#But I still really like the Float and Flint one so. Bright side is that this is some of the last of my older drawings get outta here

[starfall-isle]

Two of them

[palbabor-writes]

I know you said you only might accept pregnancy requests depending on what it is so I wanted to try 😅 how about shigaraki and reader break up while she’s unknowingly pregnant with his child and he bumps into said child years later and connects the dots that it’s his? If you don’t like it feel free to ignore this request 😊

I liked this nonnie.

I am terrified that by saying that I’m going to be inundated with pregnancy HC’s, lol. But, this request I really leaned into. Plus, it’s more about a kid than a pregnancy. 

So, thank you for asking and letting me slip out of my comfort zone. It’s always good to do that every once in awhile and this ask was a great reminder of that.

It’s a bit melancholic, but I think it fits with Tomura, at least, in my mind.

Now, this is not in canon. This is not like, pre-war arc, or post-war arc. If anything, it’s more of an AU. I’d put Tomura in his late 20s to early 30s.  

warnings: none really, just some sweet, sweet interactions and mild angst 

Hestia Hestia, in Greek religion, is the goddess of the hearth, a daughter of Cronus and Rhea, and one of the 12 Olympian deities. When the gods Apollo and Poseidon became suitors for her hand, she swore to remain a maiden forever, and Zeus, the king of the gods, bestowed upon her the honor of presiding over all sacrifices. 

The shouting noise of children set his teeth on edge.

Toga had insisted that the bus stop by the school was the best place for the information exchange.

They won’t look for you there, she’d assured him. It’s like hiding in plain sight. Yeah, it’s patrolled, but it’s only an old security guard who does the rounds. Besides, he’s retired from the police force, she qualified, and was more like a lazy cat than an attentive scent hound.  

It’s the best place, really.

So, Shigaraki had made the long trek across Tokyo.

He kept to the shadows as he weaved his way through back alleys and streets. Although the dominance of the League had waned some over the years, he was still a wanted criminal, responsible for countless death and threats on hero society.

He was still the King of his slice of the underworld.

Besides, he reassured himself as he loitered by the bench under the bus stop, he could trust Toga.

She had improved in leaps and bounds as she came of age; deadlier, sleeker, more attuned to the ebbs and flows of the world around her. She wasn’t that girl who chattered about blood anymore.

Oh, she still held a strange fascination with the fluid. But she had more control over those impulses that drove her. If she said it was the best place, well, who was he to argue? Toga had been with him from the beginning, a vital ally. Hell, at this point she was close to being a friend.

Shigaraki is still musing when the ball taps its way to his feet.

It clatters against the pavement; the rubber shuttling it along the loose rocks and leaves. Unthinkingly, Shigaraki lifts his shoe to balance against its unbound movement, stilling its lulling bounces.

Must be from that schoolyard, he thinks, his red eyes flashing up at the low chain-link fence that separates the school grounds from the busy street.

There’s no child dashing their way to retrieve it, so he lets his gaze slip from the teeming masses of giggling youngsters. It’s a pretty blue. The ball looks new. Hardly a scuffed and battered thing.

He keeps it under his sole, toying with it, rolling it meditatively as he slips back into his thoughts.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

It’s a small voice that calls to him and he turns his head back to the fence, looking for the source.

It’s a girl.

She’s leaning against the metal, her hands clutching into the links, cocking her head inquisitively at him.

Her nose wrinkles at his silence, and she shouts another demand.

“Mister, that’s my ball. Toss it back.”

“Aren’t you supposed to say please?” Shigaraki taunts, his lips lifting in a quick grin. He’s not sure why he’s bothering to engage with this kid, but something about her plucky attitude resonates with him.

She leans away from the fence, that scowl deepening on her soft features.

“Aren’t grown ups not supposed to steal things?”

He laughs at her snark. He can’t help it. Oh, this kid’s fun.

Carefully slipping the ball into his hands, he moves closer to the fence. He can see her a little better now.

She’s still got that deep frown on her face and her dark hair is gleaming in the afternoon sun, some strands catching the light, reflecting a deep, auburn, hue. He’s just about to chuck the ball to her when he catches sight of her eyes.

They’re red.

Not that red eyes are unusual. There are plenty of people milling around Tokyo with them. But hers are different.

No, these eyes are like looking into a mirror for Shigaraki. They flint and glare with the same sheen as his own. It’s a prefect reflection.

His feet suddenly feel heavy, leaden, and he can’t lift his arms. Who is this child? Why does she-

“Ok, ok, mister. Can I please have my ball back? You’re still stealing it if you don’t, so I’m not apologizing for that. I might... if you give it back to me, cuz’ it’s my ball, not yours. And, stealing makes you a thief.”

She’s rolling those uncanny irises at his stiff form, and a huffing sigh escapes her small mouth.

