#(my unpublished fic)

[genderfeel]

the triumphant return of valvert porco rosso au after like 4 years. more under the cut and goodbye again for another 4 years 🤧

[year2000electronics]

I NEED A HERO!

[himbonotes]

It's a long road back to Elysium. But you made it

[arliedraws]

Do you think that if Sirius had revealed himself to Harry when they first met, he would have attacked Sirius? After all, he had already seen him on the Muggle news. Or how do you think Sirius would act? I've been pondering this question for a while now.

PS: Thank you for all your work. <3

Ha! Funny, you should ask! This was the first fic I wanted to write in 2020 after I took a long HP fandom break. I was just starting to dip my toes into writing again, and I didn't know where I wanted the fic to go. I had about a gazillion different ideas and probably wrote about 50k words on several version of the same story.

But here's the first 8-9 pages that answers your question about how I think it would've gone!

There was something there.

If only it would move, he could tell what it was—but it stood there, motionless, gaping at him with pale, glowing eyes.

Harry swallowed hard. What was it doing? Had it been watching him since he left the Dursleys?

“Go away!” he said.

The thing stared back at him.

The longer Harry looked at it, the more it appeared to him to be a dog—but it was enormous; it was as black as the shadows that stretched from its long, shaggy legs.

The seconds lengthened; time was running out. Ministry of Magic wizards would be swooping in at any moment to arrest and expel him for underaged magic. This animal was holding Harry hostage, keeping him rooted while he should have been running for his life. Harry adjusted the grip on his wand.

“Go away!” Harry tried again. He looked down the street; it was clear, but for how long? “Go!”

The dog did not move.

“If—if you don’t go—” Then what?

For a horrible moment, Harry thought he was hallucinating.

The dog had vanished.

In its place, a figure stood blinking in the blinding light, the beam from Harry’s wand flooding a ghastly pale face. Shadows bit into the hollows of the specter’s cheeks, bones pressed against the skin of its chest, and lank, black hair hung to its elbows.

He was hideously familiar.

“You!” said Harry.

The stranger held up his hands, squinting against the brightness. “Turn out the light!” he rasped.

“Don’t move,” Harry said, gripping his wand tighter. Where had the stranger come from? Harry had seen him a number of times now on the news—he was an escaped convict. Extremely dangerous, they’d said. A muggle.

“Someone will see!” said the convict urgently.

But Harry didn’t dare turn off the light. Even a Muggle could kill a wizard if he were desperate enough.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said the stranger, slowly. “No weapon, see? You don’t need to lower your wand, just turn out the light, Harry.”

The sound of his own name made Harry jerk back in alarm.

“You know who I am?”

The convict nodded.

“You’re—you’re a wizard?”

“Yes.”

“Then—what are you doing here? You—you’re not from the Ministry, are you?”

The convict barked a laugh. “No.” But his amusement was short-lived, and he frowned suddenly. “Are you expecting someone from the Ministry?”

“I—no—”

“What’s wrong, Harry?” said the convict, lowering his hands. “Has something happened?”

“No—”

“Have you done something?” he pressed. “Are you in trouble?”

Harry’s hand shook. The light wobbled. He was in deep trouble, more trouble than he’d ever faced in his life. At any moment, the Ministry would be swarming Number 4 to discover the ballooned Aunt Marge; they would begin scouring the neighborhood for him, and once they found him, they would snap his wand and banish him from the only place he’d ever felt accepted…the only place he’d ever had friends…

“Get back,” Harry said firmly.

“Listen to me, Harry, if you don’t want them to find you, you’ve got to turn out the light.”

He was right. The Ministry could detect underaged magic, and holding the light on his wand would attract them as soon as they arrived in Little Whinging. Harry smothered the light with a muttered, “Nox!”

The sudden darkness fell upon him. He squinted, trying to keep the convict in his sight, but his eyes were too slow to adjust. He felt a whoosh of wind as he attempted to aim his wand at the stranger; then the stranger moved quickly. A sharp, skeletal grip snatched his wand arm, squeezing tightly.

