Standard disclaimer: These are just my personal opinions of the character(s); regardless of what I may think of them, sharing my thoughts is NOT meant to offend or to shame anyone that thinks differently.***

***CONTENT WARNING: mentions abuse!***

In terms of how much I like the dorm leaders… Riddle firmly sits in the middle, and I think a lot of that has to do with me looking at him through (pardon the pun) rose-tinted glasses. I have a lot of nostalgia for Riddle since he was the first dorm leader released to the public eye; I’ve basically known him since day 1 😂 Even before Riddle, I followed Black Butler—and since Riddle resembles Ciel Phantomhive, I got a very strong sense of deja vu. If it weren’t for all the nostalgia, I would probably dislike Riddle more than Vil.

To comment a little more about his design, I’m not a fan of the heart ahoge. It looks,,, fine???? But then the longer I stare at it, the more I realize that they remind me of antennae, and when paired with the red color of Riddle’s hair, it makes him look like a cockroach… and honey, that is NOT cute. His eyebrows also kind of turn into a weird shape when he gets angry and red-faced??? I get that this is all to make him more closely resemble the Queen of Hearts, but I think it’s all a little too on the nose. That aside, I don’t really like characters with Riddle’s particular… body type 😂 (aka short and child-like Riddle, please don’t behead me). It’s not something I personally find appealing, and the other issue with it is that short characters tend to get irrationally upset when someone points out their height (a trope which I find to be annoying 😓),

I do like that Riddle is talented and responsible for his age, but that likability goes right out the window because he can simultaneously act very arrogant and self-righteous about it. Even post-episode 1, Riddle is shown to be very fixated on following the rules strictly, and he assigns great importance to titles and positions. He talks down to a fellow dorm leader and acts as though he knows better than all of his peers (something which he also does more prominently in episode 1, pre-OB). I understand that this way of thinking is very much a result of how he was raised, but it still doesn’t change the fact that this behavior is very narrow-minded and an awful way to treat others. Like Ace says in episode 1, people can blame Riddle’s parents all they like, but ultimately Riddle’s words and actions are his own, and Riddle needs to accept responsibility for the people he has hurt.

I think the fandom does Riddle dirty the same way it does Jamil dirty; it feels like people drastically oversimplify Riddle’s situation without truly realizing the complexities of child abuse and how its effects carry over into adulthood. I see so many cursing out Riddle’s mom and saying nasty things about her without ever condemning Riddle himself for lashing out or behaving just as badly. It gives the impression that Riddle’s mom is entirely to blame and that no one holds Riddle accountable for his own actions, despite what episode 1 and Ace told us, and I don’t think that’s wise to do. I’m NOT going to sit here and defend Mama Rosehearts because what she did to her child was indeed awful and she deserves to be called out for it. However, Riddle shouldn’t be treated like he’s entirely innocent or coddled like a child, because he has also done awful things to others. As much as people can hate on his mom and the way she raised him, no one is holding a gun to Riddle’s head and forcing him to act a certain way. Yes, his mother may have influenced him to a degree, but the words and actions are still Riddle’s and Riddle’s alone.

One thing that truly kills Riddle for me is his absolutely atrocious temper. It’s usually played off as just a joke, but it’s so frightening to me how fast and how easily Riddle is set off (yes, even after the events of episode 1). I’m legitimately scared of him when he lashes out; I’d always walk on eggshells around him or avoid him entirely for fear of doing some minuscule thing that might send him into a fit of rage. I don’t very much fancy the idea of being screamed at and/or collared…

That being said, I can never really bring myself to “hate” Riddle, because I can relate a lot with where he’s coming from. Having grown up sheltered and raised by tiger parents myself, Riddle’s childhood echoes a lot of what I experienced in mine. I was that sad little child at some point, forbidden from having sweets and prevented from playing with other kids because “studying is more important”. I didn’t realize how little I knew about the world (like, I didn’t even know you could cook rice using methods OTHER than steaming it) until I made friends in school that were willing to teach me. I think that’s why I like Riddle best when he’s just being a regular kid… hanging out with people, learning and trying new things! It reminds me of the joy that I experienced myself whenever I made a new discovery. I truly hope that Riddle has the chance to keep learning and growing.

[nev3rfound]

one last look : b.b

it’s the night before your wedding, but you can’t help but long to see your future husband. (1.9k)

finally a fluffy fic! this was from my other blog but i’ve made considerable changes for our boy bucky barnes. (warnings: some swearing) also requests are open so feel free to send one in!

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Sitting in your room, you couldn’t stop yourself from checking your phone.

With your champagne glass in hand, you swirl the liquid around as the girls laugh loudly, causing you to zone back into the conversation. As you lift your head up, you notice them all focusing on you.

“You doing okay over there?” Wanda asks.

Nodding in response, you slide off the bed, leaving your phone behind you as you return to the conversation.

“Can you believe its come round so fast?” You turn to see the Pepper beaming, barely able to contain her excitement.

It’s true, the big day has crept up on you sooner than you had anticipated. After shy of fourteen months of planning, arguments with Tony and Steve about the decor and nearly calling it off twice you’ve made it. Tomorrow will be the day you become his wife.

“I still can’t believe I’m going to be someone’s wife.” You think aloud, a look of shock in your eyes as you gulp the last bit of champagne in your glass.

As you reach for the bottle sitting in the cooler, Natasha bats your hand away. “Not happening. I’ve been strictly instructed you’re not allowed more than two glasses tonight.”

Raising a brow to her, Natasha adamantly shakes her head. “Who told you that, Nat?” You question as you lean back against the bed, watching as the girls look to one another.

“Steve.” She quietly announces, trying to remain composed, but it is short-lived as you all stifle a laugh. “I’m being serious!” She states through a chuckle as you fall into Wanda, feeling the champagne already going to your head.

“Oh, the irony I love it.” You giggle, letting out a soft sigh as your conversations continue but you let your mind wander, thinking about Bucky just a few doors down.

*

“So you’re stuck in here?” Tony questions, looking around the large room and nods to himself. “Nod bad, I mean for the average joe.” He adds and looks back to Bucky, seeing him lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

“You’re the one who booked the hotel, Tony.” Steve reminds him, and Tony simply shrugs his shoulders.

“I just want to see her.” Bucky releases a heavy breath, thinking of you and swearing he can hear your laughter through the walls. “Just one quick hug, tell her I love her and that’s it.” Bucky suggests, forcing himself to sit upright.

Yet, he’s greeted by Steve shaking his head. “Not happening. You made Nat and I promise to not let you see each other until the big day.” He reminds Bucky who rolls his eyes. “Traditions, Buck.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky shrugs his shoulders. “I know, I know, but I also really miss her.” Bucky admits.

Despite it having only been three days since he last saw you, it’s hard to keep away from one another. Both of you are magnetic together, unable to be kept apart. It’s obvious when one misses the other as your mood changes instantly. Yet, once he’s back you’re more perky, even if it is a brief visit.

Even during missions when you're kept apart, you're always on his mind. The moment when he arrives back at the compound you're there to greet him with open arms and vice versa. You were his rock, and he was yours.

“You going to sulk all night then?” Sam questions, watching as Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. “Take that as a yes.” He mutters under his breath, noting the sadness radiating from Bucky.

After a few hours, everyone heads back to their own rooms leaving you and Bucky in your rooms alone. Knowing the coast is clear, you reach down for your phone and call him. You might not be able to see him but to hear his voice will be enough for now.

Seeing his phone light up, Bucky's instincts heighten as he grabs it, nearly crushing it in his grip as he answers. “Hey, doll.” He answers cheerfully and is greeted by a small chuckle down the line. Even the sound of your laughter is uplifting as he smiles to himself, wishing you could be in his arms.

Forcing yourself upright, you hug the pillow against your chest, wishing it could be him. “How’s your night going?” You ask him, unsure what else to say.

Bucky sighs heavily through the phone. “Rough. Steve’s been trying to keep me distracted all night.” He admits with a short laugh.

“Same with Nat, even for an assassin her distraction tactics aren’t up to scratch and Pepper just keeps going on about the finishing touches whilst Wanda nursed the champagne.” You joke, but Bucky remains quiet on the other end of the line.

Hanging his legs over the edge of the bed, Bucky notices his curtains remain ajar, illuminating the empty pool on the ground floor. “I miss you so much. And I know it’s just one more night, doll, but I just wanna give you a hug.” He tells you truthfully, and you wish he could see your bright smile that melts his cold heart.

“But traditions, Bucky,” You start, but Bucky cuts you off.

“Fuck traditions. If I want to see my future wife I doubt it’ll be the end of everything.” He states. Through the line you can hear him moving around his room, now standing in front of the window, seeing no one wandering the grounds of the hotel. “Meet me by the pool in ten, okay?”

You giggle like an excited child breaking the rules. “See you in ten.” You tell him before hanging up and rush around the room, not dissimilar to how you did before your first date all those years ago.

Natasha couldn't believe how much mess one person could make whilst getting ready, but you just wanted it to be perfect. "He's such a good guy, Nat. I don't wanna screw this one up." You tell her as you emerge from your bathroom in a simple sundress, looking up for her approval. "Well?"

Rising to her feet, Natasha reaches over for your shoes. "He'll love it, I mean he's already smitten." Natasha nudges you, hearing movement outside of your suite. "And clearly you are too."

"Shut up," You brush her comment off, but Natasha keeps her eyes on you. "okay fine." You sigh in defeat, turning on your heels as you reach across for your bag. "I like him, I mean what is there not to like? He's charming, a true gentleman and makes me laugh. Plus I mean look at him." You chuckle.

"Good enough for me." Natasha states, walking over to your door and opens it, revealing Bucky stood with wide eyes and a light blush across his cheeks. "Treat her well, Barnes." Natasha remarks as she exits your suite with a smirk on her face. 

Silently, you walk out of your room and close the door slowly behind you. Natasha is staying in the room beside yours and she promised to listen out and watch you like a hawk. Creeping down the corridor, you slip your keycard into your pocket as you reach the lift, unable to wipe the smile from your face as the doors close in front of you.

As you reach the pool, you can already see him standing there, waiting for you. “Hey, future husband.” You call out quietly, walking toward him.

Bucky turns around instantly upon hearing your voice and steps forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly, longing for the sense of comfort you always provide. “You have no idea how fucking happy I am to see you.” He mumbles into your hair as you remain in his arms, not wanting to be the one to let go first.

“Me too. I missed you.” You mutter back to him, feeling him pulling away just to see your face as he smiles at you. “Can you believe we’re getting married tomorrow?”

He raises an eyebrow, unable to stop his smile from growing at the thought. “I definitely can. Been waiting for this day since I proposed.” He thinks aloud, something you haven’t heard him say.

“Really?” You ask softly, feeling your heart-melting as he nods to you.

“Well of course,” He states as his hands slide down your arms and into your hands, intertwining your fingers with his. “I couldn’t wait for you to become my wife, for us to start this whole new journey. I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell you that I love you, and always will.”

You can feel tears building in your eyes as Bucky shushes you. “I can’t help it,” You chuckle, taking one hand and wiping your eyes. “planning this has been so hard and I just want it to be perfect.” You admit, closing your eyes as a small whimper leaves your lips.

“And it will be.” Bucky reminds you, knowing how many sleepless nights you’ve had over the little details from the bridesmaids’ dresses to what cake topper you should have in between missions. Even when you were hospitalised after a mission went sideways, you had your laptop on hand to work on the invitations. “But as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” You nod with a small smile. “as long as I have you, I’ll be happy.” Slowly you stand on your tiptoes, kissing him.

Your arms rise from your sides and wrap around his neck whilst his wander down to your waist, his cool metal arm sending goosebumps over your skin. As the kiss becomes more passionate both of you can’t help but crave what normally follows, but it’s one more night, you can wait.

Unbeknownst to the both of you, Natasha and Steve sit in his room. “Honestly, they’re hopeless.” Natasha sighs, looking up to see Natasha nodding in response.

“Hopelessly in love, Nat.” Steve states, causing Natasha to roll her eyes and feign vomiting. “And besides, you’re the one who set them up all those years ago.”

“How was I supposed to know they’d fall in love? I was just trying to help Y/n get over her ex.” Natasha reminds Steve. “You played a role in this too, Cap.”

Steve nods. “We did good, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Natasha chuckles, raising her glass to Steve. “we did good.”

Despite the sweetness of it all, and you both being unable to keep a tradition Natasha and Steve knew they should just let you get on with it. You have a lifetime together ahead, why stop you the day before it all begins?

Pulling away, you rest your forehead against his. Both of you are slightly breathless, eyes still closed. “There will definitely be more of that to come.” You giggle, quickly pecking his lips before starting to head back inside, Bucky hot on your tail.

As you stand in the lift together, your hand remains in his. “I guess, until tomorrow, Mr Barnes.” You tell him with a smile as you take out your keycard, watching the doors of the lift open.

Walking down the corridor, Bucky’s room is first and your hand slips out of his. “Wait,” He whispers to you and you turn around, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I just wanna look at you one last time before you’re my bride.” He says with a tooth aching smile.

Slowly, you twirl for him and hold back the laughter bubbling in your throat. “How’s that?” You whisper and he nods to you.

“Goodnight, Y/n.” He whispers back before slipping into his room, locking the door behind him as you wander back to your own room and lie on the bed, unable to wipe the smile from your face.

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[phalene33]

Brahms Heelshire short story

Today is the day I start my first job. I have recently graduated from highschool. Not wanting to stay any longer then I have to with my father. I wanted to quickly find a job so I can rent an apartment. Luckily for me an old couple has offered me a job as a babysitter. They even allowed me to live at their home. It's quite strange actually, to allow a stranger to live in your home while you were away, but I'm sure they have a valid reason. I mean if they have a child young enough that they need a babysitter for I'm sure the child shouldn't be left alone for more then a few hours. So having a babysitter live in your home while you are gone makes sense.

Though having this job is great and all I am still nervous about it. I don't really like children which might be a problem depending on the childs age but I'll at least be able to tolerate them. However my biggest problem is that I've never babysat before, yes I've taken care of my younger sister since my mother's passing, but I've still never taken care of someone else's child before. I don't know how much different it will be, or if its any different at all.

As I walk to the door to the large mansion I push all my thoughts out of my head and ring the doorbell. Soon after the old woman answered the door. "Hello dear, please come inside, we have lot's of things to go over" Mrs. Heelshire says pleasantly. Walking into a big living room I am greeted to an old man about the same age as the woman. I assume that is Mr. Heelshire. "As you may already know we will be gone for a little while and we need you to take care of our son Brahms" Mrs. Heelshire goes on "We have some rules for you to follow, follow them precisely and there will be no problems." Mr. Heelshire hands me a paper with rules written on them. I wasn't able to look through the rules before I was ushered to a bedroom.

There was a pale skinned porcelain doll with short black hair on the bed. "This is our son Brahms" Mrs. Heelshire commented. "... I-its a doll-" "Dear let us show you to your room so you can start unpacking." Yet again I was ushered to another bedroom before I could say more. "This will be your bedroom, make yourself at home. We will be gone for quite some time." "How long exactly?" Mr. Heelshire pauses. "About 6 or so months" he replies bluntly. "It could be longer or it could shorter" Mrs. Heelshire adds. I just shrug it off. "Well we must get going, please enjoy your stay here, and look through the rules." Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire take their bags and leave. Reading threw the rules I get an uneasy feeling. "Either these people are crazy or something is up with that doll." I shiver a bit at the thought of the doll. Through childhood I've never been afraid of dolls in general, but I've always been afraid of a character named Chucky. The character was a possessed murderous doll, which reminded me of this doll somewhat. "I should follow the rules, I don't want to anger it.. Besides it is my job." I bring the doll into my new bedroom as I unpack. The silence was unbearable but I didn't dare break it.

The next two months have been uneventful. Everyday I have been following the rules exactly. However today that will change. My younger sister needs help bringing her things to her new apartment. I can't bring Brahms with me because it breaks the rules however I can't leave him alone. I sit the doll down on a chair next to mine. "Uu-h.. So Brahms.." This seemed a bit ridiculous but also frightening. I was talking to a doll but it was a doll that I feared. I do not know how it will react if I tell them I am going to break a rule. As of now nothing out of the ordinary has happened since I got here, but its also because I have been strictly following the rules. However I must do this. If I tell my sister that I think a doll has supernatural abilities without any proof she'll send me to a mental hospital. And I definitely can't follow the rules if I'm stuck in there. "Brahms today I have to break a rule, I know it isn't allowed but it simply must be done. I must help my sister move or belonging to her new apartment. The rules strictly say you must not leave, so I cannot bring you. However the other rule says I cannot leave you alone... That is the rule I must break." I pause waiting for a response that would never come. Sighing I look away from the doll. "These people are crazy, they have me taking care of an inanimate object as if it's real." Quickly I walk out of the room. As I do I hear a loud noise coming from it. I jump and turn around. The table had been flipped over. "I uhh.... Brahms.." Shit I made him mad. I pick up the doll. "Please don't be upset with me, I'll only be gone for 2 hours, I'll make it up to you." Pausing I think of something they might want. "I'll let you sleep in my bed tonight."