“What’s your name?” Shigaraki asks, hands trembling over the rubber of the ball.

“Not supposed to tell that to strangers, mister.”

He smiles again, bemused. Well, he thinks begrudgingly, she’s a clever little thing. Whoever she is.

A sharp bell echoes across the yard and she turns her head at the sound, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders.

“Here,” Shigaraki relents, gently flipping the ball over the fence, bouncing it to her feet.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, quickly snatching up her prize. Those red eyes of hers meet his own, and he can feel a low shiver echo up his spine. What’s up with this reaction? It almost feels visceral, like some sort of otherworldly pull on him.

“Sorry I called you a thief,” she apologizes, quickly bowing her head, ducking those eerie eyes from view.

He’s not sure what to say, so he continues to watch her. She doesn’t seem perturbed by this, opting to giggle at him as her little head lifts.

“You’re weird,” she assess, a smile finally spreading over her lips, her cheeks rounding and softening. 

Tch, she’s rude, but she’s also cute, Shigaraki thinks, snorting at her frankness.

She turns, dashing away from him, her dark hair flowing around her back as she goes.

Shigaraki shakes his head, trying to dislodge those lingering questions that keep floating to the back of his mind.

He’ll never see her again, he reasons, wandering back to the bus stop. Trying to tamp down the urge to look for her again, to pinpoint her from the other giggling and shouting children on the playground.

But he did see her again.

He comes back to the stop a few weeks later.

There’s no information pickup this time. There’s no real reason for him to even be on this side of town.

He just can’t get her out of his mind.

This little kid had shaken something within his psyche. He kept dreaming about her. Well, not her, really. No, there was someone else haunting his dreams.

He hasn’t thought about you in years.

But now? Now, he can’t get you out of his head. He even feels like he can feel you some nights, warm against his side. He sulks in the memories of the familiar touches that the two of you shared, the love that you’d pressed into him, so, so long ago.

He saw the girl in those moments. Resting in your arms as you looked up, your eyes bright against her dark head. The girl would laugh and run to him, those reflective red eyes shining with mirth. 

It was fucking strange.

He both hated, and loved, the repetitive nature of these illusions. They made him feel safe and warm, but they also chilled him to his very bones. It was unsettling.

Unsure what else to do, he’d back come to the bus stop.

It’s early afternoon. Close to the time he’d visited it before. He waits on the lonely bench, his hands pressed together and that strange tremble races through his veins.

This is stupid, he thinks, his eyes lowering from the sea of kids, all twisting and turning in a heap as they play. It’s an impossibility, really. The chances of that girl losing her ball again is minuscule. There’s no way he can call to her either. It’s a waste. He shouldn’t even be here.

He’s standing to leave, when that small voice reaches him.

“Oh! You’re back.”

His head whips around, his long white hair glowing against the sunlight.

There she is.

She’s gripping the fence again, and she’s staring right at him.

Shigaraki smiles. It’s a gentle lift and he can feel his heart tapping a rough tattoo against his ribs. He steps toward her, kneeling when he gets close, careful to not overstep his bounds.

He’s not wanting to startle her.

No, he’s wanting to talk with her. Maybe she’ll drop some kinda clue why he’s so drawn to her. Or maybe she’ll morph into any other child again. Plain, uninteresting. Slipping from that odd ghost that she’s become to his subconscious. 

He hopes it’s the latter. But part of him also longs for it to be the former.

She’ll hop to the fence around 3:15.

She looks for him now, used to the routine of his presence.

He told her to call him Tomura, and the name falling from her lips made his heart ache.

Tomura stopped by on Fridays. Careful to not stay too long, to not draw too much attention to himself.

At first, he’d sneak her little trinkets. 

A little plastic toy of his, one that he had since he was a kid. She’d squealed with delight and clutched it to her. He’d grinned at that, remembering how he’d once held onto the thick plastic himself. 

Once, he’d just plucked a nearby flower as he walked to the school, presenting it to her outreached grasp. He’d watched proudly as she tucked it behind her ear, the color glossy beside her hair.

She’s still a sassy little thing. But she’s softened a little, too. Her voice losing that early, untrusting, edge.

He didn’t ask her much. Sometimes they both just sat in silence as she sketched designs into the dirt. Sometimes he would listen to her chatter about her day. Her classmates, her teacher. Once, she’d even pressed something over the fence to him.

It was a drawing.

He’s not sure if it really was all that well done, or if it’s just his heavy bias toward her. But he loves the mix of color and lines. He’d asked who the people were.

One was her friend, Kenji. One was her teacher. One was him.

He’d pinned it to the wall in his room. Displaying it, flaunting the gift. He looked at it every morning, admiring her work.

He’s late one day, and she scolds him, her small arms draping over the fence.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” she chatters, her red eyes lingering against his, the two colors casting back the same hue.

