#writing it was like pulling teeth

[momotonescreaming]

In the scene where Joyce goes over to Scott Clarke's house, he has what looks like a terrarium in his garage, so @unclewaynemunson and I decided he should have a pet snake. And now I have a small fic for it. Clarkson. (2.5k)

Eddie feels his knees creak as he squats down on the dirty floor of the pet store, holding back a grunt as his body strains with the effort. He sounds like Wayne when he pulls himself out of his armchair — it’s an old thing; the fabric soft and worn, the springs creaky, and the filling so deflated it’s easy to just sink into it. Wayne makes the same grunt when he heaves himself out of it, and hunched over on the floor Eddie feels much the same.

He ignores his body’s aching protests, shifts his weight, and contorts himself to better see the bags of cat food that have been crammed all the way at the back of the shelves. The cheap food is always at the bottom here, hidden and hard to reach so you’re more likely to go for the more expensive stuff at eye level.

There was a small colony of stray cats that hung around Forest Hills, and one had decided to make their home underneath the Munson trailer. He used to feed them bits of his dinner — torn off chunks of meat he’d save on his plate for them — until Wayne told him to quit pissing about and eat his damn dinner already.

He can’t just let the cat starve, and if he keeps saving them bits of his own meals to feed them Wayne will keep bugging him about not finishing his food. He didn’t use to be as bad — not since Eddie was a kid — but after everything, with Eddie’s recovering body, the old man worried.

So Eddie found himself on the floor in the aisles of the pet store, trying to do the mental math on which bag of cat biscuits was the better deal. Comparing overall price versus weight of the bag, counting on his fingers until he thinks he’s figured it out. D&D math was way easier than whatever the fuck this is.

Wayne will forgive him, Eddie thinks. His penchant for taking in strays had to come from somewhere. And with the cat living directly underneath them, they’re like, basically roommates. It would be rude to not feed them. Isn’t that what Wayne’s southern hospitality is all about?

Pulling a bag off of the shelf, Eddie tries to hold back another grunt — debating whether it’s easier to just give up and sit on the floor. They have animals in here, they must keep the floor relatively clean right? He manages to get the bag off of the shelf and resting in his arms with only minimal complaining, wallet chain jingling with every movement.

Standing up, his knees do click, and Eddie shakes his legs out as he leaves the cat food aisle, ignoring the way his Reeboks squeak against the tile floor. He turns the corner and finds himself almost face to face with Mr Clarke. Scott? Eddie’s never sure what to call him these days.

In the comfort of their new trailer he can tease Wayne about his boyfriend Scott, but before all that he was just Eddie’s teacher Mr Clarke. And now he’s in this weird middle zone where he’s not sure how personable he can be with the man. Especially not in public. He’s dating his uncle, but that’s not exactly something people can know. Should he call him Mr Clarke to be safe?

Fuck it, Eddie can probably go a conversation without addressing him by name. Maybe. Probably.

Scott looks up from the piece of paper he was engrossed in with a startled oop noise. His shocked expression quickly melts away as soon as he sees who he’s bumped into.

“Eddie! Funny running into you here.” Scott exclaims, tucking his piece of paper into his pants. He looks down at the bag of cat food Eddie’s clutching in arms and furrows his brows with a confused look. “I didn’t know you and Wayne have pets?”

“We don’t,” Eddie says with a shrug. “I feed stray cats and Wayne grumbles about it.”

Scott startles out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the sides with a smile. “Sounds like Wayne.”

Eddie smiles back. It’s nice, seeing that even the mere mention of his uncle will draw a smile out of Scott. He got to see how happy Wayne was every day — the way he’d smile when he’d pick up the phone and realise it was Scott on the other end, the way he always seemed lighter after one of their dates. It was nice to confirm that on the other end Scott was exactly the same.

“I’m hoping that if I just keep feeding them, Wayne will cave and let me keep one.” Eddie adds, shifting the weight of the bag of cat food in his arms.

“I don’t doubt you’ll be able to manage it,” Scott adds, looking at him a little conspiratorially. It’s a dorky move he know Wayne would smile at. “I won’t tell him your plan.”

“Thanks,” Eddie laughs. “But what are you doing here? I imagine you’re not also feeding a small army of stray cats.”

“No, I’m upgrading to a bigger terrarium,” Scott starts, still smiling. “And wanted to see what we have locally before I make the trip to the bigger store in Indy.”

“Terrarium?” Eddie replies, furrowing his brows. Wayne hadn’t mentioned anything like that. And he’s been over to his house many a time, he must have seen it. “You have a lizard or something?”

“Snake actually,” Scott replied happily.

“A snake?” Eddie blurted out before he could even think about holding the words back and pretend to be normal about this. “Mr Clarke, that’s so fucking metal!”

Scott rubs his hand across the back of his neck, slightly awkward and more than a bit flattered. “Thank you. Wayne tells me that’s quite the compliment coming from you.”

It doesn’t surprise him that his Uncle talks about him to his boyfriend, but it was nice to hear. That Wayne thinks about him when Eddie’s not there, that Wayne wants Scott to know more about how Eddie works. That it’s a compliment if Eddie calls something ‘metal’. Something to bridge the gap between two of his favourite people.

Wayne had sat him down one morning, when Eddie was still pyjama clad and bleary from sleep, and talked about him and Scott. It seemed a little like pulling teeth, that Wayne was forcing the words out of his mouth. But he had done it, the pair of them sitting together at the dining table, coffee clutched in their hands, and Wayne had talked about Scott.

That him and Scott were officially together now, and he cared deeply about the man, but he wanted to remind Eddie that he would always come first. He was his boy, and nothing would ever change that. He was his son and he loved him.

It meant a lot, hearing those words that were previously left unspoken. Eddie knew that Wayne loved him, that he took care of him willingly, but Wayne was never one for words. Eddie was, and he remembers the way his heart clenched when Wayne told him.

But he made sure to remind his Uncle that he was allowed to think about himself. What he wants. And if he wanted Scott Clarke, if he wanted to go out with him then that was okay. Eddie wouldn’t hate Wayne for putting himself first for what seemed to be the first time in his life.

He wasn’t sure if Wayne would listen, but that was okay. Eddie had hugged him over the dining table, feeling the corner of it dig into his side as he clutched at the soft fabric of Wayne’s flannel shirt. His uncles hands were rough and calloused, yet a comforting warmth as they rested on Eddie’s back. Neither of them mentioned the teary eyes.

“You can call me Scott, if you’d like,” Scott says, breaking Eddie out of the trance he found himself slipping into. “Mr Clarke feels a bit formal.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what you— “Eddie starts, before cutting himself off with another shakes of his head. “Never mind. What’s your snakes name?”

“Ada,” Scott replies softly, letting Eddie redirect the conversation. “After Ada Lovelace - the mathematician. A bit nerdy, I know.”

“Nah, I think that’s cool.” Eddie says. “If Wayne ever lets me get a cat I am absolutely naming it after a Lord of the Rings character.”

“Good choice,” Scott laughs. “You’re welcome to come see Ada, if you like.”

“Really?” Eddie asks excitedly, blurting out the words. It wasn’t everyday you got the offer to go see a snake, especially in a town like Hawkins. Eddie always thought snakes and ferrets and lizards and other such exotic pets were more for big city people. Not small town Hawkins. And yet. He felt a bit like a kid again. “Can I?”

“Of course,” Scott replied happily, smiling all the while. “I’d love to show you her. Come over on Wednesday with Wayne.”

Wednesday. Date Night. The one day a week Wayne was guaranteed to trek over to the suburbs to have dinner with Scott. It was slowly becoming a tradition.

Eddie was torn.

On one hand, he really didn’t want to interrupt Wayne’s date night. The man deserves his privacy, his space to love and be loved back. Especially now that the pair were finally on the same page that they were in fact going on dates.

But on the other hand Eddie really wanted to go see the pet snake. It could be nice, to bond with Scott. To spend some time with him and Wayne.

But what if Wayne didn’t want him there? Wanted time alone with just him and Scott. But Scott did invite him personally, so maybe it would be okay? Eddie wasn’t quite sure what his thoughts were doing.

“I’ll ask him,” Eddie eventually says, deciding it’s absolutely not a cop out answer — before excusing himself to go and pay for his cat food.

---

“WAYNE,” Eddie exclaims as he bursts into the trailer. The door slams open, banging against the wall with the force of it. Eddie kicks it shut with another loud bang before continuing, looking over at the armchair his uncle is resting in. “Why didn’t you tell me your boyfriend has a pet snake?”

His Uncle merely raises an eyebrow at him, peering over the top of the newspaper he’d been reading. Wayne is in his comfy home clothes - his worn jeans with the rips at the bottom that he claims are more comfortable than any other pair, the pair of blue fuzzy socks Eddie got him for his last birthday, one of his usual flannels. It’s all very Wayne.

“Well, hello to you too, boy.” Wayne replies, voice steady. He folds up the newspaper — careful to keep his place — and puts it down on the side table next to a steaming mug of coffee. He was using one of his older mugs this time — a chipped white thing that read WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA, another gift Eddie got him years ago.

“Wayne,” Eddie continued, toeing out of his sneakers, still looking over at his uncle on the armchair. “This is very important information I feel I definitely should have been told about.”