Two hours later I quickly come home. "Brahms I'm home!" Please be okay I mumble to myself. Walking to his bedroom I stop in the doorway. There was paper everywhere all of them read "Rule 2. Never Leave Brahms Alone." Tearing up I start to shake in fear. "Brahms I'm so sorry." Out of desperation I grab the doll and hug it. I wait for something to happen but all there was was silence. The rest of the day I make sure to follow the rules exactly. I even played the piano myself in hopes that it would please him. At the end of the day I bring Brahms to my bedroom. "Just as I promised, you'll be sleeping in here with me tonight." I lay the doll down on the bed and give it a kiss. "Goodnight Brahms, sorry again about today." I close my eyes but don't fall asleep.

Suddenly I hear noises that seemed to be coming from the walls. I close my eyes tighter and tense up. After a few minutes the noises are gone so I decide to open my eyes. Little did I know that the reason the noises stopped was because someone was in the room. Looking to my left my body tenses up. There standing over me was a tall man that seemed to be in their mid 20s to early 30s. They wore a porcelain mask and had black messy hair. The outfit they wore was a white shirt, black pants, along with a green cardigan. It seemed as if they didn't notice I was awake so I quickly shut my eyes and pretended to be fast asleep.

I heard the man rummaging through my drawers. Stay quiet, as long as they don't know you're awake you will be okay. You can contact the police tomorrow. I thought to myself. After a few minutes the sounds of the man rummaging through my things stopped. Assuming that he finally left I sat up. But instead of being met with a empty room, I was face to face with the intruder. He was only a few inches away from my face. "Wh-Who are you?" Was all I could manage to say. The man giggles childishly. "I'm Brahms." I was not expecting to hear childish voice coming from the 6'5 man that was infront of me.

"Wh-what do you want?" I move away from him and let out a shakey breath. "You promised me that you would let me sleep in your bed tonight." Not even a second later the strange man gets in bed with me, holding me so tightly that I couldn't escape his grasp. I close my eyes again. The doll wasn't alive I thought to myself. "What are you going to do with me." "Nothing, as long as the rules are followed precisely."

[nissakii]

Wedding Deal - Chapter 01 [Iwaizumi x Reader]

This is the story of how I traded freedom by becoming his fake wife”

– Y/N

Tip: If you are using Chrome there is a little add-on called InteractiveFics with that the story is much more vivid since Y/N will be replaced with the name you type in. Give it a try you won’t regret it~

Also if you want to read the stories early, they appear much earlier on our blog: nissakii.com, for those of you who like to read ahead since we don't upload on tumblr the exact time of the release.

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If there was one thing I hated the most, it was those banquets they held and princesses of each province having to attend. Even the ones that weren't supposed to become heirs or weren't of any importance like me.

I am the 3rd daughter and therefore I wasn’t necessarily needed at this event, yet the only comfort I had were one girl to my left and other to my right as both of them unlike me who was watched by my mother strictly, stretched out their legs in a very unlady-like way while one of them chewed curiously on one cupcake that seemed to be from another province.

"Do you guys get privileged food like that, oh wow I never saw something like that!", the one almost two years older than me said while taking another bite and leaning back before stretching straight and being reminded that this was an official meeting as she nudged her cousin to do the same.

"Hiyori, sit straight, and don't glare, you know our family will scold us if they take any photos!", Chiaki said while adjusting her dress that slipped away a bit on her chest and legs.

"So what? I don't care. We are not even royals or nobles unlike Y/N whose mother is going to devour her if she doesn't sit like a jerk- '', she was cut off.

"No cussing!", Chiaki shoved the weird cupcake into Hiyori's mouth and adjusted her dress in her stead.

I sighed deeply, "how many times do I have to tell you guys, I am just a princess by name, I am not important. Also Chiaki sometimes you behave more like a princess than I do, don't talk yourself down", and I regretted immediately saying that as she had that smile on her face while her eyes wanted to wring my neck.

"Ah must be nice to be a royal saying such things huh? Unlike us pebbles who were invited by your generosity", some men were staring at us and I felt uncomfortable.

"Yeah, nice to be a rich kid, huh. If I were you I would have bought all these shoes, girl and left them in debt. Wait you are a pebble, I am not one", Hiyori wiped her face and stared at her shoes, "I gotta get some new ones though."

"You got some this week", her cousin still smiled and even the men probably felt her annoyed vein popping from that mischievous grin.

"And?", was the cue that pulled the last string before I caught Chiaki in my arms in order to avoid her from choking her own cousin.

"Y/N let go", she muttered and despite that I sometimes feared her, this time it felt like I was holding a child, thank goodness I was sitting in the midst.

"Okay, Timeout prince number five just entered. Guess he is late", Hiyori pointed at a man with spiky hair, clothes in a navy blue suit with gold accents, black gloves and shoes as his gaze swept around the room before I felt Chiaki shift in my arms making herself comfy on me instead of backing off as she and her cousin analysed the guy.

"Who is he?", the one in my arms asked and Hiyori was much quicker than me answering.

"He is from the province of Aoba Johsai, 2nd Prince Iwaizumi Hajime. Despite that he hates events like this everyone needs to attend them. I heard the first prince already arrived too. But Johsai is really far away. Heard he came to find a suitor on his mother's behalf but shoved off marrying for years now", both of us stared at her and she shrugged.

"Okay I am the rich kid but how-"

"I got my ressources girl", she winked and stuck out her tongue as Chiaki shoved in a snack for her to eat casually.

"Our parents will kill us", Chiaki muttered and I nodded as Hiyori shrugged.

"I already had to attend the other event so I can roam around", but the freedom didn't last long before a tall and well-built guy blocked our guy with a stoic face and olive-colored hair he stretched out his hand like it was taught in etiquette class and asked Hiyori for a dance.

Chiaki immediately sat up like she was supposed to and we saw how Hiyori ignored the man at first.

"Lady, I may have not asked in a proper way but I want to take your next dance", the already deep voice of prince Ushijima had a slightly rough and strained undertone.

"Fine", she said after letting him stand for some minutes and took his hand as she whispered, "he thinks I am a lady pfft guess he doesn't know I am a commoner girl, let me teach that rich boy a lesson."

"And there she goes", Chiaki muttered and sighed worried about her cousin, "I guess she will be the one who gets a lesson, she got Ushijima of all people."

"What are you gonna do if they find out you are not royalty?", I asked not having thought this through when I invited them, my mother doesn't know that I befriended commoners yet she didn't ask for their rank this time.

"I guess I will ditch Hiyori and scram. The food is weird anyways and the people are super stiff, like look at that brunette guy he looks like he would kill someone in this room any time soon", she laughed.

"So you are a commoner", another deep voice let my heart drop to my feet and my guts twist as I held my breath, I didn't look up but a shadow was looming over us before I saw black shoes in front of me.

As my gaze wandered from the navy blue suit to a pair of olive-eyes my hands started sweating and I couldn't bring out a word as I saw the 2nd prince of Aoba Johsai leaning down right in front of me.

"W-Who?", I could only bring out and look away.

"Not you, I know you from other events, Princess Y/N but", his eyes wandered to the girl next to me as he fixed her and she smiled widely, if anyone else looked at her you would think she was not having a single problem.

"Me?", she asked in a friendly tone, one leg over the other.

"Yes. The one who called the first prince stiff and a murder", his gaze turned into a slight glare before I acted out of fear standing up and taking his arm as he looked at me surprised.

"M-May I dance with you Prince Hajime?", I stuttered my face red yet I feared if Chiaki was caught being a commoner and badmouthing the first prince that she wouldn't be simply lectured, no, worse....

"W-Wait, but-" as we turned around she was gone and the last thing I saw was that someone followed her into the crowd and I wanted to do the same before I felt a strong grip on my hand.

"Didn't you want to dance?", the man with a rough voice and the olive-eyes fixed on me didn't let go.

"U-Uhm-"

"Or did you want to trick me into one to shield your friend?", he tilted his head with slight disappointment on his face.

Okay Y/N... you have to keep calm, one dance it takes one dance and a bit of social distraction for him to let it go…

I tried to smile a bit concerned and nodded.

"I wanted to dance with you, yet I was afraid you would deny my wish since I asked you... it's against etiquette rules to ask the man to dance so-", he scratched his head with his other hand while not letting go of me.

"Well, if you wanted to dance, I don't see a problem nor would I tell anyone about something as strict as etiquette rules. I ever wondered if women actually liked to get asked out for a dance...", he muttered a slight shade of rose on his cheek while he stared intently.

I was also flustered by his honest answer.

"I-uh... I guess it is nice sometimes...but it feels also... unfair...", my gaze wandered to my mother who glared at me and signed for me to grasp myself and not slouch which I did.

"Even you", his eyes followed mine to my mother,"I guess we should make this a good one, and enjoy it while we can", he understood immediately and as he looked back there was a slight grin on his face.

"Just to tell you I am not much of a dancer unlike what rumors say about Hajime Iwaizumi", he muttered.

I laughed a bit and positioned myself as he held out his hand, "I guess it makes it much easier for me to easen up then."

[eleanore-delphinium]

The Demon’s Head

Damian Al Ghul for a moment was a hero. And in that time that he was a hero, naturally he would meet other heroes.

That was how he met her.

His Raven.

He would describe her as a very graceful woman. She was quiet, kind, generous and lovely. Despite her name sounding as if it should belong to a lonely person or an unkind being, she was none of these. But her name did befit her origins. In the sense that she is the daughter of a being synonymous to satan; and of intergalactic alien origin, the conqueror of worlds. Therefore, the name Raven as ominous as it was, befit her well, and yet also-- not so well.

But that was the thing, he was only a hero for only a moment. That moment was all that mattered, since—after all, that was how he met her. As she continued on her heroic path, he returned to what he knew to be right as a child, the path of darkness.

He took upon himself, the name Al Ghul, a name synonymous to a demon, and he used it well. And thus, Damian Al Ghul was reborn anew, he became the Demon’s Head. The name became associated to a cruel, cruel man. But he changed the ways of his organization, and tread very, very strictly on a grey line. And in doing so, he keeps his Raven. And remember it well and do not forget, he only stays on that grey line to keep her by his side.

And if anything were to happen to his beloved Raven, he will cross to the darkness before one could even blink his own eyes, and will burn everything and anything in his path with his bare hands.

So, make no mistake by taking his Raven away or you will live a life even more painful than death. For Damian Al Ghul has a league of assassin as his army, who are extremely loyal to him. And him alone.

Killing for him was as easy as dropping a needle on a hay stack.

Damian Al Ghul, the leader of the league of assassins, stood inside his throne room made of beautiful marble in ivory and gold. The sun high up in the sky, its light entering the space so blindingly. The sunlight weaves through the pillars and mashrabiya* leaving beautiful intricate patterns on the marble floors. The sunlight helped give an illusion of brightness and happiness and warmth to the chamber.

Damian was facing his throne, his back against the door as he read the papers he was holding with his right hand. His left hand resting against his back, atop his green cape. He was wearing his black with gold uniform and armor with a green cape in contrast to the almost white room. And with his cold facial expression one would be reminded, that all the sunlight was giving after all, was just an illusion of warmth.

Damian Al Ghul was not kind at all. But of course, there is an exception to the rule.

The door suddenly opened with a burst and a loud bang, and Damian’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. He had strictly told them that he shouldn’t be disturbed unless necessary. He coaxed himself thinking that it had to be an emergency. With narrowed eyes he tilts his head a bit to the left to acknowledge the presence of the intruder.

“My Lord!” A man in an all-black suit says hurriedly as he kneels on the floor with a thud. His left leg against the floor while the other propped up to let his right arm rest on top. His head bent toward the floor.

“What is it that you have to report?” His enunciation of every word unhurried and heavy. Damian could hear the gulp from his poor frightened little underling. Even if said underling was twenty meters away.

“It’s—it’s the Lady.” The poor man could barely say. And even though the sun was high up in the sky, and that it’s light shone brightly in the room, making the chamber look as if it was glittering, it became cold. So cold, that both people seemed frozen in place, but the poor underling was the one fighting his shivers.

“What about the Lady?” Damian asked a little too clearly, that the poor subordinate could only kneel on both knees, bend his body and rested his forehead against his hands that was now on the floor. At this point, Damian turned slowly, as his green eyes landed on the man in black.

“What about the Lady?” He repeated even more slowly than the last. And Damian saw his assassin shiver in fear.

“She-she has been missing for a few days, and we searched for her—but—but—she is nowhere to be found.” He reported as calmly as he could. The subordinate thought the room couldn’t possibly get any colder than it already was, but he was wrong. The moment he finished his report, he was kneeling there in pure horror, he was sure he will die today.

“It seems that my league of assassin who are supposed to be like a shadow, cannot protect their lady in the shadow.” It was spoken slowly that it was certain: that this was the calm before the storm. “It seems that my league of assassins lack training.” He concluded.

“You cannot even track down your lost lady, why do I even keep any of you!” Damian’s voice echoed through the chambers; his fury clear. And yet, anyone who knew their lord, would know that was not the full extent of his anger.

No, it really wasn’t.

“Lady Shiva!” He summoned and instantly a woman with black hair up to her neck in red appeared beside the kneeling assassin.

“It seems that you have been lax in training the league.” He tells her and as she bends her torso to bow. Before she could start with her apologies, he continued on. “Prepare the top ten men in the league, and have them follow me. We will look for the lady.” He started walking down his throne.

“No, in fact, I will be looking for her. And if you so choose to have people follow me then so be it.” He said when his eyes landed on Lady Shiva as he approached them, the assassin up on his feet, his head bent low as to be respectful to their Lord.

“When I find Raven, I hope my league’s errors would be corrected. But that would be wishful thinking, won’t it, Lady Shiva? I will personally see to their training when I return.” Lady Shiva and the assassin gave way to their Lord.

“Of course, my Lord.” She mutters as he completely disappears.

 ~.~.~.~.~

 Damian held a woman in blood stained and dirt-filled white robes on his arms. Her face had cuts and bruises and she looked so weak and small against his shoulder. When he looks down at her injured face, there was a softness in his glance. A gentleness unbefitting of the Demon’s Head.

But as gentle as he was as he held her, the scene behind him was not. Orange flames flickered as he walks out from the heat and the building calmly.

“I want anyone who is even remotely related to this tracked down, and I want them tortured.” He said so calmly as he held the woman he loves in his arms. His gentle glance has become cold as he looks at his subordinates in front of him. The crunch of green grass under his feet as he continued on into the night that was illuminated by the orange flames behind him.

“If done well enough, then maybe I won’t be so strict when I train you all. Prove that you all aren’t so useless after all.” His tone stone cold.

The gentleness from before must have been an illusion. Because this was the Damian Al Ghul, they all love, respected and oh-so-feared.

“Of course, my Lord.” One replied with a bow.

“No.” They pause as they wait for Damian’s final instructions. “Keep the master mind alone, I would love to capture and torture them myself.” And the shadows that was surrounding him disappeared. Raven stirred in his arms, against his chest.

“Damian?” She called out weakly. And he stood frozen as he took a peek eagerly at the woman in his arms. “They didn’t know.” She mumbles and he couldn’t help but narrow his eyes on her. She means that it wasn’t the Justice League’s fault.

“They didn’t know it was going to be a trap.” She tried to keep her head a float.

“And look at the price you had to pay.” He said bitterly as he sneered a little and continued walking to the jet.

“I—” She couldn’t even say anything to defend the Justice League, because she felt the turmoil in Damian. How could she defend the Justice League knowing what he was feeling?

“I didn’t mind that you wanted to continue being a hero. I would not take that from you.” He sets her down inside the jet. “And I know that you know this to be true, I only stay in between good and bad for you. If you are taken out of the equation, I have no qualms in being the Demon’s Head, in its truest sense. But you choose to love me, despite of who I am. And I will not have any one harm you. Less others think that the Demon’s head is weak.”

“You are not a bad person, my love.” She replied, as she cups his cheek. He closes his eye and places a hand over hers. He opens his eyes and meets her violets irises.

“But I can be, if I am without you.” He whispered so gently as his forehead laid against hers. The words completely true. They stay like that for a minute in silence, and he pulls away.

“You shall stay in Nanda Parbat as you recuperate. I will inform the Justice League.”  He stares at her sternly but she does not refuse him and he turns away from her.

The Justice League has been quite cautious about Raven. They knew of her relationship with the leader of the League of Assassins. And what the risk of putting her in imminent danger would mean considering Damian’s nature. Therefore, Raven was treated as if she was glass and yet, also fire.

“I begged them to give me the mission.” She said softly, she took note of Damian’s body twitching but she had to continue on. “After you left, and made a name for yourself as the new Demon’s Head, they were uncertain of where my loyalties lie.” She found it difficult to talk due to her injuries, but she had enough strength to heal herself a bit, to keep herself conscious and stop internal bleeding. And so Raven did, as she continued on.