“Was running behind,” Tomura replies, leaning against the low concrete barrier, resting his back against the fence.

Her little hands reach for his hair, playing with the pearlescent tendrils, weaving some into knots and braids. 

He doesn’t mind.

“Hey, Tomura,” she says, working a tiny hairband into her creation, her voice curious.

“Hmm,” he hums, careful to not shift his head, not wanting to disrupt her hard work.

“You didn’t ask my name again. At least… not after that one day.”

“Do you want me to ask?” He queries, his pulse lifting.

He’d wanted to ask her again, but he didn’t want to startle her, to shatter these innocences that they shared.

“It’s Beryl,” she answers. She says it confidently, and he turns to face her.

She grins at him, wiggling one loose tooth playfully at his serious expression, trying to tug a laugh from him.

“Beryl?” he repeats, unable to keep that awed hush from his raspy tones. It’s a pretty name. It suits her, really. But it’s strange. It’s not Japanese. 

You hadn’t been Japanese. 

“That’s a good name,” he assures her. “But, it’s not… you don’t hear that name very often.”

“Yeah,” Beryl concedes, her vermillion eyes roving over his face. “My mom’s not from here.”

His nostrils flare at that.

He hasn’t asked her about her mother. He’s unsure if it’s a general disinterest on his part, or trepidation. He fears it’s the latter.

Gulping, he tilts his head at her, feeling that soft braid she’s plaited into his hair shifting.

“Who’s your mother?”

“Who is she? She’s my mom, silly.”

“No,” he pauses, ignoring that creeping tremor that’s working its way to the top of his skull, his skin prickling and cooling. “I mean…what’s her name?”

“Oh! Her name is-”

“Beryl! Beryl, it’s time to come inside.” A teacher is calling for her. 

Tomura startles away, drifting to his feet and pacing quickly back to the bus stop. He can’t help the snarl that etches its way across his lips. He’d been so close. So fucking close…

He chances a glance back at the fence and catches sight of Beryl. She’s dashing across the playground, her dark hair waving in the sun.

Japan is about to slip into summer. School will come to a close, moving into a long break. He won’t see her again for almost a month.

His heart sinks at that realization and he grits his teeth. Slipping his hands into his dark trench coat, he steps across the street, away from the bus stop, away from the little girl that’s feeling more and more like his own.

Edit: oh hey. so, i couldn’t stfu about this and created a sequel: Materfamilias 

hahaha & part iii

[starlight-writes-stuff]

chapter one - the note // light me up : a draco malfoy fic

a/n : hello ! this is chapter one of light me up. it is a bit short- i really want to get outside opinions on what you think ; i hope you enjoy ! seeing as i have exactly 0 followers on this here blog this story will also be posted on wattpad (where i’m known as starlight--writes) . it’s a bit easier to grow on there , but i figured theres always a chance of someone finding this fic on here and falling in love with it . anyways , if you’re seeing this , reblogs and notes are always appreciated . requests are open as well ! k , bye (:

reblogs are always appreciated ! <3

☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁  ☁

Charms was your least favorite class of the day. Usually you looked forward to it, eagerly awaiting getting to sit next to your boyfriend, Cedric Diggory, but in the week that the two of you had broken up, it had been torture. You still had to sit with him- the seating was assigned that way, but now instead of kisses when you walked in and holding hands under the table, it was forced smiles and awkward greetings. 

So far, you’d spent the whole class looking down at your lap, tangling your fingers together and trying to take up as little space as possible. Maybe, if you were still enough, he would just forget you were there. You made no noise, no sudden movements; essentially, acting like you didn’t even exist. However, that illusion was broken when Nearly Headless Nick has floated in through the back wall, holding a letter that he handed to Professor Flitwick. He read it over silently, then looked up and directly at you. He cleared his throat and stepped down from the pile of books he stood on, and shuffled over to you.

“Miss Y/L/N, it seems you are needed elsewhere. When you finish, please see me for the homework,” he said with a warm smile, handing you the parchment he was holding. 

You smiled back- Professor Flitwick had always been nice to you- and grabbed your bag without even reading the short note; if it meant not having to be so close to Cedric, you were happy for the excuse. As you got up, you felt a gentle tug on your sleeve and your stomach flew up into your throat. Looking up, you saw Cedric smile and drop his grip on your shirt.

“When you’re done, can we talk?” he asked quietly, trying not to draw any attention to either of you. “I’d like to. I’ll wait in the library after classes.”

You couldn’t muster a vocal response- this was the most he’d said to you in a week, and from the look on his face, it seemed important. You just nodded and fled the room, trying to compose yourself before the pumpkin pastie you had eaten before Charms came back up. 

Once you were in the silent, stony hallway, you took a deep breath. Everything was fine. He probably just wanted his jumper back- it was his favorite, and he’d given it to you for pajamas a while ago. You leaned your head back against the cool cobblestone of the hallway, and retrieved the note from your bag, reading it over twice before you fully comprehended the meaning.