He leaves his shoes where they landed after he kicked them off his feet, and shrugs out of his jacket. Wayne continues to watch him, taking a sip of his coffee, and Eddie could see how carefully he was steeling his face as to not smile. “And don’t you dare tell me you didn’t notice the fucking snake tank in the living room, you’ve been over to Scott’s place how many times now?”

“It just didn’t come up,” Wayne eventually said, smiling in that subtle way he did where if you didn’t know him — you could barely tell he was smiling at all. But Eddie knew him, and he could see the sparkle in his eyes, the curl of his lip. Wayne thought this was fucking hilarious. Eddie bit back his own smile as he whirled around.

“Betrayal! From my own Uncle!” Eddie replied, waving his arms around as he talked, playing up the dramatics. It was a bit of normalcy that was easy and familiar to slip into. It was nice. Eddie, being dramatic and making a spectacle of himself — and Wayne, stony faced and entirely too used to it. “I cannot believe you found out your boyfriend has a metal as hell pet, and didn’t tell me.”

“Couldn’t let you start thinkin’ he was cooler than me, now could I,” Wayne joked, watching in amusement as Eddie flopped himself down on the couch.

“He is pretty cool.” Eddie replied, looking over at his Uncle. He sobered slightly, voice quieter and more serious. “He invited me over on Wednesday. To come see.”

“And…” Wayne prompted. The man could always tell when Eddie wasn’t saying something, and he was even better at knowing when to push and when to let it lie. It had taken some time, and a few missteps but they had gotten there. “How you feelin’ ‘bout that?”

“Well I really wanna see a snake,” Eddie starts, voice slow and hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. The threads were starting to come undone, and he picked at it as he talked. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Wayne adds quietly, his voice a comfort. He puts his coffee down, and watches Eddie. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“But it’s Wednesday.” Eddie adds, with all the emphasis on the word. He throws his hands up in the air as he sinks further into the couch, melting into the cushions. “It’s date night.”

It’s quiet for a bit. The words sitting heavy in the air between them. Wayne takes his time before speaking.

“Me and Scott are dating yes,” Wayne starts, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees — holding back the same grunt that Eddie did trying to pull  himself up off the floor. He almost smiles at the thought. “And we have dinner on Wednesday’s, yes.” His voice softens, and Eddie can tell that if they were sitting on the same couch right now, Wayne would be giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder. His palm rough and warm. “But that doesn’t mean you’re always excluded, Eddie.”

Eddie shrugs bashfully, and squirms himself into a sitting position. Wayne seeing straight through to the heart of the issue — he was good at that.

“Scott invited you, so that means he wants you there.” Wayne said, looking intently at Eddie, words soft and carefully spoken. Every word chosen with care. “And I always like spending time with you Eddie. You’re my boy.”

Eddie continues to squirm under Wayne’s knowing gaze, picking at the loose threads on his shirt and running his socked feet along the carpet. It all felt a bit silly, all these muddy and tangled emotions sitting thick in his chest. His voice is quiet as he speaks, and he can feel the vulnerability sitting on his tongue. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Wayne replies, picking himself up off the chair with another grunt and sitting down on the couch beside Eddie. He drapes his arm across the back of it, open should Eddie choose to take the unspoken offer. “You’re coming with me on Wednesday, and you’re seeing that damn snake.”

Eddie laughs, and lets himself fall into Wayne’s side, curling himself up like he was a kid again.

[searchingforshinies]

just realized that i’ve never posted this one on my Official Writing Tumblr-

[huginsmemory]

I'm dying over here FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK

[luimagines]

Caught K-I-S-S-I-N-G Part 2

Masterlist

Part 1

Part two will include Legend, Twilight and Warrior.

Content under the cut!

Legend

You sighed, running your hands through Legend’s hair as he rested on your chest. He sighed in return and turned his head to look at you. “Rupee for your thoughts?”

You shrugged, smiling and poking his cheek. “This is nice.”

“Oh... I think so too.” Legend blushes softly and hides his face against you once more. You bury your hands in his hair again. 

The summer breeze passes over the both of you. The grasses around you whisper soft nothing around the two of you with the sun draping a soft blanket over your shoulders.

Legend moves and shift, pushing himself up. He moves up, putting his hands on either side of your face. You poke his cheek again, feeling too relaxed to be bothered. “Yes? Care I help you?”

Legend kisses the tip of your nose. “Why are you so cute?”

You bite your lip, trying to control your beating heart. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If anything, you’re too cute. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

Legend leans down to kiss your lips softly. He whispers, resting on top of you you once more. “Impossible.... I love you.”

“I love you too.” You say sweetly. You bring your arms up and hug, getting comfortable with the change in weight placement. You run your nails over his scalp and Legend all but flops on top of you. You grunt and chuckle “Enjoy that?”

“You don’t ever have to stop... like ever.”

You laugh a little more. “That’s fine by me. I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.” You whisper back, feeling content and warm and safe.

There’s a soft crunch of damp grass and twigs being crushed as someone makes their way over to where you are. You pray they don’t find you. You had only just gotten Legend to relax enough as it is.

“Oh.” Time blinks and coughs. “I was wondering where you both went. My mistake.”

Legend groans and rolls off of you. “What is it, Old Man? Is the Captain having another hissy fit again?”

Time gives him an unimpressed look. “Vet.”

“I’m right and you know it.” Legend points at Time’s face, sitting up. “Are we needed or not?”

Time rolls his eyes. “As a matter of fact, yes. The Knight of Skyloft is looking for you.”

Legend sticks his tongue out and turns to you. He runs his hand down the side of your cheek. “I’ll try to come back.”

“It’s over.” You sigh.

“I can come back!”

“But you never do!” You pout. “It’s ok. Go see what Sky wants. He wouldn’t ask for your help unless he needed it.”

Legend seems a little put off by your words but he eventually stands. He pokes Time, hard, but Time doesn’t seem to feel it. “You owe me time with my lover, Old Man.”

“Noted.”

Twilight

You were both laying against the tree, taking some time for yourselves before the group could catch onto your disappearance. Twilight was actually the laying against the tree. You were laying against Twilight. 

You let out a contented sigh and turn around, rolling around gently on top of your boyfriend so you wouldn’t be digging into him. 

He huffed jokingly and put an arm around your waist. “And where do you think you’re going?”

You giggle and cross your arms over his chest. His eyes open and he greets you with a charming smile. “Hello little darlin’~”

“Hello.” You smile back. “Go back to sleep. I’m just looking at you.”

He snorts and moves his arms to wrap around you better as he adjusts his position against the tree. “Oh? Is that all? You tend to do that a lot. I should start charging.”

You laugh and flick his nose. He scrunches it. “Yeah? And what would you demand? We both know I don’t have rupees.”

“Kisses.” A boyish smile crosses over his face.

“Ah.” You smile wider. “I think I can do that.”

You lean in and peck his gently. “Like that?”

“Hmm...” Twilight grins. “Not enough to pay the toll.”

“The toll.” You echo incredulously. “Dork.”

You kiss him again and his hands come up to hold you gently in place as he kisses you back.

A twig snaps. “SORRY... bad time.”

You pull back and move a little ways away so you can see who just should up. It’s Wild. You didn’t even know his face could get that red. It matches his scars. “Oh, hey champion. Need something?”

Twilight is less amused. “Nope. He just said so.”

You smack your boyfriend. “Link, behave.”

Twilight jokingly sticks his tongue out at you, dissolving into a soft smile once you said his name. “I’m always on my best behavior.”

“Liar.” You hiss and turn back to Wild. The poor guys is scratching the back of his head, walking backwards slowly. “Wild? You ok?”

“Y-yeah... I’ll just... go.. get the Captain instead.” He says awkwardly. “Don’t even worry about it.”

You’re tempted to worry about it but Twilight tightens his grip on you before you can even think about getting up. You look at him for an answer but he doesn’t remotely seem apologetic. In fact, he looks quite smug. You sigh. “Alright, but if you need anything... You know where we are I guess.”

“.....sure...” Wild makes his escape.

You turn your head to scold Twilight but he silences you with a kiss before you can even get the words out. “You love me.”

You huff. “You’re lucky that I do. What if it was important?”

He kisses you again. “Like he said, the Captain can do it.”

You... can’t really argue with that.

Warrior

“Do we have everything?” You looked in the bags you had bought, trying to go over the mental list that you had.

Warrior holds your other hand in his, carrying the majority of the bags in the other “I think we do. You still have the list, right?”

You hum and stop walking. Warrior stops as well and lets go of your hand so that you can rummage through your pocket to dig out the list.

You find the tiny scrap of paper. It’s been folded multiple times and you weren’t the one to write it but you can make out what it says for the most part. You go down every item and do you best to remember if you had come across it earlier.

You more or less can recall the all items on the list with the exception of three, but was because you had already looked and no one was selling them in the area. You nod to yourself, satisfied with your work. “Yup! That’s everything.”

Warrior grins and holds his hand out to you again. You take it without hesitation.

You skip to catch up to him and land by his side. He chuckles and pulls you a little closer. “Cute.”

He pecks your lips.

You grin. “What? I didn’t do anything.”

“I just think you’re cute in general. Is there anything wrong with that?” He challenges playfully.

“I suppose not.”