“Don’t hex me,” said the convict.

“Let go of—” Harry hadn’t finished before the hand released him, but Harry had already jerked back in horror.

Up close, beneath the glow of the streetlamp, the convict was even more horrifying. Pale eyes gleamed out of dark sockets, scrutinizing Harry carefully. Matted locks of black hair draped limply down his shoulders. His robes hung from his bones, tattered and filthy. For a moment, Harry feared that the convict was really a vampire.

“Are you in trouble?” the convict croaked.

“N-no.”

“What’s wrong? I can help…if you need it…”

“Help? You look like you can hardly help yourself,” retorted Harry, leaning away.

A flash of annoyance crossed the convict’s face. “Listen, Harry,” he started. “If you need help, I’ll give it to you. Whatever it is—whatever you’ve done, we’ll figure it out.”

Harry pressed the tip of the wand to the bony chest. “Why would you help me?”

The convict’s eyes flickered to the wand tip. He answered cautiously. “Your parents asked me to look after you if anything happened to them.”

“What?” said Harry. “My parents? You knew them?”

“Knew them?” said the convict, looking surprised. “Of course I knew them. Your father was—” he swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. “He was like a brother to me. I told him I’d make sure you were cared for if he died—obviously I’ve done a rotten job so far, but I’m here now, Harry. Let me help you.”

Harry looked down the deserted street. Time was running out. Where would he go? There was London where his gold sat underground at Gringotts bank, but how could he get there with his trunk on his broomstick? He thought quickly, trying to remember all of the ways that magical people could travel. If only he knew how to Apparate, to disappear and reappear in another place, but Apparating was something only mature witches and wizards could do.

“I—I don’t need your help,” said Harry.

The convict said nothing.

“I don’t!” Harry insisted. Not from you.

“All right,” said the convict after a heavy pause. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

“Stay back,” Harry warned.

“I won’t come any closer.” When Harry hesitated, the convict raised his brows. “Go on, then. If you’re on the run, you haven’t got time to waste. You’d better get out of here.”

“I don’t need your help,” Harry said again. Leave! he thought desperately. If the convict wasn’t going to harm him or drink his blood, then why did he remain there watching? Harry couldn’t turn his back to him, so gingerly, he shuffled backwards until his legs hit his school trunk.

Still keeping his wand trained on the convict, Harry moved around the trunk so he could open it and have a look. The lid swung open, revealing all of the belongings he had collected since he’d begun his schooling at Hogwarts. He shoved aside robes and books until he found his broomstick.

“Where to, then?” said the convict, eyeing the Nimbus 2000 with interest.

Harry didn’t answer. He was trying to imagine how he would fix the trunk to his broom. Maybe he could charm it to be featherlight. Although he couldn’t recall the charm, he could look it up in one of his spell books. A little more magic wouldn’t get him into worse trouble, would it? If he were already expelled after all…

He propped the broomstick against his trunk, still careful to keep his wand steady on the convict who was frowning deeply. Harry ignored the concerned look and rummaged for the last bit of the puzzle.

“Your father’s cloak won’t work on a broom if someone looks up,” said the convict.

Harry’s head snapped up. “What?”

“The cloak,” he said. “Works best on solid ground. Better to cast a disillusionment charm.”

The silvery, silky cloak slipped from Harry’s fingers back into the dark trunk. Mournfully, he looked at his broom. It was a stupid plan. If the convict was right, he’d be spotted long before he got to London either by a Muggle or someone from the Ministry. Once more, he gazed down the street.

“They’ll snap my wand,” Harry said numbly.

“Then let’s go,” said the convict.

Harry looked at him.

“Whatever you’ve done, it’s all right, Harry. We’ll figure it out. I won’t let them take your wand from you. Can you trust me?”

