#He can make complex physics calculations in mere MOMENTS

[meowmeowuchiha]

I personally headcanon that Deidara is insanely good at math, but ONLY when it pertains to his art, because to him that's the only time it matters.

Making damn near immediate calculations regarding power of an explosion + all the objects around it + locations of targets to be hit and things to avoid in order to determine exactly how shit will blow apart? So he can set off a bomb in close quarters to get his target but not severely wound himself? He's so good at that shit it's subconscious at this point

If he's asked to calculate percentages for some financial piece of bullshit from Kakuzu or something? Suddenly he's absolutely incompetent and gives a wildly incorrect estimate because he just couldn't care less and decided to spit out a random arbitrary number

Very very good at math, but only when he WANTS to be

[restitutor-orbis]

Ok, but actually this.

I was originally just going to put this just in the tags, but it was getting too long.

It is pretty telling to me, both as a son of Afghan immigrants, a brown man, and someone whose religion is considered not the norm in western countries, that many folks who use these types of arguments - that Aang was selfish for trying not to kill Ozai - are coming from the West. Although I do not wish to generalize, it is significant to point out that such an argument is inherently one baked in colonial perceptions, regardless if these individuals wish to view it as such or not.

We must consistently recall: Aang is not just the Avatar. He is not just an airbender. He is quite literally the last airbender. Full stop. Although the Air Temples remain as architecture, the living aspects of the Airbenders were wiped out, nearly completely by the Fire Nation. This wasn't a biproduct of assimilation and adoption of Fire Nation culture, but a systematic, calculated, devastating plan organized by Sozin that was immensely effective. The social and cultural bonds in which Aang formed were ripped asunder by Sozin and by the Fire Nation. One moment you are awake, and your people are a vibrant heart of life, and the next the heartbeat is gone, lying cold and dead as stone.

Perhaps the Airbenders did want to teach Aang the more complex elements of Air nomad philosophy, allowing for the relapsing of pacifism in the face of physical threats - maybe that is what the other Monks were critiquing Gyasto for, because of his love for Aang he wished not to teach him the more...mentally harming aspects of Airbending, the one to stop a man's breath in his lungs; and maybe that is why the Monks were going to send Aang to another Air Temple so other Monks who do not have the same ties as Gyasto can more - in their mind - impassively teach Aang such methods as war drew near.

But they could not do that. True, because Aang ran away, but that does not negate that Aang still retains lasting, and significant, aspects of Air nomadic philosophy. Merely by existing, he carries the burden not only as the Avatar but as the last remnant of a nearly eradicated people. That is heavy for anyone to bare, let alone a child.

And as a child, who "went to sleep" knowing his people were alive - in danger, but alive - the realization that they weren't once he woke up would have been traumatic for anyone. All of that, gone in seemingly just a few moments.

So, of course Aang would want to preserve his culture by acting like them and holding true to their principles - true, he may be childish but that also has to do with Gyasto's own living philosophy it seemed, or in general since Iroh did point out that they did have a great sense of humor.

Yet, it is more telling to me that others in the fandom often seem to lean into Zuko or Sokka's level of thinking, that Ozai has to die no matter the cost. They point at Aang for being selfish, but I'll argue Sokka, and especially Zuko, here are more selfish than Aang. Zuko especially, despite his attempts not to, dismisses Aang's airbending heritage not only once - when he makes fun of Aang - but also when Aang discusses with Zuko about Katara and her plans to take revenge for her mother. Zuko's mindset is still heavily based in Fire Nation colonial thought, even if he is trying to be better. Regardless if he personally does not view Aang as lesser, he still thinks that the Air bending notion of the sacredness of life is childish. Similarly, I find that most proponents of Aang killing Ozai are coming from the colonial heritage of the West, be them in America or Europe, where the prevalence of culture is still overwhelmingly that of inherited Europeanness.

Sure, at least in America, people might be upon to other cultures in theory, there is often the level of colonial thoughts regarding Muslim women and the hijab - rather than examining the complexities of religion and social identification, often westerners take this position of "liberation" of the Muslim women - which can be seen about the numerous times where Muslim women are extravagantly unveiled in television shows and it is depicted as some heroic action of self defiance. Rather than viewing how many Muslim women in the West, many but not all, see the hijab - that of a cultural and social marker, a proud display of their faith in Islam, and arguably a great demonstration of religious freedom, serving as encouragement to other Muslim women around the world that both freedom of religion can still co-exist with a strong faith, that women are the ultimate deciders on how they wish to display their faith and love for their God - many westerners still have this colonial and imperialist perception where one to be "liberated" the "backward" culture and religion of these women should be completely thrown away, that western, particularly white, womanhood is the true example of freedom - that inherently, Muslim women need to be save through westernization rather than by their own adoption and conceputalization made with their own choice.

This can be similarly seen with Aang and Zuko, and to the lesser extent the others as well. None of them can comprehend being the last of their cultural and socio-religious identity. Sure, Katara might in terms of being the last waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe, but she still had a social and cultural outlet with the other water tribe members. Her culture is still there, and is exemplified by her mingling together aspects of northern and southern waterbending. Aang does not have any of that. No one besides maybe Iroh and Guru Pathik understands Airbending culture, and neither of those two can really experience Airbending culture like the original monks. They have their own cultural self-identifiers, despite Iroh's growth and adoption of numerous aspects of the different other elements in outlook.

By killing Ozai, Aang would break one of the most important aspects, in his conception, of Air nomad culture and philosophical values. That is already a horrendous idea to have a twelve year old to deal with, but to have a child of genocide having to make that break of his cultural identity is worse; and then choosing to mock him by saying he is weak or he was foolish just shown a strong colonial mindset not only provided by certain characters - Zuko - but by the fandom as well.

And honestly, I think Aang did far worse then killing Ozai. He quite literally took the thing Ozai was most proud of and identified as: his firebending. He, in essence, killed Ozai, whose everything was his pride and dominance. To me, that is far more satisfying to see then just seeing Ozai being killed.

some of your goofy asses for the past 20 years

[yandere-wishes]

🖤💔Yandere!Demon Slayers As Demons💔🖤

Dear readers for the first time in two weeks I offer you something that isn't a random post or a rant. This is an AU that I’ve been working on for a while, and seeing how this turns out I might continue it in terms of one shots and a mini series. Please enjoy!!

👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺👺

Demon Tanjiro is much more complex than his human counterpart. His mood fluctuates too much, alternating between a loving docile young demon desperate for his lover's warm embrace, to a rabid beast who's willing to tear your stomach open with his claws and feast on your entrails while you're still breathing. He's just too unpredictable, what makes him praise you and litter your body with toothy kisses, might just get your arm dislocated the next day. There's just no telling, he just isn't Tanjiro anymore, he's some wild, savage, murderous monster wearing Tanjiro's face.

He's always watching...

His mere gaze isn't enough to turn you into a motionless rag doll. Slumped in the corner like a forgotten toy. No, but his silence is. The way his eyes are locked on you as if your some sort of little bunny that waltzed into his territory, the way his mouth is sewn shut by some invisible thread, the way his head is tilted to the side like he was trying to calculate your next move...it's all too tranquil, too clam, just like the eye of a hurricane. 

Languidly Tanjiro begins to crouch down, his moves are rapid and glitchy as if he isn't in control of his own body. Somewhere you hear something cracking, it's a dreadful noise like hammers pounding at your skull. It's only when you lift your eyes to the Oni in front of you, do you realize the noise is coming from him. It's like he's deforming in some way, dying and regenerating all in a single breath...and yet he still looks so...so beautiful. 

Even while he's stalking towards you on hands and knees, you can't deny how stunning he looks. Mouth molded into a small smile, long rust-colored locks pooling on the ground around him and his eyes... they're red one second and brown the next, changing ever so quickly just like his moods. 

He's much more passive like this, you note as if you've made some sort of groundbreaking discovery. So docile and calm...almost like a storm before it strikes. No, Tanjiro is not a storm you remind your self. He's a lion stalking its prey, relishing in the taunting silence it radiates by its mere presence.

Tanjiro's eyes have lost all hope, all passion. They're nothing more than empty spheres resting in his sockets.

You vaguely remember -or at least you think you do- a time when every action coming from the rust haired boy was entangled in a blanket of passion, every move had a clear purpose, every word was laced with an unyielding fire that had been beaten into his spirit. But now....well you didn't know what he was now, what Mozen and his sadistic "creations" had turned him into. What had they stolen from him? Was it his soul, his hope, or maybe something far worst.

Your amazement only shatters when you notice just how close he's gotten. His icy cold breath tickling the side of your neck. You squirm, pressing your palms flat against his chest. Tangiro doesn't flinch, his head cocks back to the side, his broken stare, vaguely reminds you of a discarded doll. Maybe that's what he is, not a slayer or a demon, just some broken doll that keeps you locked up in his room so that he can get a sense of being needed.

A wave of empathy crashed over you. Wearily you dropped your arms to your side, in a flash Tangiro wraps his long gauntly arms around you, squashing your bones as he pulled you ever so closer to him, nuzzling his visage in the crock of your neck.

Tanjiro Kamado may have once been a remarkable demon slayer on his way to becoming the next water piller of the demon slayer corps...but now he was nothing more than a pitiful broken demon, seeking the feeling of humanity inside a breaking, mortified girl. 

👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

Zenitsu is a lot bolder, a lot pushier with his affection now that he's been turned into a demon. He wants you to love him the way he loves you, only this time he isn't afraid to break a leg or two, so you'll have no choice but to stay with him. 

His child-like tendencies are still there, albeit demented, yet ever-present. The tantrums and endless crying are as frequent as ever...except now, well now he breaks a bone for every tear YOU make him spill and leaves a scar for every time YOU couldn't satisfy him. Just remember that none of this is poor Zenitsu's fault, oh no, how could it be his fault? He's given you everything you could ever dream of! Even though you're nothing more than a pathetic useless human, Zenitsu still took you as his beloved wife! You should be grateful to him, dedicate your every living second to him, play the role of the loving, caring wife! Not some ungrateful brat, who is always trying to run away!

And yet, you've become oddly accustomed to it. No longer do you mind the screams and beatings. They've grown to be a part of you, a sick and twisted thing that resides within you, infecting your every thought. Much like how Zenitsu's become a heartsick, defective shell of his former self.  

"STOP IT"

something shattered against the wall, breaking into a million flying shards.  The noise echoed through the light less room. Weary, your eyes flashed from the broken remains of what may have been an antique vase, to the crying monster in front of you. The tips of his long curved horns were turning a stark blood red, an indication that his blood was starting to boil. Although you didn't need the mood indicating head tusks to know just how upset the blond crybaby had gotten, they were still a nice little warning to remind you of just how far you could push him. 

"Stop trying to escape!"

Had his voice amplified since your last "screaming contest"?

Did Muzen really think that Zenitsu's voice needed to get any louder, anymore irritating? 

"I wasn't" you deadpanned, your arms crossed in front of your chest. "How can I, did you forget what you did to my leg this morning?" the bones inside your left leg had been deformed, causing your entire leg to point sideways. It was a detestable sight, yet it seemed to fill your rotting heart with a sense akin to a school girl's crush. 

'Zenitsu-chan still loves me! See, see, he went out of his way to touch me!'

'No you idiot, he went out of his way to hurt you.'

Your mind had seemingly been slashed in half since your arrival at the former demon slayer's hideout. One tiny voice acted like a deranged lovesick little girl. Whist the other pertained some form of logic and common sense. This typically led to many interior arguments, all bordering on the exact same premise.

HE LOVES ME

HE'S HURTING ME

HE LOVES ME

HE'S HURTING ME

HE LOVES ME

HE'S HURTING ME

HE LOVES ME

HE'S HURTING ME

HE LOVES ME

HE'S HURTING ME

HE LOVES ME

HE'S HURTING ME

"Quit your whining!" the voice that escaped your lips, was flat and commanding, for a second it vaguely reminded you of Giyu Tomioka before the memory of your former lover shattered. Zenitsu's crying continued but his angry shouts slowly died down, his golden eyes shifted to stare directly at you. wearily you lifted your hands towards him, like an infant begging to be picked up. 

"I'm hungry Zenitsu! Take me into the kitchen, after all, it's your fault I'm like this!" 

Sure Zenitsu was much more powerful than you, sure he could snap your neck, ending your pitiful life at any moment. But his desperate need for approval -something else that had transcended from his human life to his current one- gave you the upper hand in this muddle of a relationship. 

As a demon Inosuke is more...feral, for lack of a better word. He is all so keen on seeing just how far he can push his darlings limits, both mentally or physically. 

He's always hovering around you, trailing his clawed fingers over patches of exposed skin. Smirking all so curly as you shiver and shrink back. His knife-like fangs seen to be permanently impaling your neck. Draining you of your life force. He's just so damn heartless!

 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️ 🗡️

Although he may be a ruthless monster, a creature of the night that fed on the innocent, there was no denying that Inosuke was resourceful, resourceful, and strong. He knew just where to hide you, so you would neither be found nor have a chance to escape. There was also the way he routinely cracked your fibula and tibia as a “preprecaution”. 

Your arm wasn't meant to bend that way, neither was your leg when you thought about it. Yet despite the odd angle there had yet to be any cracking or popping to indicate the limp had been, once again, broken. The only real evidence to suggest that the limps were in fact being abused was the white scorching pain coursing through them. A feeling that you had almost grown entirely familiar with.

Inosuke's green eyes shifted lazily between your scrunched up face and the twisting limps. One of his "normal" arms was occupied mangling your left arm, the other two appendages that sprouted from his back were pulling your leg upwards at the knee joint.  Inosuke's head leaned over his remaining arm, he looked bored, like your pain was so mundane that it couldn't even grant him a mere chuckle. 

"I like it better when you scream" his voice was laced with a demanding malice, something bitter and rotting. "It's boring when you try to act all strong and mighty". 

You weren't acting, acting required skills, and an audience who wanted to believe in the performer. No, your lack of response wasn't a show of strength or iron will, it was merely because your vocal cords had been shrieked raw, preventing them from making a single peep. 

Your tear-filled eyes shot up to stare into his depraved orbs. Had there ever been a time when his eyes didn't strike fear into those who peered into them? You highly doubted it, heck the idea of Inosuke ever being anything less than terrifying was a laughable thought. 

An eerie familiar noise filled the room, the cracking noise happened in three instances, like three swipes of a blade. First, it was your talus followed by your patella, and then to finish the spin chilling symphony was the crescendo of your breaking humerus for the hundredth time. 

Tears began to flow rapidly from your eyes, staining your thin layer of clothes. You could feel Inosuke's presence shifting about, leaning ever so closer to nuzzle into the side of your neck. His teeth grazing the already punctured skin. 

Inosuke use to be a demon slayer right? A passionate young man who wanted nothing more than to destroy the very same monsters that he himself became? What a laughable story, a fictional tale if ever you'd heard one!

This man was and would always be nothing more than a cruel demon!

[yoongi-sugaglider]

Artemis Rising

The story of a Goddess and a Demi God, star crossed lovers whose story was lost to the complexity of history. The truth is they were wronged. All because of the jealousy of a brother. Can they escape their fate in a modern age? Can reincarnation allow her to finally reunite with the ones who loved her?

genre: angst ; reincarnation/Greek mythology au ; werewolf au

pairing: Yoongi x reader; ot7 x reader ; ft: Ateez

warnings: abusive relationship, physical abuse towards reader, vengeful ot7, inaccurate description of Ateez as aggressive (they’re sweet babies I swear! But Eomma needed a bad guy), fighting, character death, of age drinking (more to be added mayhaps?)

Word count: 3197

Chapter 2

Above the moon waned, it’s glorious light barely casting a glow upon the stilled seas that would normally grace sweet Gaia’s shores.

“My child, why do you weep so?” Leto stepped from the shadows. The soothing calm that normally encased the Titan Goddess of motherhood was gone, replaced with a sense of distress and panic at the sight of her precious daughter weeping upon a piece of sea swept driftwood.

“Mother…” Artemis sobbed, reaching out to the tall figure and crumpling into her lap.

“Artemis, my darling. Speak to me. Who is the cause of your tears?”

It took the moon goddess a while to answer, so wrapped up in her grief that her entire body trembled and the moon shed a little more of its light, now barely a sliver in the sky.

“It’s O...Orion. He’s...he’s gone mother. By mine own hand…”

Leto gasped, pulling away to stare down at Artemis with wide eyes.

“The young hunter boy? The one who’d caught your eye and joined you in your hunts?”

“The very same. Oh mother what do I do?”

The night wore on as the goddess of the moon wept, seeking comfort in the arms of Leto who could only stroke her back in comfort and attempt to soothe her broken soul.

The sun began to rise, it’s golden glow muted and pale as Apollo approached.

“Son. Is this your doing?” A hint of anger leached into the benevolent Titan’s voice as she gave her only son a heated stare.

“Mother...I…”

“You knew it was him!” Artemis stood, short sword in hand as she rounded on her once beloved brother. “You knew and you challenged me anyway! All of this born of your stupid misplaced jealousy!” 

“Sister, please I just…”

Artemis cut him off, lunging forward with all of the intent of driving the golden steel of the Gods through his chest.

“Artemis no!!”

***

Panic gripped me as I lunged forward, arm outstretched as if attempting to reach...something.

I shook my head in bewilderment, hoping the motion would wake me up enough to remember the dream that had left me with tear stained cheeks and a pillow soaked in my own grief. As with every other dream of mine though, it’d faded too fast. A wisp of a thing fading away in the morning light.

I sighed, finally allowing my hand to fall to the coolness of the bedsheet. A glance beside me let me know that once again Hongjoong had woken long before me...that or he’d never come to bed as the sheets beside me were as cold and empty as always.

I sighed again, letting the loneliness of the early morning caress my cheeks and dry the tears left over from the formless nightmare. Eventually I was able to get myself motivated enough to get up and start the day. It was honestly a perk working from home that I didn’t have a specific time to get up. But I preferred working on my writing early on in the day so that I could have the evenings to myself to relax and do whatever needed to be done before Hongjoong got home.

After a quick shower and change of clothes I made my way down to the kitchen in the hopes of having a quiet breakfast.

"Miss…"

I couldn't help the squeak that left my lips when Yeosang's strong, deep voice echoed through the vast expanse of the kitchen. Eyes wide I stared at his broad back, confused as to how he even knew I was standing in the doorway. Standing at the stove was Seonghwa, cooking away in a world of his own.

At Yeosang’s acknowledgement of my presence Seonghwa glanced over to me. I couldn’t help but wither under his intense stare. A frown formed between his eyebrows as he took in the bruise on my left cheek that I’d failed to cover up with several layers of concealer along with the way I shrunk away from their combined stares.

Neither of them commented though and it came as a relief that they turned back to their respective tasks after a moment more of silence. 

“There’s omelet rolls on the way. Meat’s cooked and on the table.” Seonghwa’s words weren’t spoken to anyone but I knew they were aimed at me. Whispering out a quick thank you I scurried over to the dining table, head down and eyes pinned to the small pile of bacon sitting before me.

The rest of the meal was delivered quickly, the imposing men’s silence deafening as usual as they seemed to tiptoe around me. I’d come to expect and accept it at this point as it seemed that each of my bodyguards was absolutely terrified of reaching out to me in any way.

I could have used the comfort. Used some sort of touch or a soothing word to get through the monotony of my days. But I suppose that’s what Yoongi was for…

So I turned to him. Once dishes were done and put away I began texting him, checking in on his day, asking the usual best friend questions and hanging on to every time the phone would vibrate while I worked in the relative quiet of my little writing corner. Before I’d even realized it, the day had moved on without me.

I glanced up out of the window, startling myself at the abrupt darkness that had swallowed the day and cast the world into the deepest recesses of twilight. Somehow I’d missed lunch and dinner, and the hunger gnawed at my stomach in a way that made me nervous just thinking about it.

Hongjoong would be home by now, and the mere thought of facing him after last night set me on edge.

“Have you been holed up in here all day?”

I couldn’t help the squeak of fear that escaped me. Whipping around I stared wide eyed at Hongjoong who’d somehow walked into my office without me hearing and was leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hongjoong...I...I didn’t hear you come in…” I pressed my hand against my chest, struggling to still the rapid beating of my heart.

He smirked, dropping his arms and pushing away from the doorframe. His movements were so smooth, so calculated. My gaze swept his figure as he stalked towards me like a predator, noting he was still in his business suit and tie though the latter was untied and hung loosely from his neck.

“Good. You weren’t supposed to.”

I shrunk down in my chair as he towered over me, shadows cast on his face making it hard to gauge his mood or what he could possibly want with me.

“Your meeting. It went well I hope?” No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shove the slight quiver in my voice down and I hated myself for it. Hated that his presence alone struck such a level of fear in me even without him having done anything.

“Hmm…” His noncommittal hum echoed through the room and some part of me screamed in disgust at the way my body sagged with relief when he turned away from me and moved back to the bedroom door.

“I met with a few social acquaintances of mine.” Ever so slowly he closed the door, as if shutting the world out of our conversation. It wasn’t really necessary, no one here would ever dare walk in on him without announcing themselves first. 

“Oh?” My tongue darted out to wet my lips and his eyes followed the motion almost hungrily. I couldn’t help but suppress the shudder of fear that raced through my bloodstream.

 “You’re...acquaintances with that popular boy band...yes?” I couldn’t quite tell what he was after. His tone of voice was flat, almost as if he was already bored with the conversation even though he’d been the one to initiate it.

I turned in my computer chair to face him fully, watching as he leaned heavily on the closed door and folded his arms over his chest.

“I’m friends with them, yeah. Is...there…”

The sly grin that flashed across his face set every alarm bell ringing in my head. He was planning something, and the implications could honestly mean anything but none of it was anything good.

“I want you to invite them to the party tomorrow night. Make sure they come, no exceptions.” 

I blinked, head tilting to the side as I followed his every move. He pushed away from the wall, stalking over to me slowly. It took everything in me to sit still instead of retreating back into myself as the predatory threat loomed over me in the form of Hongjoong’s imposing figure.

I stared at his chest for a moment as he pressed his hands on either side of me on the desk, effectively caging me in. When I’d finally found the nerve to look him in the eyes the fire there had me instantly shrinking in on myself.

“I want them there, no exceptions. No excuses.”

“Y...yes, okay Hongjoong…”

He continued staring at me for a long moment, face morphing into various emotions from distaste to mistrust and finally settling on neutral disgust. Grabbing my chin he pulled me close, sealing his lips against mine in some form of possessive dominance that had me melting in to him despite every cell of my being wanting to pull away and protect myself from him.

“That’s my good girl.” Patting my cheek he turned and marched off, leaving me confused and irritated with myself for the display of weakness.

***

“Hyung, remind me why we agreed to this again?” Jungkook coughed, slim fingers curled into the collar of his tie as he struggled to breathe around it.

“Because y/n asked us to, that’s why.” Seokjin growled, grabbing the young boy by the arm and twirling him just enough to reposition the tie accordingly and allow Jungkook to breathe.

“Well, I mean besides that…'' Jungkook blushed, eyes darting through the entryway and into the rest of the massive mansion. It’d taken everything Yoongi had to convince them to take their one day off to support their best friend. They’d been all for it up until he mentioned it’d been to support Kim Hongjoong’s ‘important announcement’. At that point they’d just about all gotten up and walked away until he mentioned she’d begged him specifically.

“Well here’s to hoping the food is at least good…” Taehyung muttered as he shoved his way into the entry hall and tossed his overly long coat at the poor overloaded coat rack in the corner.

“I swear if that fucker tries to make trouble for her tonight I’m going to tear his throat out.” Hoseok growled, eyes narrowed to slits as he’d just spotted the man in question.

Hongjoong strutted across the hall, disappearing through the large glass doors that led out to the lanai and the massive back yard where the main portion of the party was held.

“We’ll do no such thing.” Namjoon said. He placed a calming hand on Hoseok’s shoulder, giving the younger men each a piercing look that set them back to their relaxed state of alert once more.

“At least not until she’s ready to let him go and come home with us.” Yoongi huffed. He nodded for the lanai. “Let’s get out there, our girl needs us.”

The group complied, putting on their idol faces and smiling and waving to the small crowd that gathered as soon as they stepped out into the fairy light lit backyard. Finding her wasn’t hard. She flitted to and fro, handling one disaster or another while keeping a small smile plastered on her face as she played hostess to the hundreds of guests that’d been invited to witness whatever it was Hongjoong had planned to announce.

There even appeared to be several high ranking members of the press hanging around. Most hovering over the buffet style food tables while others interviewed various members of the staff along with guests in the hopes of getting an exclusive on what this party could be about.

“Vultures…” Yoongi muttered as he nursed the cup of punch he’d been handed by some faceless waiter.

“Aye, but they have their use. Keeps the eye on Hongjoong and off of me.” The soft voice that whispered beside him had him instantly grinning.

“Well hi there gorgeous.” He turned to her, eyes darting over her form to take in the sultry green dress she’d donned. The silken material hugged her in places that had him salivating, luckily though he was able to school his features quickly before she or anyone else could notice the hungry look he’d barely been able to control.

“Oh hush Yoongs. You know this is my least favorite dress.” She blushed, turning away from him to subtly fan the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Yeah, that may be. But anyone would be a fool not to appreciate what you’re flaunting.” He snickered half heartedly, hoping she’d take it as a joke and not as the truth he so desperately wanted to scream at her no matter who happened to be watching.

“Thank you for coming, Yoongi…” She whispered, eyes darting over to the grand stage Hongjoong had insisted be set up in the center of the garden.

“Anything for you little moon.” His words went unheard though as Hongjoong chose that moment to clear his throat into the microphone and interrupt any conversation that may have been taking place.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I’d like to have your attention for a moment if you don’t mind!”

“As you are all aware, my family has been a leading edge to our beautiful city for many a generation. My father swore to uphold the law to the best of his ability, and when he passed several years ago it left a void in so many people’s hearts. His father before him served as well, standing with his fellow citizens to fight against oppression and the government corruption that’d been keeping us all down up until his final breath.” Hongjoong bowed his head as the crowd applauded, cheering his forefathers and shouting various praises as to Hongjoong’s own accomplishments.

He held up a hand, shooting them all a winning smile as they quieted down to allow him to continue.

“Pompous prick…” Yoongi muttered, taking a sip of his punch to hide the movement of his lips.

“Tonight we are gathered here, not only in celebration, but in unity. To come together not as reporters and millionaires and chefs and idols. But as fellow citizens brought together by a single cause, to make this city great again! To make our neighborhoods safer and our children safer. To bring us all together under one unified cause so that we can make Seoul great again!”

The crowd roared to life, cheering Hongjoong’s name and surging forward to crowd the stage as he smiled upon them on like so many obedient children.

“And so!” He spoke over the cheers, somehow making himself heard despite the noise. “I’m officially announcing myself as being in the running for mayor. Rejoice! For change is here!”

The woman beside Yoongi squeaked, her face deathly pale as she seemed to be on the verge of either throwing up or passing out. Yoongi knew that look, knew the impending panic attack that came along with it and began ushering her towards the relative safety of the house.