“Good.” He smirks and kisses you again.

A high pitched piercing whistle can be heard from just beyond you. It last a solid three seconds before it jumps another note higher. It’s an obnoxious wolf whistle.

You both break apart with a slight jolt and look in the direction the sound.

Hyrule stands just a little ways away with a smirk on his face.

You roll your eyes while Warrior meets The Traveler’s grin with a deadpanned expression. You can hear the other hero laugh as Warrior pulls you tighter to his side. “Very funny, Traveler!”

“Thank you!” He calls back, not at all sounding remotely apologetic.

You snort.

Warrior raises an eyebrow before unexpectedly pulling you back in and kissing you deeply. You think you can hear the grocery bags falling to the ground. Warrior’s hand comes up to caress your cheek not too long afterwards.

You melt into his touch, instantly forgetting that Hyrule was even nearby to begin with.

You think you hear him yell out something else but you’re too focused on the man in front of you and the way he tenderly holds you to care. Warrior pulls back with a dazed and borderline sultry look on his face. “There.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t worry about it.” His smile turns devilish. “I quite liked that a lot.”

Part 3

[awearywritersworld]

mona mona!!! in my head, modern bf sukuna likes to bake for reader !! in your au, do you think sukuna ever attempts to cook or bake something for reader that he used to enjoy eating? MWAH much love to you <3

aali aali!!! i'm in tears thinking about this evil man in an apron.... better yet, let's say he uses reader's and it's pink and has little strawberries on it or somethin cute. wah!!!!! he's so adorable.

yessssss tho!! he appreciates it when reader cooks for him and so he'd wanna return the favor. this idea is so sweet!! sending u all the love<333333

you find him in the kitchen one evening, staring at the stove looking exceptionally confused.

"what are you doing?"

"nothing."

"clearly," you tease. "what is it you're trying to do."

"where are you supposed to light the fire?"

"...fire?"

"yes, fire." he says it as if you're the foolish one in the situation. "you know, that thing you use to cook."

"you're going to cook?" you question, rather amused.

he sighs, a dramatic show of irritation. "is that so hard to believe? are you going to help me or not?"

the word help sounds rather strained coming from his lips and he seems to be in an exceptionally grumpy mood, so you suppress a giggle and make your way across the kitchen.

"that's sweet of you," you hum, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

you don't miss the way the small show of affection makes his shoulders relax. reaching out, you twist one of the stove knobs to the right and the burner turns red. "there's no fire. it's just electric."

his brows furrow as he looks between you and the stove. "oh."

it takes him a while to adjust to the electric stove, so he burns things pretty frequently at first. eventually he catches on though and you're quite impressed with his culinary skills.

sometimes you can't help but stare as he prepares food, because he handles the cooking chopsticks so adeptly. there's just something about the way it makes his knuckles and the tendons on his hands more pronounced that you struggle to tear your eyes away from.

[wastefulreverie]

every one one of my characters i write is aroace coded btw because figuring out how straight people think is fucking beyond me

[awyeahitssam]

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom. 

“You’re late.” 

Harry considered his response as he stepped farther into the room, head tipping up to take in the fifty some-odd witches and wizards that made up the Wizengamot. They were all watching him keenly, some with open derision and others with curiosity. His head pulsed faintly at the weight of the attention on him, their emotions eagerly battering his Occlumency shields. Harry worked to think through the sensation even as he reinforced his mental defences. He could already tell by the sweat beading on his back that this would be a trying experience. The fact that this section of the Ministry was deep enough to obstruct the weight of all other presences did not make up for the fact that he was in front of fifty people rather than the expected four to six. He hasn't practised for this, has had no means to. 

Fudge sat in the middle of the first row, and the smugness he and the witch to his right were emanating made it rather easy to pinpoint who had been responsible for the sudden change in the time of his trial. 

"Am I?" Harry asked, and the jolt of astonishment, annoyance and fury that swept through various members of the court almost had him gritting his teeth. Harry imagined that Fudge's anger and embarrassment would have been obvious to him even without his abilities. The man had turned faintly red at the question, face pinching. 

"You were sent notice of the change in time this morning," the Minister barked out. "It is not the Wizengamot's fault you are late. Now sit down."

Harry allowed his eyebrow to quirk, slow and incredulous. This version of Cornelius Fudge was far different from the one he had met two years ago.

“While I would hardly blame the Wizengamot as a whole, it sounds as if whoever is charged with correspondence is at fault. Per a standing law written in 1839, all changes in time and venue must be completed in excess of twenty four hours prior to a trial's start time. Said correspondence must have been confirmed as seen by the person or persons on trial and their representatives at least sixteen hours before the scheduled start time.”

“That is for an official trial,” the Minister returned, voice sharp despite the fluster and anxiety Harry could sense beneath it. 

“Apologies for my presumption, then,” Harry said dryly. “I assumed that any trial which our entire governance presided over would be considered official.”

“Besides which, there is no such specificity to that law,” A broad, square-jawed witch to the left of Fudge said, giving the Minister a quelling look. 

The Minister did not respond to the implied reprimand, instead puffing himself up a bit and saying, “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry was surprised to see Percy Weasley, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he stared down at a piece of parchment, quill poised to write. Unlike most everyone else in the room, his attention did not seem to find sole focus on Harry. Harry didn’t expend any effort to attempt to see how Percy felt about the entire situation, his focus drawn to an approaching presence. It was a whirlwind of concern, faint annoyance, and a dash of enjoyment. 

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, emphasising the word hearing, and Percy began taking notes at once, “into offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

Fudge continued on, listing interrogators, and Harry’s attention was distracted from Fudge’s words, the approaching presence, and his Occlumency shields by a jolt of glee and greed. His gaze flickered up to meet the icy grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy. The realisation dawns quickly that the Dursleys address was now a matter of public record. Harry had already decided he wouldn't go back, and this only provided more incentive. 

He hesitates around the thought of whether the Dursleys will be targeted. Whether he should warn somebody that they need to be moved. Whether he cares enough to, after so many years of their oppressive hatred.

Behind him, the door presses open. 

“—Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” Dumbledore’s voice isn’t projected like Fudge’s, but there is no doubt that he is heard. The press of the Wizengamot’s emotions is momentarily overwhelming: annoyance, bemusement, fear, anger, respect, deference, joy… Harry’s own anger is hardly a blip amongst the cacophony. 

When he strides into Harry’s view Dumbledore's expression is serene, but Harry can feel his spiteful enjoyment at the reception his disruption has created. He looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway down his crooked nose. 

A few of the Wizengamot members muttered to one another, but most were quiet, eyes locked on Dumbledore. 

While Harry’s presence had invoked interest and curiosity, the reactions to Dumbledore were far more substantive. Perhaps it was that the Headmaster had interacted with all of these people personally, socially, and they knew him by more than reputation. They had personal feelings and opinions fully developed about Dumbledore, while Harry was still, largely, an unknown. 

“Ah,” said Fudge, thoroughly disconcerted and flustered by Dumbledore’s presence. “Dumbledore. Yes. You—er—got our—er—message that the time and—er—place of the hearing had been changed, then?” 

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

It was a lie, Harry recognized, and one the Headmaster took a good deal of amusement in stating. Some of Dumbledore’s lingering frustration seemed to melt the longer he watched Fudge, the genial cast to his face a farce. He took joy in Fudge being wrong-footed, and the longer he fumbled, the more Dumbledore’s contentment with the situation grew. 

“Yes—well—I suppose we’ll need another chair—I—Weasley, could you—?” 

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest. 

Harry had never thought of Dumbledore as anything approaching petty before, and perhaps he typically was not, but there was no denying that he was fond of making Fudge feel foolish. Well, his name had been dragged through the Prophet by the Minister's word; Harry couldn’t be surprised by a grudge. Seemingly omniscient or not, Dumbledore was only human. 

The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down. 

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.” He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.”

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment. 

“Yes,” Harry agreed, not looking at Malfoy this time. 

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” interrupted Fudge. Harry felt his vindictive pleasure at cutting him off—even with Dumbledore here, he was finding his footing—but as Harry failed to answer this question, his irritation rose to overtake it.

“You are expected to answer,” the witch to the left of Fudge said, raising a brow at him. She had been the same woman to defend the law he had parrotted. 

Harry lets his silence linger for a moment, feeling the anticipation of the Wizengamot build, before returning, “Will I be allowed to do so in full?” 

His voice is perfectly respectful, but Fudge’s outrage still blooms. Dumbledore, a glance away, feels of surprise-concern-suspicion, and it makes the hairs on Harry’s nape stand at attention. 

“Yes,” the woman gave the Minister yet another quelling look, “of course you will.” 

“Thank you. To your last question, Minister, I did receive an official warning three years ago. The warning was,” it took a moment for Harry to recall the right term, said by three other representatives in three other trials, but the momentary pause has the interesting effect of focusing attention on him all the more, “improperly dispersed. The magic that triggered it came from a visiting House Elf. Being the only known magical in Little Whinging and without the supervision of an adult witch or wizard, the charms used to enforce the Statute of Secrecy were triggered. If anybody would like to see a memory of the event in question, I would be more than happy to provide it, assuming there is a pensive available.”

“There is no pensive,” a man with dark hair and an austere demeanour said, then emphasised again, “This is no trial.” 