There was no other choice. He could surrender to the Ministry, let them snap his wand, severing all ties to the magical world, or he could place his trust in a stranger who looked as if he’d crawled out of a grave. Feeling resigned and hopeless, Harry returned the Nimbus 2000 to his trunk and let the lid snap shut with a finality that churned his stomach.

When he faced the convict again, straightening his spine, Harry knew that he was taking a great risk—a foolish, dangerous risk. Was it worth his life to keep his wand? Was it worth it to live on the run?

The convict opened his skeletal hand.

“Let me use your wand,” said the convict. “I’ll give it back.”

“No,” snapped Harry.

The convict smiled tightly. “I can’t do anything to help without magic. If you can’t trust me, I can’t help you.”

“Where’s your wand?”

“I don’t have one. I’ll explain everything properly once we’re away,” said the convict, waving his hand impatiently. “But I think time is running out.”

Harry heard it too. Someone was calling for him—a voice he didn’t recognize. At first, it sounded like nonsense, but as the voice drew closer, it was very clearly his name. The Ministry wizards had gone to the Dursleys and now they realized he was missing. Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry shoved his wand at the convict.

“Get us out of here!”

Immediately, the convict took hold of the wand and pointed it at Harry’s trunk. It vanished.

“I can’t Apparate the two of us and the trunk. I’ve sent it ahead of us,” said the convict at Harry’s confused look. “Take hold of my arm.”

The voices were getting closer—there were more of them now. The convict held out his arm, and Harry knew it was his last chance to turn back. He could live without his trunk; he could live without his wand. But what would life be like now that he knew he could never return to the world where he belonged?

Harry gripped the convict’s arm with both hands.

“Whatever you do, Harry, don’t let go.”

The bony arm in his grip faded away as every part of his insides seemed to press inward, drawing his eyes deep into his sockets and his tongue and teeth down into his throat. The world was black and squeezing his chest, wrenching the air from his lungs—

He gasped a mouthful of air before he pitched forward, his face plummeting into wet grass. It took a moment to realize that he was alive and heaving panicked breaths, no longer hurtling through space. His stomach clenched as two hands took him by the shoulders and peeled him off the earth.

“Wait!” Harry sputtered, shoving help away. “I think—I think I’m gonna be—”

The convict held his shoulder as Harry vomited.

When he’d finished, his eyes were streaming as he squinted at the hills surrounding them. A bright moon illuminated a largely barren countryside, peppered with pockets of trees, veins of old walls, and lonely houses in the distance. A few feet away sat Harry’s trunk, and beyond that, an old country house with a crumbling roof tiles and half of its dozen windows shattered. The hedges were overgrown, and vines had claimed most of the exterior brick. It might have been an elegant place once, but it looked as if it’d been years since someone had inhabited it.

Harry felt woozy, almost dreamlike as he began to understand what happened. He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder, suddenly feeling ill again. What had he done? The safety of Privet Drive was far gone. He’d exchanged the knowability of Little Whinging and the Ministry for the word of a stranger who had escaped from Azkaban, a criminal who now had Harry’s wand.

“Are you all right?” the convict asked. “First time Apparating…wasn’t it? It’s rough at first…Takes getting used to. Are you going to be sick again?”

Harry shook his head, pointedly looking at the unkempt grass to avoid the convict’s eyes. A voice in his head shouted at him to run to his trunk and grab his broom.

“You’re not missing any body parts, are you?”

Harry’s gaze snapped up. “What? Why?”

The convict eyed him carefully as if expecting to find a leg or ear missing. Harry noticed that the skeletal hand reached out to touch him but withdrew as if he’d thought better of it.

 “Sometimes a person can leave part of themselves behind when they Apparate, but I don’t think I’ve splinched either one of us… Have you got all of your toes?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Harry, wiggling them in his trainers.

The last person who had taken Harry’s wand from him was the sixteen-year-old memory of Lord Voldemort; the unpleasant memory made the sight of the convict holding the holly wand unpalatable.

“Why did you bring me here?” Harry said slowly.