“And then you made a point to show that you were not like your predecessor. And yet, you also made it clear you could be far worst. And I, your beloved, was someone who they could not risk in the forefront anymore.” She moved in her seat, as she felt her insides return back to how it should be. “I just wanted to do one more mission, where I wasn’t treated like a bomb, and after that, I will be done.”

He turned to look at her with a shocked expression. Her voice was calm as her face was gentle. Despite her battered appearance, she looked like a saint to him. The words he couldn’t seem to say aloud, she felt, and she responded as she closed her eyes.

“Yes, I was going to leave the Titans, and be with you. Commit fully to you.” Her voice was soft but his thoughts were a mess. And it was clear to Raven, all of his thoughts, as if they were all written on the air for her to read.

“The Justice League thought it was a harmless mission; therefore, they could let me go. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, nothing more. But we were ambushed, and I was captured.” She sighs and opens her eyes to look up at Damian. The water in his eyes finally gave way as he blinked when their met, and she inhaled a breath.

“You could have died.” He said it lightly, that Raven’s heart started beating fast in her ears. His cold eyes that had never been directed at her, has finally landed on her. “You could have died, if I was just a minute too late.” And like his eyes that could no longer contain his tears. Raven could not ignore his emotions. And she broke into a sob, as she covered her lips with her fingers. He knelt beside her, as he put a hand on her cheek.

And his face was not cold nor was it warm. The eyes she had seen him use with his fellow assassins had disappeared. She didn’t expect that the day he would look at her, the way he did his subordinates, would happen.

“Are you crying for me?” He whispered and she sniffed as she looks at him. But still, even if his cold stare was frightening. She could never be afraid of Damian Al Ghul, even if he was an Al Ghul, and the current Demon’s Head.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to contain the emotions. And she could feel the apology he was about to say. And before he could, she leans her forehead against his. Places her right thumb over his lips as her palm rested on his jaw. “But I swear to you, I am done with being a hero. I want to walk that grey line with you.”

And his lips turned up into a smile. A smile that was only ever directed at her. His gentleness and kindness only exclusive to her. His warmth only reserved for her. And she could feel it all in her chest, and in her very bones.

The love he has for his beloved Raven.

And the danger, if he loses his bird.

 (FIN)

  Notes:

*Mashrabiya = those wooden windows with intricate design; (wiki says: is an architectural element which is characteristic of traditional architecture in the Islamic world and is a type of projecting oriel window enclosed with carved wood latticework).

[nothinggold13]

Peter the High King

“By his own words, he is Peter first. [...] When the people called him Magnificent, he still begged in quiet repetition to be called Peter.”

A thought in 25 parts.

Dedicated to @awfullybigwardrobe44 for being my editor & also listening to me rant about this analysis for the last month, as I got way too excited about the phrase “Peter the High King.”

I. "That [...] is Cair Paravel of the four thrones, in one of which you must sit as King. I show it to you because you are the first-born and you will be High King over all the rest." [The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe]

It is one thing to be King; it is another to be High King over others. The distinction is lost on Peter. He is still just a kid, and he has not yet tasted his first blood. All he knows is that he will look after his brother and sisters. He is, after all, the first born; it only makes sense that he will lead the other children. There is no fear. In the moment, he feels it plainly.

II. "And Peter became a tall and deep-chested man and a great warrior, and he was called King Peter the Magnificent."

In his eyes, “Magnificent” is an unexpected and undeserved title. For all he is, and all he is seen to be, he is still, in his heart, just Peter. He finds no love for the war that has made him into a warrior. Fears he had once never imagined have long since become his constant companions. But Peter is a King. Like all his duties, he bears this one well. There is peace in springtime, and there is joy in peace. Peter still breathes. Peter still believes. The people still call him Magnificent.

III. "And in a few years, if all goes well, King Peter has promised your royal father that he himself will make you Knight at Cair Paravel." [The Horse and His Boy]

The boy Shasta does not know the King Peter the Faun speaks of. He does not even know enough to recognize both the respect and familiar affection with which the Faun speaks. Tumnus knows the High King well, after all—as does Corin, who the Faun thinks he is speaking to. They know the High King well enough that there is no need to refer to him as such. They may call him King Peter, but only “King.” The title remains out of love and humble admiration, but his name stands firm out of deeper love and friendship. There is no need to call him “the High King,” as others do, and there is no need to call him “Magnificent.” They are familiar with him. They are family. He may as well, in their eyes, just be Peter.

IV. "For though the fancy of a woman has rejected this marriage, the High King Peter is a man of prudence and understanding who will in no way wish to lose the high honour and advantage of being allied to our House and seeing his nephew and grand nephew on the throne of Calormen."

If Peter could hear these words, he would laugh before settling into the depths of his anger. In all the conversation between Rabadash and his father, Peter’s name has never been mentioned. He has been, in their discussion, a nameless, vague, and distant figure. “The High King of Narnia,” they say, “their High King, not ours.” But now Rabadash risks his name, almost as if it’s an appeal; almost as if Peter is listening in after all. There is little cold in the warmth of the High King, but few have heard a laugh as cold as the one Peter would give at this. The inanity of the Calormene Prince’s words would amuse him before they enraged him; for in all his years as High King, Peter has never heard anyone misuse his name so badly.

V. "For though my brother, Peter the High King, defeated the Tisroc a dozen times over, yet long before that day our throats would be cut[...]"

Edmund gets it right. He often does. “My brother,” he says first. “Peter,” he says second. The familiar comes before his title. And Edmund knows, of course, that even if he’s just Peter - even if he’s the High King second - Peter will not suffer such an injustice. If “the High King Peter” is a prudent man, “Peter the High King” is a genuine one. In love and in brotherhood, Peter will always protect his siblings - or, Aslan forbid it, avenge them. He is and ever will be Peter first. He is and ever will be their brother.

VI. "For the truth was that in that golden age when the Witch and the Winter had gone and Peter the High King ruled at Cair Paravel, the smaller woodland people of Narnia were so safe and happy that they were getting a little careless."

This is how the legend starts: In the Golden Age of Narnia, the people were safe and happy. This is how the legend starts, before it is twisted and gilded and lost. In the Golden Age of Narnia, Peter is High King. Perhaps no one notices, but the narrative frames him as he wants to be framed: Peter first. His name comes first. He is a person before he is a king or a myth or a hero. This is how the legend starts, but the narrative is lost when the people need heroes instead.

VII. "’If I had but my cordial with me,’ Queen Lucy was saying, ‘I could soon mend this. But the High King has so strictly charged me not to carry it commonly to the wars and to keep it only for great extremities!’"

Here lies the cost of the title. Lucy doesn’t know the weight Peter took upon himself the day he told her not to carry the cordial into battle. Lucy can’t understand it. Not yet. But Peter has seen the hurt it has caused her to make terrible choices on fields of blood; the devastation she experiences each time she saves one and loses another. Peter is the High King because he needs to be - because someone needs to be - because he is the oldest. The High King must lead the others. The High King must protect the others. So Peter takes the choice away, and with it, he hopes, the hurt.

VIII. "And Lucy told again [...] the tale of the Wardrobe and how she and King Edmund and Queen Susan and Peter the High King had first come into Narnia."

You wouldn’t know it to listen to her, but Lucy doesn’t remember the tale so well on her own. The details of their coming are blanketed in snow; even to Lucy, the story sounds more like a fairy tale than history. But she knows well that among fairy tales, some truths still stand. There are truths like hope; like how the White Witch’s winter is all but forgotten in these peaceful days, but is remembered for the hope in the wide eyes of the young girl who saw it as a wonderland rather than a curse. Even now in Lucy, that hope remains. There are truths like change; like how the betrayal of a boy once desperate for affection became the groundwork for a king to grow in justice. Though all know Edmund is no traitor now, they know it is these past missteps and mistakes that have made him wise. There are truths like courage; like the queen who followed Aslan to his death, yet does not fight in wars. Courage exists in gentleness, in dedication, and in love, and Susan shows them this every day. There are truths like the death and resurrection of the Great Lion, which remains forever the source of salvation for all of Narnia — not for only one. And, perhaps least of all, another truth remains in the fact that Peter is still Peter. The High King was a boy once, and somewhere in their hearts, he is a boy still. It’s funny how as Lucy tells the tale, her beloved older brother takes the form of a brave, terrified child. He is in all their minds a warrior and protector, yet they can see him clearly even at the beginning. It’s funny, but it’s real.

IX. "'It is my sword Rhindon,' he said; 'with it I killed the Wolf.' There was a new tone in his voice, and the others all felt that he was really Peter the High King again." [Prince Caspian]

He is Peter first, when they look at him. His voice is far from mythic. It is Peter’s voice; the voice of man and boy and king and brother. They are reminded by the name of Rhindon how the Wolf’s blood was shed by unwanted bravery - an unwilling thrust. Rhindon is not the sword of a fearless warrior; it is the sword of a dutiful knight. Susan and Edmund and Lucy have never known the legendary Magnificent King. They’ve only known Peter.

X. "But at least you can try to be a King like the High King Peter of old, and not like your uncle."

Peter becomes a fairy tale in the eyes of the frightened Prince. The legendary High King - over all Kings of Narnia, under only Aslan - is, all at once, an idol. Brave and benevolent and wise, he is something to be striven for. The High King Peter is king first, man second. The stories paint him in golden light, and in the damaged remnants of copied portraits in Cornelius’ study, he appears to wear more a halo than a crown.

XI. "It may have the power to call Queen Lucy and King Edmund and Queen Susan and High King Peter back from the past, and they will set all to rights."

There is an old rhyme about Adam’s flesh and bone. There is another about the returning of spring. Few remember the latter, it seems, as a new Son of Adam comes of age. Faith is put on the heads of four children. But Peter remembers well, if he could only be asked, that it is by Aslan’s teeth and mane and blood that the earth is reawakened. It is He that will set all to rights, not the ancient Sons and Daughters. Peter remembers well, though the horn has not yet called for him. Peter remembers well, though when he comes, no one will ask.

XII. "’I'd much rather not have to vote.’ // ‘You're the High King,’ said Trumpkin sternly.”

The decision is placed in his hands, and the weight of it on his shoulders. It is clear by Trumpkin’s tone that he is not looking for majority rule; if the party were split unevenly, Trumpkin would still make the High King choose. Peter never asked to choose. “You’re the High King,” he’s told, and the words scold him, remind him, immortalize him. It shouldn’t be his decision. Peter once trusted Lucy more than he trusted himself. Peter once trusted Aslan more than all his siblings put together. He knows this, but he can’t see Aslan now. In fear, Peter votes to go down. Lucy cries.

XIII. "If you all go, of course, I'll go with you; and if your party splits up, I'll go with the High King. That’s my duty to him and King Caspian."

Peter doesn’t know what scares him the most about this. Two things have been made clear. The first is that Trumpkin, even if not maliciously, would leave the others alone. He would leave them behind, if Peter led him to. Lucy is 9, and Edmund just turned 11. Susan shivers even without cold. They look little like the Queens and King they used to be. And all at once, even if he has no other reason, Peter will follow Lucy in spite of reason. He can’t leave them alone. In spite of himself, in spite of his fears, he will follow. For that is his second - and perhaps greater - fear: when they make it to Caspian, he will still be alone. He sees it clearly. Trumpkin has decided that it is not the four ancient sovereigns on which the fate of Narnia rests. Now it lies on only one. Trumpkin will go with the High King, he says. Peter wonders now whether that means he will be followed or dragged.

XIV. "It's the High King, King Peter."

As he is introduced to the young King Caspian, Peter flinches at each word. They land at first like blows; clumsy punches, but painful all the same. Then, Peter realizes, they settle like cuts instead. He wonders how many it would take to bleed out. He sees the depth of it now. He is Peter last, in the eyes of the Old Narnians. They don’t want Peter; they want the mythical High King of old. So that is how they introduce him: “It’s the High King,” they say first. Second, they call him “King” again. And then tacked on to the end of his title, as if it were specification rather than identity, is his name.

XV. “’You say, Caspian, we are not strong enough to meet Miraz in pitched battle.’ // ‘I'm afraid not, High King,’ said Caspian.”

Every time Peter looks at Caspian, he is painfully aware that Caspian is just a boy. Every time he looks at Caspian, he is reminded that he, himself, is just a boy. Caspian has not figured it out yet. In the wide eyes of the future king, Peter is a mythic hero. It is no wonder he is awestruck. Yet when Peter looks at the other boy, he addresses him by name. Names are a kindness. The kindness is not returned. It is not Peter they look to; the Old Narnians have made it clear that it is the High King that will save them. He yearns to shout that he cannot, to have it out of his hands, to tell them that Aslan will save them instead. But, as always, he swallows these fears. He has a solution, after all. Confused child though he is, he’s already come up with a solution. He could never leave them wanting. The Narnians have hung their hopes on him, and he hopes, in turn, that his answer will buy them time until Aslan acts. They cannot all fight. They cannot face Miraz in battle. So Peter does all he can do, and lets them bleed him dry instead.

XVI. "Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion…”

It slips from his tongue as if rehearsal has become nature. By his own words, he is Peter first. Always, he is Peter first. By the gift of Aslan, he is all other titles, but even his most beloved titles are secondary to him. When the people called him Magnificent, he still begged in quiet repetition to be called Peter.

XVII. "There's a man for you! Uses his enemy's arm as a ladder. The High King!  The High King! Up, Old Narnia!"

There is a secret here; a secret so old and buried that even Peter himself has almost forgotten it. Because the secret is, for all his fear and doubt and unworthiness, Peter loves his title as a part of him. The rousing cheers of Trumpkin remind him. He knows once more what it is to be High King: it is his greatest burden, but in equal measure, it is his greatest gift. The Narnians rise up with him. The Narnians’ strength is his strength. The High King is just Peter, but Peter is the High King.

XVIII. "But the other creatures all cheered and rose up in honour of Peter the High King, and Queen Susan of the Horn, and King Edmund and Queen Lucy."

When they rise up for the Kings and Queens, they rise up for Peter. It’s like forgiveness, almost, for being man instead of myth; permission to be a boy instead of a man. He does not feel the weight of his title here and now. The memory of the crown he once wore feels, in this moment, more like the flower chains Lucy used to place atop his head. In their cheers, Peter feels that even in the Narnians’ adoring eyes, he is Peter first. The High King will be remembered. Memory, however, is no longer legend.

XIX. "'I've never understood why they belong to Narnia,' said Caspian. 'Did Peter the High King capture them?'" [The Voyage of the Dawn Treader]

Edmund and Lucy don’t know why these words feel as fresh as the sea air, but neither can deny that they feel even more at home now that Caspian has said them. They don’t know how Caspian first referred to their brother, and they don’t know how it was wrong. They don’t know the way Caspian said “High King,” as if Peter were modelled in precious metal. Caspian does not see him that way any longer. Time and memory change things. Perhaps they make idols out of men, but they can, in fact, turn gold and stone into flesh again. Edmund and Lucy don’t know, but they don’t have to know. It’s enough to feel. In love, Peter comes first again. In love, they know when it is right. And so the air is clear when their brother’s name is said, and wounds are healed in a world far away.

XX. "I am one of the four ancient sovereigns of Narnia and you are under allegiance to the High King my brother."

The words are flung like stones, and Edmund knows not what he does. This is, in the end, Peter’s fear. “High King” is a title easily weaponized by greed and pride, and now Edmund clings to it even though it isn’t his to possess. It’s not his fault; Magic is often stronger than loyalty, and sometimes even loyalty doesn’t know it’s own rules. The words are a grievous error, but no one knows to correct them. As Edmund argues with Caspian - both still children beneath all their growth - Peter is thrown under their feet. He is nameless in pride. He becomes Edmund’s brother secondly, and only that so Edmund can lay claim to what he desires. It’s an unintended betrayal. No one will remember it. Magic is often stronger than anger, too.

XXI. "That look is in the face of all true kings of Narnia, who rule by the will of Aslan and sit at Cair Paravel on the throne of Peter the High King." [The Silver Chair]

The High King’s throne is not a physical place; Cair Paravel has long since fallen to ruin and been rebuilt on the coast. Peter never sat in the throne that sits there now… but it is his throne still. In the figure of the High King there still lies a truth which can never and must never be lost in the kingdom of Narnia. For all the ages that lie between them, the throne is still his. Yet the comparison does not lie in that figure; it lies instead in the person. The legend has changed; the narrative has ordered itself after him once again. Memory does not recall a mythic High King, crowned in gold and light. Instead, memory falls on a soft boy who grew into a good man. Memory falls on the flesh and bone rather than steel and gold. Memory falls on Peter.

XXII. "I charge you in the name of Aslan, speak to me. I am Peter the High King." [The Last Battle]

It has been said that who he is always comes first, and what he is always comes second. Sometimes that is only partly true. Sometimes there are names and titles of greater importance and truer power which must come first. As Peter clenches his fist and screws up his courage, it is to Aslan’s name he clings. As Peter asks the vision in front of him to speak, it is to Aslan’s power he appeals. And when, at the end of his address, he does mention his own name, it is not from a place of authority. It is a plea. “I am Peter,” he begs, “Peter the High King. You can trust me. You can speak to me.”