“Isn’t it?” Harry asked, eyebrows raising as he glanced tellingly down at the chair in which he sat, wrapped in chains. “Very well.”

“Either way, it is rather late to be blaming your troubled past on elf magic,” Fudge dismissed, and let out a short laugh, as if he expected others to join him in it. At his side, the woman still cloaked in shadows let out a titter. “A unique and unprecedented excuse, as, I suppose, we should have expected from a young man trying to squirm out of trouble.” 

It is Fudge’s tone, a mix of condescension and chiding, even as his emotions are anything but, that does it. Behind his Occlumency and building headache, Harry realises that he's angry. He is disgruntled, disgusted and dissatisfied. He had accessed the public records available, he had pulled transcripts from previous underage trials, and this—this is a farce. 

This is Fudge, afraid to believe that Lord Voldemort is alive and smearing Harry’s name because he can. Because Harry has nobody looking out for him, and he’s been fair game since nobody stepped in the first time Rita did it. Beside him, Dumbledore is perfectly silent.

Harry is a symbol, but he's also fifteen, and it's an odd thought that reeks of his Godfather. 

“You're fifteen, pup,” Sirius had insisted mere days ago, like it meant something, like it mattered. “You deserve the chance to be a boy without all of this added pressure.”

The glimmer in his eyes had been just as telling as the mingled pain-grief-exhaustion-despair. He was speaking from experience, Harry had thought, throat tight. It made Harry want to fight for his Godfather, for the boy that he once was. Where, then, was that impulse to fight for himself?

“You matter, Harry. What you want matters.”

Harry does not want to play their games, though he has already begun to. He does not want to use the information he's researched, as he sits in a chair with chains, and struggles through polite phrasings. He won't let his research go to waste, though. He knows something for once, and he'll use that knowledge. 

The look he levels to Fudge, then, is faux-concerned. “I understand you've had no reason to research this, Minister,” he says, voice kind in a way that is mockery and can not be called such, “but I take the threat of having my wand snapped very seriously. According to public records, the Statute of Secrecy charms have been proven defective in the exact scenario I've discussed once before, in the case of Richard Pike, who’s classmate had an elf deliver things on multiple occasions until he was brought between a five-panel jury to plead his case.”

“Mind you, the Ministry hadn't been running a campaign to discredit Richard Pike,” Harry added casually. The reaction from a simple remark didn't disappoint; Fudge spluttered, the woman beside him leaned out of the shadows, revealing an overwhelmingly pink ensemble, and someone burst out, “Now see here, young man—!�� before being abruptly silenced. “He was fifteen, too, but he actually had adults willing to advocate on his behalf.”

Dumbledore’s concern is growing beside him, but Harry doesn't turn to meet the man's eyes, and Dumbledore does not speak out, despite Harry’s accusation.

Harry’s rage is bubbling at the back of his throat, and he wants to shout, but he had learned about the ineffectiveness of screaming his ire long ago. That lesson had only been reinforced after his outburst at Ron and Hermione, and he is more than willing to try something else now. 

He takes a moment to consider his approach, and then goes with something that feels natural, a release that will keep his shouts in check; Harry laughs.

“Something funny, Mr. Potter?” A cold voice comes. 

“Not really, Something is ridiculous, though, and I’m sure you’d all rather I laugh than deal with a moody teenager's temper tantrum.” He lets his smile go a little sharper, and feels the good his reminder does. There is a particularly keen sense of culpability from a woman he faintly recognizes from his research; Head of the Panel for Underaged Sourcery, Irena Covey. Is the guilt for allowing this to spiral so out of hand, into a room meant for criminal proceedings, or something else?

“I have before me the entire government of magical Britain, wasting their time at a hearing for underaged magic which is typically handled by an empaneled jury of four. We are in the bowels of the Ministry, in a room that has not been used for anything but trials of the most dangerous criminals, and yet this is not a trial, but a hearing to decide disciplinary methods, as if there is no doubt of my guilt and I must be punished.” 

“My ‘crime,’” he uses the air quotes readily, “is using the Patronus Charm to protect myself and my cousin from a dementor. My cousin, who knows about magic and does not count as a breach in the Statute. If you'd like to see the memory of the encounter, I give full permission to have it pulled from my head. If you'd like to give me veritaserum—well, I have no parent to consent to the use of a regulated substance, but that's never stopped anybody before. I’ll submit myself willingly to that as well. And if,” he smiles sharply, “you'd like to handle this especially quickly, and get back to your doubtlessly busy lives, I will swear upon my magic that I'm telling the truth. How's that?”

It’s nothing that can be compelled or asked for, not ever, but the offer is a powerful thing. Vows on your magic can be taken as irrefutable testimony, and are rarely given, as they rely on objective rather than subjective fact, a twist that always leaves one with the slightest chance of turning squib.

He feels the shift in the air, the reconsideration of biases, the sharpening curiosity.

“I find your tone disrespectful, boy,” says a man with the longest straw-coloured hair Harry has ever seen. It lies in neat curls, soft and touchable, but the man’s face is cold and his tone hard, and Harry can’t pinpoint his intention with so many other people in the room. 

“Perfectly understandable, sir. I find this entire theatrical display disrespectful. You are all very important and busy people, so I can understand that you are frustrated with having your time wasted. However I hope you'll forgive if my frustration outweighs your own, as I am being treated like a war criminal rather than an underaged child due to a bewildering grudge that our Minister seems to be harbouring.” 

“You want to snap my wand?” Harry asked the Minister if Magic, eyes blazing but posture relaxed, “Then you can be certain I will put up a fight.”

He let his eyes trail over the rest of his jury, the heady, odd feel of their captivated attention allowing his shoulders to relax into something looser and more confident.

“Magic is the only thing I have of my mother and father. So forgive this fifteen year old orphan for his sentimentality,” Harry bared his teeth, “but I plan on keeping it. Especially considering that I have broken no laws, and there are clear caveats in place that allow an underaged witch or wizard to use magic when in fear for their life.”

He let his gaze slide over the Wizengamot and paused to meet every set of eyes that were not looking away. His point has been well and truly made. Dumbledore is surprised by his outburst, or perhaps by its effectiveness, and faintly suspicious for some reason. 

“Strong words prove nothing,” a man larger than Harry’s uncle says when Harry’s gaze lands on him, and he doesn't believe Harry, but he is used to that. 

Harry thinks back to the books on magical vows he had studied during the tournament, and the book in the Black Library that he had read two days ago. He thinks of the vow that he had carefully drafted, under Sirius’ supervision. His godfather has emphasised the importance of his wording, so that there could be no mistake. 

“Harry, wait.” Dumbledore’s order comes curt and harsh, but Harry pays it no attention. He knows what has caught the Headmaster’s attention; the golden glow that had encapsulated Harry the moment he chose his words. It hazes around his form, and Harry looks down at his hand with interest and curiosity. 

There is a sudden murmuring from his audience as they catch on. 

“I, Harry James Potter, vow on my magic that on the night of August 2 I used a patronus charm to ward off dementors in Little Whinging, Surrey, in fear of losing my soul.”

The golden glow retreats. Several people gasp at the act, but it is no mere dramatics; the shock he feels pulsing through the room is genuine. He allowed the pause to linger for a moment before saying, “I would cast a spell to prove my claim, but this is a disciplinary hearing for underaged magic.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, but before he could speak a worn voice sounded from the top tier of the gallery. “I vote an exception be made. Raise your wands if you are in agreement.” 

It was nearly unanimous, and Fudge’s expression was taut. His emotions were hard to pinpoint, though multiple people were radiating fear, stomach-churning and vile. Madame Bones glanced around the gallery, expectant. “Mr. Potter, if you would?”

Obediently, Harry drew his wand and murmured a spell under his breath. It was a rather cheeky choice, but Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. His patronus burst into existence and lifted its head regally, sightless eyes fixed on the Wizengamot. After a moment it turned to Harry and met his gaze before bowing its head. Harry bowed his head back in respect, tension lessening as he felt the warmth and serenity his patronus gave to him, deeply soothing. It took a step forward and pressed its head to his chest, and Harry smiled. 

“Fantastic,” Madam Bones murmured. “Very impressive.”

She said it, but Harry could feel it radiating from all around the room; respect, wariness, keen interest. A couple of people even seemed amused by his gall, which, he supposed, was better than offended. Fear was regulated to an undertone in the room, pervasive but not overpowering.

Harry’s patronus raises its head, a huff ruffling his hair. He raised a hand to brush over its snout, feeling the warm, welcoming peace it emanated more than its fur.  It stares into his eyes for a long moment, grounding Harry, before lowering its head one last time and glimmering out of existence, purpose served. 

“Well then,” the shift in the room was abrupt. With two words the attention of the Wizengnot had been captured by a dark-haired woman, whose brown eyes were cataloguing Harry. The abrupt pull and shift of emotions might have been startling had his patronus not left him so balanced. “I might have agreed that all of our time was wasted on this day, Mr. Potter, if not for this exquisite demonstration of a mastered patronus. That it is tactile as well as spiritually corporeal is a rare and impressive feat, especially given your age.”