“Yoongi I…”

“Hush little moon, let’s get you inside and away from this crowd.” His fingers curled around her arm and she seemed to want to lean into the touch, but just before they could reach the door she stopped and turned to him with a wide eyed stare.

“I...I was supposed to make sure we had more sauce for the shrimp cocktail… I...I can’t go in just yet…”

A throat cleared behind them and Yoongi instantly dropped his hand, turning to address the newly announced politician.

“Hongjoong..” Yoongi nodded, barely a jerk of his head in confirmation of the man’s presence really but it was just visible enough as to not seem disrespectful of the man’s status.

“Ah! The famous Min Yoongi!” The politician grinned, pulling his woman close and gripping her hip tightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard many good things about you from my precious fiancé.”

Yoongi grunted in response. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, claws growing and sharpening in response to his growing rage. At the first pinch of pain as they broke the skin he released his fists, forcing his fingers to hang limply at his side.

“Y/n, have you dealt with the catering issues my dear?”Hongjoong turned to her, eyes piercing into her own. It was him dismissing her from the conversation.

She glanced over to Yoongi, eyes filled with apology as she bowed low to the both of them, nearly bent in half as she excused herself from the conversation.

Hongjoong watched her leave, his stare predatory in nature as he watched her disappear into the crowd.

“I heard you’re running for mayor.” Yoongi spoke quietly, knowing the puffed up man would be able to hear him over the noise of the crowd of partygoers. 

“Ah, you have?” Hongjoong turned back to Yoongi, that predatory glare still filling his eyes with an insanity that only those born to create chaos and destroy others could possess. “It’s a lofty goal I know. But I feel the need to change things comes with power. And this world could really use a little bit of change don’t you think?”

Yoongi knew he didn’t mean positive change of any kind. This man was far too prone to violence to mean anything more than chaos and destruction. 

“How does y/n feel about all this?” Yoongi casually took a sip of his drink. He angled his body away from Hongjoong slightly, eyes darting around the garden. He spotted Jimin and Namjoon heading towards y/n and a small part of him relaxed greatly.

“Y/n? Now why would her opinion matter in the slightest?”

At that Yoongi returned the entirety of his attention to the mad man. “Why...she’s going to be your wife soon. Doesn’t the idea that she’s being thrust into the limelight bother her?”

Hongjoong shrugged, lifting his glass to take a sip of champagne. “Honestly no. She knew my goals before she said yes. If she has anything negative to say about it she’ll tell me and we can address it accordingly.”

The pure menace in his tone let Yoongi know the discussion wouldn’t be very long and would almost surely end up with her gaining a new bruise or two, if not a trip to the hospital.

“For her sake Hongjoong...I really do hope you have her best interests at heart…” Yoongi turned to the man, his drink long forgotten as he fixed the man with a fierce glare.

“Because if anything else happens to her and I find you...you’ll wish you’d stayed in whatever gutter hole you crawled out of to get here.”

[mintseesaw]

huling sandali 

translation. last moment ⇀ an entry for paraluman playlist

pairing: namjoon x reader genre: angst, est. relationship au word count: 2.2k warnings: themes of insecurities being triggered, emotional struggles, a break-up drabble a.k.a not a happy ending // pg-13

drabble request by @jim-parkin​​ with “pighati + namjoon” hi hjdgdhsgsg im sorry it took me 3254 years to write this :((( i hope you like it. Also, happy belated birthday, alyssa!!! huh i just found out like 10 hrs ago prior to posting this on my first attempt hfdkdjdh im a horrible friend but ily ;-( *unedited

Namjoon arrived home by the time you started packing your stuff. He found you sitting on the living room floor, casually sorting things and putting them in labeled boxes laid in front of you.

You were supposed to ignore him, just like what he’s been doing in the past week. You realized, days of argument after argument before seems better than a whole week of silence in the apartment. The loneliness becomes greater, the glassy tension— unbearable, and his passive treatment more than anything else, hurts you the most.

You couldn’t look at him, having no will to possibly see the indifference on his face while he watches you gradually removing your traces in his place.

As seconds turn minutes since the distinct click of the door closing snaps shut, you took notice of the prolonged silence without the tap of the heels of his black shoes on the granite floor resonating through the living room. With your curiosity suddenly distracting you out of your focus, your head tilted on your side to peek behind you.

There he was, standing so tall and so formal with a frown on his face. His eyes shone not because of the lenses of his glasses but from the unshed tears on his eyes. When your gazes met, he was quick to crane his neck to the opposite side.

You open your mouth to call him to gather his attention. But he was already walking away out of the living room.

It’s been a whole week since you told him you’ll move out. He perfectly understood the implication of it. He objected, tried to convince you not to leave. When his attempts went futile, he did stop trying. Then fostered the silence between the two of you.

He avoided you while you try to make things right by keeping the break up somewhat acceptable on both terms. His refusal to speak with you seemed to convince you that, somehow, he had given up, silently giving you the signal to proceed on your plans.

Half an hour later, you began emptying half of the wardrobe in the walk-in closet. Coincidentally, he was in the shower at the time. After work, he’d routinely clean himself up before he rests or eats dinner with you. However, he stopped taking meals with you nor stayed in the bedroom to read the day you broke the word to him. With his persistence to avoid your presence, you’re almost sure he would let you be in peace while you packed the last bit of your clothes from the closet.

You’re supposed to leave days ago. The tenant of the apartment complex you found weeks prior has been non stop bugging you to move in.

However, you cannot just leave without a proper goodbye to him. In fact, he should be the one leaving you, not the other way around. But he couldn’t do that. Because he owns this place just as much as he owns nearly everything here including your heart.

Namjoon would never ask you to leave, even if he wants you to. That’s how much goodness there is in him. You just happened to take advantage of it and live comfortably by his side.

With your emotions at bay, a silent tear spid down your cheeks, leaving a dot of patch on the fabric of your folded clothes as you fill up your luggage on the bed.

Mere seconds later just as you hear the bathroom door opening, you feel the familiar, strong arms snaked over your waist from behind making you still instantaneously on the spot.

“Namjoon—“

“Don’t… don’t leave.” He says to you for the first time in a week.

His wet hair quickly drenches the spot on your shoulder where he laid his forehead.

Squeezing his hand pressed on your stomach, you smile weakly without facing him. “We talked about this.”

You felt his forehead grazing your shoulder blade as he shakes his head, “I don’t agree with this.”

“We both need this. We need to give each other time to breathe.” You murmur under your breath, nearly admitting the real reason behind your decision. That you knew. You knew he was suffering, and he was trying not to show it to you.

“I don’t need it if you’re not with me.” Namjoon says back, the grip of his arms around tightening.

Sighing, “You’re smarter than me, Joon. You know it’s been tough for the both of us. You’ve been so patient with me and I know you’re getting tired.”

“We can s-still make this work. Fighting is normal. Arguments allow us to speak of our minds. We learn but we move on from it because we love each other.”

“We tried, Joon. So many times. So many times that there’s nothing left of me but doubts and insecurities.”

Namjoon plants a subtle kiss on the side of your head. You remained pliant to his embrace, almost not wanting for him to let you go. For him to insist his place in your life despite your determination to fulfill what you need to do.

“I can wait until you’re ready to love yourself, again.” He attempts once more. He’s always honest with his thoughts so you know he’s sincere when he speaks his heart out.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Then tell me what I should do, please don’t give up just yet.”

His words are like a twisting fire of a knife in your chest, slithering your heart apart and burning the shreds into ashes. The room suddenly feels suffocating and stiff.

Disentangling his arms around your waist, you turn to finally face him. If you’re not only so emotionally invested with the confrontation, you could have stared at him and let your eyes admire every detail on his face until he shies away from your peer that cheeks bloom with crimson tint. Just like the old times.

But your chances have run out, moments have fleeted, your time with him is almost over. Your palms harshly wiping wet traces on your cheeks, refusing to cry in front of him. With a tilt of your chin up, he struck you with his sorrowful, pleading eyes.

“Do you really want someone like me? Someone who depends on you— financially, physically, emotionally? You meet a lot of successful women and I fear that I’m not gonna be enough for you. Joon, I’ll always worry and pick up fights with you.”

Tears brimmed on his eyes, shaking his head to stress his disagreement. “You are more than enough for me. I didn’t love you because of what you have. I fell in love with you because of what’s in here,” he points at your chest.

“Why, it’s you who has a pure soul. You have everything a man could have asked for. Any woman would fall at your feet to earn your attention,” your voice deteriorating as your head falling in morose, suddenly losing the ability to hold his stare with the facade of a strength you’re putting up. “You know, I’m so lucky to have you. I’ve always told you that. But now, things changed. You’re suffering because of me. It’s how I realized I have to let you go because I want you to be happy, again.”

He gathers your face with his palms, forcing you to look at him. “No, no, no. That’s not true. You make me happy.. Please, stop this, you’re everything to me…”

His warm breaths fanning your skin with his heavy, calculated breathing.

“It’s me,” you pause, “You’ve taught me how to love but I chose the wrong way, I loved you too much than what I’m capable of giving. Now I’m lost and I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He inches his face closer until his nose is touching your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to change you. I thought I was doing the right thing for you. I want you to dream, I want to see you soar high with your chosen profession. Please, baby don’t leave me. We could fix this.”

No, he was getting the wrong impressions. You didn’t regret going back to college when he pleaded you to. You didn’t regret setting aside your passion for art to continue the education you once took up before you left ran away from home. None of the ugly thoughts poisoning your mind were his doing. It was you and your insecurities.

“It’s not your fault. You saved me, remember? I met you at the time I was drowning in grief. Then I started dreaming. And the day you confessed your feelings to me, you made my dream come true. That was more than enough for me, Joon. Every inch of you became my happiness and it pains me to see I’m the one making you suffer.”

“Listen to me, _____. You make me happy. There’s no perfect relationship. But you’re perfect to me. You’ve always kept me grounded, made me think of my future, made me thrive for our future. No woman has had me at my worst, they only want the good things in life. You’ve been through tough times. But the kindness in your heart remains immeasurable, do you hear me? You deserve everything I have offered and so much more, baby.”

His thumbs patiently brushing the tears away.

“I can’t keep dragging you with my downfall.”

“I don’t want us fighting but sometimes, it gets out of hand. I stay at an arm’s length but it doesn’t mean I want you gone. Because at the end of the day, I’d want to go home to you even when we’re not okay.”

Your eyes fluttered close, not bearing to see the tears free-flowing on his cheeks. Namjoon rarely cries in front of you. Even before when you were purposely trying to aim his heart with your sharp words, nothing could seem to break him down. It’s always you who’s end up losing. Crying.

Silence filled the air for a moment until you heard him shifted. Then you felt a pressure on the side of your thighs and when you caught up what he did, your knees almost gave out.

“Namjoon— w-what are you doing? Stand up!”

His fingers dug deep on the skin of your thighs, head hung long, “Don't leave,” he begs.

“No, stand up!” You sob in disbelief. He couldn’t do this when you should be the one begging for forgiveness for failing him.

Hurriedly, you shuffled on your knees, fisting his shirt as you sobbed on his chest.

His arms gave you warmth as they enveloped over your back. As the room starts to drown with your muffled cries, he cups your face and in a matter of second, Namjoon’s lips are on yours, swallowing your sobs and murmuring sweet I love you’s while keeping your connected lips with his.

Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours, your insides are a mess, dreading for the end of this moment. With his concern to your plan, he refuses to loosen his hold on you. Even when you urged him to lie down on the bed with you, he didn’t move not until you tugged his body down beside you.

The rhythmic brushes of your fingers on his hair have calmed him down but with his arm secured over your back. It was only when he finally fell asleep when the grip of his arm loosens.

It’s been hours. You haven’t gotten a wink of sleep, and the sun will soon rise in a matter of an hour or two.

It doesn’t resolve the issue. It won’t because you know the next day, things will be the same. Same insecurities will eat you up alive until you burst your anger at him. And then the fight starts, arguments will inevitably tear you two apart. It’s an unending cycle of toxicity that not even yourself can control. Not until you allow yourself to heal.

Until then, you deem yourself unworthy of his love.

You need to leave before he wakes up. You know, it wouldn’t take long before you regret your decision.

“Meeting you was the best thing that happened in my life. I’m sorry for failing you, for failing myself. I hope,” you choke as a lump forms in your throat, “... you’ll be proud of me when I get better even when you have found someone else.” You ended your parting words with your lips pressing gently on the back of his hand.

Your shoulders slightly shake, your hands tremble as sobs threaten to break from your throat.

Your thumb carefully caresses his knuckles, watching him sleep so peacefully with your blurry vision. Suddenly, you couldn’t find the strength in you to pull yourself up.

“Why is it so hard to leave?” You whisper, looking at his sleeping figure.

He is your strength. Your happiness. The owner of your heart. Your dream come true. Someday, you’ll return and take your heart back from him. But for now, you’ll have to start living without it.