XXIII. “‘Sire,’ said Jill coming forward and making a beautiful curtsey, ‘let me make known to you Peter the High King over all Kings in Narnia.’”

To be High King means and has always meant many things to Peter. He’s 9 years older, now, than when he was first given the title, and he has lived 24 years since then. He barely remembers how in those first days it hardly carried any weight at all. It had been, at the time, his natural role. For him to take that responsibility had just made sense. But Peter feels it heavier now — he feels everything heavier. The weight of the crown has never left his mind, even after nearly a decade. Peter hadn’t known in those moments Aslan first spoke to him — when he first promised him all of this — what it would be to be King, let alone a king over others. Peter knows now, and he knows well. It is the weight of a world; it is blood and sweat and tears; it is the sting of the sword, and the crack of the whip on his own flesh. It is the crash of the ocean, and the salt on the table. It is the lilt of the music echoing through empty palace halls. It is the rhythm of dancing feet, and laughter through open windows, and the patterns in the stars. And, above all, it is not a burden; for all the hurt, it is instead a promise. Peter is the High King, and always will be. The High King is a boy named Peter.

XXIV. “Tirian had no need to ask which was the High King, for he remembered his face (though here it was far nobler) from his dream.”

And it lifts: the heart, the music, the feet, the head. Everything lifts. The heaviest weights mean little in the end. The heaviest weights are worth it all to bear. And Peter is noble now, isn’t he? He is noble to his brother and sister - maybe even to the sister who won’t admit to any of it. He is noble to the friends who seat him at the head of the table. He is noble even in the eyes of a king who bore weights Peter never did. Peter lifts the other king off his knees. Eyes lift. Everything lifts. The weights are lifted off.

XXV. "'Peter, High King of Narnia,' said Aslan. 'Shut the Door.'"

It is to Peter that the command is given: it’s given to the boy who faltered, who doubted: to the boy on his knees. It is Peter, after all, who slayed the wolf, well before he held any title. And yet, as always, his title follows. Once more, Peter will do that which only the High King can. Once more, Peter will serve. Once more, Peter will obey. Even if he falters, or doubts, or falls again to his knees, he will do what he has been charged to do. The door will shut. The key will turn. The weight will be forgotten. It is understood. Peter trusts now; trusts in a reason for his crown and his calling; trusts Aslan even where he didn’t before.  There is no fear. In the moment, he feels it plainly.

[arysthaeniru]

aAAA the joy of seeing an update on your current favorite fanfic is just aAAA

I always felt that kiwami 1s Nishiki was just a bit too,, I dont know how to describe it; but essentially he just felt off, granted yakuza 1 is a product of its time and therefore the plot is a bit dated and whack as all hell

The way you write Nishiki just feels so much better and realistic; in the original he just seems so uncaring towards Kiryu? which just feels kinda OOC? You'd think he still cares about Kiryu despite it all, especially when you take Yakuza 0 into consideration; and i feel like you portray Nishiki much more accurately

I never thought much about Yumi, because honestly, in the original she was kinda just, there? You actually made her a very interesting person! like I'm actually invested in her in your story! (side note you ever think about her clone who got tortued and died? yeah who WAS that???? thats never brought up is it??)

Theres so much more to talk about but in short; This is the best fix it/rewrite of a game plot I have read to date and it brings me joy in my current stressful school life. and no I will not stop praising it or the author, because this work has made me very happy. ;)

I just have a gift for picking favorites that end up dying,,aand another favorite of mine is Mine

imo theres a lack of soft, reassuring Minedai, i just feel like he'd need a reminder that people love him as a person and not just for the money he can provide, even if its obvious

I'd love to see how you'd write them, but I understand if theres more interesting/appealing drabble requests!

- Carp

CARP, thank you for this <3 this is so sweet!!!!! I’m so happy you enjoy my Nishiki! I had fun playing with what Yakuza 0/the Kiwami additions gave us about Nishiki’s personality and outlook on the world, and trying to reconcile that with the plot that Yakuza 1 initially had. Ultimately, I fell on the side that you did: even if Nishiki’s ambition took him down a monstrous path, I don’t think he’s the sort of person who neglects to pay back his debts. And he’s aware of the huge debt he owes Kiryu. Not to mention, their bonds of trust and love vanishing completely because of jealousy felt unreal to me. Their relationship becoming twisted or strange? Yes, but vanishing entirely felt unsatsifying to me. 

And Yumi!! I had so much fun excavating her character from the clues we get of her in canon. I worry sometimes, that she’s unrecognizable, because you know, I’ve given her a college education, and a whole bunch of interests beyond hostessing alone, but people seem to like it and like her, which is great!! I hate fridging women characters, so keeping her and Reina alive was important to me, hahaha. (RE: fake!Mizuki, there’s this substory in Kiwami that actually addresses who she was, BUT IT’S EVEN MORE HORRIFYING. So that’s why Yumi in my fic is the one captured and tortured by Nishiki’s men, because the thought of this poor innocent woman getting dragged into the mess was just untenable to me.)  

Anyway, thank you for your support and kind words, and I hope you’ll continue to read and that my fic can continue to relieve stress. I--tried to write this about Mine, but Daigo kind of stole the spotlight a little??? I hope you still like it--if not, I will try a ficlet from Mine’s perspective too. I enjoy minedai a lot, but I haven’t had room to think out their dynamic yet, so this took me a while. 

Daigo’s no stranger to being desired. He’s attractive, he knows this—his mother’s beauty lives in his veins, and he’s always had the money to look after himself. Fancy soaps to wash his face, the invisible retainers to keep his teeth straight, fancy suits and skin-tight shirts to show off his frame. For all that Kiryu insists his charisma is something that comes from the soul, Daigo knows it wouldn’t be able to draw the sort of attention he does without being attractive.

Which is to say that Daigo’s not especially thrown off by the intensity of Mine’s gaze. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again. The thing that surprises him is how much he relishes in being seen by Mine.

Maybe it’s because Mine’s an island in a stormy sea, one of the only yakuza his age who’s sensible and level-headed enough to make it big. Maybe it’s because Mine’s gaze is always so reserved, polite, never overly lusty or overstaying its welcome, and Daigo has so rarely been desired so quietly. Or maybe it’s because Majima and Kashiwagi so clearly disapprove of him—Daigo’s always been something of a rebel, and he hasn’t shaken that off, even now he’s in his thirties and is the arbiter of rules for the Tojo Clan.

Daigo can’t quite put a pin on why he’s so comfortable with Mine’s yearning looks, but he’s never been one to hold back when he wants to indulge in something good. Not exactly a hedonist, not by yakuza standards, but Daigo has never kept himself from enjoying life, in the name of some dubious ‘honour.’

Which is why, in an after-hours meeting with Mine, as they eat cheap takeout sushi together, Daigo takes his chance. A momentary slip, the slightest hint of wasabi left at the corners of Mine’s lips and Daigo swoops in, rubs a thumb over the corner of Mine’s lips. Mine stutters to a stop, mid-sentence through a rundown of the real-estate that the Hakuho Clan’s been purchasing up, and stares at Daigo, eyes bewildered.

“Sixth Chairman?” he asks, his voice still remarkably composed.

“Wasabi.” Daigo says, nonchalantly, as if it’s nothing, and sticks his thumb into his mouth, slowly licking it off with a lingering lave of his tongue. He feels a sharp stab of satisfaction as Mine’s eyes turn darker, and his gaze follows Daigo’s hand down.  

Daigo straightens up, languidly, and cracks his neck, casually. At this point in the day, he’s untucked his shirt, and he knows that a slight strip of his stomach will be visible when he stretches out his arms towards the ceiling. And as predictably as clockwork, Mine’s gaze darts downwards, to that pale expanse, to catch that brief second of skin. Daigo can’t help but feel warm. Something about being watched by Mine is exhilarating.

“Smoke?” offers Daigo, but as usual, Mine refuses, with a polite shake of his head.

Daigo knows from hearsay that Mine’s something a health-freak, so he’s not entirely surprised. It’s already too late for Daigo to preserve his health—he knows that his liver’s already been pretty ruined from long nights of binge-drinking as a youth, and this job’s too stressful to withhold from vices like smoking and drinking, without an optimal end-goal. So he walks over to the window, cracks it open a little, and lights up.

The breath of nicotine curls over his body, a tender caress, and Daigo feels his shoulders drop, as the relaxation hits. He pulls off his cufflinks, tosses them into his pockets and rolls up his sleeves. He takes it slow, runs his fingers over his skin a little more than strictly necessary. Surreptitiously checking the reflection in the window, Daigo watches Mine watch him, and smirks at how intense that gaze is, how Mine’s mouth has opened, and Daigo can just see the soft pink of his tongue.

“Dojima’s just fine, you know. When it’s just us two.” Daigo says, turning over his shoulder. He smiles, one of those charming smiles that had always gotten him whatever he wanted as a child, “We’re same-aged friends, after all.”

“Dojima-san.” Mine acknowledges, after a brief pause.

Daigo turns around, to properly look at Mine and lifts an eyebrow. “Dojima. Or Daigo, preferably. Dojima-san’s always my father in my head.”

Mine nods, face impassive. Daigo can’t read him like this. Maybe that’s why he likes when Mine stares at him, filled with longing. At least then, Daigo feels like he knows him. In moments like these, his implacable gazes might as well be a brick wall. “Right. Your Father was also in the Tojo Clan.”

Daigo smiles, wryly, and blows out a puff of smoke. “One of the most horrible men I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting—and I had to call him Father. But damn if he wasn’t good at the job.” He sighs and stubs the cigarette out against the ashtray. “...sometimes feel like I’m competing with his dead spirit. Everybody’s looking at me and wondering if this is what my Father would do. Or what Kiryu-san would do.”

“You’re doing better than any of them.” Mine says, immediately, with a vicious ferocity that Daigo wasn’t expecting. He can’t quite stop his eyebrows rising in surprise, and Mine straightens upwards, looking self-conscious immediately. Daigo regrets his instinctual reaction, immediately. “That is to say, Dojima, that I think that you’ve pulled this Clan into somewhere far more respectable. From what I’ve heard of your Father, he didn’t have the temperament to do proper business on this level—too insistent on formal obeisance and unable to be flexible as the times require. And Kiryu-san might be very honourable, but we are yakuza. There are certain things you have to do as a Chairman, that he couldn’t bring himself to do. But you are practical and do what is necessary, while also not overstepping into excessive violence. You are uniquely suited for this job, Dojima.”

...he’s taken aback a little, he can’t deny it. Daigo wonders if his cheeks are colouring, wonders if his obvious shock is offputting, wonders if this is how Mine feels every time Daigo teases him lightly about his obvious attraction. A startling warmth spreads through his chest, and Daigo can’t stop the slight smile that touches his face. Has anybody ever said something so unreservedly kind and measured about Daigo before?

Maybe this is the difference between everybody else’s gazes on him, and Mine’s gaze. It’s based on something more than desire alone. Respect.

Daigo runs a hand over his slicked-back hair and ruffles it free, with a rueful smile, a smile that he couldn’t take away from his face, even if he tried. “I appreciate that. You know I couldn’t do it without you, right?”

He’d never really believed himself capable of attraction to a man like Mine. All of his previous childhood crushes had been on bright, cheerful conversational, pure-hearted people. Daigo had always figured they would balance out his sardonic cynicism. He’d never thought someone as reserved and principled as Mine would ever make his heart flutter. But then, there was something about that deep hunger and passion that Daigo craved. Perhaps it was because he was no longer the gloomy punk of his youth. Maybe his tastes have changed towards tall, dark and handsome. Maybe Mine’s just that special.

“Dojima—” Mine says, clearly trying to refute it, but Daigo cuts him off.

“I mean it. Everybody in this fucking Clan wants me to do something or be somebody else. Kashiwagi-san wants me to be my mother. Majima-san wants me to be Kiryu-san. Everybody else expects my Father. But not you. You deal with me honestly, and with candour, and never hold any expectations against me except success. I appreciate your faith in me.” Daigo takes a couple of steps forward, until his shoes almost brush up against Mine’s own. He leans down over Mine’s chair. “I could not do this without your backing and help. Truly. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone like you in my life. A true friend.”

Mine tilts his chin up to meet Daigo’s gaze, a hungry devotion in his eyes, and Daigo, for a moment, wonders if this is wrong. If he should hold back, like Kiryu would. But Daigo is Daigo, and Mine clearly wants him anyway, so he leans down and kisses him.

Mine’s mouth is velvety smooth and wet and hot and it is oh-so satisfying a feeling to put his hand against Mine’s broad neck and feel his warmth up against Daigo. He pulls back, with a satisfied sigh, and feels the burn of wasabi across his lips, a final parting kick.

[langst-is-my-unborn-baby]

The Path Down Memory Lane

Summary: A quirk causes Midoriya to disappear, and can only be returned through a trip to the past accessed by Bakugou Katsuki. The one who is very displeased to be there and face the childhood friend he pushed away.

As well as avoiding Ochako's death glare.

IRL friends, be respectful and ignore please <3

Word Count:  2907

The classroom fell to a stuttered silence, whispers and short gasps of surprise crippling into the quiet. Their Sensei, Aizawa, stood at the front, his hand raised to pause them as a sullen look soured his usually bored expressions. Bakugou felt his chest tremble with angered nerves, slimmers of questions rattling in his brain. His demand to begin the class and ignore whatever problem had occurred that caused this pause.

Aizawa watched them all, the first class of the morning and he had only just stepped into the room. As Bakugou had previously seen Iida hold down a bothered expression, he wondered what had caused the abrupt lateness. Mina and Hagakure who had seemingly arrived late, pressed themselves to the side of the door patiently, waiting for the teacher to speak.

“As some of you might have noticed,” the teacher began, his dull eyes falling over them. “One of you is missing.” Originally, Bakugou was planning on stating that Raccoon Eyes and the other one was actually here, but as their teacher waved them in, the empty desk pulled his attention.

“Deku,” Bakugou spat, his teeth gritting together as flames of anger stung him. “Of course, it’s fucking him.”

Round face has wailed a worried cry of the missing boy’s name.

Izuku Midoriya, a pain in his backside, was missing from class, a surprise due to his healthy appearance and calm demeanour as of the previous day. The boy had cheerily waved Bakugou goodbye the previous night, he had said he was planning to spend the evening watching over his mother. Despite the raw hate for the boy, Bakugou had no qualms with Aunt Inko, and he too knew that she was so lonely since useless Deku’s dad never appeared at home.

“Midoriya was going to visit his mother!” Round face shouted; her face flushed warm with worry. “He said so last night.”

“It’s true,” Momo agreed, her finger resting on her chin. “We assumed he must have returned later that evening; it was a quiet night.”

Again, the teacher raised his hand, that previous hush soon blanketing them. “It is not a question of where he is,” Aizawa said, his cheeks paled to a cold white. “But when.”

“What?” Kirishima murmured, his own eyes meeting Bakugou’s. He shrugged a response.

“Sir! What do you mean when?” Iida asked, his back straight as he stood suddenly, and even then Bakugou pitied the poor ass who had befriended Deku.

Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose, a sad crestfallen sigh before resuming his briefing with the class. “At 7:20 at night, there was a petty villain attack on the street of Midoriya’s home. As per usual of the problem child, he went to handle it.” Bakugou huffed a laugh, hiding his own confusion as he felt his hands clench into tight fists. “A quirk blew up, and it is – time sensitive.”

The class’ attention sat on Aizawa, their held breaths pulling on the atmosphere.

“The quirk was known as ‘Memory Lane,’ it throws the victim into the body of their younger self in the past, leaving behind only a piece of them.” As if on cue, the teacher dug into his pockets, retrieving a small white card. Deku’s ID.

Ochako let out a whine of misery, her hands clamping over her mouth.

“Please do not fear yet,” Aizawa said with a face with an expression that was a moment away from looking warm and comforting. “This ID acts as a gateway to that time, and to gain entry it needs to be opened by someone involved. The Pro-Heroes did not originally intend to explain to you the true situation of your classmate… but as his mother could not open it-“

Tears streamed down the cheeks of Round face as Aizawa stepped towards her, holding out the ID card, her fingers pinching it tightly and her expression squeezed. Nothing. Iida leaped forward immediately, demanding in perfect formality to touch the card. Again nothing, and Bakugou barked a cold laugh. Soon, the classmates followed. That frog and Momo both sadly pressing their hands to the card, even Kirishima had a go at holding it.

“It’s the manly thing to do,” Kirishima whispered to him, his hand falling to Bakugou’s shoulder. He bit back the urge to slap it off, sitting in his friend’s desperate look.

“Fine, back off idiots,” Bakugou barked, kicking his desk away from him as he stepped to his teacher. “Let me touch the fucking card.”

The look in his teacher’s eyes bothered him. What could Aizawa think of him that he hesitated to hand over the card. Regardless, the card was dropped into his grip.