Beneath her intrigue and open interest, the turn of her emotions had an odd chill to them. Her fascination is detached and clinical. Her regard had the effect of sharpening the interest towards Harry all the more. Dumbledore’s emotions pulsed behind him, an odd mix of wary, vexed and rueful. 

“Perhaps, Lady Laurier, it would be most appropriate to turn our attention to how a dementor managed to make its way to Little Whinging in the first place.” Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Bones clears her throat. “That is certainly a matter that needs attention. First, however, Mr. Potter’s verdict.”

“I believe that Mr. Potter’s vow constitutes irrefutable proof, and this tria—hearing should be closed.” Covey spoke up, her slip made all the more apparent by its correction. 

“So it shall be,” agreed Bones. “As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I accept into the record Harry Potter's magical vow. In combination with his subsequent proof of magic, this vow is considered irrefutable evidence. As such, all charges against the accused are dismissed with the Ministry's sincere apologies. I put forward my professional recommendation that future cases of underaged sorcery are dealt with by the bench traditionally empaneled.” She added pointedly. 

[kirkscarr]

so my method for writing is: write ficlets until something feels right.

it can’t just be me. right? right????

this drives my creative writing teacher crazy pls tell me i’m not alone 💀

[muzzleroars]

Ok... now we NEED that family photo of the 4 of them together. Raphael just keeping everything positive despite the fact Gabriel is a fallen angel and Michael is basically rotted. How would that sort of reunion go anyway?

they're doing great!!!

there is. a lot of strain, but raphael is determined not to allow it to create so much tension that it eventually causes collapse. plus he does begin to see that all of the issues they have now, at least on an emotional level, are things that have been there for EONS, so maybe it was about time they had to face those problems. obviously michael and gabriel's relationship is the biggest issue, and it goes both ways - mike of course has massive problems dealing with gabriel's fall and his choice in v1, while gabe does feel that michael kind of abandoned them and then he comes back to everything all fucked up to pass moral judgment??? raphael is similarly frustrated if not to the same extent, with his family being more important to him than anything else when he can no longer be so sure that their existence is infinite and assured. uriel is dealing with severe anxiety over it all since his life had been incredibly quiet with little drama involved - he wrote god's knowledge constantly, a meditative practice he can no longer channel. and not knowing EVERYTHING is actually really stressing him out, plus he's really, really terrible at approaching interpersonal issues and he's by far the most introverted of the four so he can easily get lost in the shuffle. and they're all just intensely worried about michael besides, mentally and physically since it's actually hard to tell where he's doing worse. but at the end of it all, there is still love in them, and something in each of them refuses to let this die...it's just going to be quite the process finding peace again

[milflewis]

22 + chalex for the prompt thing! 🫶🏻

22. hug

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 1: So. I am fucked. Surprise though! So you can stop all the tears — talking about you, Commander, the softy that you are - I am alive.]

—

Two weeks after NASA has declared Alex Albon dead and left on Mars, Charles writes to George. He sends it to Sebastian and makes him swear to get it to Lewis in the crew’s next info dump, who will give it to George.

He tells him about how Alex’s plants are doing, and about his shifts at the hospital, how he’s on night work now, with the shifts rotating over. He tells him about going to the beach and just standing there for hours, staring out at the water, until he could no longer feel his face from the cold. He tells that he’s more or less sleeping, that he’s going to work, that he’s eating. He tells him that he hopes they’re keeping safe and that he loves him.

He doesn’t talk about Alex. He doesn’t tell George he doesn’t blame him. He knows he’ll know. That he won’t need Charles to write the words.

—

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 2: I think I've got this actually. Ignore yesterday. Getting stranded on Mars kinda messes with your head. I've got a plan and I'm feeling good about it! ]

—

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 2: Update. I do not got this. If I die, Charles, I demand a mourning period of at least eighty-three years. Please bury me under some nice flowers. Blue if you can.]

—

“Come back to me,” Charles says, arms tight around Alex’s neck, mouth pressed under his ear. He smells of shampoo and asphalt. His bony elbows are digging into Charles’s back.

“I’m going to make Mars my bitch,” Alex says, grinning, and Charles shoves him away with a laugh.

Alex catches his wrist with a warm hand. His palm is dry and calloused. “Charlie,” he starts, low and careful. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Charles’s voice cracks. He tries again. “Yes, I know, of course, of course. Me too.”

Alex smiles, and it’s wonderful. Charles memorises the shape of it.

Down the line, with his back to the hoard of cameras, Commander Lewis Hamilton is pressing his mouth against his husband’s knuckles. Both of their eyes are closed.

—

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 54]: Did you know that if you grow something somewhere that you've then colonised it? So, like, now that I've got my potatoes going does that mean I now own Mars? A win for the gays and the losers, motherfuckers!]

—

Toto swivels in his chair and looks out of the window to the sky beyond. Night is slipping in.

"What is it like?" he wonders. “Stuck up there. Alone. He does not know we know. What does that do?"

He looks at Niki. "I wonder what he is thinking right now."

—

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 61: How come Aquaman can control whales. They're mammals! Makes no sense.]

—

Some days, when he hasn’t had much sleep and the air warps and curls over on itself with heat, he sees Charles.

He’ll only ever be far off in the distance — too far for Alex to even see the details of his face, let alone touch him. He’d know the shape of those shoulders anywhere.

Alex waves to him sometimes. This dark blur on the horizon that just stands there and watches. He never waves back. The sun on Mars is unforgiving.

Alex wonders if he’s moisturising his hands. The latex exam gloves he has to wear for work always dry out his skin.

—

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 76: I'm going to have to science the shit out of this. George, please don't use this as porn. I know how hot and bothered you get about me being all smart and sexy.]

—

George has, like, every sitcom ever downloaded in his personal storage. Alex works his way through them all. If he never hears another laugh track in his life he’d die happy.

Lewis’s music list is jam packed full of different genres. There is a surprising amount of The Beatles in there. Alex wouldn’t have guessed he was a fan of them.

Alex decides the music Lewis had made himself, all chords and notes and little words, is some of his favourites. It can be hard hearing other people speak at you and not being able to talk back.

Every book Valtteri had downloaded is in Finnish. Alex thinks he probably should’ve guessed that would be the case.

It turns out Finnish is very hard to learn, especially when the only words you’ve picked up are swears that you’ve heard Valtteri muttering under his breath before media duties.

—

[LOG ENTRY: SOL 206: Finally got into contact with NASA because I am that bitch and I will be damned if I die here, and that is a promise. They won’t stop telling me what to do now though, so, like, it’s a give and take, I guess.]

—

The first thing Charles notices about Alex is that he has freckles all over his face but especially across his nose and cheeks. This feels very important.

The second thing he notices is that he is tall and his wrists are bony. Charles eyes the strip of skin where his MATHS IS SEXY top rides up. There is an equally tall man sitting in the booth beside him with a shirt that reads: NO ITS NOT.

The third thing he notices is that he is extremely drunk. His cheeks are flushed and he’s half falling over the table as he tries to explain something while laughing.

Charles probably falls in love right there if he’s being honest, even if he never gets the courage to go up and talk to him. Alex is the one who says hi, weeks later, asking him if he wants to play pool.

Charles doesn’t know how to play pool. He says yes anyway because he thinks it might make Alex smile. It does.

He keeps saying yes and Alex keeps smiling. They move together after college graduation.

Charles is coming off a double shift and he can’t feel his feet when Sebastian shows up to give him a ride home. He makes him tea when they get in. It’s a blend of something herbal and sweet like honey.

Sebastian tells him Alex is still alive as Charles breathes in the steam. He tells him that they left him behind on Mars. That it was an accident. That they’re figuring out how to get him home.

Alex is alive, Charles thinks. I’ll get to see Alex smile again, Charles thinks, and promptly bursts into tears.

—

[08:47] BUTTON: Good, keep us posted on any mechanical or electrical problems. By the way, the name of the probe we're sending you is Iris. You know, the one who rode the waves of heaven using the wind. I think she's also the chick with the rainbows.

[08:49] ALBON: Gay probe coming to save me. Got it.

—

I’m so glad it’s not me stuck up there, the navigational assistant tells him. He was the one who discovered Alex was still alive in the first place. He tells him he noticed the MAV moving. His name is Yuki.

Alex thinks he’s going to say he’d miss people or fresh fruit or Netflix or sex or something. Alex hasn’t had a mango in so long. He hasn’t had a blowjob in even longer. Some days he isn’t sure which is worse.

Yuki is very very funny.

Can you imagine only eating potatoes, he tells Alex. I would rather die dead and alone. And then: though I guess you would not have to imagine.

And then: the eating potatoes bit. sorry. you haven’t done the other one yet.

Alex laughs so much he rebreaks a only barely healed rib and NASA yells at them both. His calcium levels are very low.

—

[21:27] BUTTON: How are the crops affecting that number? As to your question: We haven't told the crew you're alive yet. We wanted them to concentrate on their own mission.

[21:30] ALBON: The crops are potatoes. I got them from the ones we were supposed to eat for Christmas. They're doing great but the available farmland isn't sustainable. I'll run out of food around SOL 900. Also. Fucking tell the crew I'm alive???? What the fuck is wrong with you????

[21:31] BUTTON: SOL 900 is great news. That'll give us time to get a supply mission to you. And I’ve been told to tell you to watch your language. Everything you type is being broadcasted around the world.