“It’s remote, and it’s difficult to detect magic here with the number of enchantments.” At Harry’s unsatisfied look, the convict went on. “It seemed prudent to leave Little Whinging before the Aurors were upon us. You did say you were in trouble…”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But…what were you doing in Little Whinging in the first place? You—you weren’t watching me, were you?” Then Harry saw the awkward look pass over the man’s face.

“No, but I—er—thought I’d check in on you.”

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Sirius. Or Padfoot if you’d like. But I told you; your father was—”

Harry shook his head. “Who are you really? I saw you on the Muggle news. They said you’d escaped from prison—that you were dangerous—”

Instead of appearing outraged at the accusation, the convict’s twisted in horrified confusion as if he couldn’t believe what Harry had said.

“Wait a minute,” sputtered the convict, staring at him, his brow rumpled. “You willingly gave your wand to someone you know is an escaped convict? You knew that I was a dangerous criminal and you trusted me?”

“But you’re the one who said—”

“Do you understand how easily I could kill you now?” In the moonlight, Harry could see the blood leaving the pale face. “What if I’d been a Death Eater? What if—what if one of Voldemort’s old followers had wanted to lure you out of town? You don’t know how many of them are still out there, Harry. What were you thinking?”

He already felt stupid—he didn’t need this Sirius person telling him that he’d acted like an idiot, not when it was Sirius who convinced him to do the stupid thing.

Sirius grunted. “Well, it’s done now, and you won’t do it again. Now then,” he went on. “Tell me what happened. Why are you in trouble?”

The lurching feeling in his stomach returned. Harry recalled the image of Aunt Marge ballooning—the buttons popping off her cardigan and her eyes bulging—and grimaced. For an instant he had felt a sickening joy, a small revenge for the horrible things she’d said about his parents, but it quickly turned to horror. He’d broken the law and used magic outside of school. He was probably expelled from Hogwarts, and he was most likely going to be arrested.

“What is it, Harry?” Sirius pressed. “I promised I would help you, no matter what it is.”

“I…” Harry swallowed. “I blew up my aunt.”

Sirius stared.

“You blew up your aunt… Is she…?”

“No!” said Harry. “She’s not dead! I don’t think so, at least.” Sirius’s face was unreadable, so Harry explained. “She was talking about my parents, saying loads of stuff that wasn’t true, and I got angry, and she started to…expand…”

Sirius seemed to be waiting for the end of the story.

Harry went on, growing impatient. “Last summer, a house-elf did magic in front of some Muggles at the Dursleys’, and I got a letter that said I’d be expelled if something like that happened again.”

He was an outcast…a criminal… His two years at Hogwarts had been the last bit of happiness Harry would ever enjoy, and in a moment, it was all gone.

Then Sirius’s face contorted—it was something like a cross between a grimace and a smile. On a face so gaunt, the look was terrifying.

“Oh, Harry,” he said with a sigh. He seemed to be suppressing a bit of exasperation as though he found what Harry said to be very funny but also very stupid. “You’re not going to be expelled for a bit of accidental magic.”

“But the letter—it said any more magic in front of Muggles—”

 “Underaged wizards do accidental magic all the time,” Sirius said. “If the Ministry wanted to expel all of them, you wouldn’t have any classmates left at Hogwarts.” The smile faded a bit into weariness. “I thought you were in trouble, Harry… I wouldn’t have taken you if I’d known you’d just had a bit of a tantrum.”

“It wasn’t a tantrum!”

“Whatever it was,” said Sirius, “I promise you won’t be expelled for it.” He rubbed his face, his expression full of weary regret, and he sighed deeply before he spoke again in his ragged voice. “I shouldn’t have shown myself…and I shouldn’t have brought you here.” He looked around, shaking his head. “Listen, we’ve got to get you back to Surrey before anyone thinks I’ve kidnapped you.”

Harry took a step back. “I’m not going back there.”

“Well, you’ve got to. This was…a mistake.”