With one last look, you stood up with all your might and let the tears fall mercilessly as you fought back the urge to run back to him.

~~~

That moment still remains vivid in your mind, as fresh as the wound in your heart a year later. If you could only turn back the time, you wish he was awake to stop you from leaving. Now, all you could do is watch him from afar at his favorite coffee shop with someone else. The same one he used to take you at. He looks genuinely happy. At least, the break up did him good.

Every time you stood up from your seat to leave, you keep reminding yourself it’s the last time you’ll hope for your paths to cross. Somehow when the pain gets too much to bear, you always find yourself coming back here. Hoping. For another chance. You have the answer to that now. Someone else has already taken your place in his heart.

Inside the coffee shop, the girl sitting across him huffs while watching you walk away out of the establishment. She shifts her gaze to the man in front of her whose attention has speechlessly zeroed in on your figure through the glass walls.

“When will you actually start talking to the girl? You’ve been dragging me here for over a month now. My time is precious, Kim. It’s so obvious you’re smitten for her!” She glares.

Namjoon didn’t answer, only because he doesn’t know how. How do I win her back?

mintseesaw © 2020

[yeahcxrrahee]

INTRÉPIDE — Nate Fick

Requested by: @bbysugarpink

hello, i would like to request something for nate from generation kill :) with the fluff prompts: “is there a reason you’re blushing like that” and “i’m not a damsel in distress. i’m a damsel doing damage” thank u so much! 🤍

To whatever sexist douchebag termed damsels — women — as always being in constant, unwarranted distress, Y/N Y/L/N could run laps around them with her intellect, physical build, and sharp tongue. She was a living illustration of an army disciplinary booklet, the words alive in calculated steps she’d approach a soldier with.

The men of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the Marine Corps vexed egos could attest to the goldenly shrewd behavior of their lieutenant. She was a great shot with her rifle, but her words walloped anyone with a more profound wound than any bullet could. Superiors would tease that if science could decipher the wonderstruck complexes of her mind and bottle it, they’d give it to every trooper to fortify some manhood in them that vanished with the diaphanous sand of the desert each dawn.

With the exception of First Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick.

The duo could forge a bickering storm within seconds of a misstep in strategy, a blazing crimson error of position that had a target pinned to their asses. The remainder of their platoon would settle in the beaten leather of their humvee’s, ears perked to open windows to listen to the rather amusing strings of hisses. They’d only interject if the woman was teetering on ripping the other lieutenant a new one, and it wasn’t for the paralyzed ego of their male superior, but for the sound discipline that should be happening.

Yet, as the cruel sun beat down on one afternoon, it's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky it's co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to obscure the unrelenting rays, there was no sound discipline to be enforced. Therefore, the feverish dispute erupting with a febrile existence as hot as the weather itself, was either eavesdropped by weary troopers or entirely disregarded by those who forced slumber.

Y/N stood in front of a glowering Nate Fick in a recognizable stance, arms folded sturdily across her chest and her jacket and pants littered with palpable burns from a imprudent stunt in the early morning. He was now ripping her a new one before a few other fellow lieutenants for the chaotic strategy that had her eluding a lethal shootout by her teeth.

“You were sent on a mission to collect intel, not engage in a fucking dogfight with Iraqi soldiers, Lieutenant Y/L/N. Lately, all you’ve been leaving is a trail of collateral damage wherever you go and I have to clean it up before any higher-up flames your ass,” Nate essentially snarled in her face, his gaze fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, whetting the edge of his cerulean eyes.

“If you’re going to chastise me for doing my job, I think you should be looking at yourself and everyone else in this damn platoon! We were ambushed and I merely retaliated to save the asses of my men like any lieutenant would do. I got the fucking intel for you and spared you from writing a few condolence letters,” she sneered in retort, beckoning an offending serpent of anger into their conversation with a spark of anger igniting in her chest, “And I would appreciate if you allowed me to do what I need to do to save my men—”

“And what if I had to write one for you?!” He interjected furiously, the rustle of the adjacent map indicating that his miffed outburst startled a few of the others. Their exasperation stood equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses. When it came to her — this brazen, shrewd female lieutenant — the stagnant, usually composed first lieutenant was easy to set off, almost like flicking the top off a grenade. Scrap the usually when it came to the woman before him now.

Y/N merely scoffed, a few sputters of laughter hissing from the rifts of her lips, “Besides a loss of a lieutenant, what is it to you if something happened out there? You could give less than two fucks about me, Fick.” She peered at him with frustration radiating, aghast that he would reprimand her recklessness.

Nearly everyday did he let Death almost beat the shit out of him, and it was always her that had to save his ass and dispel its clasp. The one day she didn’t duck for cover, demand them to fallback, had a momentary lapse of judgement was the day she was endlessly ridiculed. Her hand twitched at her side as she anticipated a reaction — an excuse — from the crimson-cheeked man, an identical grimace scattering out from beneath both of their helmets.

She sobered her tongue to her cheek for the sake of hearing this argument through and through, savor in levity the first thing the blonde could spare from his humiliated ass,

“Maybe if you pulled your head out your ass, you’d realize that there are some people in this platoon that give a shit about whether or not you live or die.”

“Like who?” she beckoned in challenge, true to her haughty dispotion, and her chest mere inches from seething against his own now.

She could taste the poignancy of his despair that fragilized in his light blues, the acidity of his wrath, and the blazing of his anguish, yet shook her head despite it all gradually soaking into her chest, “Like who, Lieutenant Fick?”

He was a man that knew no fear until he met this woman. He had met every dread of his in her heedless behavior. Certainly, she tends to sprint into danger on more instances than he could count, but managed to extinguish every flame of danger that lurked as a menace to her each damn time. Numerous wondered, even him in some moments, where Y/N’s tenacity emanated from, yet it could never really be pinpointed. Yet, that was just another aspect of the cumbersome girl he had spent his army career attempting to unravel.

And Nate Fick is a gritty man. He has strived for a while to not get his feelings for her entangled in the requisite of war. Love doesn’t belong in a war, where there’s a constant dance with Satan that would desecrate anything as vulnerable as love. Yet, there it was, keen as ever despite the uncertainty of the next few minutes. He loved her like there wasn’t a war occurring.

“Like me,” he admitted with his mouth abandoning all moisture for an arid wasteland of desert like his surroundings.

His whole mewl of a rant moments prior had fucked things up for sure. Even as he was blustering and calling into question her competence, he was aware how he was stirring an unspoken pot of exasperation between them. But she had scared him that morning. And Nate Fick thought himself a fool whenever he fussed in fright over something — someone. But, as he flanked position in the aforementioned dogfight with his own men, his peripheral — keen as always — had caught her dropping to the ground after a deluge of bullets mangled the metal of the humvee she had tucked herself behind. He had been certain that he had just bystanded her death and nearly got himself shot in the abyss of numbness that bittered his nerves.

“Well, of course, because who else would you bitch to about every damn problem you have?” she eclipsed his concern and amused the response, “Anyone else would simply kiss your ass and agree with your complaints — you’d never get your desired response and then the cycle repeats itself. I may as well be your therapist!”

“Would you just shut up?!” Nate let her have it, tearing into her steadfast role of a bitter disputer, eyes temporarily locking with her own.

Any other soldier at the brunt of his outburst would flinch, unravel in whatever mock confidence they tossed between them at the start of the quarrel. She was a pistol of a woman, and there is everything right with that as could be for regard to her character. You fired at her, you could be damn certain you’d get fired at in return.

“Are you issuing an order to me, lieutenant?” She ventured a step between their already existing close proximity, “Someone of your own rank that you’re belittling on account of your questioning of my sanity? Well, let me deal you back a taste of your own medicine — I question you on your clear defiency to keep a cool head whenever something, involving me, occurs and you lose your temper! The line between your professional life and whatever personal thing you have festering in your mind is blurring, lieutenant. And I question if you can execute your rank’s duties appropriately...”

“You make it rather difficult to when you stick your ass in every dangerous situation that comes wandering your way,” he ruefully sighed, abating his zealous tone and plucking her elbow to shift them into a quieter corner away from probing eyes. And, much to his surprise, she permitted the abrupt veering off and the linger of his hand on the bend of her elbow.

“And why is it so difficult?” she aligned her tone with his own, still a searing and acrimonious murmur in the shaded corner.

Nate’s frustration tensed with a clench of his jaw, eyes drowning with something deviating between anger and lust — the latter glimmer being one she regarded before he was even genuinely aware it had erupted to the surface. And her heart fluttered.

“You know why,” he indifferently stated, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air.

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately as the words registered quicker than she would’ve preferred.

“Nate,” there was no agitation in her voice as if her heart beat so steadily now, the pistol-shot flare diminishing beneath a vulnerable facade. Certainly, she knew. She’d be daft to beat around the bush of his implications — the connotations of their intimate, clandestine relationship. “If the others — if our superiors — found out...”

“It’s been a year and they’re none the wiser,” Nate tread a few fingers through her messy, disheveled hair, her breathing almost instantaneously steadying with the slight yanks at the stray tufts of her ponytail brushing her neck. They rebounded to a silence with balanced inhales of arid desert air for a few moments, the din of adjacent soldiers in their makeshift tents curving around the flaps of the one they concealed behind. She glimpsed briefly through the heavy brush of her lashes, pressing a whisper of a kiss on his lips, lingering there with the ardor igniting her veins and no doubt his, defusing the ticking bomb of fury from minutes prior.

“Now, is there a reason why you’re blushing so profusely like that?” she mused with a curl of smirk in their departure from the kiss, her fingertips skimming the camoed cloth of the rear of his helmet while amused eyes adored the earnest crimson of his cheeks.

Nate chuckled with an eye roll spared for her radiating levity, his spur of mirth hindered by the dispute that anchored in the abyss of his stomach, “You could have died, you know.” He is vulnerable now, novel territory for Nate Fick to venture into, and he's found himself astray in the shallow waters of a defenseless position.

“You would’ve done the same,” she uttered through a throat she could’ve sworn was temporarily haboring jagged rock shards, “Besides, we both know that I’m not a damsel in distress needing you to swoop in as if you always need to do something to save me. I’m a damsel doing damage a majority of the time ‘round here.”

“Unfortunately,” Nate chuckled wryly, “And you leave it all to me to clean up.”

“It’s rather entertaining to watch — for everyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

[k7l4d4]

Midnight Striga: Fairy Tail/Owl House Cross Fic Episode 6 Part 5

Hello all, and welcome back to another exciting rendition of Midnight Striga! Everybody Clap Your Hands!!

Eda grumbled, shifting her weight as she hunkered through the crowds, King prowling along beside her. She despised the Night Market, as it was basically a physical embodiment of justification for Bonehead’s rule; hard to stand up against the person who’s keeping you and your family safe from scummy criminals selling shady and dangerous stuff, even by the standards of the Isles!! She snorted. If only those same people knew that Bonehead’s goons were perfectly aware of the Night Market and could shut it down and round up its proprietors whenever they liked, and kept it around BECAUSE it was a convenient, tangible justification.

“Ugh! This place smells like failure and backstabbing.” King complained, warily scanning the surroundings, a spell prepped and ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Eda huffed. “Yeah, but if this ‘Grimm Hammer’ guy has Curse-Suppression potions, I can’t afford to stay away.” And didn’t it burn that she had to deal with scum like this for her health? She liked Morton, he was a good kid, but DAMN if his habit of testing his products, particularly the dangerous ones, on himself wasn’t grating at times like this. At least when he did it before he still had something in stock for her to use until he got back in shape.

King nodded solemnly, by his standards at any rate. He glanced around, idly taking note of the various comers and goers wandering the market, all doing their best to stay at least partially inconspicuous; it was probably pointless, considering just how unique and diverse appearances could get on the Isles, but at least they were putting in the effort. ‘I wonder if this is how Lilith got that curse.’ King wondered, his temper boiling at the thought of Eda’s sister stabbing her in the back like that. Aloud, he said, “You think this guy will try and screw us over?”

Eda laughed bitterly. “Oh absolutely! But,” She added with a feral grin, “If he does, we can always wreck the place.” She and King cheered at the thought of destroying private property.

With a snort, Eda glanced over the directions Mort had given her, comparing it to the shop before her. It wasn’t anything really special, just a stand aiming to draw the eye and lighten suckers’ wallets, but it had the signs of wear and tear you only got from long-term use and dedication. The owner was probably a scumbag, true, but they were a scumbag with pride in their business and property. Raising an eye at King, and getting a raised eyebrow in return, the two headed inside. A tall figure landed onto the ground in a crouch behind them.

Odalia marched down the halls, burying her worry under maternal fury. This was absolutely unacceptable!! She could not believe Amity was acting so disgracefully, cutting her off like that! With a huff, she finally crossed into the room, primed and ready to start shouting, heedless of the damage her outburst would do to her daughter’s social standing, only to blink in numb surprise at the sight of the humans, Amity’s guard notwithstanding, now in the room. “Um, Mittens? What is going on?” She asked as diplomatically as she could.

Amity sighed, and what proceeded was another rapid-fire round of introductions between the group and Odalia. Odalia’s eyes sharpened at several key points, namely that Neon was an heiress, and had been granted guards as a result of her magic, important details. “So,” Odalia drawled, a calculating gleam in her eyes, “You mentioned that you gave predictions, Miss Nostrade?” She stated more than asked; as annoyed as she was at Amity’s antics (and it was definitely annoyance, absolutely nothing more), this was admittedly an opportune moment to gain a better look into Human Magic, particularly in an area of overlap such as Oracle magic and predictions.

“Yeah, it sounds super interesting!” Selena piped up, engaging in the conversation. “I LOVE Oracle Magic, so seeing how Humans do it is like Oracle Magic times two!” She cheered, scooching close.

“Okay, if you really want!” Neon agreed, oblivious to the sudden tensing of her guards. She quickly pulled out a sheet of paper and a cat-themed pen. “I just need your names, date of birth, and your blood type!” She hummed, a blissful grin on her face. Odalia and Selena blinked, but both complied, much to the interest of the others, save Luz who’d seen what was coming in action before. The group reared back, startled at the deep blue aura that surged up around Neon, her normally bright and clear eyes fading and turning glassy, like a doll. Her hand pulled back, a winged thing manifesting around it, intoning “Lovely Ghostwriter.” In a blur, Neon rapidly inscribed a series of poems upon the paper, her hand blurring across the page that they couldn’t make out the actual words she was writing down. Suddenly, her hand stopped, a total of eight stanzas composed before her on two seperate sheets, which she promptly handed over to the correct recipient. “And there you go!” She beamed.

“Wow, what do they say?” Skara asked, powering through the confusion and shock that had come over her at the sight of Neon’s spell.

“No idea!” Neon blithely replied, causing all the Witches to blink in shock, save Odalia and Selena, who were busy going over their poems.

Luz snorted at their surprise. “Yeah, Neon’s magic is totally involuntary after the activation point. She has no clue what she writes, isn’t aware that she was even writing until after the fact, and is physically incapable of reading whatever prediction she gives.” Luz clarified, admittedly relishing the looks of confusion she got in response.

“How does that even work!?” Amity asked, utterly bewildered. It was completely outside any known form of Oracle Magic, and she couldn’t help but notice the blanching faces of her mother and Selena.

Neon gave a pout, trying not to feel insulted at the slight at her skills. “Predictions are for the people, not for the predictor!” She childishly stated, huffing in displeasure.

They turned to Luz, a look screaming for an explanation upon their faces. “Hey, it makes as much sense to me as it does for you all.” She lightly protested. Seeing they weren’t convinced, she ultimately relented, clarifying, “I’m not sure why it turned out like that, but Neon is completely self-taught, but no one has ever said she’s not good at what she does.” She fixed them with a strong stare, almost daring them to question her. “Neon’s predictions always cover the month of when she gives them, offering insight as to what will happen later, with advice being given for dangerous or difficult moments coming up, and clarity as to what led to events that have already happened. And Neon’s predictions are always perfectly accurate to boot.” She sat back, letting that sink in.

Willow was the first to recover. “B-But that goes outside any known example of Oracle Magic!” She stammered, shock coloring her eyes. “Even the best Oracles have some level of failure or inaccuracy!”

Luz shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, but that’s never really applied to Neon.” The girl in question merely beamed in pride at that, puffing out her chest.

“Neon is the greatest! Ohohohohoho!” She cheerfully laughed, pulling one hand to her mouth in a look of haughty delight, only for Luz to playfully chop her on the head. “Ouchie!”

“Please don’t strike my charge again, Miss Noceda.” Kurapika sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, even as his fellow guards just snorted at the by-play between the two mages.

“Yeah, the lassy needs her brain intact, you know?” Basho called out, a cheerful smile on his face. He winced at the swift jab to his rib Baise gave him.

Baise snorted. “Maybe don’t insult our boss, idiot.” She drolly stated, arms crossed.

“I’ve honestly been wondering, but if you guys are guards for a mage, are you mages yourselves?” Gus asked, tone casual, if you discounted the notebook primed for writing held before him that is.

“Well, as a matter of fact, we are.” Kurapika cordially replied, showing the chains affixed to his hand, small steel rings linking a separate chain to each finger. “I myself employ Chain Magic, allowing me to manipulate and command my chains for a variety of effects.” He gave a mysterious grin. “Though, some of my best spells are unfortunately kept rather limited.”

“Huh, why is that?” Gus asked, furiously scrawling down the enigmatic blonde’s answer.

“Well, I won’t go into the specifics, but it is possible to augment one’s spells, particularly complex or unusual ones, by infusing them with limitations as to how and when you can use them, or giving them conditions as to when they can be activated.” Kurapika explained. “A solid example would be, say, creating a spell that would allow you to defeat a specific foe, and then altering the spell so it literally cannot be used on anyone but that foe. Doing so would make that spell all the more powerful and flexible to use, but only when it’s conditions are fulfilled.”

The Witches paused, staring in shock at Kurapika, whereas his fellow guards and Luz just looked at him in amusement. Luz shrugged. “He’s not wrong, but most mages don’t usually do that, unless their magic works best under specific circumstances to start with. It’s usually something found in more exotic forms of magic, or with people who are self-trained.” All the Witches carefully took note of that for later.

Willow cleared her throat. “And what about the rest of you?” She asked politely.

Tolico puffed out his chest, grinning. “Well my magic is almost ideal for bodyguard duties, and just for messing with people. Observe!” He cried, swinging his arm up, before clapping it against the ground. “Thankless Soldiers!” From the point of contact, a dark purple aura billowed up off the floor, flexing and morphing into the image of 12 dark figures in robes, standing at attention. “Now, you guys go outside and patrol the area, we don’t want any intruders, alright?” He stated, and the constructs moved out, silently and without issue.

“Wow! You can create soldiers to fight for you!?” Gus exclaimed, stars in his eyes.

“Yeah, but they’re fragile to any trained mage, can’t move very fast, and their only solid advantage is numbers.” Baise said, instantly taking the wind out of Tolico’s sails. Baise smirked at the pouting glare Tolico shot her. “As for myself… my magic isn’t something kiddies like you should learn about until you’re older.” She stated, the aimless leer on her face sending nervous shivers down the group’s collective spine.

“HA! My Haiku Magic allows me to compose poetry, and gain effects based on those poems by sacrificing them!” Basho proudly stated, crushing a tablet of paper in his fist, causing it to erupt in flames, to the awe of the crowd.

“My magic isn’t really anything special,” Squala stated bashfully, rubbing his head. “I can manipulate and command dogs, but not a whole lot else.”

“And I can create effects by playing my flute.” Melody added in a soft tone. The Witches pondered that briefly, but accepted it, not every form of magic was going to be out there and radically different from what they knew.

“W-What is this!?” Odalia whispered, drawing the group’s attention to her and Selena, who were both shuddering over the predictions Neon had given them. She whipped around, wild eyes staring at Neon, who cocked her head in confusion. She marched over, oblivious to the stares her actions were garnering from the group, and the level glares of Neon’s bodyguards, all prepped to intercept her. “Are you certain this is accurate!?” She demanded, almost rabid fear in her eyes, waving her prediction in emphasis.

“Hmm?” Neon made a questioning noise, uncomprehending? “What do you mean? Neon’s predictions are always right!” She huffed, confused and annoyed at the idea of her predictions being wrong. Didn’t this old lady know anything!? Whatever was written would happen, completely true! Silly old lady! ...Why was she still getting closer?

With a scowl, Odalia drew level with the childish girl, her temper and fear mixing into a recklessness-inducing cocktail. “Now listen here!” Odalia hissed, reaching out towards the girl, oblivious to the mounting anger of her guards, as well as the fear flickering in Neon’s eyes. “Do you have any idea-”

“Miss Blight.” Luz called out sharply, drawing the woman’s attention. Glancing around, she blanched at the scene; her daughter’s guests were staring at her in a mix of fear and disgust, while Amity and the Park girl were glaring at her in a mixture of disappointment and rage. Her daughter’s guard, the human girl, Luz, was watching her with a carefully blank face, idly flipping a glowing knife in between her hands. The Neon girl’s guards were preparing to attack her, she noted with dread, and when she turned her gaze back to Neon, she finally noticed the way she was trembling, along with the faint tears in her eyes. Flushing, Odalia quickly pulled away. “Oh my dear, I am so sorry, child! I-I have no idea what came over me-” Odalia hastily explained, twitching slightly.

“Save it.” Luz said flatly, subtly moving in between Neon and Odalia, and also between Odalia and Neon’s guards. “Don’t worry, people have reacted a lot worse to Neon’s predictions in the past, they just usually aren’t in the same room as her when they do so. I would recommend heading back to your husband for the night.” She ‘suggested,’ idly cocking her head to the still upset group surrounding them.

Odalia flushed, but didn’t argue. “I believe you are correct in that respect.” She gave a shaky bow. “I bid you all a good evening, and I hope the Conjuring goes well.” And with that, Odalia beat a hasty retreat, mind swirling over what to tell Alador.

Skara cleared her throat, wanting to dispel the tension in the air. “Well then! Unless I’m wrong, the Moon should be in position for the conjuring to start!” She said, forcing a note of cheer into her voice. The Witches grumbled, still tense after Odalia’s little scene, but no one argued, wanting to move on from the uncomfortable moment. Amity sent a worried glance towards Neon, who quickly waved it off after noticing the attention.

“Oh, go have fun! I’m fine!” She said, a shaky grin on her face. With a scowl, Amity relented, heading over to the others. Amity, Cat, Amelia, and Selena formed a circle of four, while Gus, Willow, Bo, and Skara formed another, each surrounding one of Amity’s old dolls. As they started chanting, the guards, Neon, and Luz watched on.

Kurapika turned an inquiring gaze towards Luz. “Do you know what’s going on?” He asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Luz snorted. “Apparently, this is supposed to be a Lunar Ritual that animates an object through the magical power of the Moon.” She explained flatly, her blank face showing how good of an idea she considered that.

Tolico stared, his dumbfounded expression mirrored by his fellow guards. “Are… they insane?” He croaked out, even as Neon cocked her head, not understanding.

“From what I’ve seen, the Isles has a very loose understanding of safety and wellbeing, beyond healthcare.” Luz replied, staring off into the distance. She leaned up against the wall. “Plus, from what I can tell, the Ritual is pretty minor stuff, and some cultural drift has more or less shot it in the foot.”

Kurapika raised an eyebrow, perplexed. “Hmm? What do you mean by that?” He asked.

Luz jerked a thumb at the ceiling, a smirk on her face. “The Ritual works by calling the power of the moon into the target through its Light, or at least that’s my understanding of how it works.” She gestured around. “Kind of hard to draw light into a target when all but a fraction of it ends up colliding with a building first.” Her smirk shifted into a thoughtful expression. “Although, it would probably be a different story if the house was possessed or merged with an animate existence; then the spell would probably just use the house itself as the target instead.”

Kurapika gave a wry grin. “I imagine you won’t be telling them until after they fail, correct?” He asked rhetorically, Luz’s mischievous laugh being all the confirmation he needed.

Luz, growing serious, sidled up next to Neon. “Hey, NeNe, you feeling okay?” She asked softly.

“Huh? Of course I am, LuLu!! She just got a little m-mad is all.” Neon said in what she must’ve thought was a reassuring tone of voice, a few alarms starting to go off in the heads of her guards.

Luz arched an eyebrow. “Oh? But you flinched when she reached for you.” She said, slowly sliding closer.

“T-That’s because I’m not used to people t-trying to hurt me ‘cause of my predictions!” Neon blustered, eyes shifting back and forth.

Luz eyes glistened. “Neon, show me your arm.” She said softly.

“Nono! I don’t wanna!” She cried, yanking away from Luz. Her guards glanced between themselves. Technically, they were required to do something, but if their and Luz’s suspicions were correct…

“NeNe, please. I can’t help if you don’t let me.” Luz said in as kind but as firm a voice as she could manage, gently trying to coax Neon close, worried she might scare her.

Hesitantly, fearful tears in her eyes, Neon allowed Luz to creep closer, and slowly pull back her sleeve. Luz did her best to keep from hissing at the sight. Neon’s arm was coated in bruises, blotchy and smeared, running the length of it, with a few looking as if they were cuts! Luz had a sinking feeling that Neon had many, MANY more all across her body. The tears flowing now, Luz glanced up to Neon’s sorrow-filled face, the image of burning rage branded across her guards’ faces in the background. “How long has this been going on?” She said softly, trying to keep Neon calm.

“S-Since *Hic!* m-my-y 11th birthday.” Neon confused, hiccups breaking up her words as tears started spilling out. “I-I d-don’t know-w w-why he *Hic!* keeps getting m-m-mad! I try to b-be a g-good-d girl, b-but he k-keeps getting angry!” Neon cried, her tears staining hers and Luz’s shirts. “I-I just want P-papa to be happy, but I can’t! A-and he gets mad, and hurts me… is something wrong with me?” She asked, almost begged, as snot started bubbling up from her nose, her face covered in red blotches of tears.

“No.” Luz stated firmly, tightly pulling Neon into a fierce hug, pressing the sweet girl’s face into the crook of her neck, uncaring of the snot and tears that would end up staining the outfit. It didn’t matter nearly as much as the hurt girl in her arms. “You did NOTHING wrong. He’s your father, the man who’s supposed to raise you, to protect you, and he betrayed that. He’s the one with something wrong with him. Not you… never you.” With that, what little self-control Neon had kept vanished, and she pulled fully into Luz’s embrace, tears surging as she silently wailed into her friend’s clothing.

‘She feels… like Mama’s hugs.’ Neon thought to herself.

‘She feels… so fragile.’ Luz wondered at the feeling of the delicate girl clinging to her, previously in joy… but this time in sadness and heartbreak. Luz’s thoughts shifted into rage. ‘If I EVER see her bastard father again… he’s not walking away.’

As Neon cried, Luz turned to her guards, mindful of supporting Neon’s weight while she did so. “So… what’s the plan?” She asked, fully prepared to rip the group apart if they were even considering bringing Neon back to that man.

The guards exchanged glances, before nodding in unison. Kurapika stepped forward. “We are not letting Mr. Nostrade getting his hands back on Miss Neon.” He said gravely, his voice brooking no argument. “We all accepted this job knowing it would bring us into contact with unsavory individuals, and that we may end up being required to do rather horrible things. But we all have lines we will never cross; enabling an abuser is one of them.” He stated, the other guards nodding in agreement behind him.

“The fact that our contract states that we’re supposed to be protecting the lassy from anything wanting to harm her just adds extra incentive.” Basho said, giving a humorless laugh. “We never expected that meant keeping her safe from her own father!” His grin shifted, showing all teeth. “We let the little miss down, ignoring the signs. If that piece of trash even comes near her, he dies.”

“Good.” Luz said flatly, turning a tender look towards Neon, who peaked her head up. “Hey, NeNe? You mind answering a question?”

“Okay.” Neon said timidly, cuddling up against Luz’s side. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, why did you come to the Isles?” Luz broached.

“Because… I didn’t want Papa to find me. I wanted to go somewhere he could never take me back.” Neon said softly, glancing away. “I wanna live like a normal girl. I wanna have friends.” Tears started pricking her eyes again. “I want to wake up, and see sunshine.”

Luz gave a heartbroken smile, clutching the girl tighter. “Don’t worry, you will.” She pulled Neon tight again. “I swear it.” She whispered to herself.

[avengerofiron]

landslide || Tony & Zatanna

WHO: Tony Stark ( @avengerofiron ) and Zatanna Zatara ( @mistressofmagic ) WHERE: the Stark mansion in Los Angeles, January 1970 WHEN: a few days before Zatanna and Robbie went to secure the Darkhold WHAT: Tony asked Zatanna to let him talk to his parents one last time. Zatanna obliges. WARNINGS: descriptions and discussions of childhood abuse including physical/emotional abuse and gaslighting, mild violence WORDS: 11k (ish)

ZATANNA: Flipping the photograph over, she looked at the date. It was strange, actually. January. She would have guessed it was closer to Tony’s birthday considering how far along Maria appeared to be in the pictures. She was focusing on the date, picturing it and the location in her mind. Thankfully, whoever had written on the back of this, had jotted down the location as well. Everything Zatanna needed was right on the photograph.

“I love a good excuse to get dressed up,” Zatanna mused, glancing at Tony with a smile on her face. “What do you want to wear? Or I could pick, a quick change before we jump so that we fight right in with this picture.” The last time they had both had actively gotten dressed up had been the gala. And there, they hadn’t been a couple. (Their wedding should have been the next date, but by the pictures, neither of them had dressed for the occasion. And neither of them had been aware of it either.) “What do you think? Should we match?” It should have been a joke. Would have been any other day. But she had already preluded this trip as their honeymoon. Not that traveling through time to meet her in-laws was a traditional way to spend a honeymoon… but nothing about their relationship so far had been traditional.

Zatanna tapped the picture against her hand. “Are you sure about this?” She hadn’t been one to hesitate before, but this had weight. The kind that you got to opt into, not the kind that you had to weather out of some twisted sense of responsibility and duty. “Are you ready for this?”