[21:32] ALBON: Look! A pair of boobs - > ( . Y . )

—

Dear Alex: Apparently, NASA is letting us talk to you now. And I drew the short straw. Sorry we left you behind on Mars.

But we just don't like you. You're sort of annoying. And you shed hair everywhere.

Also, it's a lot roomier on the Hermes without you. We have to take turns doing your tasks. But, I mean, it's only botany. It's not a real science.

How's Mars?

— George.

—

Alex stares up at the plain white ceiling of the HAB. The wind roars and rages outside and the Level Threw sandstorm shakes the walls. It holds. It always holds.

When he makes the journey to find the HAB of the HERMES TWO, he’ll be technically crossing international waters without any explicit permission from a governmental body. That makes him a pirate.

I’m going home, Alex thinks. And then: I can’t wait to tell Charlie that he’s married to a bad boy.

Alex runs a hand over his face. He’s even gotten the beard to go with it.

—

Dear George: Mars is fine. When I get lonely I think of that steamy night I spent with your mum.

How are things on Hermes? Cramped and claustrophobic? Yesterday I went outside and looked at the horizons. They really do go on forever.

— Alex.

—

"Thing is," Alex scrambles to say, mouth dry and sore. "I'm selfish. I want all the memorials back home to be just about me. I don't want the rest of you losers in any of them. I can't let you guys blow the VAL. Also, I'm the only one who is allowed to make Charlie cry. Them's the rules."

"Oh," Lewis says. "Well, I mean, if you won't let us — wait. Wait a minute, I think I see something on my shoulder patch here. Oh, right, yeah, it says I'm the Commander. So, you know, what I say goes. Shut the fuck up and sit tight. We're coming to get you."

Alex swallows — or tries to at least. His whole body aches. He thinks he broke a rib, or two. Or three. He wants to cry.

"Copy that, sir."

"We've got you, man." Lewis's voice is warm. Alex doesn't have to imagine his smile anymore. He's going to get to see it very soon.

—

Alex is all bone and mouth when Charles gets to see him again. He has lost so many of his freckles. He hugs him close, pressing his thumbs into the hinge of Alex's jaw. Alex bows and curls over him and Charles doesn't let either of them fall.

He tastes vaguely of salt and snot when Charles kisses him. Charles is crying.

Alex is smiling when he pulls away, arms tight around Charles' back. "Look at your face," he says softly. He's talking to himself.

"I'm here," Charles replies, louder than necessary. Alex blinks at him and his smile, impossibly, gets even bigger. Charles's stomach squirms.

"You're a mess," Alex teases him, running a hand through Charles' hair. Charles doesn't say anything about how his hands shake.

“You should stay here and take care of me then,” Charles says, and Alex closes his eyes, smushing his nose hard into the skull of Charles’s forehead. Charles digs his nails in.

Fuck you, Mars, Charles. Fuck you.

[sluckythewizard]

Keep calm, and drink soda

[CW for blood and gore and vomit] takes place a day or two after emizel was sired. just two boys adjusting to a shift in their daily norms. would YOU drink your homies blood? still not used to writing fanfic so any and all advice IS appreciated. i hope u enjoy.

There were very few things that Soda enjoyed more than well, drinking soda. It was a hobby, an interest, a comfort. And by extension there were very few errands that Soda would look forward to more than the occasional soda run.

The gas station closest to the Demons hideout had stopped selling Faygo entirely about a month or two ago, and it was near impossible to find it anywhere else. The closest place was now this janky little Shell gas station, lovingly titled the Shady Shell, that thankfully sold more flavors than any of the other ones ever did.

It made the hour and a half walk here entirely worth it. Even if this side of town made his skin crawl. Normally he would ask someone to accompany him on this daring little quest, but everyone at the hide out tonight just seemed too tired, too preoccupied, too uninterested.

He knew not everyone really got the soda thing, but they were accepting of it for the most part. Soda is something that, clearly, Soda really loves, but he knew not everyone else was into it.

Which was fine, of course. They didn't need to get it. But, still, sometimes Soda found himself wondering how much of it was a bit, and how much was him.

Emizel gets it perfectly though. He would've been the first person Soda would ask to go on this soda run with him, but, well. He's been preoccupied too, with the whole vampire thing.

It's been a bit more than a day since Soda had last seen his close comrade. For a friend that he saw just about everyday, going without him this long left him feeling a little emptier.

That was fine, though. Emizel had shit he was working out, he had things he needed to do. It's not like he could go out in the day anymore, so of course Soda wouldn't be seeing him at all the usual times.

It was a lot of weird and heavy magical stuff, it made Soda think about those superhero shows. Where the hero needs to keep his identity hidden from everyone. Family especially. He knows how much of a piece of shit Emizels dad is, so he hoped that Emizels home life wasn't stirred up all stupid-like over this.

He hasn't told anyone else, about what happened that night. For the last 2 days, Soda would spend time with close friends and not let them know a thing about what happened to Emizel so, so recently. Why he's so suddenly absent, so distant, so.. off…

'Maybe his dad's just giving him a hard time', he would say, hoping to smother their questions. The less questions they ask, the better. At least until this vampire stuff gets figured out a bit more. Should Emizel wear a disguise when he goes out at night now? Just like a superhero? What kind of hero outfit would Emizel have anyways? Soda figured it would be something really cool.

If anyone could figure out a way to balance all this vampire stuff, and all the leaderly responsibilities that come with being the biggest dog in the Demons, it was Emizel for sure. That guy is so seriously cool.

He was sure this rough patch would even out, and they would weather the next rough patch together no problem. There was really nothing to worry about! All Soda has to do is stay positive, and well, drink soda.

As Soda walks quietly down the crumbling sidewalks of this dreary hive of strip malls and shops, he goes to pull his backpack around to his chest, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. Which was a little annoying, considering the tab of his zipper had fallen off forever ago. He really needed to get around to fixing this damn thing. Maybe another ziptie and a soda tab will do the trick.

Humid air hangs heavy in the night, the sidewalks still somewhat warm after a hotter day. The diesel-soaked air provided enough warmth on its own that Soda had considered taking his jacket off a few times, only for the occasional, annoyingly sharp and chilly breeze to brush by, reminding him to keep the thing on.

Tripping only once and only slightly on an uneven sidewalk, Soda manages to pull a bottle of Faygo from his backpack, a smile glowing on his face. Another short fight with the zipper seals up the bag, and he slings it over his shoulder again.

His flavor of choice tonight was actually the Red Pop, the tried and true, the absolute classic, one of the best Faygo flavors for sure.

But, this kind wasn't actually his favorite. Normally he would stock up on the cotton candy ones, but something about the last few days had him craving the red stuff.

Securing his backpack all the way, he goes to crack open the bottle. Just the clack and the hisssss of the fizzy drink were enough to lift his mood.

Not that his mood needed lifting or anything. Of course. Sure he missed his friend and sure he found himself wondering what he’s doing and where he is and if he's okay. Maybe sometimes he found himself wishing they talked about funeral plans more.

Emizel talked up all sorts of crazy funeral ideas for himself, usually involving the use of his dead body as an inconvenience for others. Outlandish and hilarious ideas, like filling it with explosives and tossing it into a busy road. But what would he want seriously? What would Soda ever do if he just stopped showing up one day?

He had to swallow down all these unnecessary anxieties, so he took a swig of his soda. Sweet, bubbly, comforting. He felt better already! Just stay positive, and drink soda..

It was a lovely night out, and he didn't come all this way planning on letting it go to waste. There was a place he was heading towards, a particular alleyway in this particular place that led off to a particularly tall concrete ledge.

 It was a run-down little space, littered with trash and shitty trees and those bushes with just too many goddamn ants in them. But the view was fairly nice, overlooking a massive deformed intersection. A particularly stupid one, at that; about 3 times a week you could witness a gnarly crash at this spot. Soda always heard people saying that LA folks can't drive, but he was just starting to figure that maybe no one can drive.

That was the place he really wanted to go to enjoy this soda, and he wasn't too far off from it. Just a few more blocks, and he would be there.

Oh wait, didn't he still have a bag of chips in this backpack somewhere? Hell yeah, he couldn't wait to sit down and relax with a good soda, a good snack, and a good view of the night.

Living as a Demon had its fair share of stresses. He felt lucky to have this life, but he knew well that it could be better. That not everyone has to worry about survival the way they do. That not everyone gets injured on the regular and not everyone has to worry about being sick and never getting better.

Living is hard. But it's finding the small moments of joy that make it all worth it. Dying would be scarier anyway. He didn't want to die, and he felt glad to feel so confident in that nowadays.

The sudden   THUNK  of something slamming into the ground just a block away from him, jolts him out of his thoughts, all his gears screeching to a halt as he freezes in place. What the fuck was that?

It looked like a person, laying flat on the ground with only their head and shoulders peeking out of the alleyway ahead. Fuck. He hated this side of town..

Anxiety churns in his stomach as he debates just turning around, but the way the victim reaches an arm out, attempting to crawl away; it made his heart ache aswell. he's no goddamn fighter, but he couldn't just leave someone like th-

The body is suddenly yanked back into the alley, snatched at a startling speed. It didn't feel exactly real, how could something vanish so fast? It reminded Soda of something from a horror movie, or whatever. What the fuck was that??