“See assholes,” he spat, ignoring the tinge of a crack in his voice. “I didn’t do anything-“

The card burned, like a hot iron against his hand, it left his skin red and raw. “Fuck, Sensei!” Bakugou yelled, and immediately his teacher was at his side, clinging onto the card as well.

“Keep holding on,” he demanded, his head whipping around to watch the squabble of Deku’s friends who remained close. “Are any of your memories with Midoriya inherently violent?” The sweat that began to sit upon Bakugou’s head told it all. “We will enter the past soon, do not let go, understood?”

“Sir,” Iida shot loudly. “I could assist, I know Midoriya well.”

“As do I!” Round face cried; her arm wrapped around Iida.

“I too want to help Midoriya,” Icyhot said distantly, a chill to his voice as he suddenly reached to grab the card. Iida and Ochako doing the same despite the sudden short shout of their teacher’s disapproval. The card shot out burning white light, and all Bakugou saw was black before hitting the ground.

Bakugou let out a huff as he pressed his palm to his forehead, a sting pulsing as he pulled himself up from the grassy floor. Grass- his lips thinned, and he spat a swear.

“What the fuck? This fucking card took us out of our classroom.”

“Discipline yourself,” his teacher said strictly, and Bakugou was suddenly reminded that that man had every right to control his cursing habits.

Slowly but ever so surely, his three nosey classmates pried themselves from the floor. Iida instantly voacalising an apology. His eyes could not roll further back, Iida lived off being seen as a model student, but he broke every rule for Deku.

“Bakugou.” Ochako’s voice wavered slightly, her eyes following along the neighbourhood. “Do you know where we are?”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, twisting to look at their surroundings. A series of building stood tall and imposing but straight ahead lay a little patch of scenery, a few warm patches of bushes and a couple tall standing trees. He raised one pointed finger. “There,” he said slowly, as if tasting the words that would be used to help Deku. “That park was by our school, he was always at it, stalking me.”

Aizawa sent him a disapproving glance but began to tread forward, Ochako and Iida stomping off with their arms linked. Icyhot just tilted his head slightly at him before following.

Their path ran smooth and uninterrupted. Ochako pale as a ghost when a person seemingly walked straight through her, a dreaded blue sitting sickly on her cheeks.

“Nothing to fear,” Aizawa murmured, continuing forward. “I assume only Midoriya will be able to see us, and perhaps young Bakugou too.” Round face just nodded.

They stood meters from the park, startled in the steps as a sudden cry sounded from within the park. Aizawa outstretching an arm to stop them moving into the scene, he lifted a single finger and pressed it to his lips, hushing them.

Izuku Midoriya, in all his six-year-old glory, stood small and green-haired. Kneeling over on the park’s ground, Bakugou recognised himself, a much younger version, standing in front of the boy. Cracks of explosions pulsed from his small hands, and a gang of jeering boys backed him.

“Stupid Deku!” The young Bakugou shouted, his hand shot forward as if to show a threat, a devilish smile overcoming him as Deku covered his face in his hands. “You can’t ever be a hero; you won’t beat me!” The mini version of him jabbed a thumb to himself. “I’m the best.”

“Kacchan, stop being so mean,” the little boy all but sobbed, a pitiful screech leaving his mouth as one of the boys began to pelt pebbles his way. “Kacchan, stop!

“They will stop when I say so,” the boy decided smugly, happy yells coming from the surrounding lot of boys, another joining in in the pelting. “But we won’t waste time on quirkless losers like you.”

“Bakugou,” Iida said, turning to look down at him with a thin look of dismay. “You could really say that to your classmate?”

His stomach churned with the burn of fury; a tight anger rang through his ears. He responded with nothing but a dirty glare, returning the attention to his young classmate with his crestfallen appearance as the young him and group of jerks fucked off. The infamous tears beginning to roll down the boy’s cheeks, quiet cries leaving him as the little Deku sat alone in the park.

Ochako sent him a glare that told him just how dead he was.

Even Aizawa looked deeply unhappy with the sight, his hand falling as Ochako and Iida dashed forward, with Round face’s arms wrapping around the small boy. His guilt lay buried in a hole he had dug himself, watching as Todoroki would no longer meet his gaze – instead, making his way to Deku.

A gurgled sound left him, pathetically stuttering as the young Deku always had, Bakugou kept his distance. His victim squabbled by his classmates.

“Izuku!” Ochako chirped happily, gleeful tears spilled from the corners of her eyes.

“Ah! Sorry ma’am,” Deku said, his hands furiously wiped at his tear stricken face. “I don’t think I know you, are you Mum’s friend?” His voice sounded stilted, as if slowed by a stutter.

“Ochako, rest easy,” Aizawa warned, kneeling to look the boy in the eye. “Midoriya, we are from the future.”

The boy’s eyes widen in shocked disbelief, crawling back slightly and Bakugou choked a wheeze, a shit-eating grin covering his face as he met his teacher’s stare. “You don’t fucking think a kid is going to believe that,” he said. “He thinks you all are some lot of psychotic strangers. Let me go.”

Bakugou pushed himself forward, elbowing Todoroki in the side as a little afterthought. “Oi Deku.” He turned his head down, a fearful expression fell on the boy and suddenly his chest felt tight. “Izuku,” he corrected, his voice gentle for his own standards. “Watch this.” He held out his palm, creating a sparkled of an explosion, letting it sizzle into a blackened smoke. “I’m Bakugou Katsuki, from the future.”

The little Deku’s eyes lit up. “You have the same quirk as Kacchan!” he smiled gleefully, Bakugou buried the twitch of annoyance. “Why are you here… a- are you mad, a-again?” he asked, voice twisted with apprehension as he was seemingly encircled by the much taller group.

“No one will hurt you, young Midoriya,” Iida spoke sternly. Bakugou felt his eyes widen by a fraction, his classmate placing a hand against his heart as he spoke such genuine words. To Izuku Midoriya, those words would only be a charming comfort of a lie, when had that boy ever escaped violence.

“Agreed, Midoriya, we need your help,” Todoroki added, calmly outstretching a hand to Deku, helping him to his feet. The boy tilted his chin upwards, a slight uncertainty.

“I know you Kacchan,” the boy said bravely, shuffling back slightly, prominent bruises revealing themselves on his knees. “But Mum told me not to speak to strangers.” His voice returned to that innocent quietness, a thunder of cracks breaking his words due to the whisper of volume he spoke at.

Round face pinched the corner of Bakugou’s shirt, shaking her stupid face when she had noticed that famous aggravated expression overcome him. He gritted his teeth and stayed still.

“I am an underground hero, Eraserhead, Shota Aizawa,” their teacher introduced, surprising them slightly. The kid’s eyes glittered with interest, questions threatened to spill from his tongue, an obvious look of curiosity from the boy. The teacher instead waved his hand, encouraging his students to do the same.

Iida nodded his head, following in his teacher’s footsteps. “I am Tenya Iida, class president,” he bowed furiously.

“Ah! Pl- Please don’t bow sir,” Deku wailed, waving his hands before rushing to bow, mimicking the older student, a smile erupting onto Ochako’s face at the sight.

“Ochako Uraraka,” the girl smiled brightly, pulling a peace sign.

Finally, that half-half bastard stepped up. “Shoto Todoroki.” A respectful nod at the green-haired boy before returning a previous few steps behind.

“Todoroki! Like Endeavour,” Midoriya mused, missing the skimmer of a wince that took over the boy’s face.

Pity. That feeling that Bakugou was beginning to resent. He huffed a grunt, digging his heel into the soft dirt, locking him into his place. “Hah!” He jeered, purposely steering his gaze away from Todoroki. “Who cares about Endeavour, you like All Might right, Shitty Deku?”

Aizawa most certainly chose that moment not to comment on the use of swearing, instead portraying a slight amusement as Midoriya was instantly overcome with a contagious happiness. The boy’s arms began to flail, rushed in saying all his reasons of loving the currently top hero.

Deku eventually fell out of breath, his face warm with redness. “Wait, if you are a Hero,” the boy asked tentatively, shyly watching his future teacher. “How am I able to help you?”

“Unfortunately, I am not sure either, but I have an idea.” Aizawa faced Bakugou, instilling him with a momentary fear. “The ID card.”

Oh yeah.

Searching his pocket, he plucked the card out, slipping it into his teacher;s hand.

“Oi Deku! Where are you?” A young yell sounded from ahead, and the group quickly turned to see the small Bakugou, returned without his petty crew of bullied. “Who are those weirdos?” He snapped, running over and snatching the little Midoriya’s wrists.

Christ, Deku’s friends were most certainly going to give him hell when the returned to the present.

“Deku- Izuku! Don’t talk to weird adults,” he scolded as he tugged the other boy back and aiming a dark look to Aizawa. “Why are you even still here?”

So many questions from his younger self, as if he had not left that very boy trembling and scared on the ground. But deep down, with out the addition of time travelers, Bakugou remembered this moment. Guiltily returning for his childhood friend, walking him home without uttering an apology.

“Kacchan, these are my future friends,” the boy smiled whole-heartedly, grinning up at Ochako’s painfully big smile.

“What are you on about Deku, anyway, I don’t want this- take it,” the young Bakugou said, dumping a small slip into his hand. “I already have one at home.” He turned his head, stubbornly ignoring the squeal of joy that left Deku.

“An All Might card, Kacchan you really are the best!”

“I know, now let’s go home, I’ll take you to Aunt Inko’s.”

The scene unfolded so quickly, and Aizawa dived forward, pressing the ID against the young Deku’s fingers. A shot of white light shooting out of it, yet the two young boys suddenly appeared with blank eyes when they looked at them – as if looking through them. Gone from their memories, and invisible now. As the card spun itself in a burning glow of white, the two boys walked on. Chatter on All Might leaving their mouths.

Instantly, Bakugou grabbed onto the card, poisoned with dissonance at the possibility of remaining in this aged memory. His peers joined, the five blinded by white before they fell in the screen of black.

“Izuku!” Round face shrieked; her arms wrapped tightly around the shocked boy’s neck. “Oh, I was so worried,” the girl mourned, ripping herself from the boy to look him over.

Bakugou smiled grimly, heat filling Deku’s cheeks as he sat on the classroom floor in casual clothes – gawked at by his peers. “Uraraka, Kacchan?” he whispered, green eyes dancing from person to person.

“Midoriya,” Iida said (cried seemingly more accurate). “Izuku,” he smiled wetly, his hands fixing themselves to Deku’s shoulders. “I too was worried! Please do not fight villains without me next time.”

The boy let shame overcome him, confusion tipping from his face, but regardless he offered warm comfort to his two friends. Even sending a short smile to Todoroki.

When they were so young, despite everything he did, he was Deku’s Kacchan, his best friend. A tickle of saddened hurt, as he stood distant to the hugging friends. Despite the arm slung around his shoulders by Kiri, he felt this tired longing for the friend he once had.

“Deku,” he yelled, 1A stilled. He buried his desperate tears. “Don’t forget, I saved you!”

He should feel humiliated, be burnt by the blistering jealousy that pulled him to say such words. But a warm laughter spilt from his lost friend’s face despite that remaining slip of loss of understanding at the entirety of the situation. “Of course, thank you Kacchan,” he beamed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Although I can’t remember what for, thank you.”

[junejalow]

“You have a daughter!?” Kali/Smoke

Bringing this over from my Archiveofourown prompt requests! Hope you enjoy! This prompt/dabble is for thelordchanka with the prompt "You have a daughter?"

The base was buzzing with work, recruit's heading out for last minute flights since they weren't needed for the upcoming cross training session and missions Harry had lined up. Most of them would require select operators, one's who wouldn't be able to leave for the holidays. Upon a collective request among the select few, three hours of negotiating (mainly whining and complaining) Harry finally relented on his restriction of having civilians on base. Although he was still reluctant about the entire choice all together, he had very strict rules. 1) No pranks. 2) Armory stays locked. 3) Kids/teenagers must stay with parent(s) at all time. 4) Common room and training/simulation room may be used as forms of entertainment. The last rule strictly applied as long as the kids remember that everything they see must stay a secret, he could trust the operators to reinforce this. After all, Rainbow didn't technically exist. A ghost in the shadow of every military unit on earth. They handled situations and missions no one will ever know about and the few that were public? Covered as special ops or joint missions. Everyone in Rainbow were all highly trained soldiers hand picked from even the best operators. They never disappointed Harry while on the job, but more humane moments like now? Well, it was just a simple reminder that they were still human behind their harden military mind sets. 

Kali was still trying to process the information she just heard from the table behind her, Smoke had a daughter? The crazed chemist actually had family, much less a child. How in the world did someone like him maintain a lasting relationship enough to reproduce. Ignoring Ace's conversation with Wamai, she focused back on the SAS group behind them. 

"She didn't like the idea of taking Christmas break but I'm pretty sur she'll love being here, I'm always telling her about everyone here. Despite her studies, Charlie does love hearing them. Surprise right?" Smoke mused as he fiddled with a picture he kept in his wallet, staring at it fondly. He had rarely spoke to anyone outside the SAS about his adoptive daughter, she was in her last year of high school and scoring straight A's and would graduate with honors. Charlie was the embodiment of everything Smoke couldn't be when he was growing up and so much more. He loved seeing her view of the world and everything she was learning, she had taught him a lot about life that he would never have thought of looking at in a thousand years. She was his connection to being human, a safe haven away from his crazy job. 

 "You're acting like we haven't mess the lass before." Sledge replied after swallowing a spoon full of mash potato's. They had met her once before when Smoke had to go check on his apartment a few miles away following a series of break in's. She acted nothing like the chemist aside from sharing his twisted sense of humor. Charlie basically kept him out of trouble when he had leave time from work. 

"Yeah but she hasn't met the rest of this lot, wonder what she'll think." 

"You worry too much." Mute mumbled beside him, a neutral frown on his face over the fact that Thatcher had taken his phone minutes earlier so the young operator would eat instead of burying his face in the device. More than once he had complained later in the day of being hungry because he missed dinner or breakfast for that same reason. Thatcher of course scolded him every time but taking his phone was a last ditch effort to get the man to eat properly. He didn't need the defender light headed during training from lack of food. 

"I'm not worrying too much! I just don't trust most of these barmy bastards not to try something stupid when everyone shows up. Bandit hundred percent I don't trust, he'll twist her beautiful little mind into something terrible."

"Yet you're just as bad, ever think about that or has Doc's scolding taught you nothing?" Thatcher piped in from his spot across the table. 

"All he's bloody taught me is how much I can get away with before I have to hide." Smoke chuckled, putting the picture of his daughter back in his wallet. 

Kali made a mental note to ask him later about the entire conversation, she was on good enough grounds with the defender that they could have a decent and friendly conversation when they crossed paths. Soon enough the cafeteria slowly became devoid of noise. Most of the operator's were calling home to invite whoever could make it or simply wishing their family and friends happy holidays. Kali on the other hand decided to hit the training room for awhile, not surprised to see a few operators spread out doing their own training. She listened in on different conversations as she bedded down to work on her sniper aim. Nothing caught her interest though, most of the banter was work related or Christmas gift ideas. She had learned from Mira that most of the operators exchanged gifts as a way of team building, an idea Harry had implemented soon after his employment as the new director. 

She had to give the man some credit, he surely knew how to bring a team together. Most of his tactic's were questionable at best but even she could the good intent behind each choice, he was even able to pull Doc and Lion to even ground and now the two seemed like friends all over again despite the random bickering they still did with Montague or Castle playing peace keeper as usual. Some small part of her felt bad for them, they were all adults but some parts of them still shined like children fighting over a toy. It was a vast difference from the attention to detail they all showed in the field though, she had heard Jackal mention it was like flipping switches off and on in their minds. Essentially they were all two sides of the same coin, one side a passive civilian living day to day while the other side was a ruthless soldier who wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger on someone wishing to cause harm. 

Personally she never really understood where she placed in that category but as long as the job was done who cared? She has taken out countless dangerious men and women alike. She seriously wouldn't have her life any other way. She sighed after spending the rubber bullets she acquired from the training gun rack and headed back to the main building, she noticed Smoke hanging around the common room and remembered the conversations from earlier, deciding now was a good time as any.

"Porter, mind a chat?" She asked as she approached the man relaxing against the bar across, tending to a half drank beer, the room from the tv that was currently playing some nature documentary. Dark chocolate brown eyes met her hazel eyes, a question playing across them before he motioned to the seat next to him. 

"I can fancy a talk, what's on your mind Kali?"

"You have a daughter?"

Smoke nearly choked on his beer at the straight forward question, he shouldn't expect less from her but at the same time he didn't think anyone had been listening in. Each table/group always stuck to their own conversations and rarely asked or interrupted anyone on theirs. 

"I didn't think you were bloody listening in! I could barely hear my own thoughts over Ace's loud mouth." A small smile tugged at her lips, Ace could very well be loud and self centered at times but he was a man that truly cared about other's safety above his own, rushing headlong into the worst of a situation just to make sure no one needed having. A natural thrill and need to protect and serve. 