“No,” said Harry firmly. “They’ll snap my wand. I’m not going.”

“Don’t be difficult about this,” Sirius said. “I agreed to help you, didn’t I? If I thought you were in real trouble, I swear, I would keep you with me. Trust me, Harry, it’ll be worse for both of us if you don’t return soon. Go on and get your trunk.”

Harry moved to his feet, imagining the scene at Privet Drive. Would Marge still be floating around the dining room? Would Ministry employees be there to snap his wand? No matter what Sirius thought, the letter had been very clear about what would happen if more magic were detected at his relatives’ house.

“I’m not going back there,” said Harry, crossing his arms.

“Harry, do you know what everyone will think if you’re missing? If I don’t return you, they’ll think I killed you.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sirius curtly. He flicked the wand, and the trunk that stood a few feet away drove towards them as if pulled by an invisible rope. “Better that you know nothing about me, really. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough once you return.” Sirius paused as if he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own words, but after a moment of thought, he nodded. “Yes… I’ll tell you the truth about myself and your parents and how they died, but we haven’t got time now. The Ministry must believe you’ve been in Little Whinging all evening.”

“How they died?” said Harry, dubiously. “Voldemort killed my parents. Everyone knows that.”

“Yes, but they might have lived if it hadn’t been for—” Then Sirius shook his head. “No, there’s no time for this! Take my arm.”

Harry backed away. A pained expression twisted Sirius’s mouth.

“Please, Harry,” he said. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I promise you won’t be expelled. Hopefully, I’ll be able to explain all of this soon.”

“You’re the one who brought me here,” Harry said. “Why?”

“Because I thought you were in trouble,” said Sirius. “It was stupid, of course. I would have done anything for your father—I’d do anything for you, but now—”

“Then listen to me!” Harry insisted, his shoes scuffling backwards to creative even more space between them. “They’re going to expel me from Hogwarts! I can’t let that happen—”

“Dumbledore would never allow it, Harry,” said Sirius. “You’ve got to believe me. You’re the reason Voldemort is gone. People would—they wouldn’t stand for it if you were expelled. Don’t you see? The Ministry is already suffering the humiliation of my escape from Azkaban. If you were expelled because of petty accidental magic, the entire magical community would call for Fudge’s resignation. I know what they call you—The-Boy-Who-Lived. The Ministry won’t—can’t— expel you, do you understand? You’re too important.”

It was funny to Harry, considering he’d just run away from a place where he was deliberately told that he was nothing special—where he was a burden and a stain on Number 4. Uncle Vernon wouldn’t even sign his permission form to visit Hogsmeade, a favor that wouldn’t have caused the Dursleys any suffering but would allow Harry just a little bit of enjoyment at school. If Harry were expelled, he would have to live with his aunt and uncle for the entirety of the year until he came of age. Living on the run was better than that.

“Look,” said Harry, trying to keep his voice level. “The Ministry said that if they detected any more magic from Privet Drive, they’d expelme.The letter was really clear on that. I don’t care who you are—I don’t care if they think you’ve murdered me. If—if they think that, maybe I shouldn’t be around you anyway. But I am not going back to Little Whinging, and you—”

Harry stopped, realizing he’d nearly blurted “and you can’t make me”—it wasone of Dudley’s favorites. Harry clenched his fists and said resolutely, “I’m not going back.”

A muscle twitched in Sirius’s jaw. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t forget who’s got the wand here,” said Sirius.

[literallytoogaytofunction]

"PADS!! Have you seen my drum stick?!"

- James, probably

(close-ups under cut)

[fistfuloflightning]

”Hashirama thinks—“ “I already know what he thinks. I want to know what you think. You were Hashirama’s shadow when you were Senju Tobirama. But you’re an Uchiha now, and that means standing at my side, and not in my shadow. This village is as much your making as it is mine or Hashirama’s.” Tobirama remained silent, red eyes fixed unseeing on her cup. Madara knew the peace haunted her in a way it didn’t the others. Her sole purpose for existence was no longer there and she was learning there was more to life than constant vigilance and a kunai in hand. And she was terrified of it.