His foot takes a step forward, before the rest of his body notices its rebellion and locks down again. Was he seriously going to investigate that? He could just walk away and take another alley. But that was the one he was supposed to turn down! All the other alleys are either walled off or gated off and he wasn't about to go climbing over a damn wire gate. His soda would get too shaken up! Fuck!

Another foot goes in for another step forward. He's gotta get the fuck out of here. He could hear more commotion in the alleyway, a scuffle, a skirmish. He could hear someone cursing through a choked breath. A loud and nauseating crack echoes out from the alley, and yet, Soda takes another step forward.

This was stupid, he shouldn't be getting tangled up in someone else's business. What if something happened to all this soda?

Thankfully, it was that thought that actually got him to pause, and take in a deep breath. It wasn't worth it, maybe he should head straight home.

Atleast, that was the thought his heart and mind were about to agree on, until a particularly familiar grroowwwwlll bleeds out from the alley.

Emizel?

All reason immediately evaporates as Soda makes that connection in his head, stepping right up to the corner of the brick walls, and peering around to investigate.

There was a body on the floor, face down in a puddle of red, head split open in a way that reminded Soda of a smashed watermelon.

But standing over that body, was the familiar, blackened coat, and short blonde hair, of Sodas closest comrade, Emizel.

Despite the carnage on the floor, Soda couldn't help the smile that lights up his face. That was Emizel! That was his boy!

But before he could get over just how happy he felt to see his best friend, something else caught his eye. Movement, behind the dumpster closest to the vampire boy. A person, rising out from the shadows with a glinting baseball bat clutched fiercely in their hands.

"Oh fuck, look out!" Soda speaks up, and Emizels gaze immediately clicks over to him, silencing Soda with just that startlingly red stare.

He had forgotten just how uneasy those red eyes made him..

The attacker, silent and professional, rushes up behind Emizel and CRACKS the metal bat downwards onto his blonde head, the sound ringing out like a  gun shot  in that dark little alleyway.

Soda cringes from just the sound of the impact, but was amazed to find that the bat had warped under the force of it!

The attacker hardly had a chance to process his mangled weapon before Emizel whips around to retaliate.

It looked like he had just swung his hand at his opponent, so the way a shower of red spills outward from the slash, catches Soda completely off guard. The monster boy had cleaved an excruciatingly massive gash up from the attackers right hip, to his left shoulder, the slice spewing with scarlet.

 It wasn't until Emizel had pulled back his arm, that Soda could process the way it had darkened with more than just blood, distorted into an odd, spear-like shape.

The victim hardly had a chance to yelp before that blade swoops up into his chest at the speed of a snapping bear trap, plunging through meat and bone with disturbing ease, and forcing blood and viscera to erupt outwards. The red patters down onto the concrete behind, the sound similar to rain...

With another low, inhuman snarl, Emizel brings the twitching, dying body closer, until that signature squish of teeth sinking into fresh meat bleeds outward into the space.

What a disgusting sound, Sodas first instinct was to simply avert his eyes, but as the sound persists, he resolves that he has to do something.

He finally steps out into the alley, and speaks.

"Hey ma-"

He could hardly get two words out before Emizel suddenly rips its teeth away from its victims throat, tearing out a hefty chunk of jellied meat, and slamming the remaining fodder onto the concrete floor.

It immediately whips around to stare down Soda, red eyes glowing with reflected light, and with hardly a chance to process the moment-

-It's immediately right infront of Soda.

A gasp lurches from Soda's lungs as he almost stumbles back in shock. How was Emizel so fucking fast?

Other than that single step back, Soda was frozen in shock, his tongue buzzing with the physical pain of such a startling jolt. 'White boy jumpscare' is something that came to mind, but while usually such a thought would evoke some sort of laugh from Soda, this time it offered no such comfort. Okay maybe it did a little.

Emizels snarling face was only inches away from Sodas. Its eyes were wild and unnatural, teeth menacingly sharp and reddened with so much fucking blood. It was everywhere, coating most of his face, smothering his shirt and his coat, and absolutely choking the air with its thick, metallic stench.

Soda would gag if he felt he was safe to even move. He felt like he was locking eyes with that of a creature, something he would only ever see in his nightmares or in scary movies. But it was real. Those monsters are real. And his best friend is one of those monsters. His bestest friend in the world...

His mind was skewered on that unnatural glare, completely frozen with anxiety. Stalling too hard to come to a proper conclusion, Soda instead falls back onto what Soda does best.

"H-hey man... You want some soda?"

He very gently presses the opened bottle of Faygo into Emizels chest.

The two boys stand there for a moment, locked in a tense, silent pause, before the monster boy finally peels its gaze down to the bottle.

It's quiet, for a few seconds, the gears turning in its head. Until the monster blinks, and its eyes clear, and Emizel processes the sight of the bottle.

"Oh, fuck yeah dude, is that the Candy Apple Faygo? Man, that stuffs my favorite!" Emizel smiles as he goes to accept the bottle, and immediately takes a massive swig.

Soda tries to disregard the way his hands were still shaking. "Uh, n-nah man, its just Red Po-"

The words are bit off as Emizel suddenly retches, a heavy flood of red blood and red Faygo spewing out onto Soda, as the vampire boys body entirely rejects the fizzy drink.

The shock of getting fucking projectile vomited on had snapped Soda out of whatever daze he was just in, and it seemed to snap Emizel out of it too. Soda backs up with a groan, looking down at all the blood and bile and pop on his shirt and coat.

"Ohhh fuck dude, what the hell??" He cringes, not even wanting to try smearing any of it off with his hand.

Emizel was coughing, still holding out the Faygo bottle, but hunched over as his body dared to convulse again.

"Ohhhhhh fuck, ohhooohhh fuuuuucckkk" he grumbles towards the floor "Fuuuck I’m sorry dude, I don't know what fuckin- oohhhgg shit,” He coughs and groans,  offering the bottle back to Soda.

Soda was still staring at his messied coat with a displeased grimace, but looking up to meet Emizels eyes...

There was a guilt on Emizels face that Soda didn't see too often, and it helped wash away that irritation he felt. This sucked, but Emizel was probably going through a lot more. 

“It’s, uhm.. don't, don't worry about it, man..” Soda decides to reassure him, offering a sympathetic smile, and a hand on Emizels shoulder, as his comrade spits out the remaining blood and bile.

"Fuckin hell… I’m uh, I'm sorry about your shirt, man."

"What? Nahh it's okay man, don’t worry about it." Soda shrugs, taking the Faygo bottle back. "I mean, are you okay man? That uh.. looked like a pretty crazy fight."

Emizel was rubbing his eyes, smearing more blood across his face as he seems to be collecting himself. he spares a glance back at the carnage behind him.  

"Ah.. yeah.. I thought I uh.. I thought I saw that one fucker from uh. That one night. Yknow, the one that uh.." He snaps his fingers, as if trying to summon back the memory. "Vampire bitch... Anyway after that I just kind of, uh.."

He seems to space out again as he looks around. It was as if he was just woken up from a deep sleep, like he was certain he had just known what he was doing, but found the dream escaping him. "I guess I just.. went crazy on these guys. I dunno, they're Fangs anyways." he finally shrugs it all off, but Soda still felt unsatisfied by the answer.

"Oh.. huh…” is the only response he manages to scrounge together. Sure they were Fangs, but did they really deserve.. all that? It just seemed a bit brutal, even by Emizels standards.

He found his eyes wandering over to the split-open head. It was mostly red and bloody, but even in the dark, he could still make out some of the finer details of the gray jelly seeping from the gash. A human brain. He wondered if his own brain looked the same on the inside..

“So what are you doing out here, man?” Emizels question helps Soda pull his eyes away from the gore, instead looking over to his bloodied comrade.

Emizel looked messy and even exhausted, but his drowsy gaze was focused on Soda with a worried expression. 

“Oh, uh, yknow, just a soda run. Decided I would stock up on some Faygo from the Shady Shell.” Soda shrugs, his eyes flickering down to the opened Faygo in his hand. The top was covered in regurgitated blood. unnaturally blackened blood…

“Are you.. okay, by the way? Other than the whole..” Soda gestures vaguely at the gruesome crime scene. “Are you hurt?”

The question has Emizel pausing to consider. He straightens his back and stretches his arms, as if trying to detect any pain from any possible injury. Nothing seemed to be bothering him though, and after a second, he decides to shrug.

“Nah, I'm all good.”

“Oh.. That's good, I uh…” Soda found himself looking over Emizel aswell, searching for any wounds the monster boy might be simply disregarding, as he often does.

There was a fairly gnarly gash on his shin..

“Hey uh, I was actually gonna go hang out by the ledge down that way. Yknow, the one with the funny intersection.” Soda says, gesturing off towards where he intended to go. “Wanna come with?”

Emizel looks back that way, before turning back to Soda with a big smile on his face. 

“Oh hell yeah I do! I love the funny intersection!” he starts to walk down the alley, about to step over the body of the broken skull, when Soda speaks up.

“Uh, hey, shouldn't we uh.. Do something about the.. uh..” He waves a hand over towards the bodies, trying not to look directly at them. 