She still owed him greatly for saving her that one time. "I happened to catch a small snippet. So I grew carious. Never heard you talk so fondly over something other than those canisters of yours." 

Smoke rubbed at the scar at the base of his hair line, no one at base had ever dared to ask him about it. Hell they all had their fair share of scar's, physically, mentally and emotionally. He simply waved the question off all the time and gave the same short handed reply. It was work related. Of course a lot of the operators around base never bought into it but out of respect for privacy no one ever pushed the subject. 

"She's not... blood. I adopted her years ago before I got invited to Rainbow. Never saw myself being with anyone but I've always wanted a kid, someone that could show me the world in a different view right? Charlie's done just that. She's excelling in school, straight A's and honor's. Nothing like her old man." He chuckled softly before taking a swing of his beer, pausing for a moment before continuing. "Charlie she... see's everything so bloody different than I do. I've forgotten what a civilian's view on life is, I don't see everything the same as when I was a kid. I was too busy exploring, a free spirit I was. That kid on the other hand, smart head on her shoulders. Been teaching me a lot over the last few years I didn't even know were things. Like all these new math and science categories she's studying, blew my mind at first. Seems like they expect them to know college level stuff before they even graduate. But what about you Kali? Got any family? Husband? Wife? Siblings? Kids?"

Kali slowly took in every ounce of information the man offered, she never really considered Smoke an open guy but at the same time there were rare moments each person just needed an outlet. She figured this was one of those moments. He was going to expose someone he held close to his dangerious line of work, granted she wasn't going to be in harms way by any means and neither would the other kids. A bigger smile graced her features, her hazel eyes settling on the tv across the room. 

"No, nothing of the sort. I'm married to my work as most people say. I don't have time for any relationships, to me it's a burden I don't need." 

Smoke scoffed and sat up a bit straighter in his seat, "You're missing out then Shah, Charlie's the best thing that ever happened to me." He told her with a warm grin, "Give it some thought, might change your mind after you meet her." 

The next few days flowed by quick, families arriving as they could. Most of them were settled in spare rooms while most operators didn't mind sharing dorms with their families. Currently the cafeteria was buzzing with chatter and stories being tossed around while a few decorated the base for Christmas, of course the chaos worsened over a snide comment Bandit made to Smoke. Before the man could retort it, Charlie already had him by the ear and was basically dragging the full grown man away from the fight all the while scolding him. 

"You promised me you wouldn't fight with uncle Dom while I was here and you almost did it anyway! I seriously can't leave you alone for one second!" Charlie argued. 

"I'm sorry! I promise for real this time! I won't bloody do it again I swear!" Porter tried to protest.

"Fat chance dad!" 

Kali chuckled quietly to herself because Wamai who had his hands clasped behind his back, "Rethinking what Porter said about family?"

"As far as I'm concerned Wamai? this is my family."  

[oneblueumbrella]

Thirty minute Thursday

A couple of people have said they might be interested in joining me for this, which excites me no end! The only rules are: write for no more than thirty minutes, do one minimal edit, post on a Thursday! I’d love anyone to join me - any ship, any length!

Use the tag #thirtyminutethursday so we can find each other!

 From a prompt: Greg has insomnia. In a fit of sleep deprivation and poor judgement, he texts Mycroft in the wee hours of the morning. To his surprise, Mycroft texts back.

Response 

As the day drew to a close, Greg knew he should be winding down. Darkness closing in, lights dim in the corner of a room, those deliciously heavy eyes that meant you were almost done for the day. Most people looked forward to those hours between work and bed. Greg hated them.

To him, it was like having a clock ticking over his head. A small voice was almost audible in his ear, reminding him how many hours sleep he’d had the previous night, how many he should have tonight to catch up, exactly how many hours it was from now until bedtime, assuming nobody woke him early. The tension in his chest wound tighter and tighter and no matter what he tried, midnight ticked past without pause, and only when his exhausted brain finally gave up would he drop into a few hours unsettled sleep.

Desperately, Greg hoped tonight would be different. His eyes were sandy as they always were, and the lethargy in his bones had been pulling him down all week. Greg didn’t need anyone pointing out how tired he looked, though several people did. He didn’t want to admit how hard he was finding it to fall asleep. It felt like a weakness.

He was almost dozing at his desk when Sally came in and gave him a list.

“Go home,” she said, “via Tesco, and follow this.”

Greg took it, blinking at the neat words before nodding slowly. She was trying to help, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He also knew arguing with her was futile, and if he could manage to keep himself this drowsy all the way home he had a chance of dropping off at a semi-reasonable hour.

When he arrived home with the camomile tea Sally had made him buy and a ready meal with vegetables (also on Sally’s list), Greg was exhausted. He glanced at the list as he pottered, frowning as he returned the beer to the fridge. Surely a beer would help relax him. He wasn’t going to argue with Sally on this, though. What did he have to lose?

When the night hours ticked over into morning, Greg wanted to cry. He’d done everything Sally had said, even running a bath, which was something he would never normally do. And here he was, still lying awake, phone plugged in by the couch, annoyingly sober and desperately awake.

I need to talk to someone.

Hauling himself out of bed, Greg dragged his pillow and duvet to the couch. With any luck he’d crash out here, and technically he was keeping his phone out of the bedroom. The twang of guilt at his manipulation of Sally’s words was fleeting and by the time he was lying down he’d reconciled himself to another stupidly late night.

Flicking the phone’s screen on, Greg hesitated. His brain might not be ready for sleep, but it was still slow, fuzzy at best and he couldn’t think of a single person to call or text. The bright colours of Candy Crush distracted him and he opened it, playing the same level over and over until he ran out of lives. That killed an hour or so, but it didn’t solve his problem.

Who?

He scrolled slowly through his contact list, wondering who would be up. What would he even say, if someone saw his message? ‘Hi, I can’t sleep?’ It sounded like something a small child told their parent in the middle of the night, not the complaint of a grown up, if lonely, police detective.

For some reason, his thumb hesitated over Holmes, M. Without thinking too hard, Greg pressed ‘send message.’

 Hey Mycroft.

 He sent the message, not sure what kind of response he’d get. It wasn’t a question, or even anything, really. As if Mycroft Holmes would reply to a random message like that.

 Good evening. To what do I owe the honour of this message? –M

 Greg blinked, not entirely uncertain he wasn’t hallucinating. His thumb moved automatically, typing out his reply.

 Hardly an honour. He shrugged, thinking what else he should add. Can’t sleep. Thought you might be awake.

 He sent the message, wondering why Mycroft was still up. Was he one of those people who thrived on three hours a night? Or was he working? Jesus, was he even in London?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

 An affliction I often share. A difficult day? –M

 Greg swallowed, somehow quite emotional at the idea of actually telling someone something true about himself. Not about the copper, the boss, the customer or the whatever-he-was-to-Sherlock. About the person who still walked around after all that, taking off and replacing hats depending on who he was talking to.

 Difficult week. Month. A long time.

 Mycroft’s response was swift.

 Is there something I might offer to ease things? –M

 Greg shook his head, wondering if his brain was making this all up.

 Thanks. I don’t think there is anything. He paused again, hovering wondering how brave his fatigue would make him. It’s a bunch of things, I think.

 The little flashy dots came and went, and Greg realised he was quite tense, waiting for the reply.

 I have found talking helps. –M

 Greg typed and sent in one smooth movement.

 Hard to do on your own.

 And if you had someone willing to listen? –M

 Greg swallowed, wondering if he was reading more meaning into the question than the words strictly carried. Were they really only discussing talking?

 I wish I did. He paused. More than listening, if I’m honest.

 And what might that look like, if you don’t feel the question is an imposition? –M

 Greg closed his eyes. He was past the point of hesitance now, and he was pretty sure his reply was full of mistakes as he typed and sent without looking at the screen.

 Someone here to warm the other side of the bed and make me dinner sometimes. Listen to how shit my day was.

 Surely your days are not always so? –M

 They didn’t used to be.

 Greg felt tears well up at the admission, regret rising as he recalled past days that were so far from shit. They seemed a hell of a long way away.

 Nothing is certain except change. –M

 Greg snorted a laugh despite himself.

 You sound like a Hallmark card.

 I’m sure I do. I have little experience comforting people. –M

 The bubbled danced again for a second before another message came through.

 Few people have trusted me enough to admit their troubles. –M

 Greg blinked.

 I appreciate you listening.

 I am currently out of the country, but should you require someone to join you again at this late hour your message would not be unwelcome. –M

 Thanks.

 Greg still wondered if Mycroft was offering only a compassionate ear, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Don’t want to wreck anything. Before he could reply further another message came through.

 And if I might be so bold – please decline if I have misinterpreted – I would also be available to fulfil the other services you are missing. –M

 Greg wasn’t sure what it was about that message that comforted it him, but he knew something in his chest eased as he studied the words.

 That would be perfect. Call me when you get back.

 Good night, Greg. –M

 Good night.

[itallstartedwithplayingvet]

Comfortember 2020 Day 7 - Blanket Fort

Fandom: Trick r’ Treat

Characters: Sam, Laurie

Content Warnings: None! This is whump-free and strictly fluffy (despite using characters from a horror film lol. Maybe a warning for very minor horror tropes, albeit used without there being any actual danger)

Word Count: 389

"Seriously, remind me how I turned into your babysitter?"

The bag-headed kid raised his head from the drawing on the floor before him. The picture itself was nothing Laurie wouldn't have expected from a centuries-old holiday spirit masquerading as a child. Just a grotesque scene of death and mayhem scribbled in crayon. Nothing concerning. She knew what he was, and she always followed his rules. He had no reason to act out his doodles on her.

Sam shrugged his little shoulders. "You're a good follower...and a creature of the night." His voice was the same as any normal child of his size. "A creature of my night. So I like you. I can trust you with the weaknesses I have on all 364 other days."

"...Right." She remarked. "So...what'cha doing in here? Spirit stuff?"

"No. Just coloring." Sam pushed his drawing aside, and started work on another. This time, it just looked like a cat. Well. At least smiting the rule breakers wasn't his only interest.

"You like coloring?" Laurie prodded, admittedly sort of curious as to just how much of a kid the little creep was.

And she used the term "creep" as lovingly as one could. He was...cute, really, and she found she admired his enthusiasm. Enthusiasm for violently enforcing a set of rules he'd made himself, but still...

"Why wouldn't I?" Sam tilted his head to the side as though her question had confused him.

"Well...I don't like walks and all that stuff, if you get what I mean."

"Yes you do." The kid said it as though it were simple fact. "You love going on walks. Every werewolf does."

"Man...you just keep getting weirder." She muttered. "Well, Sam, what do you think? Am I free to leave your cute little blanket fort yet?"

He seemed to think it over for a moment. "Okay. But you gotta bring me snacks."

"Done." She got up from her cross-legged position and crawled out from the fort. "Candy, right? You got any kind of preference?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm not picky. As long as it's a gift."

Right. Like trick-or-treating. The kid would take anything handed to him. Well. That definitely made feeding him easier.

He didn't seem like such a bad kid, really...

But man, did the little dude have a way with giving her the creeps.

[alexanderpusheen]

what frustrates me the most abt this china narrative is that the US created al qaeda and ISIS, those groups are recruiting and causing terrorism in xinjiang, china has been trying to handle the situation with re-education programs often suggested by westerners, and its still being treated as this major human rights violation. there are actually dozens of countries with several robust anti radicalization programs that are just as strict, like singapore, colombia, yemen, bangladesh, saudi arabia, and indonesia. this paper ive linked to was even funded by the DHS so like...why has detaining someone and basically reverse brainwashing them out of being a terrorist been so acceptable for so long but now its an issue? 

if you take issue with chinas program, you have to prove its somehow exceptional to these other programs. since we really dont have any way of knowing what is truth or reality thanks to the enormous disinformation campaign going on, you fucking cant. we dont even know what the programs entail because even googling it gets you exclusively hyperbolic concentration camp accusations. 

what i will say is that relations between the han majority and the uyghur minority have been strained since at least the 80s. link is the notoriously conservative and pro US intervention human rights watch, so dont say im using pro commie sources or anything. every time i do any bit of research on this i seem to find an attempt from major news outlets in the early to mid 2000s or late 20-teens to prove this all started or became dramatically worse now, but things have always been tense. and its not really a surprise that things really got bad after the collapse of the soviet union, an event that was geographically close to china and the xinjiang region and also just like, a fucking major global event in general.

what i find to be very odd is just how dramatically the narrative has changed. the diplomat, one of my favorite periodicals, went from taking very nuanced and balanced positions on xinjiang that i almost completely agreed with to being just as aggressive as outlets like the BBC and CNN in the span of five years. they have eleven pages worth of articles on xinjiang, mostly covering the terrorism and beijings response (which i agree is too harsh) and xinjiang muslims’ relationships to the greater muslim world. 

an example is how this article talks about the conflict at the time which warns of escalating violence as a result of han chauvinism and beijing being unable to deal with the extremism holistically. it points out how there were uyghurs captured among taliban ranks in afghanistan and how many might have even been working with ISIL.

The threat will not be an existential one to the Chinese state, as most Uighurs would prefer a peaceful accommodation. But even if only 1 percent of Uighurs hold extreme views, there are 10 million in Xinjiang and even for a state security apparatus as formidable as China’s, 100,000 or more angry people present a tough challenge.

i think its totally right that china does not allow people in that area to have cars, woodcutting tools, and amonium nitrate (which is used in bombs) is very strictly regulated. i completely agree that this is not how you combat terrorism. most people do not want war and broadly punishing these people is itself a human rights violation that went unnoticed until now.

however, in that same year, the diplomat also published this article about the infamous turkestan islamic party. members of TIP are like, literal jihadists lmfao.

TIP fighters call on the world’s Muslims to join the jihad against Western countries in internet videos. Perhaps most worringly for China, the TIP believes that Muslims may fight locally using various means instead of coming to Syria and Iraq to conduct a “holy war” against the “infidel” Western regimes.  

yeah i definitely want to hear more about what these guys have to say. the article is really good because i think it highly illustrates just how dangerous these people are. theyve killed hundreds of people across china and want to establish a fascist religious state in xinjiang. while the article speaks for itself, i believe the last paragraph really highlights why china is being singled out whereas countries like france and canada are considered allies to muslims for whatever reason:

However, as experience has shown, China takes a passive position in the struggle against global Islamic jihad in Syria and Iraq. Beijing has not sent its troops to the Middle East to fight ISIS and has instead confined itself to diplomatic support for Russia and the United States. The Chinese government uses the attacks of Islamic jihadists to persuade Western countries to support Beijing’s position on Xinjiang and turn a blind eye when the freedom and rights of Uyghurs are harshly suppressed by Chinese security forces. Therefore, China is not perceived by the West as a reliable partner in the fight against terrorism. [emphasis mine]

im just a little surprised to see that a lot of these violent attacks from extremists throughout the years have targeted not just han chinese but also other uyghurs. in the west people do not typically sympathize with terrorists as freedom fighters, even on the left, because we know that no matter how angry or how seemingly justified the violence might seem, terrorism is unacceptable and it grossly misrepresents islam. it is a fascist act because those terrorists often follow an extremely right wing version of islam. also, we know that those who carry out terrorist attacks even outside of the west are middle class and professionals in some way, not poor and marginalized people. the level of nuance afforded to terrorists outside of xinjiang is pretty staggering. 

yet in china, there seems to be this excitement than they are killing chinese people, even if some of those chinese are other uyghers or otherwise muslims. those who carry out attacks in xinjiang dont get any nuance or analysis because theyre justified.

ive referenced the diplomat earlier but this article from 2013 says it perfectly: Call Tiananmen Attack What It Was: Terrorism. except terrorism is bad. and the west wants you to support the uyghurs. and make no mistake, they do not want you to support the millions of uyghurs who want to live peacefully, free of any repression, american or chinese. they want you to support the jihadists randomly blowing up chinese and tourists alike because you are meant to sympathize with their plight.

terrorism isnt something to be romantacized or cheered on. it is something someone or someones do when they feel they have no other option. people do not want to kill even those they feel they have every right to because thats a line you cant uncross. murder changes you, justified or not. see the last chapter of wretched of the earth for this.

terrorism is great, however, for destabilizing a region or a country, and xinjiang is resource-rich. establishing a US-friendly regime, no matter how good they are on human rights, is the goal. the US does not care about muslims. they do not care about human rights. china, also, does not really seem to care about muslims or human rights either. but we’ve seen this since vietnam, and the US has learned since vietnam. the vietnamese were sympathetic. they were minding their business. 

after vietnam, merely being communist isnt enough to warrant invasion. theyre killing their own people. nevermind that bolsonaro kills his own people and no one wants to invade (yet--biden has mention sanctions wrt us which is scary but again, thats got everything to do with making sure latin america is loyal to the west, not HR offenses). korea, although it was before vietnam, was less publicized and learning from vietnam gave the US a valuable lesson: always blame the victim. and thus, the US blames the victims of its violence. even if its ‘justified’, even if its ‘true,’ as was the case with saddam hussein, invading and occupying was the nightmare no one but the imperialists anticipated. because they dont broadcast what occupying forces do to the occupied. i am old enough to remember abu ghraib. have it seared in my memory forever. you perhaps are also old enough to remember, but also think millions of abu ghraibs and guantanamo bays are always worth it, always justified. 