[spencer0o7]

i wanna write but school is beating my ass rn

[spoopy-sloth]

I am a huge believer that Ed and Ling are all about pillow talk. Gotta talk about trauma and speak words of love into the night

[direwombat]

15 lines of dialogue

tagged by @corvosattano, @voidika, and @aceghosts to do this fun little character study!

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

“Shit,” she hisses [sighs/groans/growls/breathes/etc.]

 “I’m gonna need a gun.”

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” she says. “Just tell me where to start.”

“Just doin’ my job,” Sybille shrugs. “Protect ‘n serve ‘n shit.”

“I’d say I ain’t an optimist.”

 “I always look pale,” she grits. Then she shoves away from the bar. “I need to take a piss.”

“Yeah, you know what’s gonna be painful?” she asks. “My boot up your ass.”

“An animal?” Her brows shoot up in surprise. “You tellin’ me an animal burst through a barricaded door, mauled and beheaded Mr. Wolanski and — what? — decided to do some redecoratin’?” 

“Savin’ my — savin’ my life? Sir, I nearly shot you! ” She scoffs and shakes her head. “Comin’ at an officer of the law with your gun raised like that, the hell were you thinkin’?”

“Your generosity would make Jesus weep,” she hums mockingly. 

And then, as if she reads his mind, she looks up at him and rasps, “I ain’t licking that clean.”

“What I — What I want?” she stammers. “You know damn well this ain’t about what I want.” 

“Take care of your woman,” she drawls, allowing the thick, honey-sweet tone of her southern accent drip off her words, just how he likes. 

 “I ain’t poisonin’ you, if that’s what you’re worryin’ about. You know I’d stab you in your front.”

 “Morality ain’t a luxury a soldier can afford, Pastor,” … “It’s just…,” she continues after a moment, “When you start thinkin’ ‘bout what’s right and wrong,  y’start askin’ questions. For most people, that ain’t a bad thing.  But for a soldier? It’s a distraction. We ain’t meant to think. Other people do that for us. Our job is to fall in line and follow orders. You question your CO, you get written up for insubordination. The military ain’t a place for free thinkers. Cuz once a soldier starts thinkin’ ‘bout morality, then they ain’t a soldier, no more.”

tag list: @marivenah, @florbelles, @fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @carlosoliveiraa, @cassietrn, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot, @miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @adelaidedrubman, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @strangefable, and anyone else wanting to do this! (tag list opt in/out)

[beastsovrevelation]

If it isn't my beloved celestial harpy, most holy Michael the Archangel herself (meaning, I turned this into proper line-art). ⚔ Good Omens has insulted her, but she will always be Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Host in my mind, and in my fics. I can only try to do her justice.

What do you think, should I colour it? It almost looks like a colouring page, I'm tempted to print it, and colour it with pencils or markers. ✏

[elsannafondue]

for legal reasons, this is a joke

also, this only exists bc of the @elsanna-shenanigans discord server

[giantmushyfriend]

I love how Crowley is a red bottom wearing red bottoms

[floydleart]

Yogtober Day 1: Beginnings/Encounter

The door opened, and a head popped through. They were human, significantly taller than the creature currently holding Xephos, maybe even a few inches or so taller than Xephos himself. Their hair was a bright yellow and messy, sticking up on one side as if they had been sleeping. Their eyes were pale blue-green, a color Xephos had never seen before in eyes. Those eyes glared down at the first creature.

“ˈHʌnɪdjuː, ɪt ɪz ˈbeəli faɪv ˈθɜːti, juː ˈbɛtə hæv ə gʊd ˈriːzn-“ Their eyes trailed up to Xephos’ and they froze. Their mouth fell agape as they stared him down, and Xephos managed a stoic glare back at them, puffing his chest out as much as his aching ribs would allow. He was insisting to himself that he would look brave even if he was injured.