TONY: Tony couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been the smartest person in the room. It sounded self absorbed, perhaps, but he’d long since accepted that in the privacy of his own head, he was, through and through, an asshole. (Some would argue he let that side out in public as well far too frequently, though he would disagree.) He bombed through assessments and rejections and brick walls built around what could and couldn’t be done, joined a team full of superheroes who battled aliens and evil robots and who travelled the world in search of mystic weapons. Tony Stark wasn’t just used to navigating around other people’s confusion -- he was used to leading the goddamn charge.

But magic was something else. Zatanna was something else. She was one of few people (maybe even the only person) Tony would admit had something over on him, one of few he was completely in awe of and made only the slightest attempts to hide it.

“I know you do,” Tony said, not even trying to disguise the undertone to his words. He’d already copped to being an avid audience member at any of her shows he’d attended. What use was there in pretending now? “You pick. Just make sure if I’m wearing a tie, it matches your shoes. We need to make it look coherent.” Like we got dressed together, he almost said. Like they were normal, whatever that meant.

They were about to jump through space and time. Normal didn’t even come into it.

“What way does this work?” Tony asked. “Is it the polarity complex? Theory of general relativity? Infinite cylinder? Don’t tell me it’s a black hole, because I’ll have a really bad joke just waiting for that one.” As long as it wasn’t a wormhole (the mere thought had hairs picking up on the back of his neck, suddenly and without warning), Tony was pretty sure he could cope with anything -- but questioning it didn’t look like that. His endless, boundless curiosity could be construed as nervous muttering, a metaphorical pacing that created an uncomfortable edge to the air between them.

He wasn’t nervous. He was invigorated. He was a scientist with an impossible theorem, and the person he trusted most in the world had the solution tucked neatly in her back pocket.

“A thousand percent,” Tony said, reaching to take her hand, a gentle squeeze to affirm what he was saying (nothing to do with that shiver up his spine, or the idea that her warmth was something that could be shared, always). “Do we have to think about the time? Imagine it in our heads? Think about the people? I can do that.” Sometimes it felt like all he ever did was think about his parents -- like some part of him was tangled up in that car at the same time.

ZATANNA: There was an intimacy in his words that they both casually ignored. Or at least, Zatanna casually ignored. Knowing that if she looked directly at it, if she acknowledged that his words meant something — that she felt something when he said them, she'd fall into them and she wasn't sure she'd ever recover. Each word that he spoke had a calculated weight, one that she measured with each phrase, wondering if they were all equally heavy because they were shared in the same sentence, or if there was one out there that would be enough to tip the balance and send her over the edge. (As if she hadn't already slipped. As if she hadn't already taken that step in her heart and was waiting to see if he was falling at the same speed — or simply not at all.)

“I'd say that I'm hinting for you to take me out somewhere nice more, but I'm trying to be subtle." Normally, Zatanna would have gone for a comfort look, dressing in black and easily blending in with the crowd, but that wouldn't work for this. Not in her mind, at least. If they were going to do this, then she wanted them to be stunning — and matching the times would be equally fun.

Zatanna whispered a spell and the area around the two of them light up with a bright, white light. And when the light washed away, their clothes were different. Zatanna was in a wine colored dress with a lace neckline. And Tony's tie? The same shade as her dress. "I know you said my shoes but... I went with black shoes so I matched your tie to my dress. Black is a nice classic look, but you'd match anyone at the party and — can't have that."

And as she had expected, Tony immediately started asking questions. Trying to take apart how this was going to work — and immediately trying to relate it to science. "I..." Zatanna shook her head and went to cup his face, only stopping short and resting her hands on his shoulders instead. "You realize I have no idea what any of those things mean, right? Other than a black hole — and it's not that!"

There was a faint smile on her lips as he kept asking questions, but at this point, she figured he was mostly talking to himself. "It'll be like when I teleport us. It'll be instantaneous. But you'll probably feel a little nauseous but just breathe and it should pass quickly." Her hands dropped to his, taking them in her own hands and gently gripping them.

"Focus on that pictures. The place. The date. Them.” Zatanna closed her eyes and then told Tony to do the same. “Close your eyes and focus on your breathing.” That wasn’t necessary for the spell to work, but she figured that it might help him focus his mind. He had a lot of questions and hearing him try and puzzle out how this would work — it actually felt good. Hearing his thoughts and all his excitement, it felt good.

“I’m going to start now,” she warned, giving him a moment before she started the incantation.

TONY: Tony still remembered pushing his way through a crowd towards the suit, desperately tasking J.A.R.V.I.S. to find a diagnosis, which he did in an instant. A severe anxiety attack. Tony could barely take it in. The A.I. repeated it once, twice, three times, more slowly and patiently on each occasion, and still the super genius couldn’t work out what he was saying. To this day, Tony was unsure why he was so surprised, why he was almost offended. After all, it had always been difficult to ground himself. He’d always disappeared into feeling, always found himself on a cold floor struggling to breathe, a thousand possibilities no matter how mathematically improbable worming their way into his brain.

Zatanna had always been good at it, at him. Despite the lights, the flashing cameras, the scream of a crowd that he associated with the great Zatara, there was a quiet that he was sure few experienced with her standing in front of them, a way she turned his loudest, most persistent thoughts into nothing more than a slightly irritating static in the back of his mind. Her hands were in his, and she was telling him to focus, and all he could think as she closed her eyes and started to recite incomprehensible words were how beautiful she was when she got that little crease between her eyebrows.

When that whoosh went through his stomach, when he felt like the earth was cracking underneath him and re-solidifying within a breath of a moment, Tony was surprised he didn’t find himself standing in the audience of a magic show during intermission, catching sight of lights dancing against dark hair, a stranger who wasn’t so strange after all turning to him with a bright smile.

It was Los Angeles, instead -- a long way from the first time Tony met Zatanna, and a long way from the New York he’d so long associated with his parents. A garden party, buffet tables laden with food, people milling around with champagne flutes and bell bottom jeans. He turned back, blinking a few times fast as he readjusted to the blinding sun, and recognised the house immediately as one of his father’s. “I used to love this place,” he said, immediately, even as nausea briefly rose in his throat (Zatanna wasn’t lying about the effects of time space travel on the body). “Jarvis brought me here all the time. There’s a beach just down there. Two minutes from the house and back. We-”

“Mr. Jarvis!” a familiar voice rose above the crowd, crisp and heavily accented. “*For the love of God, man, leave the flamingo be!”

“Would do, Ms. Carter,” came the reply, “but as you can see, the devil in pink has quite his own idea of where he would like to-”

As he turned to look for the source of the voices, Tony’s breath caught in his chest. Someone else caught his eye instead, someone who was moving through the crowd with a confidence all his own, sunglasses perched on his nose and his hat at a jaunty angle (whiskey held in white knuckles, no ice to water it down).

“Dad.” Tony’s hand went for Zatanna’s, instinctively, and he found he’d never let go -- or perhaps more accurately, she’d never let go. Somehow, she knew what he needed long before he did, most times. (Almost all the time, except for when it came to her.) “You know what? This is a terrible idea. We should go back, right now. Emoh won, emoh won--”

Then Howard was in front of him, because of  course he was. Tony spun around, hands breaking free and eyes widening.

“Uh--” Think, Tony. Think.  “I’m--” A super genius. A man who knew Howard Stark better than almost anyone else in the world, even if he’d never really known him at all. An Avenger, at his core, capable of dealing with missions of grave importance every day ending in y … “Eddie? My name’s Eddie, uh … Rhodes. Eddie Rhodes, and my wife--”

It was at that point that it became abundantly clear Howard wasn’t paying attention to Tony tripping over his words in the slightest. Howard tilted his head forward, sunglasses dropping an inch down his nose, and offered a hand to Zatanna. “Pleasure to have someone like you at one of our parties,” he said. “It shows people we have taste after all, even if we’re new on the scene.”

Over his father’s shoulder, Tony vacantly recognised Peggy and Jarvis tackling a flamingo, trying to no avail to place a towel over its eyes. Jarvis came away with a bite wound to the hand. Tony would hear this story many years later, but right now, he couldn’t watch it play out, not with the feeling rising in him now. His hand went around Zee’s waist, squeezing gently.

“My wife, Anna,” he repeated, holding out his other hand to Howard, who begrudgingly looked away. “I’m an engineer, previously with Roxxon.”

Now that got his attention (Tony told himself it was because he wanted Howard to look at him, because he’d always wanted Howard to look at him -- but on this occasion, it felt more like he wanted him to look away from Zatanna than anything. He decided not to think too much about it). Howard’s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowing.

“Roxxon?” he repeated. “I didn’t realise--”

“Formerly Roxxon,” Tony clarified. “I was actually looking at Stark Industries. My talents weren’t exactly appreciated. Asked too many questions, you know? Vita radiation is something of a passion project.”

Howard let out a low hum. “Vita radiation,” he said. “Most people have moved past that.”

“I’m not most people.”

Howard’s eyes flickered back over to Zatanna, and then to Tony. “Let’s get a drink, Rhodes,” he said. “And Mrs. Rhodes, please, feel free to mingle. We have all kinds of desserts on offer -- not that you need anything-”

Tony’s smile tightened once more. “We should talk nuclear,” he said.

ZATANNA: They had been to parties before, but something about being here felt... different and wonderful. Like a new chapter in the adventure they had started nearly ten years ago.  Zatanna, in their early days, hadn't pushed him as hard to believe in magic or to follow her onto adventures like this. Their lives back then had also been remarkably different. But with each step they were taking now, it was together. And it was finally starting to feel like it was together. (She wouldn't say it. Couldn't put it into words — but it finally felt like they were walking towards something in sync with each other rather than walking against the wind.)

It had been no mystery to most of those who knew Tony even if only in passing, that Los Angeles and California had a place in Tony's heart. And even the weight of what they were in the middle of didn't stop Tony from sharing that story again. Mentioning Jarvis (who Zatanna had met briefly... recently) and as if on cue, she heard him in the corner along with Peggy Carter. "Is that a flamingo?" She scarcely got the words out before Tony was muttering backwards after changing his mind, and she squeezed his hand, about to try and calm him for a second time before his father was right before them.

Eddie Rhodes. She didn't blame him for his choice. In this day and age... they couldn't use their real names and chances were, the Rhodes family wouldn't have the same pull they did in their time. (An unfortunate reality that they couldn't change today.) Howard's attention, though, seemed to be fully on her. Tony had withdrawn his hand and he must have seen the look she had shot in his direction, quietly begging him to take her hand back — but it had been no invitation for Howard to try and... flirt? Was that what he was doing? (Whatever it was made her skin crawl. Tony was lucky his mother was already pregnant because she was sure that she was about to end his father's life right now.)

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Stark." Schooling her speech to match that of the lessons she had been taught in boarding school. Of decorum and how a lady should properly talk. No contractions. Never turn your back on them. You can show them the door but you can never shove them out. (And for the first time in her life, those lessons seemed useful. It was ironic that it just happened to be several years in the past.)

Tony, thankfully, swooped in and had an arm around her waist, squeezing her gently and she leaned into him, placing her hand on his side, and tucking her head towards him, just slightly. Pretending that this was just her trying to fit the role of where they were — and that it had nothing to do with how the way he called her his wife. Roxxon. Why did she remember that name? It clearly meant something, enough to pull Howard's attention towards Tony, but... then Vita Radiation. Another strange glance. Nuclear.

(All of that was filtered in between Zatanna realizing that Jarvis’s first name had been Edwin and his wife was Ana and she had not too long ago had been telling him that the way they understood each other had been romantic — this was no place for any of those thoughts or feelings. But here they were, stirring where they shouldn’t.)

The way that Howard was looking at Tony now? She might not have followed the conversation perfectly, but she knew that what Tony was talking about... it couldn't have been what he could realistically know as a stranger. But between being offended by Howard telling her she didn't need desserts and worrying that Tony was about to make a foolish mistake — Zatanna took in an easy breath and pretended. "My husband and I have plans for dessert later, but thank you." Figuring that Howard would take that to mean sex (and part of her wanted him to, just so he knew she had absolutely no interest in him at all) — but in reality, Zatanna was quietly planning what topping she was going to get on a sundae.

"I will give you two some privacy," she said, turning towards Tony and reluctantly pulling her hands away. She knew he needed a moment alone with his father, and he would want one with his mother — but she was nervous leaving him alone. Especially after this. "Darling," she touched his cheek where she would have kissed him as an extra measure to tell Howard to go fuck himself — but she had enough control to know that this wasn't the place — and that wasn't how she would want this to happen. “I will find a way to occupy myself.” Her father was around, by the pictures, and Tony’s mother had to be on grounds some place as well.

Zatanna stepped away from the two men, politely bowing her head before ducking away to another part of the party.

She didn’t get twenty feet away before she made awkward eye contact with her father and immediately bowed her head, turning towards the flamingo — but finding herself greeted with Maria next to her. A hand on her stomach and something... a distant expression on her face.

“Mrs. Stark?” The woman looked at her and it hit Zatanna. It hadn’t happened before that, she knew that the age difference had been there. But it made what Tony said about they could be like his parents... it rang so differently. (How many years, she wondered, separated Howard and Maria? Was it the same twenty that were between Tony and her?)

“What did he say to you?” Maria asked without looking at Zatanna.

“He was talking to my husband. About Roxxon and... I do not understand science in the slightest, please do not make me try to remember.” The word husband pulled a reaction out of Maria though, something like the look of pity, as if she knew what laid ahead for Zatanna. But as quickly as it was there, it had faded. Back to the proper look of a woman who was married and pregnant. No pity to be spared. “Can I ask you something plainly?”

Maria’s brow rose but she looked at Zatanna and, after a long moment, nodded her head. There were a thousand reasons that Maria would be hesitant — the press for one, it was one of many reasons she didn’t talk about her marriage with anyone outside of those she trusted, But also... gossip was a savage machine that came after the best people. “How do you do it?” Zatanna asked. “Marriage. I — Eddie and I have been married only a few months and we have known each other for years but...”

“You don’t hold back, do you?” Maria asked, turning her head as she processed just how plainly Zatanna had started to speak. “Let me ask you a question, equally plain,” she said, not waiting for Zatanna to offer the same permission. “Do you love him?”

“I—”

“It is a simple yes or no answer, Mrs.?”

“Rhodes — Anna, please, just call me Anna.”

“Anna, do you love your husband?”

Zatanna looked across the room towards Tony, knowing he was far out of hearing but quietly wishing that he wasn’t so that she could say this and he could know without having the ceremony of it being a confession. (That wouldn’t have helped. The words, even this far away, were big enough to drown her in.)

“I do,” she confessed, finally.

“That complicates things.” Maria looked at her own husband, a hand running over the bump of her stomach. “Love always complicates things, Anna. It’s easier if you don’t feel anything at all.” Zatanna didn’t have to look deeper to know that Maria was speaking from experience. That love... it was a blade that had cut her, too. “I have no easy answer for you,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Either love will be enough for it won’t be. You and I? We don’t get a say.”

The advice, while deeply appreciated, did nothing for the ache in Zatanna’s heart. That unknown drifting — would it be enough? Or wouldn’t it be? She swallowed, worried that she’d be faced with the dark reality of those options instead of the one she wanted.

“How far along are you?” Changing the subject quickly, not wanting the words to seep too far into her heart. (Scared that they were real and accurate.)

“Close to four months.”

“Only four?” Zatanna asked, looking at Maria and knowing Tony wouldn’t be born until late May but... “Boy or girl? And are they already ten pounds?”

A smile pulled to her lips and Maria shook her head and raised two fingers.

“Two — twins?” That couldn’t be right.

“Twins. Boys.”

It was.

Zatanna pulled herself together. “Congratulations.” They spoke a few minutes more, bonding over the strangest things, but... Zatanna felt oddly comfortable with Maria. Tony had said he couldn’t imagine her pregnant because it never seemed to suit her, and maybe something in the future made her that way — pulled her from motherhood. (Or perhaps, closer to the truth, was that Zatanna was looking at Maria and hoping that she enjoyed this, because it was something she wanted.)

“I should... get back to my husband,” Zatanna said with some reluctancy. Enjoying her conversation with Maria but also worried about Tony. Unsure of what his father might say and what her own father might do if they got properly cornered by them.

“I’ll come with you. Since ours are together.”

Zatanna nodded her head, before moving to walk alongside Maria. “Yes, of course!”

TONY: You look so much like your father. The sentiment had been repeated to him hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times over the past fifty years, in numerous different ways by numerous different people. Jarvis, with nostalgia lingering in every word. Maria, adoration or loathing, depending on the day. Journalists desperate for the next great Stark to take to the stage, to give them something juicy to dig their talons into, weapons contractors who could see dollar signs behind inherited brown eyes, friends who followed through generations. Tony never quite saw it. He only knew his father older, or through newsreels, knew him best with a stiff upper lip and stern expression on his face, or in the slant of hurried writing.

He could see it now, though. He could see it as he looked at his father the same age as he was now, maybe even younger, could picture looking into the mirror as he met his gaze. They had the same silver streaks on the side of their temples, the same squint when they looked at the dinner menu, the same casual swirl of drink in a glass.

Zee said something -- a flamingo, Bernard if Tony remembered correctly -- and then her knuckles were touching against his cheek, delicately, as if there was every chance he would break if she moved too fast. Ironic, perhaps, that she’d treat him as something so gentle when they were standing in front of the man who always called him weak and spineless and a disappointment … and then she was gone, and he was in front of the man he came here to meet, and there was a part of Tony that wanted, desperately, to follow her through the crowd and stay pressed neatly to her side.

He resisted the impulse. They’d have their whole lives, after all (they would, wouldn’t they?) and to chase after her when the entire reason they were here in the first place was to give Tony some form of twisted closure. If he followed her now, he’d have to explain why, and that came with a lot of other things Tony would rather avoid bringing to light, at least here. Maybe anywhere.

“Roxxon,” Howard said, gesturing towards the open bar. Tony followed after him, shifting to put his hands in his pockets as he went. “It’s been a while since I’ve had that name brought up at one of my parties.”

“People afraid you’ll get jittery?” Tony asked. Howard huffed a laugh.

“Quite the opposite,” Howard replied. “Had a few boys in Roxxon, a while back. Never came to me with anything concrete.”

“Apart from locations,” Tony continued. Howard’s eyebrow rose, interest clearly piqued. Tony gestured towards the bar once more. “Drink first?”

“Man after my own heart. Order away.”

Howard Stark had been dead for thirty years, back in their time, and yet Tony could remember his favorite brand of whisky. He could remember that his dad stopped taking ice in it sometime around 1985. He knew what cars he drove, what modifications he made to the gearbox and engine so it sounded just right. He knew what songs he listened to in the workshop, and the business dealings that took his interest. All of these things Tony knew, but he wasn’t sure if that was eidetic memory, his father’s journals that he’d poured over in the aftermath of his death, or desperately clinging to what small snippets of existence his father gave him.

Howard never liked his son. He never loved him. He never said he was great, or invincible, or strong as iron. He never said he was anything at all. Tony could count on one hand the occasions where they spent time down in the workshop, or walked together on a red carpet. Other than that, it was silence and distance.

But this was different.

Tony sat down with a glass of whisky (straight up for himself, on ice for his father), took his offer of a cigar, sat on the periphery of the party and talked. Howard listened with an avid fascination, eyes dancing, a hundred and one questions on his lips as Tony talked about miniaturised arc reactors and how Roxxon was double dipping in the stock market and about the Arena Club and how they’d approached him, too. He talked about raising his company up from the ashes and about cars and boats and motorcycles, about high speed races in Monaco and skydiving in Peru. He found out Howard had done just the same, twenty years back, how he was retired from all that now, how he was settling down and the house he was building out in New York and the plans he had for his company.

Minutes ticked by. It could’ve been hours, for all Tony knew -- he wasn’t paying attention to the milling crowd or changing songs, to Peggy and Jarvis’s last stitch attempts at capturing Bernard the Flamingo or his mom and Zatanna talking. He wasn’t paying attention to anything apart from his dad paying attention to him.

It felt amazing. It felt more than amazing. It felt like flying for the first time, felt like falling from the sky but he knew, for the first time, he’d be caught before he hit the ground. It felt like faith, like a gift.

They settled into companionable silence, Howard’s laughter dying slowly after Tony told some joke about journalists with a bone -- and then his father took another sip of his (third) drink, and looked over at him. “A few months married, then?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, looking back over the crowd towards Zatanna, who was speaking to his mother. His mom. He’d never seen her so young, either. He thought it would make her look less severe, but it didn’t. Maybe it was something to do with the gun she was packing.

Tony’s eyebrows narrowed. Paranoia was one thing, but he was an Avenger. There was definitely a concealed weapon under his mother’s dress, strapped to her thigh. Tony opened his mouth, about to ask or speak or get up, when Howard interrupted.

“I was going to get married, once,” he said. “Before Maria, I mean.”

Tony shifted. “What?”

Howard hummed, swirling the ice around. “Ophelia Stane,” he said. “Met her after the war, summer of 1950. German-American scientist, smartest woman I’ve ever met -- except for Peg, of course.”

“Stane?” Tony repeated. “I thought that was--”

“My business partner, yeah.” Howard took a long gulp, face screwing up slightly at the taste. (Tony wasn’t sure what it said about him that he’d stopped having that reaction a long time ago.) “Lia was in a crash. Car wrapped around a tree. Nothing anyone could do. Her brother Obie, he was there for me after. Pulled me out of a real deep hole, got me back on track. He’s gonna be godfather to my kids, no one else for the job.”

Kids.

“That’s the thing in this world, Eddie,” Howard continued. “People can’t be trusted. Just look at Maria. Everyone looks at Maria, and still, no one sees her for what she is. Guessing you know, though.”

Something clicked into place. “SHIELD,” Tony said. Howard clicked his fingers.

“Bingo,” he said. “One of the best agents we’ve got. Everyone thinks she’s a trophy wife -- everyone thinks I’m the luckiest bastard on the planet to be with her. But we know the truth, right?”

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“About marriage? It’s a farce. That whole idea of one person, forever? Fairytales. You pick the person you’re least likely to kill, and you get your kicks anywhere else you need to. Maria gets that. You’d be better off if you realized that yourself. Sensitivity doesn’t get you anywhere.”

He was talking about that hand on Zatanna’s waist, about the flaring jealousy that rose in Tony’s throat. It was illogical, he knew. The chances of the past version of his father -- married, dead, his dad -- capturing Zee’s attention was nil, and yet …

“My dad taught me that,” Howard said, voice all but underwater.

“Authoritarian?” Tony offered. Howard huffed a laugh.

“Doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Howard said. “He was as fond of the belt as I am of a stiff martini. Still, look what he turned me into? Stark men are made of iron. We’re all raised the same, and we’re better for it.”

All. “Do you-”

“Oh God,” a new voice interrupted. Tony looked up from his drink, right into Maria’s knowing gaze. “There’s two of them.”

Howard rose from his seat, pressing a kiss to Maria’s cheek as he snubbed out the end of his cigar. Tony let his burn between his fingers, gaze flickering to Zee.

“Maria,” Howard said. “You gotta meet Rhodes. Eddie, right?” Tony nodded. “This guy’s a visionary, Maria. Can’t believe we’ve never heard of him before. Worked for Roxxon, can predict the market turn like no one I’ve ever met. You know he’s worked on arc technology? A couple years in, he cracked miniaturisation. He’s got plans for a whole damn building based off the back of it.”

Howard reached for him, then, and Tony flinched long before Howard’s hand squeezed his shoulder, and he forced himself to relax under the touch.

“This man--” Howard continued. “--this man has integrity. He’s gonna go far, I’m telling you. The next braveheart. You know, Eddie, I haven’t seen a man like you since-”

“Rogers,” Maria interjected. Her eyes were narrowed, her hand resting on her stomach.

“Rogers, exactly!” Howard said. He turned back to Tony, squeezing his shoulder again. “If my sons turn out anything like you, I’ll be a lucky man.”

Tony blinked twice. “Sons?”

“Twins,” Maria said. “I was just telling Anna.”

“Arno’s mine,” Howard provided, “and she can have Anthony.”

“Antonio,” Maria corrected, “and I keep trying to tell him, they’re both our ch-”

“Twins.”

His voice must’ve betrayed something. His voice, or his hands which now had a tremor he thought he’d calmed with Zatanna’s fingers brushing against his cheek, or his eyes which were uncovered by sunglasses because he didn’t think to bring them. Supid, to come here without a shield -- though he hadn’t, had he?

He stood up from the deck chair, snubbing the cigar and taking one last, long gulp from his glass before he set it down. “Congratulations,” he said to Maria. “I’m sure it was a surprise.”

Tony held his hand out only slightly from his side, a silent invitation that he knew Zatanna would take because she had a hundred times before. They’d always been tactile, always looked for comfort with a head on their shoulder or buried into a shoulder, but this was something else. This was something deeper, because he was looking at her ring.

And then he was looking at her.

We can be like my parents, he’d said. This doesn’t have to mean anything.

Hell looked different, to different people. Tony never expected to use that word to describe a time when his father’s eyes shone like that talking about him, when he presented him to Maria like a trophy shining on the top shelf, but he was now. There was something turning in his gut, and he wasn’t sure what it was. Time displacement nausea, maybe. Maybe something else.

All he knew was that he wasn’t going to get his answers here, with a crowd looking over to see what had caused the Howard Stark to respond so viscerally. “Will you excuse us?” he asked. “I just remembered we … we have someplace to be.”

“Oh,” Howard said. Maria’s expression only hardened. “You should take my card, at least. We’ll have a great place for you at Stark Industries, or within SHI--”

“We’ll be in touch.”

ZATANNA: Two years, she had spent in other dimensions. Two years, she hadn’t spoken to Tony — not her version of him at least. (This one, she quietly corrected herself. He wasn’t hers.) But that distance had felt like nothing when she came back and stepped into his kitchen. Falling back in with him and been so natural. But this was… it was a different kind of distance. She was walking with Maria, casually talking about anything but her marriage because Maria had hit a sore spot. But she was looking at Tony and thinking about what she had said to Maria. That quiet confession that he’d never hear. All the thoughts — all her feelings, dying on her lips. She could have closed the distance a few months ago and wrapped her arms around him and it would have been fine. And now? Closing that distance only pointed towards her desperation — her desire to be close to him.

And what hurt more, the knowledge that she could do it? Or the knowledge that even if she didn’t, she would get the same reaction from Tony? But as Maria had so bluntly put it, love made things complicated. Just like it made the ache in her heart worse. Just like it made the distance of a few feet feel like an impossible ocean to cross.

It was the same feeling in her chest that made her forget that her father was somewhere inside this party too. The same feeling that made her feel a little warm at the idea of Maria liking her because that was her mother-in-law. Even if she didn’t know it. Even if she didn’t know it was her son standing next to her husband at the bar. (She was wishing now that she hadn’t dressed this up as a long-postponed honeymoon. This was supposed to be Tony getting a chance to see his parents, just a quick trip — not one that was supposed to help guide the blade that would surely carve out her heart.)

Maria and Howard immediately came together and Zatanna lingered at Tony’s side, falling back into her confused state of feelings, somehow jealous that Howard could openly kiss Maria and also furious at Tony for saying that they could be like them. (There was love, it seemed, between them, someplace in their relationship — but their love hadn’t lined up. And Zatanna was thinking, maybe… maybe they would end up just like them. Ships in the night. Almost something to each other. But not quite there.) Howard was singing Tony’s praises and then the word miniaturization came up and Zatanna glanced at Tony, not enough that anyone else would care but enough that she hoped he understood she knew. That was something that Howard wasn’t supposed to know about — none of them were. Tony was supposed to do that years from now in a cave.

“I take it you two had a productive conversation?”

How was she supposed to stop that from impacting the future? That was a clear turn — but Zatanna didn’t get a chance to figure out how to move forward with that before Howard was mentioning the twins.

Zatanna wished she had time to warn him, to ease him into the idea that there was supposed to be two of him. Arno and Anthony. (Antonio, Maria had said.) They were talking names and who got what child and it was… it was light and warm despite the previous conversation that lingered. Love made things complicated, but they had common ground here. But a shadow lingered on the horizon and she and Tony both knew it.

Tony was on his feet and his hand twitched at his side, just barely leaving a gap for her hand, but like a magnet, she snapped into place with his hand. Wrapping her fingers around his hand without question, gently gripping his hand as a reminder, if her touch hadn’t done it, that hopefully the pressure would remind him that he wasn’t alone. Her thumb dragging across the back of his head. Focus on something, anything — just not them —

She couldn’t stop him though. Couldn’t help calm his mind without drawing too much attention to the look in his eyes or the twitch in his hand.

In the corner of her eye, she saw his head turn and she followed suit, catching his gaze for just a moment. Wondering if her worry was as plain as it felt in her chest. If her confession a few minutes earlier was written there too. How much of it could he see? How transparent was she becoming? But those thoughts flickered away. Unimportant. (Irrelevant.)

The conversation ended abruptly, and Tony was ready to run — and she couldn’t blame him. This was a lot more than what they had signed up for. But the expression on Maria’s face, that concerned her. Was it suspicion that they might be spies for another company? Or was it something else that caused her gaze to turn in such a way?

“It was a pleasure to meet both of you,” Zatanna offered, trying to soften the bluntness of Tony’s reply. “I adore the flamingo, by the way.”

Hand in hand, Zatanna pulled Tony towards the exit of the building but instead of going out the door, pulled him into a side room. Someplace that was reasonably private so that they could talk.