Emizel spares the corpses an inconvenienced glance, and a sigh, but ultimately shrugs them off. “Ehhh I'll just dump 'em in a dumpster again.. That's what I've been doing anyway.”

“And you're not worried about, like, anyone finding them?”

Soda anxiously watches on as Emizel paces around the body with the torn-out throat, licking the blood from his own mouth. Was his tongue always that long and pointed? That's neat, and normally Soda would point it out, but he was a bit.. preoccupied right now 

“Nahh not really. I haven't had anyone bother me at least.. Anyone been bothering you?” Emizels eyes finally flick back over to Soda. 

“Nah, I'd say things are actually more lax than usual. Anything that would end up being trouble’s been pretty much crushe- er, killed- destr- stamped out, by uh, by you.” Sods was cringing with every attempt to find a word that didn’t make his stomach turn, but Emizel didn’t seem to notice or mind.

Emizels eyes were currently a bit more focused on the body laying before him. He had that weird look on his face again… 

“Uhh, yeah, yeah that's good that uh, no troubles coming back to you guys…”

There’s a moment of quiet between the two as Emizel stares at this corpse, and Soda was about to open his mouth to fill the silence, but Emizel speaks up instead.

“Hey uh, why don’t you go ahead of me? I’ll uh, I'll meet you at the place.” He suggests, pointing vaguely off down the alley, but not removing his eyes from the kill. 

Soda certainly hesitates, his eyes narrowing before he even forms a thought. He opens his mouth to object, but then his eyes flicker back towards the body.

“Are you gonna eat this one too?”

The question leaves Sodas mouth as soon as it comes to mind.

Emizel pauses, and considers, before giving a shrug. “I don't see why not. Perfectly good blood.” He reaches down to grab his kill by the shirt, the one with the split open head. As the corpse rises from the concrete, gray matter drips and sloughs from the crack in its skull. Once again, Soda felt the need to look away, and yet his stupid eyes remained fixated on the horrendous sight. Emizel looks over the spilling brain of his meal, licking his lips curiously. “Dude, what do you think would happen if I ate his brain?” Emizel asks, looking back over to Soda with a wild, bloodied smile. Something about that look made Soda shiver, but.. Not really in a bad way… “Uh, I.. Dunno…. Eating a persons brain is how you get like, mad cow disease right? But you might also be immune to disease.. Are you immune to disease?” “Uhhh, I don't know yet actually. I'm still figuring out how much of this is like video games,” Emizel says, rubbing the back of his head as he idly sways the body of his kill around, watching the blood and gore drip and drop from its broken head. “Eh, I'll chance it later.” Without another word or thought, Emizel goes to sink his teeth into the shoulder of his kill, a pleased growl radiating from him as the blood gushes around the bite. More fresh blood upon less fresh blood upon old blood upon older blood. Just so much fucking blood. Soda thought he was used to seeing blood, but this… this was just egregious. Was he really starting to get used to this? It’s just blood after all, and it’s not from his comrades, so it's… fine… He finally manages to pull his eyes away from the gruesome sight of Emizel feeding, but his eyes instead wander down to the blood on his own shirt. Emizels blood was strange, darker than usual, and carrying a different scent. Something about the smell of his blood was more savory, more appealing than the standard metallic miasm. His shirt was smothered in it, his jacket was coated in it, and his opened bottle of Faygo was also splattered with the deep red ichor. Ink swirls within the bottle of red fizzy, spreading out into all sorts of odd patterns. It was a lot of blood. He was certain a lot of it came from however many people Emizels been feeding on. With how much hes been terrorizing the Fangs in just the last few days, and with how nonchalantly he feasts on his kills, who knows how much blood hes actually ingested… Soda swirls the bottle, watching the blood inside thin out into strands, dancing within the bubbly soda as they gradually dissipate, fully assimilating into the drink. A bad idea chews at the back of his head… The sound of ripping flesh once again knocks at Sodas head. He doesn’t look up this time, but he knew Emizel was just playing with his food again..  Did blood taste good to a vampire? Did some blood taste better than others? What did Sodas blood taste like? What did Emizels blood taste like? There's a visceral snap of something among the chewing and ripping, very clearly a bone or a joint snapping out of place. It made Soda shiver a little. When did his heart start pounding? There's an animal standing only 8 feet away from him, feeding on its kill. That animal is a person, and so is its kill. He wanted to know what vampire blood tasted like, but he already knew what human blood tasted like. It hung so densely in the air, he could feel it forming a vile film over his tongue. The blood of a person just like him. Eaten by an animal that eats people.  All this stress was no good. This bile rising to his throat was no good. This creeping anxiety was no good. He's friends with an animal that eats people. Would it eat him? This weird feeling was no good. Maybe it will never eat him. But it needs to eat people. This worry was no good. He needed to wash this awful taste from his mouth, replace it with something sweeter. He needed to keep his head clear enough to be there for Emizel when he needed to be. He needed to hold a light to these shadows. And he needed to stay positive, and drink soda. He takes a swig of the open Faygo bottle.

[amyreads]

one would think writing a novel where I only have to focus on one main character and one love interest would be easier than writing an IF with like 293929393 ROs and a writing style that has to be considerate of a variety of main characters but no im here to tell you it is not

[naavispider]

[abovetherainandroses]

fake out (love is in the air)

patrick stump/pete wentz | 5.8k | rated E | complete

getting together, pre-TTTYG, ace!Pete

It turns out that when Pete says he's gay above the waist, what he really means is he's everything above the waist.

read on ao3

[resident-rats]

Very back and forth on if it’s even worth making a post about lol. But basically long story short, I’m unsure when I’ll next post a fic. I’ve started one and I’m a good bit into it, just very uncertain as to when I’ll have it finished at the moment

[snowangeldotmp3]

Robin can't find her jacket.

She felt naked without it. It was her armor. And one of the few pieces of clothing that didn’t yell “English Professor!” at the world. But most importantly, it was hers.

And she can’t find it.

She’s looked everywhere for it. Closet. Drawers. Eddie’s place. Steve’s place. Max’s room. Joyce’s diner. The Outback. It’s like it’s vanished in thin air.

The room is a mess, like a tornado came through and left all of her clothes in its wake. Robin knows she probably looks like a maniac searching for the thing, she can’t help it.

It’s at that exact moment when Nancy walks by, head craning to watch Robin’s manic state. “Robin? Is…everything okay?” Nancy asks, leaning against the doorframe.

Robin sits on her knees, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, it’s just,” she pauses, the ridiculousness of it all now crashing down on her, “I can’t find my jacket,” she deflates.

Nancy’s face doesn’t change. She simply asks, “The blue one?”

Robin nods.

“Oh,” Nancy says, pushing off from the frame, “I have it.”

Relief washes like a wave over Robin. “You do?” She asks, before her brows knit together, “why?”

“Mhm, come with me.”

Robin gets up, letting Nancy lead her to what Robin can only assume is Nancy’s bedroom.

This is the first time she’s seeing it. She’s been living with Nancy and Max for the last month now, and it’s the first time she’s seeing Nancy’s room. Nancy’s seen her room dozens of times, (mostly because Robin’s door is always open) but Nancy’s more reserved than Robin is. This feels…more intimate somehow. A room is often a reflection of one’s mind, of their personality, so for Nancy to be showing her this…it feels like they might finally be friends.

(At least, Nancy might finally consider them friends. Robin has considered them friends since they got stuck in the Enchanted Forest, because who rips out a heart like that for someone you were supposed to hate? They shared stories around a campfire like they were fucking Girl Scouts desperate for a new merit badge. Nancy saved Robin in the Enchanted Forest. She considers that to be pretty high on the friendship ladder.)

Nancy walks through the door, Robin close behind, and straight to her closet. Robin takes a moment to observe the room. It’s so quintessentially Nancy that Robin has to flex her fingers, fighting the itch to reach out and touch things, committing them to memory and filing them away to the ‘Nancy’ folder in her brain.

Nancy pushes past her clothes, pulling the dry cleaning bag from her closet. Robin can see the familiar blue before Nancy’s got the bag fully out of the closet. Robin stares at her, dumbfounded. Nancy smiles sheepishly at her.

“After that last battle I noticed it got pretty banged up, so I had Max snatch it when you weren’t looking so I could get it cleaned properly. I know it means a lot to you and I didn’t mean to cause a panic like that it was just the least I could do…” She trails off, handing the jacket back to Robin.

Robin can’t wrap her head around it. One, Max is a traitor who snatches her jackets when she’s not looking. Two, does Nancy…care about her? Consider her a friend? This is a woman who, not even six months ago, was actively trying to make Robin’s life a living hell.

Robin pulls her in a tight hug, eliciting a small, “oof!” from the brunette. Nancy relaxes into the hug, and Robin tries not to think about how perfectly hug-sized Nancy is. “Thank you,” she whispers, squeezing one last time before letting go.

When Robin lets go, she ignores the way Nancy’s face glows a brighter shade of red, and stammers, “Oh—it’s…it’s nothing, you know. I just—“

It’s adorable.

Warmth blooms through her chest, waves of it washing over her. She smiles.

Nancy was a queen. An evil queen. And now she’s caring for Robin’s things and fumbling over her words and blushing and Robin wants nothing more than to just—

No. No, not here, not now. She will not ruin this, whatever it is they have going, because of her stupid feelings.