The yellow-haired human glanced back and forth between Xephos and the other creature a few times. Their eyebrows suddenly dropped to an irritated expression as they stared at the other creature.

“Wɒt.” They said to them.

[local-diavolo-anon]

*throws this at u*

[itsjusthockey]

Unpublished When the Partys Over Pt. 2 - Jack Hughes

Actual Pt.2

Here is where it started, let me know if you would've liked this

But nothin' is better sometimes

Once we've both said our goodbyes

The sentence smacks Jack harder than any hockey hit ever has, and even though you’re the one who’s wasted, he suddenly feels like he wants to puke or pass out.

He doesn’t, though; instead, he freezes by the door, trying to register if he heard you correctly or if being around you makes him crazy. He concentrates hard for a moment, taking a shaky breath and letting it go. He knows you're drunk, incredibly so, and you probably have no idea what you're saying.

He knows he should walk out, pretend that he didn’t hear you, and hope he can bring it up in the morning over breakfast, but before he can retreat into the safety of his living room, you speak again.

“It’s funny; you used to mean everything to me.”

Jack's blood runs cold, and all hope of escape vanishes as he turns slowly to face you, his eyes falling on your figure, seeing a particular vulnerability in your gaze, but even more so, you look heartbroken.

“Now, though,” You let out a bitter chuckle. “You’re nothing.

Two words.

Two little words that slip past your lips like venom have him questioning everything he thinks he knows about himself. He thinks he’s a good friend, brother, teammate. He thinks he’s decently good-looking, good at hockey, and able to make anyone around him feel something good. Yet suddenly, he’s never felt smaller.

His heart cracks, breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, and his world feels like it's burning down around him, and the woman he’s so desperately in love with is holding the matches and watching him burn.

You stare at him with an unreadable expression. He knows he has to say something, retaliate back, and do fucking anything rather than just standing here, but his mind is just replaying those two words over and over, and he’s at a loss for how to respond.

He feels like he will be crushed under the weight of what you’ve thrown at him. He feels way too many things at once. Anger, hurt, confusion, but above all else, a desperate longing to understand why you think this way. Why the woman he has been chasing after, trying so fucking hard to get you to love him back, feels that he’s absolutely nothing.

Jack fights to regain his composure and tries to swallow the bitter taste forming in his mouth. He knows he shouldn’t do this, fight with you, or do whatever is about to happen, but he also feels like he needs some clarity, and he won’t get it if he walks away.

He swallows his pride and returns you’re hard stare, taking a step forward. You stare him up and down as he steps closer, and you’re quick to swing your legs from under the duvet and get out of his bed to meet him. When your feet hit the floor, you stumble a bit toward him, and he wants to punch himself in the face because the minute you stumble, he moves to catch you.

“I’m fine, Jack.” You hiss, steading yourself.

Anger flares in his chest. “Clearly, you’re not fine.”

The intensity of your stare-down crackles in the air as Jack's anger intertwines with his concern for your well-being. He wants to fight, talk, and do anything to understand what’s going through your head because he has never been more confused in his life.

But as he looks at you, swaying slightly on your feet, the realization hits him like a punch to the gut. You're too drunk to have this conversation, and he won’t fight with you when you’re not sober. He's not that kind of guy, and It’s not worth it. He knows that engaging in an argument in this state would only result in further hurt, and all he wants for you is to go to sleep because even though you’re hurting him, he can’t help but prioritize you.

“(Y/N), let's not do this now, let’s just go to sleep.”

Jack's voice is gentle, and his gaze is soft as he looks at you. You’re slightly shaking; he doesn’t know if it’s from the cold or possibly anger, but when you look back at him and nod, your eyes filled with tears, he knows he’s making the right choice.

He takes a step back, as if he is surrendering, and puts some distance between the two of you.

“I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

With that, Jack turns away, trying to leave behind the emotions that have consumed the room. Walking away from you hurts more than anything, but he knows that it's the right thing to do for both of you.