There was so much that she wanted to say, about how he had slipped up numerous times and she was certain that he had give up too much to his father. Too many mentions of future technology and how that she had trusted him not to do anything that would disturb the timeline. And yet, he had said so many things that no one should know. Not for a few more decades. But those frustrations quieted as she changed her grip so that she was holding both his arms just below his shoulder.

“Tony. I’m sorry — I didn’t know. Maria told me about it just moments before we came back to talk to you.” She would have warned him if she could. (And she wished she had whispered a spell just to whisper in his ear before they came over to him. But when it came to magic, she didn’t know where the line was with Tony. How much of it she could use on him without asking him? So much of them was still undefined.)

It had been a long time since Zatanna was at a loss for words. Her mouth hanging open as she tried to find something suitable to help him — but what could she offer? A return trip home was likely the answer that he needed, but there was doubt in her heart that she could do transport him in this state without making things worse for him when they came back to where they were supposed to be. (Time travel was a delicate thing, and ripping Tony away from one stressful situation and dropping him into another? That wasn’t helpful. That would just hurt him more.)

This had been a mistake.

Tony was right, the second they stepped out of that portal and he asked her to send them back, she should have. And she should have never offered to send them back here in the first place. But… she knew why she had done it. Why all logic slipped out of her mind and all she was thinking about was what she could give him. Because he had smiled. Genuinely smiled and looked at her like she had been the one to decorate the very sky with stars. As if she was all the magic in the world collected into one person.

She had done it because she wanted to see that smile again. So that he’d keep his eyes on her in that same manner. A foolish choice made out a feeling that blossomed in her chest.

“We can go home,” she assured him. “I just want to make sure you’re okay first.”

“It was you.”

A voice interrupted and Zatanna pulled her hands away from Tony, as if a teenager caught with her boyfriend for the first time — because it was her dad. Standing in the doorway. He was dressed as he always did, like a performer. But by his posture, it was clear that this… this wasn’t a social visit. At least not anymore. His jaw was set, and he was looking between Tony and Zatanna, deciding what he was going to do.

“What was us?”

“Just you,” he said, focusing on Zatanna. She could feel her body stiffen. This wasn’t the man that she remembered from her childhood, and this wasn’t the man she remembered leaving in Hell. This was… her father before her mother. And he seemed to be a different person entirely. “When you cast spells, there are ripples.” Zatanna knew that. Every magician knew that— “And the bigger the spell. The bigger the ripple.” His gaze turned towards Tony. And it clicked, he wasn’t saying this for her benefit, he was saying it so that Tony understood. “Who are you? Where are you from?”

“My name is An—”

“Eht hturt. Won.”

Zatanna inhaled. She had seen her father do this before, he had cast this spell a number of times on other people, just like the one he had used to alter memories — but he had never used it on her. She tried to tell herself that he didn’t know it was her, that if he had known, he would have never crossed that line. But that didn’t stop the sting in her eyes as she opened up her mouth, knowing that it wasn’t choice guiding her words anymore.

“My name is Zatanna Zatara—”

“Ecnelis.”

She bit down on her lip, forcing it to stop quivering while her jaw felt tight — and her lips felt like they had been stitched together. Her gaze hitting the floor and her head dropping. Shame and guilt rippling through her just like the waves of magic that had brought her father to her. But now they were coupled with the feeling that came with being violated. Ripped of her agency — the only thing she could find herself to be grateful for was that her father had stopped her before she had given up Tony’s identity too.

There was a new hesitance there. John was looking at her like he was trying to decide if she was his or if she was his brother’s. (He’d probably blame his brother, ignoring the obvious — ignoring the hurt in her eyes or the way she was slowly breaking under his gaze.)

“Fools, both of you.” John finally spoke up again, not sparing their feelings or wasting any more time. “I’ll clean up your mess. Howard won’t remember a thing. Do I need to alter Maria’s memories as well?” He assumed that Tony had screwed up, and Zatanna didn’t know if she should be pissed that he thought so little of anyone without the Zatara name, or pleased that he’d distort the memories that might have altered the course of history. (She was leaning towards the side of pissed off — even if she knew Tony had dropped the ball there.) “Answer me.”

‘You silenced me.’ Zatanna signed.

“Kaeps.”

Zatanna inhaled deeply again, opening her mouth, and gasping as she tried to find words again. “Maria doesn’t know anything. Howard’s memories might need alterations.” She knew that no matter how she answered, he would have touched on Howard’s memories regardless, at least this way, she could protect Maria from that trauma.

Lifting her gaze, she looked towards Tony, apologizing for what he had seen, what he knew was going to happen now, for all of it — and begging him to come closer to her all in the same glance. Her dad’s head turned at the same time and Zatanna’s attention snapped back to him, stepping between him and Tony. “Leave him alone.”

John’s jaw tightened again, looking down at Zatanna before looking towards Tony once more. “You both need to leave. Now.”

TONY: Zatanna guided him into the house, and for a second Tony wondered if she’d been here before, in any of the numerous universes she’d come across some version of him before. He wondered if there’d been a time when she stood in front of a sixteen year old Tony Stark standing at the bottom of a marble staircase with blooming purple on his cheekbone, wondered if he brushed her off as he’d brushed off everyone else who dared to ask about it (less people than he had always assumed would. People didn’t want to look too closely at the sun, because they knew it would burn. It was the same with this). She pulled him into the kitchen -- one of the kitchens -- the one that wasn’t used by the chefs for events but rather on an everyday basis for breakfast and family dinners, the very place that used to house smashed glass and spilled wine and tears.

Tony looked, instinctively, to the corner. He remembered holding his mother there, her head pressing into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around him. He remembered her promising they would leave. He remembered thinking how, if magic or God existed, she would follow through on that promise. If magic or her God existed, they would’ve been safe. They would’ve been in Sicily. They would’ve been somewhere, anywhere, away from flashing lights and crashing cars and a wine cellar that always went empty long before time.

But God didn’t exist, not that Tony had seen. God didn’t exist, and magic did, but not in the way he’d always hoped. Because Zatanna was capable of bringing him back in time, capable of so many wonders, capable of completely rewriting the rules of the universe as he had once known them, and still, she couldn’t change what had happened here. She couldn’t change what his parents had done, what they failed to do. She couldn’t change what they were fighting, in a marriage that they couldn’t define.

“I know,” Tony said, the second Zatanna started speaking. “How could you know? I didn’t.” He figured that much was obvious from the look that passed his face as soon as his mother said the words, figured that was why she looked at him with narrowed eyes and suspicion tensing her shoulders. “It makes sense, though. It … all of it, it makes sense. You know Mom’s with SHIELD? One of their best agents, he said. I always thought she was … that he dragged her into it. That he killed her. But she knew. When she went out with the … when they moved the serum, they both knew.”

Did that make it better, or worse? Tony couldn’t quite put his finger on it, riding a thousand emotions at once, reaching once again, subconsciously, to touch his fingertips against Zatanna’s, something to ground him.

“I just--” Tony sucked in a breath, pulled his hand back only briefly so he could run it through his hair (his breathing was picking up. If FRIDAY worked in this universe -- she could, if he altered it, he knew that -- she would warn of an impending panic attack. Tony didn’t need the warning. He knew the signs all too well). “My dad was a hero. He changed the world. He ended the war, he recreated the serum, he gave me the element that I needed so I wouldn’t … so palladium wouldn’t keep killing me. He saved my life a hundred times over, and he never even told me where he went. He never said a single thing about SHIELD, about what he sacrificed.”

His father was a hero. His mother was, too. But now, slowly, Tony was beginning to realise something else.

“You know,” Tony continued, and this time he did look away, looked down at their hands or at the ring on her finger or the necklace around her neck, anywhere except for meeting her eyes, “the first person who taught me how to be treated? Dad. I never knew how to … relate to people, in boarding school. I never knew how to be--” Digestible? Easy to swallow, easy to love? “But I knew how to take a punch. I knew I deserved it. And then I got older, and I started…”

Sleeping around. Shooting up in expensive rooms in clubs he couldn’t remember the name of even with an eidetic memory because he’d never cared about where he was or who he was with, so long as his head was swimming and he could be silent, for a moment. He’d wake up the next morning and hate himself, but God, it was worth it for that second. For that instant.

“I’m drunk,” he said, huffing a bitter laugh as he turned to the wall, then back again. He turned in a circle and he didn’t know where to focus, because there were nicks in the wall he’d never seen before and there were wine stains missing in the rug he knew would one day appear. “I’m drunk and I just smoked a cigar, and I fucking hate cigars. And I just -- he said his dad did the same thing. Fond of the belt, he said. And I’m meant to feel bad about that, right? I’m meant to … that’s meant to explain something.”

Tony did feel bad. Even if he could hear Obadiah calling him weak in the back of his head, even if he knew it was a dangerous sentimentality even in the relative safety of his own mind, Tony felt for his father. He mourned for him, was angry at the grandfather he’d never met, at the history that he carried through. But there was something else there, too.

“His dad did the same thing,” Tony said, finally, turning back to meet Zatanna’s gaze, to hold it for a long moment. “His dad did the same thing, and yet he looked me dead in the eye, and he said it made him stronger. He said it turned him to iron. He said … he said it was a good thing. He chose to do that to me, and what he did, it didn’t … it didn’t build character, Zee. It didn’t do a damn thing. It was just--”

Abuse.

The word settled heavy on his tongue, lodged itself deep down in his chest. “I’m gonna be sick,” Tony said, matter of fact, and just as he turned to retrace steps to the bathroom, the door opened and another ghost from the past appeared.

More recent past, but God, Tony couldn’t tell that by looking at him. He’d never seen John this young, never seen him this angry. Never seen how disappointment could look in his eyes, though he was damn used to being looked at like that. (Every person had a unique way of tunnelling in under his skin, making it hurt on the way out.)

We can go home, Zatanna said. Tony was pretty sure John was going to make them, even if they didn’t want to.

(What would that look like? Tony allowed himself a brief moment of fantasy, a second to wonder whether just staying here away from everything, knowing what they knew, being able to change the past and make it better -- they could have a life here. They could have a home and he could kiss her and it would be okay. It would be better than okay, because all the horrors they’d faced, all the pain that happened in his parents’ lives to turn them into what they became … they could change that. The power was in their hands.

But even magic could only go so far.)

“In her defence,” Tony said, beginning to step in front of her as soon as he saw Zatanna’s expression shift, as soon as John turned his attention solely to her, “I asked her to do this. It’s on me more than--”

He wasn’t listening. This was between father and daughter -- or father and future daughter. Father and stranger, at this point in time -- and Zatanna didn’t have experience of that. She’d never looked into her father’s eyes, into half of her, and seen hatred or suspicion reflected back. She’d been loved, since the very first day she lived, since the first breath she took. It was the least she deserved, of course. It was the least any kid deserved, the least Tony was going to give to his. But still, he had to imagine that this hurt even more when she was so used to that love being unconditional, unwavering. Earth-shattering.

Zatanna looked towards him, and Tony didn’t care what John was capable of. He didn’t care if moving closer would shatter whatever existed between them, or if it would alter the time-space continuum, or break something even more than he already had. Zatanna looked at him and she needed him, and he stepped towards her immediately, hand going to hers, squeezing tightly.

“We’ll go,” he said, pulling Zatanna gently towards the door. “We’ll go. Thank you.”

(Thanks for erasing my father’s mind. You think you could make him less of a bastard at the same time, or is hurting me part of the universal plan?)

Tony guided Zatanna out of the house, ducking his head when he caught sight of familiar brunette curls and a well presented man in a three piece suit. He kept his eyes focused almost entirely on the ground, navigating by pavings alone, until he almost collided with a solid mass, forcing him to drop Zatanna’s hand.

“Eddie!” Howard’s voice came again, a bright, brilliant smile coming over his face. “We should grab another drink, speak more about Isodyne.” A casual glance to the side, appraising, and then, “Feel free to bring your wife. Talking business is always more enjoyable with a pleasant view.”

ZATANNA: She was holding her breath. The expression on his face shifted, his eyes moving to certain parts of the room, and she wondered what he was seeing there that she wasn’t. What had happened in this room? (And the more that he talked, the more he detailed his account of what had happened to him — she was scared of what that answer might be.) Her first reaction was to tell him that they could move to another room, but the offer never came. It didn’t matter what room of this house they were in, she was sure each room had their own memories and she wasn’t sure what she’d be unearthing while trying to give him a place where he could decompress before they flickered back to the time they belonged.

“I know you know — I just wish…” She shook her head. “Wishing doesn’t matter here.” Because it didn’t. It didn’t matter if she wanted to soften the blow. Wishing wouldn’t change what had happened. But Maria being a SHIELD agent was also news to her. “She’s… what?” That hadn’t been the impression that she had gotten from Maria when they were on the other side of the party, picking at appetizers, talking about baby names and what marriage meant. But it made sense, with that context in her head, how Maria could be so… practical? Matter of fact? Clinical. She had approached marriage and the subject that Zatanna had asked about with such surgical precision that Zatanna had assumed that it was because she had lived this life for so long. That she and Howard had found what had worked for them and that she was content (if anyone could be that) in the life that she had been given.

But Maria being apart of SHIELD meant exactly what Tony was saying. There was no way that she had gotten into that car that night and not know what had been happening. She wasn’t a clueless victim that had ended up wrapped around a tree because Howard had been drunk and selfish. (Moved the serum. She didn’t know a lot about science, she could barely follow earlier when Tony and Howard had been talking and they hadn’t been using massive words, she simply… didn’t understand. But the serum? She knew about that. She just hadn’t realized that his father had any of it with him the night that he had died.)

She wished that it made things better. That she could reach out to Tony and say that meant that his parents, at some point in their lives, had been partners. But did that matter? Truly? They were both dead in the space that Tony and Zee both existed, and it didn’t change how they lived.

This discovery might have changed things for Tony, but it didn’t change any other part of his story. His breathing was heavy, and she was trying to figure out how to calm him down but knowing that this — this wasn’t the kind of story you told while you were calm. It was the kind that pulled out from your soul and left it bleeding on the floor while you hoped that the person you told it too understood what it meant. How much it hurt — how much of it you still carried with you even if you shared a piece of it with them. So, she didn’t stop him. She let him start exploring that story and tried not to cut him off because she cared and she wanted him to breathe, but she also felt like this was something that he needed to say. And if he needed help carrying it, she’d help him with that too.

His father was a hero in some places. Zatanna could wrap her head around that, but the more that Tony told her, the less she could see him that way. There was no shining light around him, the best thing he had ever done was bring Tony into this world and maybe she could thank him for that element too, but everything he had done to Tony in that time between? Those weren’t the actions of a hero. Howard had been the one who taught Tony that every flaw in his life was his own fault, that the blame of anything and everything fell on his shoulders. It wasn’t Tony’s voice that she was arguing against in text messages, or Tony’s true thoughts that she had been signing at angrily in that bathroom — it had been what Howard taught him to think of himself.

Howard had been the one that had Tony apologizing for existing. For making mistakes. For being human. And the bitterness was full in her mouth as she tried to swallow every nasty thought she had about him. Tony needed to decide how he felt about his father without Zatanna leaving notes in his words, telling him just what she thought of him and what she’d do to him if she ever saw him again — Howard had never hurt her. But the heat in her veins felt the same. It burned just the way as it had when he was looking at her without seeing her. Discounted to nothing more than the trophy wife of a man with a magnificent mind. But that disgust only grew, knowing how he had put his hands on Tony. How he had told Tony about his own incidents with his father.

He worked it out until he said he was going to be sick, and Zatanna was right next to him, a hand on his back, ready to help him track down the nearest bathroom.

But they’d never get that far.

Tony spoke up to defend her but of course, his way of protecting her was hoarding the blame for himself, and she gave him a look. Even in the midst of feeling the pressure of her father, she could spare her husband a glance that reminded him that she hated it when he did that. That they were partners — maybe they weren’t traditionally married, maybe they weren’t the sparkling couple that others might have been, but he didn’t get to pick up all the blame and act like it was his fault. Because it wasn’t. (And him saying it again only reminded her that Howard had done that. Howard had fed that idea into Tony’s head until it was second nature for Tony to decide that it was his fault something had gone wrong.)

Her father’s words — his magic — all of it had stung. And she knew it wasn’t what Tony had experienced, it was just a fraction of that violation. That feeling of trust that was supposed to be there that had shattered in an instant. (He didn’t know, Zatanna told herself. He didn’t know until he had already crossed that line.) But he had crossed it so easily. No hesitation in his spells or in his steps. He wanted answers and he didn’t care how he got them. (Zatanna had been like that once. Sometimes she still was like that.) But that intimidation, that feeling that was sinking into her chest and making her want to puke — that was what Tony had lived with his entire life.

It was easier for her to warp what had happened to her and think about how it had happened to Tony. It was easier to be angry that way instead of scared, instead of hurt. Tony guided them out of the room and out the front, and Zatanna was absently following him. Trying to create a narrative in her mind where what her father did wouldn’t keep hurting her when they went back home. So that she could go to his grave and not think about how he manipulated minds so easily without any care at all. (A truth spell. He had used mind control, a basic form of it but it was still — he shouldn’t have. Not unless he had to. And what had she done to make him think that he had to?)

Outside, Zatanna found herself copying Tony, keeping her head down and focusing on the ground. But then they stopped. They stopped and Tony let go of her hand and her heart dropped — Howard’s voice ripped through the air again, and this time, Zatanna wasn’t standing at Tony’s side with a polite smile on her face, tucking herself under his arm so that it was clear that she was with him.

Instead, she was only a foot away from him, staring at the side of Howard’s face, watching as he looked over her, listening as he called her a pleasant view. But she didn’t hear him, not fully at least. She understood he look he had given her, but all she could think about was what he was going to do to Tony after he was born. How much he was going to hurt him and think that he was teaching Tony something.

“Thank you for the offer,” Zatanna forced out. Howard looked at her, confused briefly, as to why she was the one responding and not Tony. “But we will be declining.” She had only truthfully spoken so that he’d look at her. In a fluid movement, she brought her hand back and punched him square in the nose. His blood was on her knuckles as he stumbled backwards, a hand over his mouth and an expression on his face that suggested maybe she had sobered him up with that hit.

“Oh god,” Zatanna whispered. She shouldn’t have done it — it felt good but she knew she shouldn’t have. Zatanna looked at Tony, an apology to him on the tip of her tongue when a pair of hands came out, grabbing the two of them by the shoulder.

Her father. Once again. And a furious glare, but he didn’t take the time to scold them. Instead, he cast a spell. And when they blinked, they were standing back in the attic of Shadowcrest. Surrounded by dust and boxes, and memories that Zatanna was starting to think were best left unremembered.

[bts-story]

Have you heard of Nick Cannon's show "Wild 'N Out"? There's this segment in this show called "Got Damned" wherein each team has a representative to roasts their opponent, and if one of them takes too long to insult the other or their insult is a bit "shaky", the other team gets the point (It's also in youtube, check it out! v funny 😂 ) I would like to request where Namjoon and y/n (couple) were guests on the show but were on different teams, and have to roast each other. Up to you who wins :)

Got Damned — RM

Where is the line between something funny and something mean?

“Well, let’s roast!”

Being mean is intentionally hurting someone else. Anyone manifesting a will to harm, someone looking to attack and, or injure pain in any way. In this very situation, we talk about painful words. Something that is specifically aimed to hurt someone’s feelings, targeted like an arrow with its mark. It’s talking or pointing out the things about someone they complex about. In all, being mean is something wanted, meant to harm with the simple purpose to hurt someone exactly where there’s already a lot of pain.

“God of Destruction, they call you. Aren’t Gods supposed to be well-built?”

Being funny is the other world past the line. Someone, or something funny, is amusing and likely to make people smile or laugh. Something meant to entertain and distract someone. The good part of this segment, if you will, is how to embrace the amusing part of the joke. It’s to understand no harm was meant, no intended attack was targeted. Only pure amusement to divert the audience.

“Okay, now try again, but use your big-girl words, baby.”

It’s odd to imagine a reality show where all you have to do is mock and making fun of your opponents. The duality of this is, of course, understand where stands the line between being funny and being mean. The thing about entertainment is to find new subjects to distract the spectator because, let’s face it, we all get bored pretty easily by watching all the same things again, again and all over again.

“You know what, I don’t even argue with idiots. They just lower me to their level and I clearly can’t beat experience.”

A wave of laughter erupted from all around the studio, denouncing fingers pointed here and there, mouth wide open and some of the people around even clapped hard with their hands, holding tight at their belly. What’s good to notice about this show is to learn how important it is not to take any targeted joke seriously. People will only use physical normalities against each other, they would lash about something they may have said or done before. In all, it’s all calculated, directed to be as funny as possible with only merely crossing the line of being mean.

“You thought about that one on the way here, didn’t you? How many more do you have?”

“Oh, shaky, shaky,” the emcee warned with a disapproving shake of his head. But Namjoon still adored this smile at the corner of his lips, listening, carefully thinking about his next comeback. He wasn’t roasting just yet, only counter-backed your attacks. It may be a good sign because Namjoon has never really been good with insults, in all honesty.

“Yeah, too shaky. Like the first time you asked me out. ‘W-would you like to go-go on a date w-with me?’” It wasn’t true. Not one word about this was true, but no one had to know about that.

The joke was just too easy not to make, and considering the chuckle escaping Namjoon’s lips, you knew he wasn’t mad. In fact, he nodded his head, licked his lips before the emcee turned his head towards him, waiting for his response. “Need an answer or you’re out,” the other guy said, a warning in his eyes and he was already ready to call out Namjoon before the latter answered something among the lines –

“It’s pointless to make fun of her,” he argued to the man, “‘cause it’ll take her the rest of the day to figure it out.” Once more, all laughter erupted from all around. Namjoon had this unbeatable smirk at the corner of his lips you desperately wanted to beat off. It was smug and satisfied and it’s true to say Namjoon only wore it when he was proud of something (or ready to jump out on you and kiss every single each of your body).

You shook your head, clearing your throat as you quickly tried to think about a next insult to throw out. “If I throw a stick, will you leave already?”

It’s easy to say. Some jokesaren’t specifically meant to harm, and you know Namjoon wouldn’t really take it personally. He’s smart enough to understand the rules of this game, intelligent enough so he wouldn’t get hurt by the way of your words. “Speaking of leaving, why don’t you take your ‘I wish I was a model’-ass out of here?”

It’s more or less meant to spike. You can tell by the devilish spark in the middle of Namjoon’s irises, you can tell by the never-ever-fading smile on his lips. You nodded silently, trying to take the joke too seriously and it was about to get real because, you expected sooner or later, one of you would start to bring in real talk in the game.

Something the other might be insecure about, anything, really, that would destabilize them in any way possible. Still, no harm meant. “Why don’t youtake your weird lizard-looking, mama’s boy-ass out of here?”

“I would but mama makes such delicious cupcakes,” Namjoon said in a high-pitched voice, proudly. “At least she can cook.”

You wouldn’t even be able to cook to save your own life and, yes, Namjoon can’t possible do as well either, but the fact was directed for you and if you expected anything, it wasn’t that because, it’s just too easy. “Keep talking, you’ll probably end up saying something clever one day.”

It took a moment of laughter all around, a nod of Namjoon’s head before he continued, “You have fake hair, right? Fake nails, fake tan and if I’m not wrong, fake eyelashes too? Aren’t you…” Namjoon laughed, a hand on his chest to emphasize his words, “weren’t you actually made in China?”

It all ends that way.

Making the difference between something mean and something funny. It’s hard to tell where stands the line and it’s even harder to be able not to cross it. But what happens when the line is crossed, however?

Well, this is this feeling. When your heart breaks a little, and suddenly you’re not laughing anymore because something made your stomach twirls and your heart sting a little. There is nothing funny and the harm is already said and done. The line is already too far behind, and nothing anyone can say or do will magically suppress anything.

It’s that sick feeling, when you can actually feel the pain in your chest from hearing or witnessing something that really breaks your heart. But it’s all a game, well, it’s supposed to be a game. And games are meant to be fun and enjoyable. But when it’s not anymore, what do you do?

It wasn’t that big of a threat; however, it was enough to leave you speechless. An effective knockout which was indeed calculated because it’s the pure truth. The public chanted all together, celebrating how Namjoon knocked you out so easily. The smug smirk on his face growing larger as his teammates celebrated their little victory. Shaking your head, you let a slight laugh escaping your lips before disappearing behind the next player.

“Are you mad at me?” Namjoon asked later on, when the chaos of the studio had been shut down and you found yourselves back in the van, ready to head out back to the hotel. It’s safe to say you started to feel a headache forming inside your skull, literally hearing your heartbeats with each second passing.

You snuggled yourself further in his embrace, shaking your head side to side to deny. However, he knows you and he knows all your moods and all your flaws. And he knows when something is wrong or when something, anything, is bothering you. “M’just tired,” you tried to argue softly, hoping it’ll leave his doubts flowing away.

But he knows better. “It was just a game, yeah?” he stated quietly, holding you closer before planting a kiss on top of your head. His hand came to find yours and still moving from time to time due to the holes in the road, he caressed absently your fingers one by one.

“Yeah,” you replied lazily, already feeling your eyes shut down.

But it wasn’t enough for Namjoon, he needed to be sure you wouldn’t hold anything against him. That you wouldn’t be mad or annoyed of anything he might have said. After all, you said things too but, once again, he knows when something is wrong.

So he detached his fingers from yours to put them under your chin, lifting up your head to meet your eyes. And there was exactly what he loved the most about you. One can see so many things in the two orbs made to see, and your eyes always made him feel like he was the only man on earth. The only important thing that ever existed and kissing your lips delicately, he cupped your jaw, caressing the skin under his fingertips.

He does not need to say anything more, because looking right into your eyes, he finds all the answers he was searching for. You’re not mad.

You’re not mad, and you’re really just tired because that type of recording takes so long, and it literally drains your energy. But of all the things you said, and all the things he said, it was all just fun, and not harm was meant.

The line stands there. When you love someone, you know of all the things you can say and all the things you don’t. When you love someone, you make sure not to ever cross that line.

—————

Is it safe to say I’d let Justina Valentine step on me?! 

This took SO long and I’m SO sorry bby 

I hope it’s fine enough!! 

- Nageoire 

[niffin]

you make a fine shrine

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: E

Word count: 2733

CW: rape/noncon, dubcon, emotional abuse, transphobia, acephobia

Other tags: pleading, trans Jonathan Sims, s3 spoilers

ao3 link

Elias watches his Archivist avoid the Institute for almost a week after they consummated their sacrament. Jonathan fled back to his college friend's flat and promptly got into a row with her over his disappearance, and injuries. After soothing Ms. Barker with enough of the truth to make himself feel better and secure her trust and assistance, he spent a total of fourteen hours over multiple days while she was absent cradling her cat and hyperventilating. He made frantic, furtive doctor's appointments, where he adamantly denied any recent trauma to several concerned medical practitioners. Elias thinks disapprovingly that he'll sicken himself with starvation, particularly after his intense exertion in their last interaction. He's ignoring how statements have become a physical need, and not just an obsession. It does make it simple to ensure he'll return; all Elias has to do is make sure no one thinks to smuggle him any, and wait.

He's enjoying a nightcap at home when he Sees that the prodigal son has decided to return. When Jon finally arrives at the Institute, skulking through disused corridors towards the Archives, he finds Elias awaiting him, settled comfortably in one of the dilapidated sofas his archival staff refuse to upgrade.

Ice seizes his Archivist's heart and surges through his veins, locking him in place. Elias savors it. His fear is… unparalleled, complex and heady, imprinted by so many powers and, of course, by Elias himself.

Elias holds out a thin sheaf of papers. "I think you'll find Lester Chang's statement will help clarify your next move. But you seem unwell, Jonathan - perhaps you ought to get some rest before you record this one?"

He looks wan, enervated. Elias Knows he hadn't slept for over a day before his deprivation outweighed his dread. He Knows the adrenaline pumping through Jon won't compensate for the exhaustion and starvation. Elias anticipates seeing what he will do.

Jon mumbles hoarsely, "I don't want it." But his eyes fixate on the statement, and he unconsciously licks his lips. He's gorgeous.

"Then what did you come here for, Archivist? The pleasure of my company?"

Elias hardly has to try to provoke Jon - it's wonderful how much sheer stubbornness motivates him. He braces himself against the doorway, shaking his head, a hiss of disgusted laughter escaping his gritted teeth. "You are... a nasty piece of work, and I don't want anything you have to give me -"

Elias smiles. "You will." A flicker of fury in Jon's eyes. "Do you know why? Why don't you ask me?"

Jon senses the trap closing around him but obstinately remains silent. Elias feels a swell of adoration for that battered pride. "This statement has the lead you're searching for. I'm sure there are others in the Archive that could give you the information you need, but you don't have the luxury of a leisurely search. And all you have to do… is cooperate."