i know people arent going to read this and remind me really rudely that they didnt read it but i want to really emphasize how one of imperialism and colonialisms features is ethnic and racial separatism. how the rwandan genocide couldnt have happened without previous belgian and french rule. how yugoslavia wouldve remained a single country had it not been for NATO. i think its easy to diminish the role of the colonizer in all of this, but it is actually one of its goals: divide and conquer. exacerbate the existing conflicts to the point of genocide. 

and if the west succeeds in balkanizing china, you will get more racism rather than less. you will see more violence against muslim minorities rather than less. they will feel less empowered rather than more. china has to learn that they are also to blame in a way that will be catastrophic for over a billion people. han chauvinism and outright racism must be addressed beyond window dressing.

wrapping up, china is in the wrong here. what theyre doing is racist and humiliating a population that has to be empowered. and the one child rule, even for the han majority, is imo fucking evil lol like sorry tankie tumblr im tankie too but i cannot for the life of me accept that as a good thing.... but i also dont buy the accusations of genocide, because even tho a lot of these articles are kind of glossing over it, china is trying to handle the terrorism in the region. imo theyre feeding into it by getting more han in the area, but also having more han but forcing them to take worse jobs would be a show of good will. idk, this situation is extremely complex and frankly, most uyghers do not want secession. 

i also take extreme issue with people saying that adrian zenz is somehow reliable. not only is he a nazi crackpot, hes also literally the only source for almost all of what we know about this in the west. that is not how you do journalism. i dont understand how people are saying ‘yeah hes an extremely fascist grifter but also i believe him because hes anti communist and also anti china’. thats also not really the point? the point is that hes also the ONLY SOURCE on almost all of this, which is alarming. 

i also find it very startling that in order to keep interest in the story, every few weeks the US has to remind people that the chinese are also doing what the US is doing to women in its own camps. forget that the US is separating minors from parents (since 2008). forget that the US is sterilizing women en masse (since 2017). forget that the US is raping women at the border (since there was a border). forget the US even has camps because now they arent even called that anymore. this is not that ‘you can be angry at two things at once’ but a clearly cynical attempt to get its citizens to forget that the US is detaining, deporting, sterilizing, and raping, and gassing non US nationals. 

they are not ‘your own people.’ they are me. the other. i am an immigrant to the US, currently in my country of birth, so i am the other to you, the american. the chinese are doing the evil crime of killing their own. but the americans could never kill their own because they dont consider black americans to be their own. latin american nationals are not their own. bombing millions globally is not their own. thats always justifiable. there is clearly an element of racism in how these crimes are perceived as more or less evil.

the way immigrants and black americans are brutalized in the US is almost naturalized. like its the way things are supposed to be. you can live with that. its upsetting that you have to hear about antiblackness and the like but you know thats just how life is. you dont necessarily call for the US to be sanctioned or bombed by other countries because you believe in the inherent goodness of white america. but countries like china and iran and north korea deserve to be starved and killed for their crimes. and you can never say ‘maybe bombing and starving a country isnt the answer’ because it means you agree with it. you can never say ‘this is clearly propaganda to make me hate another race so much’ because it means youre a genocide denier. im sorry, but again, i remember iraq in 2003, i remember libya in 2011. i dont buy it.

finally, theres been a lot of attacks on asian people in the US lately and if you cannot see the violent way the US talks about china the country and how that influences people to harm asians within the US then idk what else to tell you. people will really believe this shit and say the chinese are all blood thirsty islamaphobes and thus need to be harmed. ‘im not like that! i defend my asian friends from racism!’ thats nice and all but idk how spreading some sinophobic propaganda designed by the US to make you support some kind of violence against one billion chinese people isnt inherently racist. also its unhelpful because sanctions dont really solve problems. but ive spoken too much.

[isthisthingeven0n]

one last look : d.d

brief summary: you and david agree to keep things traditional the night before your wedding. at least, that was the plan but both of you struggle to keep to it. 

word count: 1.5k requested: yes, by an anon so thank you for the fluffy idea! warnings: literally none, pure fluff here

* masterlistin’ 

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website know it isn’t me. all rights reserved. - i have to start doing this as I had some shit on my other blog with plagiarism) 

Sitting in your room, you couldn’t stop your eyes gazing down to your phone.

Champagne glass in hand, you swirled the liquid around as your girls were laughing loudly causing you to zone back into the conversation. You lift your head up, seeing them all looking at you. “You doing alright?” Carly speaks up and you nod, shuffling closer from off your bed and to the floor leaving your phone just behind you.

“Can you believe its come round so fast?” You turn to see the excitement evident on Kirsten’s face and you can’t help but chuckle.

It’s true, the big day has crept up on you sooner than you had anticipated. After just over a year of planning, arguing and nearly calling it off twice you’ve made it. Tomorrow will be the day you become his wife.

“I still can’t believe I’m going to be someone’s wife.” You think aloud, a look of shock in your eyes as you gulp the last bit of champagne in your glass.

As you reach for more, Natalie bats your hand away. “Not happening. I’ve been strictly instructed you’re not allowed more than two glasses tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow to her as she adamantly shakes her head. “Who told you that, Nat?” You ask as you lean back against the bed, watching as all the girls look to one another.

“Ilya.” She quietly announces, trying to remain composed but it is short-lived as you all burst out laughing. “I’m being serious!” She calls out through a laugh as you fall into Carly, wiping your eyes from laughter.

“Oh, the irony I love it.” You giggle, letting out a soft sigh as your conversations continue but you let your mind wander, thinking about David a few doors down.

*

“So you’re stuck in here?” Scott questions, looking around the large room and nods to himself. “Nod bad, I mean for the average joe.” He adds and looks back to David, seeing him lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

“I just want to see her.” David releases a heavy breath, thinking of you and swearing he can hear your laugh through the walls. “Just one quick hug, tell her I love her and that’s it.” Davis suggests, forcing himself to sit upright.

He’s greeted by Ilya shaking his head. “Not happening. You made me and Natalie promise to not let you both see each other until the big day.” He reminds David who rolls his eyes. “Traditions, bro.”

Rolling his eyes, David shrugs his shoulders. “I know I want it to be a surprise, but I also really fucking miss her.” David admits. 

Despite it having only been three days since he last saw you, it’s hard to keep away from one another. Both of you are magnetic together, unable to be kept apart. It’s obvious when one misses the other as your mood changes instantly. Yet, once he’s back you’re more perky, even if it is a brief visit.

“You going to sulk all night?” Ilya questions, watching as David ruffles his hand through his hair. “Take that as a yes.” He mutters under his breath, seeing the sadness radiating in his friend's eyes. 

After a few hours, everyone heads back to their own rooms leaving you and David in your rooms alone. Knowing the coast is clear, you reach down for your phone and call him. You might not be able to see him but to hear his voice will do enough for now. 

Seeing his phone light up, David jumps to it knowing he doesn’t have to check who it is, he knows it’ll be you. “Hey, baby.” He answers cheerfully and is greeted by a small chuckle down the line. Even the sound of your laughter is uplifting as he smiles to himself, wishing you could be in his arms.

Sitting upright on your bed, you hug the pillow against your chest wishing it could be him. “Hey, how’s your night going?” You ask him, unsure what you can ask. 

He sighs heavily through the phone. “Fucking rough.” He admits with a short laugh. “I miss you so much. And I know before you say it that it’s one more night. But I just wanna give you a hug.” He tells you truthfully, and you wish he could see your bright smile.

“But traditions, Dave,” You start, but David cuts you off.

“Fuck traditions. If I want to see my future wife I doubt it’ll be the end of everything.” He states and you hear him shuffling as he slides off his bed. “Meet me by the pool in ten, okay?” 

You giggle like an excited child breaking the rules. “See you in ten.” You tell him before hanging up and rushing around like you did on your first date all those years ago if only you knew what was to come. 

Silently, you walk out of your room and close the door slowly behind you. Natalie is staying in the room beside yours and she promised to listen and watch you like a hawk. You creep down the corridor, slipping your keycard into your pocket as you reach the lift, unable to wipe the smile from your face. 

As you reach the pool, you can already see him standing there, waiting for you. “Hey, future husband.” You call out quietly, walking toward him.

David turns around instantly upon hearing your voice and wraps his arms around you tightly, squeezing the life out of you as he longs for the sense you provide. “You have no idea how fucking happy I am to see you.” He mumbles into your hair as you remain in his arms, not wanting to be the one to let go first.

“Me too. I missed you.” You mutter back to him, feeling him pulling away just to see your face as he smiles to you. “Can you believe we’re getting married tomorrow?” 

He raises an eyebrow, unable to stop his smile growing at the thought. “I definitely can. Been waiting for this day since I proposed.” He thinks aloud, something you haven’t heard him say.

“Really?” You ask softly, feeling your heart-melting as he nods to you. 

“Well of course,” He states as his hands slide down your arms and into your hands, intertwining your fingers with his. “I couldn’t wait for you to become my wife, for us to start this whole new journey. I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell you that I love you, and always will.” 

You can feel tears building in your eyes as David shushes you. “I can’t help it,” You chuckle, taking one hand and wiping your eyes. “planning this has been so hard and I just want it to be perfect.” You admit, closing your eyes as a small whimper leaves your lips.

“And it will be.” David reminds you, knowing how many sleepless nights you’ve had over the little details from the bridesmaids’ dresses to what cake topper you should have. “But as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter.” 

“Yeah,” You nod with a small smile. “as long as I have you, I’ll be happy.” Slowly you rise up, kissing him. 

Your arms rise from your sides and wrap around his neck whilst his wander down to your waist. As the kiss becomes more passionate both of you are craving what normally follows, but it’s one more night, you can wait. 

Unbeknownst to the both of you, Natalie and Ilya sit in his room. “Honestly, they’re hopeless.” Ilya sighs, looking up to see Natalie nodding in response.

“Hopelessly in love, Ilya.” Natalie states, causing Ilya to roll his eyes and feign vomiting.

Despite the cuteness of it all, and you both being unable to keep a tradition Natalie and Ilya knew they should just let you get on with it. You have a lifetime together ahead, why stop you the day before it all begins?

Pulling away, you rest your forehead against his. Both of you are slightly breathless, eyes still closed. “More of that to come.” You chuckle, quickly pecking his lips before starting to head back inside, David hot on your tail.

As you stand in the lift together, your hand remains in his. “I guess, until tomorrow, Mr Dobrik.” You tell him with a smile as you take out your keycard, watching the doors of the lift open. 

Walking down the corridor, David’s room is first and your hand slips out of his. “Wait,” He whispers to you and you turn around, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I just wanna look at you one last time before you’re my bride.” He says with a tooth aching smile. 

Slowly, you twirl for him and hold back your laughter. “How’s that?” You whisper and he nods to you.

“Goodnight, Y/n.” He whispers back before slipping into his room, locking the door behind him as you wander back to your own room and lie on the bed, unable to wipe the smile from your face. 

[advernia]

fic: you make home sound like a distant memory

— the pieces fray around the edges, and the center has lost its warmth. - pre-game: a somber tale about a family with crimson blood.

1: draft turned fic turned welp, looks like i'm not writing anything else till this is done oh my god, what is this hot mess even - 2: dear @ikerev-appreciation pls forgive me but uhh does it still count as a jonah week entry even if jonah shares the spotlight with his family ksjksjd;;

o n e .

"... I wish we didn't look so alike."

"But we don't! I may look fantastic, but rest assured - I pale in comp arison to your delicate, angelic features!"

His birth is a celebration, not much of the congratulations on the safe delivery of your firstborn child kind, but more of the congratulations on giving birth to a boy kind of celebration. He's a plump babe swaddled within layers of fine cotton with little hair on his head and no teeth to speak of, but people stare at him with the intensity of the summer sun and smiles painted on their faces, as if he were the grandest being they had ever laid their eyes on.

Every feature of his, no matter how tiny and yet to be developed, comes out drizzled in honey from many mouths: the fullness of his cheeks (it's not fat, how dare you, it's a sign of good health), the curves of his little lips (they're as red as rogue, how adorable), the hue of his eyes (they have the beauty of pure molten gold), and the descriptive list gets longer and longer.

The only word everyone seems to have in common is heir.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

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Two years and long grueling hours later, in comes another swaddled babe: he was born at the very moment the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace. In fact, that's the color soft wisps of hair on his head seem to have taken - in total, he's a bundle of full cheeks, curved reddish lips, and dark-colored hair.

The celebration that follows after his birth is a small affair limited within the walls of his home, and the only ones who take hold of him with such warmth are his grandfather and a boy with silver hair. The former smiles at the sight of a small black dot set under his right eye and mumbles something about the mark of a Clemence, while the latter just stares at him in complete awe, stars bursting forth from eyes that were wide open.

Behind the old man and the child went hushed whispers, the word insurance hanging heavy in the air.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

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"You'll have nothing to fear now, for I'm accompanying you! Aren't you glad we're going together?"

"What's there to be glad about when I'm going to be stuck with you?"

Children will be children like boys will be boys.

Come spring they run around a grand forest, chasing butterflies and gathering all sorts of things like little explorers lost in an expedition. They make sure to steer and hide away from any obstacles that come their way, like those terrible women in long black skirts who shout out their names and try to lure them out with the prospect of food. The biggest evil though is the great wizard: he's super thin, has graying hair, puts a super shiny monocle under his left eye, grows a bushy mustache with its tips pointing perfectly upwards, and worst of all knows how to use two dangerous words to complete his magic spell - the names of their parents.

Summer is too hot for exploring and the heat outside makes everything sweaty and sticky and it feels gross. So instead, they link their hands together to embark in a thorough search for their grandfather within the large halls and grand rooms of the mansion - he's always in the library though, sitting by the couch near the window and reading some book. When they come in, grandfather urges them to sit and off the three of them go as a tale is brought to life in words: they emerge in battlefields, countries, and in mystical places that a man called the Queen of Hearts had all stepped on once upon a time. Uninterrupted, they venture well until lunchtime.

Fall is boring because they can't go out and under the command of their parents, the great wizard has summoned his disciples to keep them apart - they're made to practice all sorts of things, read a lot of thick books, listen well to whatever's being taught, and the disciples don't take no for an answer even if they cry and beg. It's really, really boring and sometimes when they look out the window, they think about how much better it was to spend time being an explorer or listening to grandfather's stories instead.

Winter's a bit better because even if they still go through their very boring lessons, their grandfather saves the half of the day by leading both of them by the hand to go into his room. In there they can do whatever they want, and grandfather just watches over them with his wrinkly eyes. He coughs often and spends most of the time in bed though, so before doing anything else the both of them make sure that their grandfather's all warm and cozy and has a glass of warm water ready by his bedside table.

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The old man smiles warmly at them - he smiles at the young child with silver hair, whose hands were always open for a smaller one to slip in and hold onto. He smiles at the little boy with dark hair, whose hands were always searching for a larger hand to hold on to.

Slowly he closes his tired eyes and focuses on the sound of boyish laughter, filling the four corners of the room.

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By the end of winter, any trace of joy that laughter has left in the mansion, in the library, and in their grandfather's room, has promptly flown away.

The young child and the little boy huddle close to each other as they stood over clumps of snow, mittened hands tightly linked together as they stared at a headstone bearing their grandfather's name.

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"Why are you here? Go away, go back, go home, and don't ever think about visiting me again!"

"Your shyness is adorable as always! But you don't need to hold back for my sake - now, give me a hug!"

Things in the mansion change a lot shortly after their grandfather had gone into a deep, deep sleep.

They're pulled away from each other like how their rooms are now on separate floors. Everyday they're seated far apart from each other on the dining table, strictly forbidden to sit beside each other. The disciples increase in number and strange people visit often, eyes set on their every move and mouths always having something to say about them both. Their parents forbade them from going out unless necessary, that order becoming something sharp and biting and absolute. But the most horrible thing of all is that they're no longer allowed to spend their days in each other's company.

No more exploring together, no more searching for four-leaf clovers together. No more sneaking into each other's rooms late at night, no more reading books together under the covers. No more creeping into the kitchen to get their favorite snacks, no more midday or afternoon teatime together. No more shopping together, no more walking around town together.

No more, no more.

No more together.

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The young child tries, though. He tries his best to find a way out, to slip past the great wizard and his disciples and all those strange people and their parents' rules. He especially tries his very best at night. He tries to find the best time to slip out of his room unnoticed and run across the hallway to the stairs leading to the first floor, to go down those steps and head towards the left wing, to pass through many, many doors until he reaches that one door.

The little boy needs him. He's sure that no one in the mansion know about the nightmares the little boy has, about how lonely he can get in the middle of the night. No one knows of that one doll he likes to hold at night. He bets that no one, not even their parents, know about the lullaby too; from the words to the tune and up to how to sing it properly. He's the only one who can do it. He's the only one.