He walks down the small hallways to the living room, thankful that his couch is comfortable. He knows it’s going to be a long night, and sleep isn’t an option. A thousand thoughts swirl in his mind, and he has to get them straight because in just a few hours, he’s going to have the fight of his life.

—————————————————-

Jack wakes up when the bright light streaming through his windows nearly blinds him. He's on the couch, sore as hell, and very confused. However, the confusion lasts mere seconds before he remembers last night. Everything floods back, every painful second.

He lays there for a minute, listening to see if you’re awake. Half of him wants you to be, but the other half wishes you’d sleep forever, and he wouldn’t have to face your cold stare again. It’s silent in the apartment; the only sounds coming from the city of Jersey outside. Jack says a thankful prayer that Luke is gone and that none of his teammates with spare keys decided to crash his place after a night out.

He stares at the ceiling for a bit longer, contemplating getting up to get some water because he’s feeling a slight headache coming on, but he’s scared, scared that once he makes a sound, you’ll wake up.

Instead, he checks his phone, it’s early, and he sees a few unanswered texts from his brothers and mom. He knows he should answer, but he feels like he is trapped in a bubble, and he won’t escape until he understands what went so wrong in the relationship he has with you.

He lays there for fifteen minutes before he gets up, groggily making his way to the kitchen but being quieter than he ever has been. He knows it’s only a matter of time, and every minute that ticks by, he’s growing more anxious.

He feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest when he hears shuffling come from into his bedroom, it’s quiet as if you’re being careful too, but it’s there. He knows he has minutes to prepare himself, so he gathers his thoughts, puts on some coffee, and builds up his walls.

They come crashing down the second you enter the kitchen. You walk in, clad in his sweatpants and sweatshirt, and his defenses crumble. You look so god damn fucking adorable, and he wishes that every morning he could wake up to this sight.

That is, of course, until he meets your face.

When you lock your eyes, he sees nothing but regret. You look as though you’re retracing every step of how you came to this point, and you hate each move you make.

“Uh—” Jack clears his throat, trying not to make this any worse, and gestures to the coffee pot. “Want some?”

You nod your head, and Jack can see you bite the inside of your cheek, and he can feel his throat tighten up as he grabs two cups. Seconds later, he places a steaming brew on one side of his table, and you take a seat behind it. You give him a small thank you as you sit down, and as if to alleviate some of the tension in the air, you take a sip of your drink, and Jack takes that as his cue to sit down.

As soon as he sits, the tension in the air rises, and Jack can feel his heart starting to beat faster.

“I’m sorry about last night,” You blurt out, and a chill runs down Jacks's spine. “The whole night was really fucking unfair of me, and I feel terrible.

Jack swallows hard when you meet his stare. Your eyes hold the weight of a thousand apologies, and the fact that there is no wavering hesitation in your voice, he knows you mean every word.

“(Y/N), it’s fin—“ He starts, but as soon as he opens his mouth, you shut him down.

“It’s not fine, what I said was cruel, and I didn’t mean it. But I’m not going to lie; I’m glad I said it because we need to talk,” you pause for a breath. “We’ve needed to talk for a while, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. But now is the time, and we can end this here.”

“What do you mean?” Jack speaks slowly, trying to wrap his head around what you’re saying.

“This,” You say sternly, “Whatever we’ve been doing for the past year, it’s done.”

Done.

Jack is left speechless as he rubs his face with his hands, he is not enjoying himself having this conversation with you, and you can see almost every emotion that crosses his face.

[hythlodaeus-mynewoldfriend]

Mayncient Day 25: Ruin

Hades, Please know that I do this because I love and care about you. If you change your mind you know where you can find us. I’m sorry. Anthea “Hades….and Anthea….,” I choke out, flipping the page over with a false hope that there would be more to the story, “What happened between you two?”

-"The Missives"

Companion to Day 9: Family