Elias places it down on an end table, watching Jon's desperation build. Jon can't formulate an argument and they both know it. Surrender only slightly softens the tense lines of Jon's body; the first halting step is the hardest, but soon enough he's standing just outside arm's reach swaying with need. Elias is suffused with delight.

As Jonathan takes that last step into range, Elias stands. Cups his face to pull him closer, runs his thumb tenderly over chapped lips and fingertips over the pockmarks the worms left in Jon's flesh. Jon asks, "Am I… Elias, am I still human?" There's no power behind it, weak as Jon is, but Elias appreciates the attempt.

Elias only Knows truths, and can only make people Know true things. But every mind is primed to accept some assertions more easily than others, and most of the time all it takes is simple manipulation to change someone’s perception in such a way that subjective impressions feel like objective reality. Jon is afraid of himself. Jon believes that Elias has answers. Of course he will provide some.

"What does human even mean? You’ll fool those untouched, those who want to believe otherwise." Bleakest despair engulfs him.

"You're marked. Damaged, Jonathan. Since long before you arrived here. Your temperament, your body, your inability to love." Hot shame in his stomach.

"But I know all of you, the flaws and the inhumanity. You're mine, and I am refining you. Just do what you need to, and you will be… perfect." He implants in Jon's mind what he's feeling - the devotion, the reverence. Then he rips it away. Jon gasps, eyes flying open, and clutches at Elias' suit, presses close, heart to heart. Oh, he still thinks Elias is an amoral abomination, but who else could love a monster like him?

Jon's face twists as he comes to the same conclusion. "Enough," he says hoarsely. "I'm cooperating, aren't I?" But he's thinking about how he could still leave with his dignity intact; how gratifying it would feel to wrap his hands around Elias' throat, the rest of the Institute's lives be damned.

His eyes flick towards the statement, enticing and so close. Then he grips Elias' clothes tighter; his hands shake. He leans in. Presses their mouths together. Elias smiles.

He kisses Jon hard, devouring him and his wordless protests. Jon doesn't know how to reciprocate, especially when Elias nips at his lower lip and pushes his tongue into his mouth. It's taking everything he has not to flinch away, not to resist.

Elias retreats an inch and murmurs, "Good boy. Let's do this properly." He strokes Jon's shoulder, lightly tugs at his pullover. "Off with this."

Jon averts his eyes. Takes it off, then, reluctantly, his trousers too. He shivers under the weight of Elias' gaze. Ms. Barker has forced some much needed nourishment on him, and he's not nearly as scrawny as he was when Elias took the metal pipe he'd been struggling with and smashed Leitner's head in. Truly, if Detective Tonner hadn't been so consumed by the Hunt, she'd have realized that regardless of his motives, he wasn't physically capable of it. And as it stands, his Archivist has too strong a belief in the value of human life, especially his friends'. Elias touches a fingertip to his chest where that tender heart races. Jon thinks uncontrollably of sharpened knives and bloody altars, then of cold earth and his own blunt pocket knife at his throat when Elias cradles the side of his neck where Alice bruised him, now yellowed and faded.

"Hush. You've become too precious for that, Archivist." Elias shrugs off his coat, takes hold of Jon's hand, and places it on his own chest where his heart swells with pride and tender devotion. "Can you feel it?"

There's a part of Jon that wants to feel it. He tells himself he doesn't, that he's being coerced, even as his fingers fumble at Elias' shirt buttons. Elias runs his hands over Jon's chest and slender waist, and marks how his touch incites Jon to speed up, trying to get it all over with.

Elias tosses his shirt to the side and pulls Jon into his lap. He's hot against the climate controlled air of the archive, but Jon is the one who acts like he's been burned when their skin touch. He grabs Jon's elbow to hold him, warn him. "Properly, Jonathan. You can make this good."

Jon stares at him, trying to calculate how much effort Elias will deem proper, how much will get him that statement and an escape with minimal damage. He decides not to leave his lap, and as Elias wraps his arms around him, he slowly spreads his fingers over Elias' chest. Jon's feather light touch traces the lines of the stylized tattooed eyes across it, and slips lower over the intricate geometry on Elias' ribs. For all his claims about his reluctance, the Archivist intently catalogs every detail.

Jon thinks about kissing him but can't quite make himself do it. He leans forward, hands sliding over Elias' stomach and chest, to put his lips on his jaw instead. Elias obligingly tilts his head back for Jon to kiss down his neck. He stops when he reaches Elias' pulse - opens his mouth over his vulnerable jugular - bites down hard enough to make Elias gasp - releases him immediately. They both know it was an empty threat. It didn't even make Jon feel better; now he's angry with himself for lacking the stomach to go through with it. Elias laughs. How provocative. "If inflicting a little pain helps you, Jon, then I certainly shall not stop you."

The permission, predictably, aggravates Jon. He tenses, won't make eye contact. "Am I making it good for you?"

Elias smiles. "Yes. But there’s more to do. You’ll have to mind the teeth this time." His Archivist stares a moment, then understands as Elias slowly eases him off his lap, hand on the back of his head pushing him inexorably downward. Jon resists, tightens his nails on Elias’ shoulders, a low growl in his throat. Then obeys. More or less. There’s a little more pressure in his touch, a few scattered begrudging kisses across his skin as Jon slides down between his legs.

He would be hard pressed to accept this level of sloppiness from anyone else. But it doesn't much matter - his Archivist is inexperienced to say the least, and desire renders foreplay nearly unnecessary. He just needs to watch Jon on his knees, shaking as he undoes Elias' trousers, gingerly avoiding touching his cock until he can't anymore, the distress on his face as he fully wraps his hand around it. He glances helplessly at Elias' face and sees no mercy, no reprieve.

Jonathan takes Elias' cock in his mouth. He gags, naturally, merely from the taste and sensation. He barely overpowers the urge to escape, and tears escape his eyes three quarters of the way down his cock, unable to go any further. Unwilling to even try to take Elias down his throat. Next time, perhaps. There's much to teach, all of it gratifying. He has different plans for tonight.

Elias says, "Wrap your hand around what's left." Jon blinks up at him, then complies. "Cover your teeth with your lips, and pull back up." It's exquisitely sensual, the halting movement of his tongue dragging against the underside of his cock, his hand belatedly following and smearing his saliva. "And again." Jon does it again. He tentatively strokes his tongue this time - a quick study, though he nearly chokes and has to pause and take a deep breath. Elias softly murmurs appreciation, says his name tenderly every time he tries something new. His Archivist, so eager to learn. Trying so hard, and being so good.

He waits until Jon is panicking over the possibility of Elias coming in his mouth (it took him no more than two or three minutes to start thinking about it. His naivete is charming - it's not that he thinks he's good at this, he simply has no idea how long anything would take) to pull him off and to his feet. It hardly makes a difference - now that he's not blindly trying to get through that ordeal, he's consumed with horror he hasn't quite identified yet.

His breath hitches on a sob as Elias kisses him again. Jon jerks away after a second, covering his mouth, sparking the first real irritation of the night. "My mouth, it’s - I know now, I thought it would be better than -"

Elias considers him coolly before relenting. Useful information, that he doesn't need to act on while Jon is being cooperative. He tugs Jon so they're a breath away from each other, just as a reminder that he can, and pulls out a condom. Jon exhales sharply in relief, lashes wet with tears. So as Elias tears the packet open, he says, "How do we ask for what we want, Jon?"

One of the most fascinating things about Jon is how he struggles to choose between basic self preservation and hostility. For a man with weaker defenses than Elias would like, he's remarkably combative. Many things run through Jon's head: insults, threats, accusations, simple refusal. He looks at Elias rolling on the condom, then at the statement. He closes his eyes. He chooses self preservation. "Please. Elias." A long pause before he resigns himself to saying it all. "Fuck me, Elias. Please."

"Good boy. Keep going." Elias helps him align himself over his cock. His willpower barely overcomes his bone deep revulsion as he haltingly sinks down onto it. The lubricant, minimal as it is, eases his struggle; when he's taken Elias to the base, he thinks vaguely that it doesn't hurt as much as he was afraid it would. He can't decide whether that makes him feel better or worse than their first time. He lifts himself, thighs straining, and sinks back down. His cunt is unbelievably tight and hot, clutching at Elias' cock, and Elias runs a comforting hand over his back, pulls his head down to press a worshipful kiss to his forehead.

Before Jon can stop himself he leans into the kiss, and that decides it for him: he feels much, much worse. But he says please again, holding Elias' hand to his cheek. Gasps it when Elias grabs his ass to pull him up, and his voice breaks on it when he's slammed back down. When Elias reaches down to roll his cock between his fingers, he thinks better of pulling away after one blinding panic filled moment; then pleads for it to stop, shivering, eyes wide and filled with tears. Elias does not stop. He presses their foreheads together and, ever so gently this time, suffuses Jon's mind with his own escalating ardor. Jon recognizes the intrusion the moment they both hear genuine eagerness in his begging. He swears, hides his face in Elias' neck, his whole body wracked with hard thrusts, and with sobs and unwilling arousal.

But he doesn't stop asking for it. He even means it, now. Of course it's the path of least resistance to simply submit to whatever demands Elias makes of him; but he pushes the whole length of their bodies together, and tugs on Elias' hair with a quiet, breathy moan. And of course there's a part of him that solely craves the witnessing; but that part is neither entirely foreign or out of his control, and he makes no effort to shut Elias out of his mind. He asks for more, pushes back against Elias' fingers on his cock, because he wants to feel something other than pain and exhaustion, fear and guilt and helplessness. It doesn't matter that the physical sensation of how Elias experiences his pleasure triggers a visceral misery like what Jon felt before his transition, or that sexual arousal, whether his or others', disquiets him, or that the source is almost entirely external. He can deal with that later. He wants to feel good. So Elias takes him over the edge. His orgasm sparks Elias' - then they reverberate inside each other's minds in a fierce detonation that stuns them both with its intensity, leaves them perspiring, trembling, and gasping for air.

Few things surprise Elias anymore, and so when he recovers, he cradles Jon with real affection. He considers himself profoundly fortunate to have acquired this quarrelsome, unpredictable creature, laying quiet for once, trying to regain his faculties. Soon enough Jon will remember his hunger and what he did to sate it. He will leave, with the statement, seething with fury and the quiet agonizing fear that he deserved it. That if he had been the proper kind of human, who could love people and let them love him, if he hadn't already chosen to change his body as he saw fit, maybe it wouldn't have been so easy for Elias to make him a monster. Elias knows how much damage he's done to Jon's self perception, but even if Jon's pride is crumbling, he will be proud enough for both of them. His greatest achievement. Should Jon survive the next year or so, the world will be pleading for mercy at their feet. And Jon's own pleas will be exclusively reserved for Elias, just like this, forever.

Jon shifts lethargically, mumbles something that could have been a question. Elias strokes his hair and answers it. "This was love, Jon."

[egoiistas]

may i feel, said he (20)

first | tag | ao3 | ffn

[co-written with @tsaritsa]

a/n not six months this time! but there’s so.... SO much to unpack. so lets jump in. 

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of post partum depression Words: ~8.6k || Rated: M - Royai

CHAPTER 20

Before him, Greta Flores de la Vega stands in all her scarlet-accented glamour.

The sight of her catapults him into the darker corners of his mind and the whispers of the devil on his shoulder rises in volume. The years they’ve been officially separated are eradicated with the unbidden nostalgia of her features. Her almond shaped eyes are still as rich in mischief as they were the first time he came across them. The subtly complex way she carries herself: arms framing her curvaceous torso as one hand holds her elbow to allow the other to slyly touch the corner of her painted lips. She’s made it into an art. And in that curling smile, entire histories are indexed and tucked away, conjuring up memories of a different time. Different skin on skin and -

“Well? Do I at least get a proper greeting?”

He swallows down the thickness in his throat and he moves automatically. It’s the way everyone says hello - a hug and air kisses on each cheek, but she leaves a mark on one of his. Roy knows it’s a deliberate move on her part, because her smell ruins him, like a dog trained to salivate on physiological triggers, on command, and it feels like a wrench purposely thrown into a sentient machine doing its best to work efficiently. It’s been used against him many, many times before and he’d be a fool to ignore the jolt in his gut and mislabel it for fear instead of involuntary lust. What haunts him worst of all is that the subsequent emotions he wants to feel is horror and guilt. Not anticipation.

He hates that it works so stupendously; loves that Greta knows what she’s doing one hundred percent.  

Clearly, old habits die hard.

Before it can do any real damage, before he steps in closer and assume the behavior of his former self… Roy calls her by her given name to break the trance. Something flashes in her chestnut eyes unexpected to her and it pauses for a moment. The literal miracle of speaking her given name.

She hums, amused, and reaches to cup his jaw to give it a little shake. “Jester that you are.”

There’s a beat before he collects himself, becomes aware of the way his jaw is slack. He should have known. He should have known.

“I heard you weren’t coming,” he blurts out inelegantly. Perhaps not the right choice of words, considering the way Greta’s expression flickers, but Roy is too shocked and too confused to care.

She covers her mouth to hide her short laugh. “From whom?”

“Maes.”

Greta doesn’t obstruct the wide smile this time. The laughter spills into her words: “For all his intel experience and information gathering, I can’t imagine how he was ever good at his job. I guess that’s why he plays househusband now.” She pushes her long dark curls behind her ears, cocking her head to the side. “What? At least he knows I’m honest where it matters.”

“And what’s that even meant to mean? He’s made his opinion on you abundantly clear.”

“Last-minute change of plans worked out in my favour. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Or you.” she says softly. “Especially not after I missed Elicita’s birthday party” She looks beyond him for a moment, smiling, and he follows her gaze to where Maes and Gracia are. “What kind of godmother would I be?”

“You’re not her godmother.”

She waves a hand in the air flippantly. “So I wasn’t there for the ceremony. The kid will have padrinos for basically anything in her lifetime.

“And Maes…” She scrunches her face, the roundness almost makes it cute. “He has always been so black-and-white about issues. The man never leaves any chance to consider any side that isn’t his own, something that doesn’t earn him many points on this side of the family.” She shrugs, looking towards Maes and Gracia with a familiar expression. “A falta de pan, buenas son las tortas… so long as Gracia remains happy.”

“And that’s important to you?”

Greta turns back to him and scoffs. “More than to you, leaving family and friends behind. Poor Chris left worrying about you.”

Roy counts to five. The retort is on the tip of his tongue, just begging to be uttered. He wills his reaction to simmer. He knows this game. She knows him well, which buttons to press - their locations, circumference, and how well it gives when pressed. How to tease and touch...  All this he’s memorised from the playbook of their relationship, where he gives and she takes and takes and takes.

Except that’s not entirely true.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Greta says; the sweet tone returns to her voice. “For my dear cousin, her family-”

“No. why are you here? Don’t you have other people to say hello to?”

She doesn’t exactly frown, but she’s no longer smiling. Greta takes a calculated step closer, careful of the cobblestone. “I heard you were in Central that weekend.”

He pauses, taking a moment to scope any sign of unwarranted contact that might come about. “As the actual godparent - “

“And you didn’t tell me?” She cuts him off with another step.

This feeling, low in his gut: simmering, roiling - it’s twisting and changing, manifesting in physical ways that have him shifting his weight. On a logical level, Roy knows he shouldn’t be feeling any iota of attraction to the woman before him. But it’s viceral, entirely reactionary, no bearing on -

Roy looks down at her; the aroma now wafting towards him and he could almost see it materialize in his vision -  tendrils trying to curl around him, ensnare him. The only predictable thing about her was that she was unpredictable by nature. For the longest time he was content to sit back and let her act how she liked. Now… well, it was different.

“Wouldn’t you know that I’ve been in Central more times than you’ve been told?” He can feel the defiance surge through his body like electricity.

All the condescending mirth is wiped from her face as she frowns, pouts. Her expression changes as if she’s been offended to the point of exaggeration and she nudges his shoulder back. What he doesn’t anticipate is the person behind him. Roy stumbles to adjust his footing, an apology dying on his lips as he turns.

Riza. She blinks slowly, raising two glasses of sangria.

Before he can respond, Greta brushes her off and tells her in Spanish, “Girl we don’t want sangria, there’s mezcal at the bar. Be a darling and bring us two.” And then she snaps her fingers to gesture it should be done quickly.

He hates this tone, the higher lilt in her voice; the drawn-out syllables, the concentrated power she commands in them, and yet he’s grateful Riza can’t understand them.

To her credit, Riza doesn’t say anything, and merely passes him the glass. She’s waiting for him to introduce them, he realises with a start, and Roy quickly clears his throat.

“Riza, this is Greta.” His arm slips around her waist. “Greta, this is Riza. My girlfriend.”

Greta’s smile freezes momentarily before relaxing. Her eyes are wide as she offers her hand out - the diamonds on her right hand shimmer in the light. “You never told me you got yourself a girlfriend, conejito,” she teases, drawing close to kiss Riza’s cheeks affectionately, bypassing Riza’s outstretched hand entirely. The whole picture in front of him is incredibly surreal - not to mention that particular nickname being brought up.

“I thought you were told,” he says before taking a long sip from the glass.

“Nooo, no one tells me anything.” The elongated pronunciation and melody she adds to her whine gives her more of an accent than the light one she already had; it makes her sound approachable. She lightly taps Riza arms with the back of her hand to get Riza’s attention. “Can you believe the nerve? How rude of you to keep her from the family.”

Riza says something that sounds demure and meek but his attention is beyond the women before him and across the terrace and meets Maes’ eyes, which have narrowed to almost slits. He mouths something to Roy - he can’t read lips at this distance, but he doesn’t need to with the way Maes throws his hands up, all sharp angles and stiff movements. Clearly Greta had done a good job of sneaking onto the island with minimal fanfare - which when he thinks about it, is actually rather impressive for her considering her love of theatrics and the spotlight.

It doesn’t take long for Maes to make his way over to where they are, and the unpleasantness of his countenance subdues as he nears them, replaced with a smile plastered widely across his lips which never quite meets his eyes.

“I wondered where you had gotten to, Roy. Trust you to sequester away the beautiful woman you have and leave the rest of us wanting.” Maes turns to Riza, and his smile becomes marginally more honest, drawing her close to drop kisses on her cheeks. “It’s been too long Riza. Gracia and I are so glad you were able to help us celebrate.” He pulls back and his expression locks into place as he addresses the other member of their company. “And you’re here too Greta. Wonders never cease.”

“What do you expect? The last party you threw, I heard there was only chicken dancing.” She laughs at Maes’s expense. “How does it go?” Greta butchers the tune to the “Chicken Dance” and somehow manages to move her arms like wings with grace, chuckling the entire time and completely comfortable.

Riza makes a strangled noise next to him.

“Is Gracia teaching you nothing? Pobrecito…” Greta addresses Riza, “Hopefully, he’s teaching you some moves.”

“That’s great,” Maes interrupts before Riza can get a word in, voice dripping with disdain. “Gracia and I have some speeches planned for everyone and I think-” he cranes his neck back to his wife who signs the okay symbol over some guests’ heads, “we’re gonna start about now.” His hand claps onto Riza’s shoulder. “I’ll catch you two later.”

His abrupt exit leaves Roy with a sense of unease; he’s not stupid enough to recognise that that entire dismissal of Greta’s prescence wasn’t a warning in of itself but if anything it seemed to bolster the woman’s defiant attitude.

“Come, let’s get some seats - Maes will take a good hour to sob through whatever speech he has planned and I want to save my feet for dancing.” Greta takes hold of Riza’s hand before he can protest and Riza can only turn back to raise her eyebrows in alarm before the two of them disappear into a small crowd of people.

Roy finds them not too long afterwards, just as Gracia stands to speak. Greta is pointing at various people who Roy vaguely recognises as members of the Hughes and Flores clans and Riza nods along politely; though she flashes him a grateful smile when he sits in the chair next to her.

In contrast to the measured speech his wife gave, Maes gets increasingly drunk throughout his own. A shot before. A shot to their first date. And their first anniversary and now their fifth which they celebrate this day. And honestly, it’s the most entertaining thing Roy’s seen in a while -  a buffer to the shitshow this entire day has consisted of. There’s the obligatory powerpoint with star wipes and Elicia cheers every time her face is superimposed on the white stone. By a large margin it’s the sweetest part of the evening.

And yet, there’s a chill that Roy can’t quite shake despite the balmy temperatures with the sun now completely gone and the light illuminating overhead. He contemplates whether another beer will solve that problem when Maes’ words drag him firmly into the present.

“... and that is why this woman, this forking angel of a human being-” Roy takes another swig instinctively at the utterance of the not-swear. It was an old game they used to play in the academy, substituting the litany of swears they usually dealt with in favour of cleaner versions. As it turned out, it was a wonderful way to practice for the three year old in their presence now.

Gracia is frowning at her husband but Roy is intimately familiar with the shit-eating grin on his friend’s face; whatever she wanted to stop had left the station long ago.

“-is being so good and following all that medical training even though we had this planned out years in advance: in honour of your brave sacrifice I will raise two shots in your name.” Maes winks at the crowd and Gracia’s palm covers her face. “Because she can’t drink for a while yet,” he hedges, a grin splitting his mouth wide open. “Because my beautiful and wonderful wife is pregnant again and Elicia gets to be a big sister and I have been literally dying to tell each and every one of you! So… por favor raise your glasses for us and Elicia and for the cutest bun in the oven that has ever been made.”  

Roy processes the information slowly, feeling the smile grow on his face wider and wider. He stops staring off into the distance when he feels the touch of another hand on his own and Riza meets his eyes with an endearing smile - he imagines its the smile he had when he found her reading in the library.

There’s whooping and shouting around them - something started by Maes no doubt - but Riza grips his hands in hers, her thumbs running over his knuckles, focused entirely on his face. “Do you get first dibs again?” she teases, leaning closer. “I don’t really get how this whole ‘godparenting’ thing works but-”

He kisses her then, and maybe now wasn’t the best time to do so, but god if it didn’t feel right. She laughs against his mouth, and Roy takes the opportunity to snake his arm around her waist, coaxing her into his lap with only minimal effort. Her arms curl around his neck, fingers drifting into his hair. It is one, shining moment where all he can focus on is just how unequivocally happy he is. He knows to not look too deeply into her reaction - but it is the nature of it that bubbles over, makes him feel giddy with untempered energy. She’s happy because he’s happy. It’s in stark contrast to how he’s been made to feel before, how any celebration of fatherhood, psuedo or otherwise, was wrong and shameful.

Curiosity also takes the better of him and he catches sight of Greta’s face. She’s eerily still, fingers blanched white against the champagne flute she holds, staring at the middle distance like she’s not trying to stare towards their direction.

All of a sudden Roy realises what’s going to happen before it does. Impossibly, the grip on the flute grows even tighter. Anticipation morphs into trepidation. He sees the transformation of an eerily empty canvas of Greta’s face deepen into a frustration, a rage.

It explodes like the flute she hurls straight down to the ground.

--------

He’s used to her hysterics. The practice he’s had over the years makes him well-versed in it. Her reaction was the piece of the puzzle that he was missing each time, conveniently forgetting that for each good moment they’d share, there would be a dozen bad ones to follow. It eats at him that it took the deliberate shattering of a glass when she thought no one was looking to come to this realization. That even if he responded on the most base levels of her, it couldn’t erase the treatment that followed and would never be justified.

He’s intimately familiar with her opinions on children, childbirth - and yet she couldn’t even restrain herself in a moment that should've been nothing but joyful for his best friend and her fucking family. Riza has shifted off him, but her fingers still drift over the fabric of his shirt, along the lines of his shoulder. She had remained silent throughout the whole scene, wide brown eyes blinking owlishly as Greta apologised and clutched her hand to her heart.

Oh, I was just so shocked. I couldn’t be happier for them, you know. Roy imagines the tears she managed to conjure and mask as happiness came from the anger he saw in her face. She couldn’t argue passionately without crying. And now, there were other surrounding her, coddling her from this “genuine display of joy”. Tan dulce, la Greta. He grimaces.

He scoffs under his breath. Yes, he thinks viciously. And Riza and I started fucking under completely ethical circumstances.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Maes over by the bar. The inebriation- and continued drinking - makes a lot more sense now.

Was he really so blind?

A rhythmic tune begins to play; Roy only notices because its a distinct difference from the slower song before. People from other tables around them stand and walk to the dance floor and their bodies start to sway in beat with song. He shifts towards Riza, a request for a dance dying on his lips as Greta walks into back into his line of sight.

She swivels gracefully through abandoned chairs, taking the one on Riza’s side. In turn, Riza turns to her and away from Roy to face her. “I am so, so sorry about before. I don’t think I could have been more embarrassed unless I purposely tried .” Greta covers her face briefly then sighs, placing folded hands over her knee. He has to hand it to her - she can really put on the act when it suits her. “The last thing I’d want to make anyone feel unwelcome.”

Roy makes some kind of noise but Riza doesn’t seem to pay attention. She smiles courteously to the fabled ex. “I don’t think it merits worrying over it for more than a few minutes. I think the few you spent since then are enough.”

The dry wit takes a moment to sink in for her before Greta grins in understanding. “Thank you, and if there’s anything you need during your stay just let me know.”

“It’s a beautiful island. Honestly, the view of the ocean if a treat in itself.”

“I know right? Daddy had someone kick the reservations set just so Maes and Gracia could have it for the weekend.”

“Is it your family that owns the island?”

She grins widely at this, winking furtively in his direction. “I can see Roy has been talking, but talking about that makes this all the less magical.” She slaps her hands lightly on her knees. “Are you two not dancing?” She addresses them both but only looks at Riza.

Riza releases something in between a guffaw and a chortle. “No, I don’t think so. We didn’t quite get through the last time Roy tried to teach me a dance lesson.”

Not my fault, Roy thinks childishly. There’s guilt though, festering deep down - he hadn’t really given much thought to her unfamiliarity with dancing beyond what he had shown her. Here, it was treated like… it was just something they did, was expected of them in the same way he was expected to know that the sky was blue, and that two and three summed to five. Music would play and he would dance, whether it was with his mother and sisters, or drunkenly with his academy friends on a night out on the town, flirting with girls who fluttered their eyelashes at the mere mention of rank. He certainly liked dancing with Riza, but they had the unfortunate habit of getting distracted with other things partway through.

“Ahh, but it’s not about the steps, but about feeling the music in your body. Non-latin styles like waltzes are so frigid and tight - beautiful, of course - but they allow less...fluidity. Freedom. Passion.” She rests a hand on Riza’s shoulder. “And, if you were invited then you’re amongst family now.”

It’s these kinds of declarations that make Roy pause and recollect himself, lest his shock show openly on his face. Who is this woman, who has replaced the one from his memory? This dazzling display of charisma and warmth is a far cry from the yelling and hysterical demands that he remembers - hell, the woman from ten minutes ago, who most definitely smashed a champagne flute on purpose. And once again, as the only witness, he feels there would be no use to recounting it to anyone but Maes.

“Perhaps later,” Riza answers meekly. He slips his hand under the table, resting it over her thigh, squeezing lightly. Her head turns back a little in response, and the slight quirk of her lips tells him she’s understood his message.

Greta presses on. “I find a drink or two helps loosen up and forget what other people are thinking. There are still some days I trip over my own feet.”

On cue, Riza takes a sip from her drink.

Greta smiles prettily, and Roy distracts himself with his own glass, contemplating the best way to get away from her without attracting a scene. “In the meantime, would you mind if I borrow Roy for a song?”

His fingers grip her thigh again - tighter this time, a silent plea for her to say no, to put her foot down and stop this woman in her tracks: but again, Riza makes no verbal confirmation seemingly nodding her head out of some compelled compliance.

“And if I say no?”

Simultaneously, they both pout - one more exaggerated than the other.

“I thought you wanted to save your feet for dancing?”

Roy tenses at the use of his own words against him. In a lower voice and through grit teeth, he says, “Yes, but I’d like to dance with you.”

She whispers back, “And with that display this afternoon, I don’t think I could do more than walk briskly right now.”

Maybe it’s the tiring trip or the emotional cost of all his interaction thus far, but he leans back a little with a smug look on his face.

“Go, I’m more of a visual learner.”

The smile splits into a wide grin that pulls back over Greta’s canines. “Fabulous, I’ll bring him right back.”

Greta wastes no time. Roy is taken aback as he’s lifted from his chair with surprisingly strong fingers digging into his bicep. He’s walked into the throng of people when the situation finally settles with him. He tries to pull his arm back to no avail and Greta pivots with it, gripping tightly.

Greta faces him, waiting for the current song to end in the middle of other dancers. And out of nowhere, she smiles - chuckles with her head thrown back as the next song starts. “Are you kidding me right now? I’ve been trying to have a moment of your time this entire time and this-”

“I thought you would get the message,” he intones.

“Silence isn’t a message. How was I supposed to know you wanted to play babysitter? I’d have let you get it out of your system. Or what, do you expect me to think you’re serious about a girl like her? That’s like going back in time and dealing emotionally with an early twenties me again. If so, your sense of humour needs work.”

It stings, it really does sting. He’s not wanting any sort of blessing from her - considering the context of their relationship. Already, this conversation alone is more than he anticipated. Any conversation with her today was more than he anticipated. Is it so hard to want to keep the drama to a minimum, to please everyone, at least a little? The guilt gnaws at him as he realises his way of going about this might not go how he intends. He had tried so hard to play diplomatic, to be bland and amiable enough that Greta would lose interest in whatever machinations she had planned. He should have warned Riza. Properly. As they move across the wooden floor in perfect time, Roy thinks he might need to acknowledge his limits in this strange, three-dimensional chess game they’ve found themselves playing.

Others now are caught in the crossfire.

Greta spins out from him, dark hair spiraling out in a perfect arc. She seems smaller than what he remembers, her nails digging into his hands with more pressure than necessary. She isn’t clinging to him, not quite, but he’s certainly given no leeway. Where he pulls back, following the beat and pause of the music, she mirrors him, reacting with ease.