He has to keep trying. He'll handle any punishment, any lecture, any scolding, any added hours of study and practice, any confinement; he'll handle anything, if only, if only, if only -

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The young child's efforts eventually pay off but sadly only at nighttime, but he figures that's a start. And so he develops a habit of sneaking out of his room come midnight just to sing to the little boy until every tear has dried, until the little boy's eyes were firmly closed shut and breathing takes on its steady rhythm.

When he turns around to leave, a small hand subconsciously reaches out to him like a lifeline; tugging at his sleeve or clinging to his fingers.

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The young child takes hold of the little boy's small hand and squeezes it gently.

It feels like a lifeline, too.

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"You don't need to stand there! Come on, there's an empty seat right beside me!"

"Ugh, no way. I'd rather stand for five hours straight rather than to be seen sitting beside you."

The day when the young child turned eight and the little boy was six served as the universe's way of pointedly reminding them of who and what they were; of what their own family and perhaps the whole country saw them to be.

It was certainly a birthday to be remembered.

Seated at the head of a grand table and surrounded by all the grandeur money could possibly offer to an eight-year-old, there sat no young child with tears streaming down his face but there was only Jonah Clemence, the firstborn son and heir of the Clemence family's proud crimson bloodline and the future Queen of Hearts of the Red Army.

And although it was never planned for someone to sit there in the first place, seated by the very foot of the grand table was a little boy and his name was Luka.

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Heir.

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Insurance.

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Ah -

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- so that's what the word meant.

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t w o .

"Remember that I'm always waiting to welcome you back home with open arms."

"... You don't need to do that any longer. I'm never going back."

Because Jonah Clemence realized that he was no longer a young child the same way Luka had accepted that he was no longer a little boy, the world and the society around them began to change, too.

Those women in long black skirts are simply maids, the great wizard and his disciples are the head butler and their tutors, respectively. People who claim to work out of respect and reverence to the Clemence family's name, but all those claims pale in comparison to the lovely clink of a coin.

The strange people who come in and out of the mansion and continue to do so were a toss of either their relatives or nobles of lower standing. Over time, there was no need to differenciate both, simply because there was no lesser evil between two parties that wore masks for a living and wagged tongues painted a shimmering silver.

The library is left untouched but the couch that their grandfather used to sit on has been replaced for something finer, something that doesn't smell of youthful adventure and heroic romances. It's gone and so is their grandfather's bedroom, the sanctuary where they tasted freedom once upon a time.

Lessons take broader shapes and extensions, demanding more attention and a sharper mind. The hilt and weight of a sword has made itself known to them as well, introduced to them by no one else but by the Queen of Hearts himself, their father.

What they used to call the grand forest was in truth the mansion's spacious gardens - the cobblestone pathways and the secret clearings they used to run through back and forth for days become unfamiliar when they stand at the center of it all and it's filled with tables and silverware, with guests sipping away at exquisite tea and specially made cakes laid out for their choosing.

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The chill of winter has long left every hallway and it's already the middle of summer, but the mansion and everything else in it never grew any warmer.

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"I don't want your help. I didn't ask for your help. Now leave me alone."

"Hush! Do you honestly think I would do something so heartless when I can see you suffering!?"

It was impossible for Luka to stand in the same limelight where Jonah Clemence stood, and that was alright.

Jonah Clemence was the heir after all, and he was to be the Queen of Hearts someday. He's young for now but once he grew up, he was going to be an upstanding noble and a honorable soldier, and everyone else would look up to him. He'd do all sorts of good deeds, go to places far away, win lots and lots of battles with his trusty sword at his side, and would do anything to protect anyone from evil.

But that was Jonah Clemence.

Everyone only saw Jonah Clemence but Luka could also see someone else - that's because before Jonah Clemence became the Jonah Clemence, he was first and foremost Luka's one and only big brother: he was brave for still sneaking into Luka's room at night, smart and quick whenever he would help Luka study without anyone knowing. He paid close attention to whatever Luka had to say, he was kind enough to guide Luka into reading the music notes for a violin piece. He was also patient and understanding to boot - he never got mad at Luka, ever.

But the best thing about Luka's big brother was that he didn't force himself to be perfect like Jonah Clemence was.

Luka's big brother allows himself to cry because he's so tired, allows himself to get frustrated and complain about all those adults and those tea party invitations. He allows himself to be sad because he hasn't been able to see Luka around much, allows himself to get angry because father had been very strict during sword practice. And even though he's older than Luka, he can also act so childish and lazy.

Sometimes Luka wished that everyone else could see his big brother in Jonah Clemence, too.

Because while Jonah Clemence was Luka's hero, Luka's big brother was the person Luka loved the most.

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Being second son meant not bearing any of the responsibilities that came with being the Clemence heir and for Jonah, that was a relief.

The heir had to show the best of himself at all times, presenting no sign of weakness but only strength. He was someone no one could look down upon, someone who could command respect by people hearing the sound of his name. Emotions should never get in the way of the heir's judgement because once he lets just a shred of that in, people will start doubting his power and will take advantage of him immediately.

And that was just being heir.

Being the Queen of Hearts on the other hand was a legacy engraved in the heir's blood, a distinction of glory and the very purpose why he has been brought into the world. The Queen is the paragon of a steadfast loyalty to the King of Hearts, and the Queen is the only one worthy of being called the King's second-in-command. The Queen was second best to the King, but that didn't make him any lesser: he is incredibly strong, righteous, and if ever the King were to be led astray; the Queen would be the first one who would lead the King back into the right path.

Jonah wouldn't - couldn't, shouldn't - allow Luka to shoulder those burdens.

Every responsibility weighed too much, expected too much. And Luka - his sweet, oh-so-sweet little brother with the warmest smile in the world and a heart of shining gold - doesn't deserve to experience any of that. Those small ears don't need to hear constant criticism, flowery words with knives underneath, or stinging whispers. Those kind eyes don't need to see cold faces and fake smiles. That gentle voice shouldn't speak words that people expect to hear. That tiny body didn't need to feel itself breaking from the pain of all those slaps, kicks, fists, bruises and scars.

And that beautiful heart certainly didn't need to break and turn to stone from the pressure, from all the difficult things the heir and the future Queen of Hearts had to go through.

Being the Clemence heir and taking on the mantle of the Queen of Hearts are the very pillars of Jonah's life, but -

- being the older brother who would do anything to protect the world's most precious little brother was important to him too.

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"Trust me - I would do anything to protect you."

"... Why are you always like this?"

Winter wasn't the best season for them, simply because it was the season when their grandfather died. When he passed away with that soft smile on his thin lips, whatever scraps of freedom they were able to savor went along with him as well; carefully placed in an ornate casket and buried six feet under the ground, nestled around a protective magic barrier for good measure.

And now their parents were giving them another reason to dislike winter.

In the dead of the night and under the light of the full moon, Luka lets out a valley of tears that stream down his cheeks and fall onto his silk bedsheets - the drops fall to the pace of skip counting, going one, three, eight, fifteen, twenty-three, and Jonah can't stop all that with just the long sleeves of his shirt. Luka's cries are hiccupped sobs; broken little pieces, strangled wails of sorrow, warbled watery pleas of don't go, don't go, please don't leave me here alone, please oh please, don't go.

Each sob is as soft as the winds that blow against the windows of the room, but each sound resonates loudly through Jonah's being - it echoes and deafens the ears, slips past all his defenses just to repeatedly stab at his skin and to seep onto every open pore, barges inside just to punch both his lungs and constrict the heart in a vice-grip that leaves him breathless.

It hurts. It really does.

When he's rendered useless, there's nothing much left to do but wrap his arms around his little brother with the hope that whatever strength he had left would keep them both steady.

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But it doesn't.

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When both their eyes have finally run dry, Jonah raises one of his calloused pinkies to link with one of Luka's own.

He solemnly promises that on his honor as Jonah Clemence, heir to the Clemence family and the future Queen of Hearts, he would write a letter every day to his one and only little brother Luka Clemence; no matter how busy or tired he would be by the end of the day. Whenever the opportunity presents itself and if he is also permitted to do so, Jonah Clemence would go back home just to visit Luka Clemence. Also, if Jonah Clemence would find anything interesting, just anything at all; he would make sure to bring it home so he could show it to Luka Clemence.

It's the first and the longest vow that Jonah has ever spoken. His throat is all tingly and his voice doesn't just come out right but Luka heard every last word, down to that last hiccup.

Luka squeezed that one calloused pinky firmly as he possibly could.

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Jonah Clemence wasn't a liar.

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Luka's big brother wasn't a liar.

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So he would definitely keep his promise.

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t  w  o .

There's this young boy surrounded by cold adults in a big mansion, but each morning

he does his best to wake and rise early to look out past the mansion's windows,

because he was going to wait for a letter to arrive.

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The young boy knows he's being a bit silly because,

the letter wouldn't arrive that early!

Still, he wanted to wait.

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And the young boy did wait, until the sun had fully risen up to hang in the sky -

while waiting, he went through the motions of his typical every day,

but this time, he looked out the window more often.

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Someone important to him had gone away, you see -

but before that person left,

they made a promise.

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Now that the young boy thought about it, that person -

he never said how exactly would he have

his letters delivered.

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All the young boy knew was that after reading a letter and writing a reply,

he would secretly deliver his reply to that person,

by making use of some magic.

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But perhaps thinking about how a letter would arrive in the mansion didn't matter!

That person's letter would definitely come in time,

because they made a promise.

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What the young boy didn't know though, was that before that person left -

that person also made a promise with their parents,

and it was about those letters.

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That person made their parents swear on their honor that the letters he would

send daily to the mansion, they would personally deliver to the rightful

recipient, who would be the young boy.

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That person thought that if he would make his parents swear on their honor,

they would never dare break their word because they were

 of proud crimson blood like he was.

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So the young boy waited and waited,

day turned noon then night,

but he still waited.

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A day passed by, then two, then three, then four -

but the young boy didn't lose hope,

he had to be patient.

.

But again, what the young boy didn't know was that his crimson blood parents

thought differently of the vow the both of them made with that person.

They valued something else more than a promise on their honor.

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What they valued the most was that their firstborn son would do his best at the academy,

shape himself into a fine man without anything distracting him,

be it his own brother, the young boy.

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The crimson blood parents, no matter how rigid they became, kept on holding onto the thought that

what they were doing, and everything they had done in the past were all

in the best interests of the family and their two children.

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But even before he passed away, the children's paternal grandfather scoffed in response to seeing such methods -

he was disappointed as he said: as parents you're simply tearing two children apart,

but the crimson blood parents still didn't change their hearts.

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So what became of the young boy who kept on waiting and waiting for a letter,

of the firstborn son who was sent to do his best at the academy,

and of their crimson blood parents?

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For now,

let's just say that,

over time of waiting, waiting, and much more waiting -

people eventually realize that they have grown much, much older and that

they are now at least a little bit wiser enough not to wait for letters that would never come.

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t h r e e .

    "One day you're going to grow old and forget about me."

"Preposterous - how could I possibly bring myself to forget my one and only little brother?"

... And where exactly do you think you're going at this hour?

His fingers twitch, just inches away from the golden door handle. They're made of oak, these doors right in front of him, just like any other door in this mansion that presented itself as a home. Question, though: would a home have rooms, exits, or entrances that have such imposing doors, all tall and dark and heavy? Would a home constantly keep such doors closed, with handles that would never open because the lock had been secured and the key had been kept away? Would a home just have a door for show, and when you open it you suddenly realize that it actually leads to nowhere; presenting you no option of entry or exit?

He wouldn't know. Would she know? She always spoke in a clear-cut manner, voice having the melody of summer but words coated in the frost of winter: heat to the ears, chills to the heart. But surely enough summer and winter have turned into spring and fall - seasons change like how time flew like water, and that meant every person in the world weren't getting any younger.

He and her included.

He got it from her, the dark shade of his hair that resembles the night. But more than the night itself, time has dictated that her hair be turned into the night sky instead; a canvas of black spread with dashes of silver stars. He wished that he got the color of her eyes too: brown like the earth, brown like a piece of dark chocolate. Maybe if he had her eyes, he wouldn't be reminding people of someone else.

His fingers wrap around the door handle.

I asked you where you're going...!

Ah, winter had become fall - somehow that elevated pitch and sharp volume had less bite to it, now merely a bitter wind blowing at his back and unable to pierce any deeper. His skin, his lungs, and his heart were fine; no chilling over, what a relief. Was she already that old, or was it simply his desensitization that lessened the impact?

Whatever the case, he wasn't going to stay any longer just to find out.

He pulls the door open, and he's greeted by a rush of a cool night's breeze along with the light of the full moon.

Luka...!

He takes a few steps forward, only to close the door behind him shut. Firmly now, firmly. So that the sound would make itself known in the grand foyer, whoosh through the many steps of a carpeted staircase to reach all the way to the pretty landing; slicing through the silence like a voiceless, wordless slap to the face. Bang. Echo, echo. Did that sound like a satisfying ending to your sharply pointed ears, mother?

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From that point on, Luka Clemence didn't dare to look back.

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The last time he stepped into this mansion of proud marble and golden paint was in celebration of him finally taking on the name that was rightfully his. Smiles were plastered onto faces like a fine template made specifically for the occasion, the word congratulations thrown about back and forth as verbal confetti. Champagne went spinning round, resembling the skirts of the many women twirling by the ballroom floors, heels going click clack in time to the orchestra's uplifting compositions.

It was a mediocre celebration, if he would say so himself. His special guest wasn't in attendance and that made everything else less enjoyable... including the already sorry excuse of a strawberry mille-feuille.

Now, he returned for one reason, and one reason alone - he passed through the foyer, headed right, passed through a couple of rooms until he found himself standing by the entrance of the dining room. Shiny crystal chandelier, polished floors. Tasteful curtains and tapestries, carefully made carpets. A wide and stretching ornate table, chairs of finely carved mahogany with plush cushions.

Only two chairs were occupied. As he approached the table, one of the occupants turn around to the sound of his footsteps. Eyes narrow, a voice comes out unsure.

... Jonah?

Two pairs of eyes are on him now - surprise faintly wrinkles his father's brow, his mother holds a gaze that could be classified as listless. Caused by a lack of sleep, maybe?

Good morning, father, mother. Is Luka yet to wake up?

The silence that follows his question is pregnant - it's the kind that just dances around your very being, frolicking without care along your legs and atop your finely shined shoes. It giggles around constantly like a happy child until you get irritated, try to chase it, but only to miserably fail. For the love of all that's good and holy, you just want to know why it's giggling so much. Was it so hard to capture silence? Was it so hard to find the words that would stop it from frolicking around like it owned the place?

It lasts for a good two minutes before his father exhales slowly, rising from his seat.

... We'll take this discussion elsewhere.

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... Your mother tried stopping him.

Something boils uncomfortably in his blood, reaching down to the very pits of his stomach as he stared at his father. It brings to mind the image of water that bubbles, rises, and threatens to spill out from its kettle prison, leaving a scalding mess its wake.

Jonah's palms land down on his father's desk, impact loud and fingernails digging at the wood.

Tried? he spits the word out with an impressive amount of venom, lips snarling at the ends, Perhaps you didn't try hard enough! You should've informed me of this matter immediately!

A growl rears its head from the back of the throat - low, booming, intimidating. Strangely enough, it's nostalgic in a most amusing manner, but -

Ah, that's right, how could Jonah forget?

Former authority figures didn't take kindly to accusations of incompetence.

Jonah Clemence, compose yourself! Is that how the Queen of Hearts should speak!?

Something in Jonah's expression twists as a crack broke his voice.

I returned here simply as an older brother happy to celebrate his little brother's graduation, not as the Queen of Hearts!

Silver mirroring silver, gold mirroring gold. Fiery tempers contesting one another, sparks flying about in the four corners of the room. Perhaps if they tried hard enough they could set the whole room alight until flames lap and lick at every surface there is to burn, breaking everything down until nothing is left but trails of ash and wisps of smoke.

And as if her figure couldn't look any more delicate than it already was, his mother appeared much smaller as she sat by the very end of the couch, a lost look in her eyes and a plain notebook resting nicely on her lap.

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When she closes her eyes and lowers her head, wisps of her dark hair shield her face from the rest of the world.

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It's already that very moment in time where the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace.

Jonah Clemence looked up to stare at that very sky, his back facing a mansion of proud marble and golden paint. There he stands straight and tall, all alone in a secret clearing discovered by two brave explorers, once upon a time.

Carefully gripped in his right hand is an object made of cotton, pieces of it well-worn: white clothes were predominantly stained with tints of an aging yellow, two buttons of the coat about to fall loose, stitches here and there showing signs of fraying.

The only parts of it that remained presentable were the strands of dark-colored yarn on top, and a pair of golden dots for eyes.

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I'll find you.

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He moves his arm to clutch the doll to his chest, head still held up high.

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I promise.