“Roy...” she coos at him, one slender finger sliding along the bone of his jaw. He shivers at the intimate touch, desperately trying to think of a way to extract himself from this position.  “Mirala.” She cajoles, leaning closer. “Es una niña. A fetus.”

Roy clutches her hand and spins her - hard - as a warning and she needs a split second to orient her feet. “Milagros,” he says, low and dangerous. “Don’t.”

Her reaction is instantaneous: what serenity was present on her face from her spite and malice is replaced with displeasure, harsh lines forming around her eyes and lips. “Do not call me that. It’s Greta,” she hisses. “I let you get away with it once already. Today.”

“And her name is Riza, so I suggest you learn it,” Roy replies snidely.

“The night of the last dinner,” she starts, all the ferocity and bite suddenly gone. “Was she the one you were talking to?”

Roy doesn’t answer, but he figures it’s still an answer in itself.

Greta scoffs. “You’re a piece of shit.”

Roy chuckles at the accusation, of all people. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and he resists the urge to loosen his collar. “I’m the piece of shit? You-” he stops himself, tempering himself. “I’m not doing this here.”

“Doing what, amorcito? If there was nothing to talk about then you wouldn’t be so riled up. Months of zero returned calls and left on read, you really do have some balls on you if you think you could come here and think I wouldn’t do this here.”

“Call it wishful thinking.”

She makes him lurch towards her, inches from his face despite the difference in height. “I’m not fucking around.”

“I’m not either.” He backs away. “I said what I said the last time we saw each other.”

“You always said that, how did you expect me to believe you this time?”

He remains as stoic as he can. It’s only when she manages to push his buttons that she gets a good grasp on him before he can realize he’s done for. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me what you call two years of fucking on and off then? Organizing all those motherfucking galas with your department and attending as the gracious benefactor. You drop off the face of the earth but then you text me the address of your hotel when either of us were in town. We might not have been engaged Roy, but we were sure as shit still in a relationship.

“And if we are done, why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you give me a clear answer, Roy Mustang? Is it because you couldn’t? Is it because, deep down you wanted someone to fall back to in case your relationship went south? Don’t think me so stupid that I can’t see right through you.”

“Don’t bullshit me; I know you were fucking other dudes when I wasn’t available.” An acidic laugh escapes him - a freeing, cathartic laugh, to say these thoughts out loud, finally. “Is this grilling meant to make me fall back in love with you? Maybe that would’ve worked a year ago, sure. But you’re deluding yourself if you think you can be comparable to Riza.” It’s a cruel barb, tailored to hurt her feelings perfectly. But it’s the truth - what lingering affection he had for her has vanished as the blatant dichotomy of these two women becomes more and more apparent.

“Si, the barely-legal boba is the girl of your dreams. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you for bringing home a girl who hasn’t even had her quinceañera!”

His silence makes her slow the pace of their dancing. “Oh, Roy, don’t tell me you’re-”

“She is,” he answers quietly, voice barely carrying over the volume of the music. “I don’t care if you don’t like it, or understand it. I honestly wouldn’t expect you to. You push and push and push, Milagros, and you never care about how many people you hurt. You wanna know why we always fought? Because it’s what we do. You never inspired me to become a better person, or to think about how I could be a better partner to you - it was just about the sex, or making you look good in front of whoever or-” Roy cuts himself off, laughing bitterly. “We used each other because it was about ourselves and never each other.”

Roy can count the times on a single hand where he’s seen this woman - once Milagros, now Greta - look truly, properly shocked, and now he can add one more to that small total. He extracts himself from her grip, rubbing at the skin indented by little red crescents.

“Whatever you planned to achieve here, it’s... “ Roy sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. The dancers sway around them while they stand there.

She pulls him back into the rhythm of the dance and he moves to it instinctively and that's just it, he’s programmed to do so. “Do you think… she will settle for you?” She’s mocking him. “That she wants to have your precious little baaabies? That the supposed girl of your dreams will want to immediately settle her life down and put down roots for you?” She whispers in his ear. “Who’s being selfish now?”

Again, he pushes her back. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ah, so your bullshit reasoning only applies to me, is that it?[1]  Que funny.”

“There’s no point. I didn’t come here to waste my time on you, and Gracia deserves better from her cousin. They invited Riza here. Please respect that.”

Greta steps once more into his space, her right hand gripping his chin. He tenses his jaw, feels her near - but mercifully her grip weakens and he manages to jerk his head to the side, her lips barely grazing the edge of his own. Even six months ago, he would’ve killed for this kind of reaction from her. Now, skin crawling under the sensation, the need to flee is overwhelming; klaxons blaring in his head.

“This was never about me, amorcito,” she tells him, almost breathlessly. “When are you going to understand that?”

---

The whole scene unfolds before her eyes. They take to each other like flower petals moving effortlessly in the wind.

If it were only that innocent.

At first, Riza doesn’t know what to make of it, of them, the way they sway - to and fro, give and take. She’s hypnotised, captivated by the way their bodies flow with the rhythm of the music instead of the lack of distance between them. It’s quick-paced, almost choreographed, something she’s sure she would not have been able to pick up on the spot.

It’s intimate. More than she would have expected - should have expected. Their eyes never tear away from each other. Their hands use each other to help any growing distance become meager again. Her brow wrinkles because… this is just dancing, and she doesn’t know if it’s instinct or insecurity that’s whispering in her ear and telling it’s more than just than meets the eye. Common sense tells her that if she looks to any other couples dancing, they’ve either made way for them to watch or to give them the floor. The clapping and whooping from the crowd makes her ears burn, heartbeat thumps in her ear as Roy twirls her and Greta smiles brightly in turn.

Riza inhales. Jealousy, she concludes, is a normal human emotion; right now, an irrational reaction won’t help in any way. She’s been dropped into foreign territory without a means to isolate herself that doesn’t insult the celebrations. Later, she can examine the intricacies of the performance in front of her.

Riza exhales slowly. Right now, she needs a drink.

She doesn’t draw any attention as she skirts the gathered crowd, and for that she’s grateful. Leaning against the popup bar, she flags the bartender, who appears equally interested in the dancing pair, to bring her something familiar, rattling off the first wine name to come to mind. The first sip is cool and rest of the glass, and the two more after that, follow in quick succession. Anything to distract her from what’s happening in her periphery.

She’s nervous, it’s normal. There isn’t a familiar face here, she tells herself - thinking too soon.

A loud drop sounds next to her; impressively considering the enormity of the bass. He’s even less put-together than he was for his speech: he’s slouching over the edge of the bar and his glasses appear to be missing, giving Riza clear view of his glazed green eyes.

Maes lifts a beer bottle towards her. “Welcome to the telenovela, Riza!” There’s only the slightest hint of slur in her name. It’s impressive considering the amount of shots taken during his speech alone. She imagines he hasn’t stopped since. “Are you enjoying yourself so far?”

She smiles down at her drink and takes a sip before mirroring his greeting. “The island is beautiful. Congratulations on your milestone,” she says genuinely. She can’t stop complimenting the island. She doesn’t know what else to say.

But he doesn’t hear her and he leans his ear in closer. “What?”

“It’s great! Thanks! Congrats!” and then the clapping behind them stops. She can hear somewhat normally again.

From here, she realises that Maes Hughes is a lot drunker than at first glance - the way he leans against the bar, the flushing of his face. It occurs to her as strange that he isn’t stuck to the hip of his wife, but she’s rudely roused from her woolgathering.

“So why the fuck are you here? Where’s-” he does a full turn as if he’d step out of some mist form into a physical one “-where’s Roy?”

Riza points to the dismantling wall of people. “He’s dancing.”

“What? Why aren’t you dancing with Roy?” He cranes his neck up as if he wasn’t already tall enough and he groans loudly, the bottle hitting his brow with a thunk when he smacks his own face. “Why in the ever-loving FUCK is he dancing with her? Jesus fucking Christ.” He snaps at the bartender, motioning at some used glasses in front of them. “Oi, mate - tequila por favor. Don’t judge me it's the only word I know  with too many shots” He groans deeply, running a hand roughly over his face. “I should have known this spectacle was because of them. It always fucking is.”

“This happens regularly?”

The bartender goes to pour the shot of tequila, but Maes huffs, waving the man away and grabs the bottle roughly. “It used to. You would think they were preparing to launch their careers as professional dancers.” He offers Riza the other wedge of lime. “Come on, you’re gonna need this - we all fucking will if she gets her way-”

After the charming censorship in his speech, it’s jarring to hear Maes utter the original swears with such venom, but nonetheless she accepts the wedge, licking the side of her hand and offering it out to be salted.

The tequila burns deliciously on her tongue - clearly she was in the big leagues now, not restricted by college budgets and the want for quantity over quality. She watches with interest as Maes finishes a second shot in quick succession. “Do we suffer from the same gene that disables us from dancing as well as they do?” Riza asks, rubbing the remaining salt against the skin of her hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My dancing is top-notch missy. But if you’re talking about salsa, then no; I can’t dance salsa. But neither can Gracia so ha!” He adds, as if it physically hurt him not to: “And she’s still a perfect wife and human being regardless.”

“Of course.” Riza nods. Her tummy feels pleasantly warm.

“You know, I really thought I come up with the perfect plan. That she wasn’t going to show up because Llamapolooza or Bonaroo or...whatever Bitchella she usually attends. Never misses.”

Riza notes the change in his tone. It’s more aggressive, angrier, but not at her. Following his gaze into the crowd, she guesses, “Do you mean Greta?”

“Shh, shh. Don’t say her name. That’s what summoned the witch here in the first place.”

Riza bites her lip to contain the laugh. “I feel like there’s a lot history to unpack there.”

Maes scoffs and it's a whole body jerking affair. “They’re both a piece of work. But she-” he chuckles sardonically, narrowing his eyes “- she’s been forgiven for more than she should have been allowed to, talking about Gracia the way she did.”

“Sorry… I don’t really understand-”

Maes’ index finger is thrust out in front of her face. “Exactly! That is what everyone at this party should be saying because we asked and asked and asked her and it was always ‘oh no, I’m too busy skiing in Drachma, I couldn’t possibly, ex-oh ex-oh-’” he shudders at the nasal tone, picking up the bottle of tequila to pour them shots again.

“Even with all my reservations about you - don’t think I’m over that little stunt he pulled, and as a dad I should be giving my girl the best role models I can, but-” he dissolves into drunken giggles that err too close to hysterical rather than hilarious.

“It’s completely fucked up that the student is a better match for him than that she-devil. Completely. And I’m complicit now!” Maes throws his hands up in the air, stumbling against the wood of the bar as the gesture moves his whole body. Riza carefully moves her filled-to-the-meniscus shot out of his way, trying to figure out the best way to not spill the majority as soon as she tries to lift it.

Maybe it’s the tequila, or the three glasses of chardonnay she sculled before; but Riza in this moment feels emboldened, defiance surging through her at the crowd cheers for some reason.

Well, she knows the reason. It burns like the tequila does when she takes the second shot under Maes’ glassy gaze.

“Why do you hate her?” Riza asks bluntly, running her tongue over her fingers, savouring the drops that spilled onto her hand. “It can’t be because they broke up, because otherwise you’d be like Chris and be trying to get them back together-”

Maes chokes on his chewed wedge of lime. “You’ve met Chris?” he asks weakly.

“This afternoon,” she answers breezily. “She’s not a fan of me being here. For all her airs about having a private talk with her son, she sure as shit can’t tell him off without half the neighbourhood hearing.”

Maes wheezes, thumping his fist down on the dark wood of the bar. It’s entertaining to see him caught off-guard - even if she’s got an edge because he’s clearly sloshed and she’s only a little tipsy. But she’s tired of all these secrets, all these looks and the confusing behaviour of the woman herself compared to the men she’s been around. In her mind it doesn’t make sense - sure, Greta had been friendly, if a little too much, but Riza could easily put that down to her own awkwardness than any machinations of a more nefarious design.

So why the venom, the animosity? Maes strikes her as the kind of man who is reasonable when presented with all the evidence, and he would have had the best of both worlds: Roy’s perspective as well as that of his wife’s - who was cousin to Greta. Truthfully, a part of her trusts his judgement more so than that of her boyfriend’s, and that wasn’t just because when she turns back to the crowd, she can see him and Greta practically glued at the hips.

If Rebecca was here, Riza would feel bold enough to go and interrupt the two of them, snake her arms around Roy’s shoulders and smile bitchily at this blatant display of… whatever this was. But she’s alone here - on the other side of the dancefloor, Riza can spot Gracia, holding a dozing Elicia and talking with one of Roy’s sisters. For all the welcomes and hugs, the only person who is actually bothering to interact with her  is already halfway to smashed and requires something solid to lean against. The odds are not in her favour right now and it hurts to admit it.

She turns back to face Maes properly. “So, what’s the deal? Clearly it had to be horrible to get this kind of reaction.”

His mouth opens and then shuts, the man sighs deeply, pushing away the bottle of tequila. “I promised Gracia I wouldn’t meddle with you two,” he begins, and Riza feels her hackles start to rise, “but then Greta promised she wouldn’t be attending so I frankly don’t give a shit anymore.” Maes runs his hands over his face, roughly through his hair. He looks so tired.

“Okay. Let’s figure out what he’s told you so far. Do you know why they broke up?”

“Roy told me that it was down to her attitude about kids, and not wanting her own-”

Maes snorts loudly. “That man really knows how to play down an issue, doesn’t he? I mean, he’s not wrong - I don’t think that woman has got a single maternal bone in her body, but it wasn’t about kids in general. I…” he falters here, sighing deeply.

Riza frowns, but keeps quiet. Maes fiddles with his empty shot glass for a moment, and then sets it on the table with a little more force than necessary.

“Not many people know about this, and we want to keep it this way. We’re not ashamed - god knows I’m not, I couldn’t be prouder of her - but I know she’s always blamed herself for it, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not. Years of family pressure had a much bigger impact on her than what she understood logically as a doctor.

“After Elicia was born, Gracia really struggled. You’ve heard of postpartum depression before, yeah?”

Riza nods.

“It creeps up on you slowly. We were young, new parents -

Emboldened, tipsy Riza interjects, “It was three years ago…”

Flustered, he stammers out, “And we’re still young!” He breathes out dramatically. “Now can I finish telling this story?”

Riza chuckles to herself and nods.

“All the stresses could be explained away as us just adjusting to her, to our new routine. Gracia’s an only child as well, and there was enormous pressure she put on herself to present this front that we were fine, we were coping, the golden child had succeeded at motherhood. I was still working for the military at the time, but it got to a point where I either had to choose my career or my family. It was a no-brainer. Things got better for a time, but… it was still taking its toll on her.”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Honestly, that’s the only reaction from someone that means something. I’ve heard every explanation from ‘she’ll get over it soon’ to ‘oh sometimes I get sad too’. Hell, she studied it as part of her work as a locum and we still weren’t prepared. Everything came to a head about… five months, I think, after Elicia was born.”

The cogs align in her head, and very suddenly, Riza realises just how deep these wounds ran. “Roy is the godfather.”

Maes nods. “He is. We didn’t ask him to do this - the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But it was the right choice to make. My wife needed help - beyond what I could do while simultaneously juggling a newborn. Giving Elicia to him is still the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Riza stays quiet. Of all the explanations she had been preparing for - this was not one of them.

“Long story short, Roy gave me the best option in the worst scenario. I think maybe five people, all up, knew what was happening. Greta, naturally, had to be keyed in because they were living together at the time.

“I don’t know if you’ve seen Roy with Elicia but it’s just - I know in my heart that that man loves my girl with every fibre of his being. He was the best choice for her - essentially worked from home, negotiated his contract with the military - made easier by his accident - to ensure that he could be around Elicia as much as possible. He sent us videos of her first words, and the first time she stood up on her own. He threw himself into godfatherhood and he did it perfectly.” Maes takes a deep breath here, rubbing at his eyes roughly.

“I don’t know what he’s told you about his aspirations for fatherhood or, at least, how he looks forward to it but it’s… I know it’s something he wants. Greta on the other hand…They couldn't be more different on the matter.

“They were already rocky when all this shit happened - his accident hadn’t been too long before that - and… I don’t know, maybe he came on too strong about this whole thing, but Greta just outright rejected this situation. It wasn’t even in like an uncomfortable kind of way - which I’d get, because you know, not her kid - but she was just so fucking dismissive and shitty about Roy doing the right fucking thing and-” he catches himself here, jaw tensed and jutting out slightly.

“Greta treated Elicia like she was the dirt on her shoe. Always complaining about how Roy never had time for her anymore, how my girl was loud. How my daughter was annoying and then she had the fucking audacity to say that it was Gracia’s fault that she was having relationship issues with Roy. If it wasn’t for Elicia fucking everything up, they’d be happy. But my wife was selfish, a bad mother, and it was her fault that Roy broke up with her.”

The chardonnay and tequila turns over uncomfortably in Riza’s gut.

“I don’t wanna know what she said to him that night: Roy’s never told me and I’ll never ask. But just before Elicia’s first birthday, he came by with her at like four in the morning. Said Greta was becoming impossible to deal with and he wasn’t going to let Elicia be in the middle of that. I just assumed they’d had a spat - not a new development for them - and it was getting calm enough at home that we were almost ready to have her back full time anyway. A few hours later his family was blowing up my phone because according to Greta, he had tendered his resignation from the military, abandoned the lease on his apartment and left her to cancel all the wedding plans. It was three weeks before he answered any of my calls.”

Maes blinks at her. He seems to be waiting for a response, but there’s nothing she can say that would be even remotely appropriate to respond with. This is what brought him out East? This was why she was called Axe?

Perhaps for the first time in a long while, Riza feels her immaturity in this situation. It’s no wonder Roy edited the story so cleanly for her when she pressed him for details - this is beyond messy, or the boundaries of any normal breakup.

“And yet,” Maes continues, picking at his chewed piece of lime, unaware of the maelstrom of emotions he’s conjured within her, “my beautiful, wonderful, unfailingly kind wife forgave her cousin, and gave her a shoulder to cry on when Roy didn’t come back.

“That’s the one thing I’ll never be able to wrap my head around. Forgiving others when they’re toxic or abusive or just plain unpleasant, just because they’re family. I know it’s common in other parts of the world but here, it’s like it’s amplified - expected to be accepted with the simple passage of time. And then they had to go and make everything ten times worse.” He nudges her arm with his shot glass as if her attention wasn’t already his. “I bet you he invited her here himself. He thinks his the sneakiest little fucker, thinking I wouldn’t know when he’d come specifically see her in Central or vice versa... he’s like some kind of junkie. Pah.”

She hears the words but the context doesn’t make sense. “Sorry, who?”

“Roy.”

Riza feels her expression freeze. For all intents and purposes, she never imagined it would round the conversation back to him. Riza looks back up to Maes who is glaring in the general direction of the dancefloor. She thinks herself, does she dare ask? Something inside her hardens and plummets with the weight of a metric tonne. “What do you mean?”

The shot glass slams back on the counter and he stands up properly, easily towering over her. Still, he needs the bar to stand without swaying. “Oh did he- did he not tell you?” He rubs his chin pensively. “Like, I thought fucking his ex-fiancée was bad enough to keep secret but then, our boy, decides to raise the stakes by fucking his student?” He turns to her, his face somber. “No offense, Riza. You’re great but you’re smart enough to understand how stupid it’s all been. I can’t forget that nor can I forgive him for it right now.

“And you wanna know how I know?” He taps his temple. “Because I know things.”

Riza stares at the ground as the gravity of his words hit her all at once, then around, then to the dancing couple. Her automatic denial manifests in an unchecked sentence: “That was before my time.”

Maes snorts. “Are you sure about that?”

Riza opens her mouth to refute him because the insinuation of any infideilty and how it doesnt make sense; the trip, the everything - why would he even be stupid enough to have both of them on the same island? All this she wants to argue back to the drunk Maes.

And then, the picture sharpens; hazy fog in her mind gives way to clarity for the crisp lines and captured images from her memory.

She’s seen Greta before. Not in the picture. Not in magazines. It was in his office at Eastern, in the days leading up to spring break - the well-dressed woman from all those months ago.

That was her.

my soul takes flight (miklós radnóti, rain shower)

You were right to run! The stream is swollen with grief. The wind shudders. The clouds have torn their moorings. The rain pounds the surface of the lake with its fist, The raindrops turn to dust. I watch as you go.

The raindrops turn to dust. My body longs for yours, my muscles, my sinews, that guard the memory of our wild couplings, the crush of our unruly love! Flesh remembering flesh, tortured by sorrow.

I long for you, torn and tormented by grief, my soul takes flight, fluttering after you, and before you; and then nothing matters anymore! for not even rain can wash away this fierce and raging desire.

[arkus-rhapsode]

My Hero Academia Chapter 223 Review

Well, I’m back! Yeah, if you wanna know why I took a break it was because whenever there is a villain centrist chapter it is usually pretty good. But it seems I underestimated Horikoshi and this isn’t a mere chapter. No, this is basically like the pro hero arc and that it will focus on the villains as protagonists for a little while.

So without furthur ado, let us begin.

We open on the current time with Shigaraki fighting against Gigantomechia. And as expected, they aren’t doing so good. We get some narration from Spinner on it.

We also see that just a flex from Gigantomechia’s arm causes a burst of power.

Though that seems to just be a portion of his abilities. As it seems this guy can fight for more than 48 hours before needing rest and recharge. And even in his sleep he’ll be able to attack you. He also grows larger in battle, though no word if it has like reset after awhile. With what the doctor said about Gigantomechia, I’m wondering how much of this is a quirk or just strange physiology.

We see that Shigaraki is the main target and the others can tag in and out.

I kinda love this moment as we learn that the doctor gave them some money and Toga went and bought a new coat with it. I don’t love it because the joke, I love it more in the context of Horikoshi being like “I need an excuse to draw Toga in something cute.” Even though her primary clothing was sweater.

Its not a nitpick, so much as it, just one of those moments that makes you laugh when you think about it. Though, Spinner brings up this important point that Toga had joined for Stain and there is almost nothing about Stain left. Accentuating that point is Spinner not wearing his stain costume (Yet). And remembering the highway chapter, Spinner is the most introspective and one holding Stain to the highest belief.

And here is where we really see the point of this mini arc and that’s basically the parallel of Izuku’s journey. When Shigaraki takes a break from fighting and we see him all battered and bruised,he’s equated to a young boy chasing his dreams. And considering the reckless self destruction Izuku subjected himself to, we see Shigaraki doing the same. While his wounds aren’t self inflicted, he is still throwing himself at something that, in pure power, he is outclassed and will get hurt.

And yet he’s not stopping. Shigaraki’s dream matters more to him than by his physical health.

We get a funny as hell scene with Twice and Compress when Twice gets called by Giran. However, on the other line is the CEO that was torturing Giran. He tells them to check the news.

We see that severed fingers have been placed around Japan in places where the League of Villains have operated. I also would like to take this moment and acknowledge the All Might Statue in Kamino. That’s a really nice touch.

We see the CEO and I’m skipping ahead and we find out his real name is Rikiya Yotsubashi (I’m wondering if he goes by that name or if he uses an alias as Destro’s last name was Yotsubashi and it would be telling if you shared a name with a guy who was the leader of a people’s army.). His villain name is Redestro. Which is kinda lame. Maybe its suppose to be like “Reborn Destro,” but the extra ‘Re-’ just makes it sound a bit goofy. Maybe if it was like Destro the second or something. Wait where was I?

Oh yeah, we see Redestro with the hostage Giran and he explains his view point. Tearing down society and rebuilding it in a way that allows people to utilize the full power of their abilities. This really sounds like he wants to be Armstrong from Metal Gear and make this sense of “true freedom.”

Shigaraki tries to brush them off, seeing it as just another Overhaul. But unlike Overhaul they don’t really have anything like the quirk bullets that will make it worth teaming up with.

But they find out that Giran was tortured, those fingers at the sites of their crimes are Giran’s, and he tried to erase his client data and wouldn’t give up the villains after everything. However, the liberation army was able to restore the data thanks to the help of a member of the liberation army is an IT guy. Speaking of we get our intro to all the heads of the liberation army.

Yeah this is bad. I’ll talk about this later, but these guys are far different from Overhaul. Not just in power and motive, but scale. Also lets look at each member individually (Mainly cause I want to get a bit of snark in).

Tomoyasu is the head of an IT company called Feel Good Inc. Which I really hope is a Gorillaz reference.

Hanabata is a politician, though that would make sense. If they’re trying to regain control of society, best have someone in a position who can affect laws. Also his party is called Heart Seeker, and I really hope that doesn’t allude to the idea that because he’s hot, people voted for him.

Kizuki is the head of the publishing company printing the Destro books. Also, I knew about Shueshia being the company that published Jump beforehand so this parody got me when I first read it. Also, with the fact she’s selling the books and that an arc ago we had Hawks saying he wasn’t happy with the idea of someone profiting from it. So did Hawks ever interview Kizuki? Hori get on the canon version of that and fanfic writers get on the smutty version of that.

And while Redestro is obvious, I will at least take this moment to say, I like his design. While Overhaul had that cool aesthetic with the plague doctor mask, Redestro looks like a middle-aged business man. He’s not drawn as some super hot, Light Yagami looking guy. He look normal and a bit unattractive. Its unique I feel. Usually that kind of character design is the one assisting their Bishounen bosses.

We see that Redestro has satellite cameras on them and that he could sick the heroes on them. But we get a bit more insight into him. The one who must lead the way is Destro and it seems the League after they forced All Might into retirement are the face of evil to the world. As such, Redestro must destroy Shigaraki himself.

While this seems lik one of those cliche “I’ll do it myself moments.” I actually think from the way he speaks, Redestro really does have his dad’s philosophy ingrained in him and he wants to show of the extent to which it grants. Also he probably has like a trap set.

Our chapter ends pretty well actually and I’m hyped.

Post Chapter Follow Up: There is really no negatives in this chapter aside from not much action and maybe one of two pages that feels like filler. But as a whole, its good.

The biggest strength of the chapter is Shigaraki’s journey. Again, as spelled out last week, the whole point of this is that Shigaraki must surpass all for one. Just as Izuku must surpass All Might. As Izuku grows stronger, so to must Shigaraki grow as a villain. He betrayed and outplayed the Yakuza, but he did it with the help of the heroes targeting Chisaki. But now, now he has a beast that won’t recognize him and another beast declaring war on him.

It doees sem like this arc will end with Shigaraki earning Gigantomechia’s respect by beating Redestro. But I’m very curious to see how that goes. As we see, Redestro is a far different villain from Overhaul. Overhaul was calculating and strategic, but he was just as underground as Shigaraki. He had men and disposable equipment, but he was still pretty small. Just a piece in a growing underworld.

But Redestro is actually far larger. Not only does he have more money, but more influence on the public as saw with his choice to go into support tools. He however waits in the shadows a lot more. Which you would have to do as a public figure.

Also we see how much more different than Redestro is in his goal. Like Shigaraki and Overhaul, he wants to change society, but he’s actually far closer to Shigaraki than Overhaul a Overhaul wanted to control societ. He was trying to refit the concept of the Yakuza into the modern age and make a way where he controls both crime and society. Basically making him the “Overlord” or “Godfather.” But Shigaraki and Redestro want to destroy current society. They likely wanna lead it, but they are going to literally change the fundamental structure and replace it with a new one. Shigaraki is just being more open about it.

So yeah, this’ll be Shgaraki’s moment. If I had to predict, if he beats Redestro, it’s likely that he’ll take all of his Liberation army and his support tool manufacturing centers. So this is Shigaraki looking to profit big time off of this.

Also, I love all the small touches in this chapter. From background detail to dialogue, there are the little bits of visual storytelling that I love.

Final Verdict: 9/10

Good buildup

Great characterization

Really makes you think about the complexities of the villains in this world

[razieltwelve]

Communication (RWBY AU Snippet)

Note: This is set after Dragon-Rider.

X     X     X

The meeting between the representatives from Atlas had gone less than well. Ruby’s father and the other instructors had stood firm. Vale could not afford to lend one of its most important dragon-riders to another kingdom when it was under constant attack from Grimm. 

Weiss had countered by offering some of Atlas’s own dragon-blessed and dragon-riders to make up the shortfall, but Ruby’s father had again refused. Dragon-riders were immensely valuable and far less durable than dragon-blessed. Ruby had spent years training alongside Yang, and she was also familiar with the other dragon-blessed and dragon-riders of Vale. They knew how to protect her, and she knew how to protect them. Could Atlas say the same?

The meeting had eventually ended well into the evening with neither side willing to budge. Weiss seemed adamant that Ruby was Atlas’s best option for dealing with the incredibly swift flying Grimm that had already devastated several of their settlements and injured a number of their dragon-blessed and dragon-riders.

“If we cannot catch the enemy,” Weiss had growled. “Then we have no hope of killing it. In contrast, its superior mobility allows it to observe the deployment of our forces and then attack where we are weakest. By the time we are able to reposition, it is already gone. For centuries, we have relied on the superior mobility of our dragon-blessed to turn the tide. Without that advantage, we cannot protect our settlements. We are not asking for Ruby to be permanently assigned to Atlas, but we are asking that she be assigned to us long enough to deal with this new Grimm.”

Ruby’s father had given Weiss the look. It was something Ruby was very familiar with. After all, he’d given it to her plenty of times. It was the look he’d given her whenever he wanted her to sit down, shut up, and maybe learn something. 

“What Atlas wants,” her father had said. “And what Atlas gets are two very different things. Do you think we’ve forgotten the Battle of Unending Tears? For five days and five nights we fought in the pouring rain against the Grimm. I was there. I remember every moment of it. So many dragon-blessed and dragon-riders fell in that battle that the tears of the survivors became inseparable from the rain. Where was Atlas then? When my wife’s blood stained my scales, and my fire and light all but vanished amidst the hordes of Grimm, where was Atlas?” Ruby’s father had leaned forward, and the temperature in the room had risen, a stark reminder that he was, quite possibly, the most powerful solar dragon in the world. “I’ll tell you where Atlas was. You were hiding behind your walls, cowering amongst your icy mountains, and using our sacrifice to expand your territory.”

To her credit Weiss had not looked away. “Mistakes were made.”

“No. Choices were made, and choices have consequences. You expanded your territory at the cost of my brothers and sisters in arms, and now you find that new territory under siege. Vale and Atlas are allies by necessity, but they are not friends. We paid a price in blood for the new territory you now hold. Do not think we will pay once again to keep it safe.”

“I see.” Weiss had folded her hands together on the table. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion tomorrow?”

“You can ask again,” Ruby’s father had said. “But the answer will still be the same.”

X     X     X

Ruby found herself feeling restless that night, so she decided to go for a walk in the gardens of the academy. They were a place meant for quiet reflection and meditation, skills that were necessary for certain aspects of magic but not always easy to attain. Neither Yang nor Ruby were much good at sitting still, and their attempts to meditate often turned into naps.

She arrived at the gardens to find that she had company.

“Uh… hi.”

Weiss looked up from the book she was reading. A normal person might have struggled to read using moonlight alone, but dragon-blessed had incredibly keen eyesight. “Good evening, Ruby.” She closed her book and patted the bench beside her. “Do you think we could talk?”

“Is this about the meeting?” Ruby asked. “Because, yeah, that could have gone better.”

“It could have,” Weiss agreed. She sighed and gazed up at the broken moon. According to legend the dragons had broken the moon in the ancient days after a great evil had taken refuge there. What exactly that evil had been, none could say, but there were many who believed that the Grimm were the children of that great evil, their arrival a form of revenge on the descendants of those who had destroyed their creator. “But he wasn’t wrong.”

“Huh?” Ruby had expected Weiss to defend Atlas. “You really think so?”

“I love my country,” Weiss said. “And I take great pride in many of its achievements, but your father wasn’t wrong. The Battle of Unending Tears was one of the worst defeats in Vale’s military history, and it could easily have been averted if Atlas had sent aid when the battle began. Instead, while the gathered Grimm hordes assailed Vale, we used their reduced numbers in our territory to expand. It was a calculated risk in that Atlas’s strategists at the time were fairly certain that Vale would eventually prevail, even without our help.”

“That makes them jerks. You know that, right?” Ruby said bluntly. “My mom… she died in that battle.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you would’ve known that already. She was famous, and my dad is famous too.”

“Yes.” Weiss leaned back on the bench. “I knew he would refuse to lend you to us, but I had to ask anyway.” Her gaze shifted to Ruby. “After all, I love my country and it’s people. Even if we deserve the fate we’ve wrought, I must still fight to avert it. If you were in my place, would you do any different?”

“No.” Ruby felt a grin tug at her lips. “You’re not going to try to kidnap me, are you?”

“Good grief, no.” Weiss chuckled. “Assuming I managed to disable you long enough to kidnap you, I doubt I’d get far. You have several wind dragons amongst your ranks here, and while I might outpace them for a time, I would exhaust myself, leaving me easy prey for your father or your sister.” She shook her head. “I am powerful, Ruby, but in close combat against either of them, I wouldn’t last long.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Ruby cupped her chin in one hand. “So what are you hoping for if you know my father will refuse?”

“Perhaps a few other dragon-riders and dragon-blessed. True, none of them can do what you can, but some of their abilities might prove useful all the same. If nothing else, I had hoped to see how deep the enmity from the Battle of Unending Tears still runs.”

“It’s pretty deep,” Ruby said.

“Yes, it is.” Weiss lifted one hand. “How much do you know about glyphs, Ruby?”

“Not much,” Ruby replied. “There isn’t anyone in Vale who can use them. In fact, your family are really the only ones who can, or so I’ve heard.”

“I’ve yet to encounter anyone who can use them that isn’t related to me,” Weiss said. “Oh, everyone in my family’s main line can use them, but there are a few offshoots that can use them too, albeit not as well.” She flicked her wrist, and a glyph formed in the air above her palm. “Glyphs are fascinating things, Ruby.” She smiled faintly. “How familiar are you with the major forms of magic?”

Ruby gave Weiss a look. “I’m a dragon-rider, Weiss. I know how magic works.”

“Do enlighten me,” Weiss replied. “I’m curious to see how the teaching from Vale align with those of Atlas.”

“There are three basic ways to use magic: with words, with gestures, and with thoughts. Words are the easiest to use, and they can go all the way from elaborate chants to single words. Gestures are the same, ranging from elaborate dances and displays to a mere flick of the wrist. Hardest of all is using magic with thought alone. It’s what sets dragon-blessed and dragon-riders apart. We can cast magic using only our thoughts, albeit only for the domains we specialise in.”

“Yes, that does correspond quite closely to Atlas’s teachings.” Weiss smiled. “In the end, Ruby, magic is all about communication. We want the world to do something for us, and we use words, gestures, or thoughts to communicate those desires. Whether or not the world responds depends on how well we are able to communicate ourselves. Dragon-blessed and dragon-riders have an innate advantage over normal people in that the world seems to have a far easier time understanding us.”

“And where does that leave glyphs?” Ruby asked.

“That’s an interesting question.” Weiss formed another glyph. “A glyph is composed of separate pieces, and each of those pieces is a thought given form.” The glyph above her hand began to rotate slowly. A small sphere of flame flickered to life before growing brighter and hotter. “At the core of this glyph is a thought of fire. Around it are thoughts regarding the shape and temperature of the flame. You see one of the limitations of the mind is that we only able to process so many thoughts at the same time. But imagine you could take some of those thoughts and give them physical form. Provided that form was durable enough, you could then add more thoughts to it. Glyphs are a way of circumventing the limitations of the mind. Neither of us can keep a hundred different thoughts in mind at once, but with a sufficiently complex glyph, I don’t have to. I take five thoughts and put them together, and then I repeat the process again and again until I have my hundred thoughts.”

The glyph in Weiss’s hand vanished, and it was replaced by motes of light that joined together, forming first lines and curves and then the beginnings of a glyph. Ruby watched in fascination as the glyph came together with almost painful slowness. 

“Why are you telling me about this?” Ruby murmured. “It seems kind of like you should be keeping this a secret.”

“Does it?” Weiss shrugged. “Unless you can make glyphs, it’s hardly going to help you. Indeed, the theory of holding multiple thoughts in mind to improve magic use has been around for centuries, but the mind, it seems, has limits as to how many thoughts it can process at once. Training might help, but it says a lot that no one has come close to emulating the effects of even a relatively simple glyph.” Weiss dismissed her glyph. “You know, I wasn’t telling the whole truth earlier. There is something I hope to offer your father in exchange for lending you to us.”

“Oh?”

“I assume you are aware of the Crown of Vale,” Weiss said.

“Yeah.” Ruby nodded. “It was lost when Old Vale fell to the Grimm more than a thousand years ago. The Kings of Vale used to where it. A lot of the old magic the dragons of Vale left behind is tied to it, which is kind of awkward since we don’t have it anymore.”

“We found it.” Weiss’s lips twitched. “And we’ve been studying it for almost a decade.”

“…” Ruby looked at Weiss. “You know… that’s just going to make him madder.”

“That was not a decision I was involved in,” Weiss said. “But the fact is, it has proven impervious to study.”

“So since you can’t do anything with it, you’re going to give it back to try to get him to lend me to you guys?” Ruby made a face. “That kind of makes you seem evil, you know that, right?”

“I am very much aware of how it makes us look.” Weiss took a deep breath. “But I cannot change the decisions of those who came before me. If I can right an old wrong and gain something for my country at the same time, I will.”

“He might actually take that deal,” Ruby said. “I mean… the Crown is supposed to be able to do lots of things in the right hands, and there are still descendants of the old kings still around. If we can get even a handful of the old magics up and running again…” Her eyes narrowed. “But what if he’d agreed to lend me to you guys earlier? Would you have given it back then?”

“Yes,” Weiss said quietly. “I would have.”

For some reason, Ruby believed her. 

Weiss got up. “I will present my offer to your father tomorrow. I hope he takes it.” She took two steps and then turned. “There is one last thing I thought you should know.” She reached into her coat and handed Ruby a letter. “This is from my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Our mothers used to correspond quite frequently. I do not think it was a coincidence that my parents stopped talking to each other shortly after your mother’s death.” Weiss paused. “Since my father was the one who made the decision to withhold support during the Battle of Unending Tears.”

“Oh.”

Weiss inclined her head. “Good night, Ruby.”

“Uh… good night, Weiss.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Yep. I still have no idea where this is going. Oh well. On the upside, I think I explained some stuff although I’m still making this up as I go along. I should probably introduce Blake at some point too.

You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon.

[shorties-unite]

THORRRRR

Idk man I kinda just fell into my TS phase again and discovered this sick band curtesy of the November playlist so my brain decided it wanted to write a thing about a song and I kinda just fell in a hole and now here we are. 

I literally haven’t written any type of fanfic thing since cringe 5sos one shots in 2014 (and haven’t let my writing in general be seen by really anyone since then) so like please be nice I'm sensitive lmao. 

Also just go listen to thor by push baby okay it’s a 10/10 recommended by Thomas himself and is basically how this drivel managed to escape my brain. ON TO THE STORY.

Summary/Warnings: The boys go for a quiet lil night out together and run into an ex of Roman’s, Virgil thinks about it a lot (mentions of alcohol/intoxication, negative thought spirals/self worth. Basically just a lot of Virgil being a poor lil anxious baby) 

Word Count: 1388

He looked like Thor.

The thought echoed through Virgil’s head as they walked along the grey footpath, one arm slung over the shoulder’s of Roman’s orange jacket as he leaned against him for balance, one foot placed carefully in front of another. His other hand gripped the single, dark red rose wrapped in clear plastic. He was quiet as the thought bounced around inside his head. Quiet, partly because he had to focus incredibly hard to keep his feet moving in a straight line, partly because he was worried his lowered inhibitions would lead him to blurt out something. Something other than some witty, sarcastic remark. Something real. Something he might regret. So instead the majority of his current mental processing power was contributing to overthinking into keeping his mouth shut.

Roman had noticed. The few attempts at light conversation had quickly fizzled out moments after they had begun, leaving him just about carrying his insanely intoxicated boy home in silence. He didn’t mind too much. He knew that Virgil liked to keep people at a distance, felt that some of his thoughts should be just for him. He knew they weren’t close enough yet to expect any and all of Virgil’s inner monologue to be announced to him. It was clear to him that whatever was on Virgil’s mind was something he wasn’t yet prepared to share.

He Looked like Thor.

Broad, and shoulders wrapped in a t-shirt that was just tight enough to show off his incredible physique. Rippling pectorals and probably abs and sleeves that capped in exactly the right spot to make the man's biceps appear larger than they already were. Long, unkempt blonde hair pulled back with a single hair tie that looks so effortless but also perfectly calculated. Eyes so blue it was like staring into an aquamarine, or the ocean on a particularly beautiful summer day, down to the glint appeared when his face lit up in a smile. He spoke with a smooth kind of confidence, and seemed to literally set the room aglow with his mere presence. He even had an accent.

Perhaps Virgil would have been able to ignore it all. Let himself be swept up in his own little moment. Had the perfect stranger's eyes not lit up as he scanned the room and stopped at them. Had he not approached, calling for Roman, his Roman (his Roman..?). Had his name not been something as epic and handsome as Brad. Had Roman not reacted so pleasantly, Wrapping him in a warm hug in greeting and asking and saying all the things you were expected too a little too enthusiastically, “It’s been so long!!” “what’s been going on!!’ and the like. Had he not been so polite in introducing himself. Had he not been introduced as Roman’s ex.

Every part of Virgil’s inside had spent the length of time after that squeezing itself smaller and smaller inside of him, Desperately trying to eat away at itself until he was nothing more than a cloud of mist that wasn’t really there. The surface of his face was beginning to numb and he couldn’t tell if it was the bite of the cold wind or the sheer amount of alcohol pumping its way around his blood vessel. His whole body shook, sending vibrations along his companion's shoulders.

Roman glanced up at the freezing boy, suddenly realising he was only covered by his jeans which were torn out at the knees and a worn-in dark grey shirt. He must have forgotten to pick up his jacket as they had left that cramped bar, he was in quite a state after all.

They stopped, and Roman pulled one arm out of his own, bright orange puffer jacket, attempting to offer it to Virgil. “You’re freezing. Here,”. Virgil shook his head, chin lolling against the prince's shoulder, “noo..”, he murmured. “Virgil, you’re literally shaking,”

“ishhh not blaack..” he managed to slur back and Roman huffed. Typical hot topic, so stubborn he was prepared to risk hypothermia for his dark brooding appearance. He shrugged Virgil’s arm higher over his shoulder and they continued there trek, Virgil violently shivering the whole way.

They stopped outside a brightly lit apartment complex, and Roman fumbled in his pocket for the key to the front entrance. “Hey,” Virgil mumbled, peeking out from underneath his purple-tipped bangs, “this isn’t home,’.

“Of course not, you’re place is far out of our way, it’s late and if you stay out here for another minute you’re actually going to get frostbite,” he finally managed to find the right key, pushing into the lock and dragging the other by the arm into the warm interior of the complex and up the stairs. “You can stay here tonight, I don’t mind. It’s not like you’ll make it much further anyway and its better than sleeping in the street somewhere,”.

Roman dragged him through the complex to his apartment, immediately insisting Virgil us his bathroom to shower and warm up. It took several moments of leaning against the door and staring into nothingness until Virgil managed to stop the spin of the room enough to feel comfortable standing on his own, let alone walking. Moments later he found himself seated, back against the tiled wall, warm water showering over him, rushing through his hair and down his face, ending at a steady stream the dripped off the point of his nose. His eyes shut tight both because the bright white colour of the bathroom was too much for his tired, bloodshot eyes and in an attempt to stop the tears that he had only just become aware of.

He’d only had a brief moment to examine himself in the mirror but it was more than enough. He knew what he looked like. Pale and thin, only just to the point that he occasionally was asked if he was eating enough by strangers when (if) he went out in public. The bright shade of purple that sat in tufts atop his head was really the only thing of interest about him. So bright and yet he could still manage to blend into the background so easily. Without it, would he even be there at all?

And then there was Roman. Lovely, sweet, gorgeous kind Roman. Roman who with a second of eye contact could make you feel like the only person in the world. Frame sculpted as if he had been plucked straight from a comic book. Unnaturally naturally white teeth and eyes that actually sparkled and a jawline that could cut through diamond Roman. Men and woman alike actually swooned if he simply smiled in their direction, the way that they did when Brad had entered the bar. Roman, who felt to Virgil as if a piece of sunshine itself had been moulded into a perfectly handsome, perfectly chivalrous, perfectly perfect boy.

Slowly, Virgil found his way out of the warm water of the shower, into a fluffy white towel and then a spare pair of tracksuit pants and a t-shirt Roman had so kindly left on the bathroom counter for him. He had mostly got his physical bearings back as he unlocked and pushed opened the door and found his way to a comfortable position perched in Roman’s bed, however, his head was most definitely still reeling.

He could feel Roman watching him from the swivelly chair that sat next to his desk. He was scribbling something in one of his many notebooks, a clear look of concern on his face. “You feeling better buddy?”. he asks softly. A half-hearted glance vaguely in his direction but no real response. “Virge?” A slight nod and a humming sound was all he could manage, not even able to meet Romans concerned gaze, even from underneath the protection of damp bangs.

Even though Virgil was only himself, Roman was still like this. So worried, concerned, caring, kind, whatever it was, everything he was. He was all of that and more and here he was, making sure Virgil was okay just for the sake of it

. He deserves so much more. Virgil’s mind wandered further into the thoughts as he drifted off. He deserves everything. Why would he choose me over Thor? Why would he want me over anyone? He could do so much better than me.

[darklesmylove]

you are not nothing | alarkling

after the events of ruin and rising, aleksander comes back

***

I felt it the moment he allowed me to. It felt like breathing for the first time in years, a soft hum reinstating the tether between us and mending the jagged hole his death had torn from the very fibers of my being.

He was alive.

Mal rushed over to me in worry when I collapsed to my knees, the basket I had clutched in my hands falling and spilling the freshly picked apples all over the wooden floorboards. "What is it, Nastasia, are you okay?" he fell to my side, using my alias seeing as we were in earshot of children. I couldn't reply, the revelation far too heavy to let roll off of my tongue. For a brief moment it felt like I might have shattered to pieces, but slowly, with the intake of a few deep breaths, I collected myself. "I just got spooked, I'm fine," I cleared my throat, not meeting his gaze as I picked up the apples and carefully placed them back in the basket. He eyed me uncertainly, we both rose back to our feet in tense silence. My teeth sunk into my lower lip when he took a step closer, his handsomely roguish features becoming swathed in shadow. "Whatever it is, you know that I'm here for you, Alina," he murmured, his lips grazing against my forehead before, hesitantly, he turned, walking back out to the garden where the children were waiting for him.

My hands clenched at my sides.

***

I felt it the first time he visited me. The tether vibrated and I was too weak to stop it, cradled in the gentle clutches of a half asleep state.

Dimly, I registered the feeling of his eyes, though mine remained shut. His gaze roved over me, and even if he was nothing but a projection of his true self, the intensity of it was nearly tangible. My skin heated, but I kept my eyes closed, silently refusing to acknowledge his presence.

After the minutes start to drag on, my hand reached out for Mal, lacing our fingers together over the covers. Mal shifted in his sleep, but didn't wake.

The feeling of his stare vanished almost immediately.

***

He came to me silently for many months, both of us stubbornly refusing to say a word.

***

When he spoke to me for the first time, it felt as if every broken, shattered part of me was healed with the mere sound of his smooth, cool voice.

"Alina."

Reluctantly, I allowed my eyes to lift from my sewing to where he was sitting on the velvet chair across from me. The crackling fire illuminated his shadowed features with a weak glow, somehow making him look even more alluring than I had remembered.

"What do you want from me," I finally sighed, silently proud at the casual, bored tone I had managed. My gaze dropped back to the garment I was carefully stitching, methodically weaving the gold thread along the hem of the white dress. He was silent for so long I thought he had gone.

"You're playing house."

My head snapped up, an unexpected rush of anger rising in my throat at his snide judgement. "Yes, I am playing house, meanwhile you were supposed to be dead," I snarled, my lip curling slightly. He raised a brow a calculated measure, his silver eyes holding a silent challenge.

He knew as well as I did that I would never admit my anger was solely because if I hadn't even been successful in killing him, that settling for this life and losing my powers was all for nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

"You really think a dagger killed me? I'm hurt that you believe me to be so weak," he spoke mockingly, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. They were so long that the shift in position brought him dangerously close to touching me. I tucked my knees in towards my chair, shooting him a sickly sweet smile. "I'm so very sorry to have hurt your feelings," I sneered, my words dripping with condescension, "It's not like I tried to stab you through your heart or anything. I'm truly sorry about that too, by the way."

He laughed, a dry, raspy chuckle that made my skin warm with the soft caress of it, an ache crawling up my throat in response. My fingers tightened around my sewing needle. All these years later, and he still had an effect on me that I was powerless to suppress.

"I'm touched by the apology, my Alina," his lips twitched upwards slightly, his head tilting to the side in an almost playful manner as he evaluated me.

It was infuriatingly comforting seeing him this way again, as if he had never left. As if he hadn't been gone the past five years. As if his absence hadn't made me feel like an empty shell of myself for so, so long.

Anger at my thoughts made my hand jerk just a measure too aggressively, the needle I was gripping stabbing through the soft flesh of my finger. A soft curse fell from my lips, I dropped the needle and inspected the blood already beginning to pool on the pad of my thumb with a faint prickle of pain.

I hadn't sensed his shift in movement until the very moment his hand closed gently around mine, sending a shock of electricity up my arm. My eyes shot up to meet his as he ran his finger gently over the raggedly torn cut, a delicate stroke that ghosted over my skin and left goosebumps in its wake.

An icy talon trailed down my spine in an involuntary shiver, a longing so deep and desperate clawing at my chest it took my breath away.

"You know that you will always have a place beside me, Alina, no matter how many times you fight me," he murmured in something like comfort, his grey eyes flickering.

Pain was thick in my mouth, it felt like my chest was collapsing in on itself.

"You said I was nothing."

The words tore from my throat in a soft, broken sob, accusation and loathing and emotions far too complex to even explain tinging my words. Because he was right, I was nothing without my power and I truly felt like nothing without it. Silent tears trailed down my cheeks, my head falling against his hard chest as he took me in his arms. It was sickeningly comforting, his smooth voice whispering unintelligible words of solace, his slender fingers stroking gently through my hair. Not even the dim thought of Mal could have pulled me away from him in that moment as I grasped the fabric of his kefta, holding onto him as if I would physically shatter if I let go.

Gradually, his touch moved from tangled through my hair, lightly cradling my face with soft fingertips. "You are not nothing," he spoke edged with a husky rasp, and when I finally looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes were dark with some indiscernible emotion, something somewhere between apology and longing.

"I'm not the Sun Summoner anymore." My lower lip trembled. "There's nothing else I can give you that you would want, Aleksander. So please, just go away."

His grip tightened around me, an echo of the desire that he felt at the use of his name running hot through my veins. He stilled for a moment, his eyes shutting briefly. The flickering fire cast long shadows down his face, warming his normally pale pallor with a soft glow.

My erratic breaths had finally evened out when he spoke again.

"My powers are gone too, Alina."

The soft confession rendered me frozen, speechless.

The word was almost strangled as it left my lips in hasty response.

"How?"

His eyes were chillingly haunted in the gray slate of their depths.

"I don't know, Alina. Because we are bound together? Because there is no dark without light? It's because of everything single thing I have been telling you since the very beginning, that our lives are intertwined and there is nothing either of us can possibly do about it."

Every word he uttered dripped with a mixture of loathing and longing.

A flicker of startling recognition made me tense.

I had managed to take everything from him and yet he still wanted me. And he hated that.

But.

He wanted me.

The thought left me reeling with something like exhilaration. For the first time in my life, someone actually wanted me. Not the idea of me like Mal, or the possibility of a political alliance like Nikolai, or merely because of my powers like Aleksander once had.

"What do you want from me then," I murmured, finding myself leaning into the hard curve of his body as if he was a force of gravity I couldn't possibly escape even if I tried. He paused, his head tilting slightly to the side, his eyes thoughtful and contemplating. Slowly, gently, his fingertips trailed down my arms, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Before I could pull away he found my hand, winding his fingers through mine.

"I want you, Alina. That's all I want, because you're all I have left."

His tongue trailed over his lower lip, indecision flashing in his eyes.

"But I find that, somehow, I'm okay with that."

Every fiber of my being screamed at me to pull away when he leaned in, that I loved Mal and that I was content with my simple life at this orphanage.

But I didn't.

His soft lips brushed against mine light as air, a measure of hesitancy and reluctance present in the way he held me, as if even this slightest measure of vulnerability of allowing me to choose repulsed him. My mouth moved against his almost instinctively, I let out a quiet exhale at the familiar, pleasurable taste of him. His hand burned at my hip, my body arching into him as my fingers wound through his silky curls. I had forgotten what it had felt like to allow myself to give into his pull, the press of skin and whisper of breath nothing remotely like anything else I had experienced before. His tongue trailed over my lower lip, parting my mouth open and eliciting a soft moan. The words came out before I could stop them.

"I missed you so much, Aleksander."

It was nothing more than a sigh, a soft breath into the kiss, but I knew he heard me.

His grasp tightened, he pulled back slightly, his lips hovering over mine. "Come with me, my Alina," he murmured, "No thrones. No lies. We can live together forever, just the two of us, solnishka."

My chest ached.

I had never wanted something so badly. And yet, hesitation was still thick in my mouth. How could I trust him after everything, how could I forgive him after everything?

But he was right. Even with the loss of my powers, I still hadn't aged a day in the past several years, our tether was still as strong as ever, we were undeniably bound together. And he would be all that I had left in time, regardless of what my feelings were.

"Just... I need some time," I breathed, almost a shudder.

His jaw tightened for a brief moment, his lips finding mine again with the slightest hint of desperation.

"Then I will be here when the time comes. Always and forever."

My eyes fluttered closed as he pressed his lips to my forehead once more before, silently, he vanished.

[grenith-the-skald]

The Time Traveler Dillema

Time travel is always a guessing game. There are countless theoretical and practical issues that need to be accounted for just for someone to even travel 5 seconds into the past, let-alone 50 years. Most modern literature and film has largely glossed over the sheer unimaginable nature that time travel truly entails. So let's go over some of it quickly today.

Now the most baseline thing one needs to determine is whether time is linear, or if it branches along into multiple timelines based on all possible outcomes or a single influencing event such as traveling through time. Because if time is linear, that means that the act of traveling into the past would erase and re-write all of our current reality/existence. Which we might either never notice actually occur as things would simply change as if they'd always been, or it could remove us entirely and overwrite our existence with a new timeline.

So let us be more optimistic and say that going back into the past simply establishes a new timeline. Well now you have a new problem, which is morality. Because even if you as a time traveler were to travel "back" to your own time, it will never truly be YOUR timeline. Which means that technically nothing you do in the past will actually change your own future, and the act of (as a example) saving a loved one from death will never actually occur. Instead you're simply living in a new reality/timeline and abandoning your old one. Something that leaves behind all of your other loved ones to forever wonder about your fate.

Feel pressured yet? Well now we have some more theoretical variables. Such as: What happens if/when you meet your past self? Would you implode? Cause a rip in space/time? Would one of you cease to exist? Well luckily in a multiple-timeline scenario you would be absolutely fine, as separately functioning realities are self-contained and you would basically just be a older clone of yourself. While unfortunately in a linear timeline...yes...you would have a very high probability of ceasing to exist. As merely encountering your past self would be enough to influence you to change even in the slightest, which likely would disrupt your original time travel in the first place or overwrite your current self due to pushing your original path slightly askew.

At this point we'll just go: There are multiple timelines, I didn't erase myself by accidentally saying hello to myself in third grade, and there is no lingering regrets or self doubt about forever leaving behind my own original timeline. Because that sounds like the best case scenario.

Weeeeeeeeeelllllllllll actually...there's still more.

Jumping through time also requires complex and super advanced calculations likely requiring a degree in the field of mathematics and physics. Why? Well because the EARTH FUCKING MOVES! Our planet is a giant spinning ball moving through space, orbiting a giant flaming sphere of death. Which means that at it's current speed/distance, traveling through time to a stationary point just 10 minutes ago...would not be where you were actually standing 10 minutes ago.

The easiest way to explain it for all of us dummies, is that if I jumped through time 100 years ago...I would be floating in the void of space and suffocating. Because the Earth was not in the same place 100 years ago. Which means that ontop of all this other nonsense, we have to nail down time-travel as a goddamn teleportation device that can tether you through time/space to always end up back on Earth.

Otherwise it comes down to busting out astrological charts and playing a bit of a guessing game to try and slingshot a human across history and into the exact point the Earth was positioned perfectly in a single location. Which again...means many dead time travelers floating in the void of space.

Buuuut, maybe we nail that part. Everything goes according to plan. We successfully send our time traveler we will call Jimmy, through time and he arrives in the past. Well he is still...likely fucked.

Because aside from racial, cultural, economic, religious, linguistic, and political hurdles he will run headfirst into, there is also the butterfly effect. Not like in the movies where killing 1 badguy can save the whole world from ending, but the REAL chain of events that even so much as bumping into someone could create.

Even the act of delaying traffic for several seconds or cutting in line at a goddamn taco-truck could have astronomical consequences. Because EVERYTHING that makes up the current moment that we live in, is comprised entirely of events that required infinite amounts of improbability to line up perfectly together to occur. To offset that in the slightest will spawn hundreds if not thousands or more of branching timelines every time you were to even so much as use up the last roll of toilet paper in someone's house.

Which when all factored together means that the very act of time travel will likely result in the fracturing of any singular timeline into a infinite amount of splintering offshoots. A act that could inadvertently lead to the creation of a multiverse if one does not already exist.

Now with all these random possibilities, infinite universes, and a good likelyhood of never actually changing your own future except in alternate timelines, you might ask: Well what's the point? If nothing we do matters and it is all essentially one giant clusterfuck of random chance and unlikely paradoxes, what is the point of time travel? Well you're in luck, because time-travel would essentially become a tourist attraction. The closest thing to experiencing the power of a god. Being able to visit any place and time of your choosing, while never needing to worry about the life you leave behind.

It would be the ultimate escape, and in the grand scheme of the infinite expanse of the universe, nobody would even notice you were gone.

And so to conclude my paper Mrs. Jameson, this is why I couldn't sleep last night after accidentally taking a extra dosage of Adderall. This shit kept me up all night and I feel like the walls are closing in around me as the anxiety of my own universal insignificance is weighing down upon me.

I will have my book report done by wednesday.