Miss Y/LN, Excuse the interruption of your class- upon review of your marks, it seems that you will be quite alright missing a charms class and upholding your grade. The staff have deliberated the results of your try out for Slytherin House’s Quidditch Team, and we are glad to offer you the position of a back-up seeker. Please meet the current Slytherin seeker- Draco Malfoy- in the dining hall for a private practice. We hope this letter finds you well, Slytherin House Quidditch Staff

You tried to contain your excitement, but couldn’t wipe the grin off of your face as you made your way to the Dining Hall. You had mostly tried out for Quidditch as a one off thing, to get Cedric to shut up about it. You absolutely hadn’t expected to be chosen and assigned a spot, so the letter was the only bright point in your week so far. As you entered the great hall, you saw the white-blonde head you were supposed to be meeting leaned over a roll of parchment, chewing on his lower lip.

                                                      ☁ ☁ ☁

Draco Malfoy was in the same year as you- the same house as well- but the two of you had never talked much. Your social circles weren’t intertwined, and besides the few classes you had with him, you didn’t run into him often. As you walked over to him, you dimly wondered if he even knew your name.

“Draco? I’m supposed to meet with you, right?” you asked, timidly. He looked up from his books to meet your eyes. 

“Oh, right. Sorry, I’m trying to get this Potions work done, but…” he tapered off, shaking his head. “Anyway. Sorry- but yes, Flint asked me to meet with you. Y/N, right?”

“Right,” you said with a nod, “Yeah. And I have the answers for the Potions homework, if you want them.”

Draco gathered all his things, shoving them into his bag and asked, “Really? Oh. Wait. Aren't you in my potions class?”

You nodded, and went to fish the paper out of your book, wondering why you’d offered in the first place. You weren’t one to let others copy. “Yeah. I finished it last night, so you can look over it, if you want to,” you replied, handing him the parchment. He took the roll from your hand, giving you a half-smile. 

“Thank you. I can’t seem to understand Potions, like, ever, so I appreciate it. I promise, this will only take a couple minutes; I’ll have you out on the field right after.”

You settled beside him and pulled out your Charms book- might as well finish reading the chapter while you have the time. You could hear Draco muttering the words under his breath as he scratched them down with his quill, and found that oddly endearing. Besides him being the seeker for Slytherin, and his constant feud with Harry Potter, you really didn’t know much about the tall boy sitting next to you, so that fact that you knew how he took notes seemed almost… intimate. Like something you shouldn’t know, but you did. As you pondered on this, you started to wonder what else you didn’t know about him. You referenced the general knowledge of him you’d picked up over the last six years.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Name- Draco Malfoy (son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, who were well known in the wizard community. Kind of a dark family, though.)

Year- 6

Position- Seeker

Attributes- tall, handsome, good Quidditch  player, constantly nagging at harry potter for reasons unknown, friends with Crabbe and Goyle, mumbles while taking notes. Had never had a girlfriend, to your knowledge, but had many hookups. Quiet and brooding and slightly scary. Very intimidating, and taller than you’d think. He smelled good, like citrus and musk and old parchment, and his hair looked soft. He was a pretty boy, really. Scarily pretty. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were still trying to think of anything you’d heard about him, other than the general assumptions of him: good looking, but a woeful git to just about everyone, when he shut his book and slid the roll of parchment back over to you.

“Thanks, again. So you’re gunning for my spot on the team?” he asked, packing up his things. You felt your face flush, and didn’t know how to respond when he chuckled and spoke up. “I’m kidding. It’s always good to have backup players, for when we get hurt. You must’ve really impressed Flint- he was going on and on about the ‘new girl’ at practice.”

Your cheeks got hot again as the two of you walked out of the dining hall and through the passages leading out to the field. “I guess so. I really didn’t think anything would come of me trying out.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair and walked out into the courtyard. “Really? What took you so long to try out, if you don't mind me asking? We’re always looking for new talent.”

You looked up at him out of the corner of your eye, and saw that he was waiting on an answer. “Um- I really didn’t ever think about playing, honestly. Over last summer, I was dragged into a game by a couple of friends, and they told me I had a knack for it. Then Cedric wouldn’t stop bugging me about trying to join the team, so I did.”

“That’s right. Isn’t he your boyfriend?”

You felt your heart pang at his words, and gave him a tight lipped smile. “He was. We aren’t really together anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn't know. I’ve just seen you two around, so I assumed…” he trailed off, looking down at you with sympathetic eyes.

“It’s fine. It was pretty recent that we,” you hesitated, almost choking on the words. “It was recently that we split up. No one really knows yet, besides close friends.”

Draco nodded, pulling a key out of his pocket. He unlocked a door on the side of the castle that you didn’t even realize existed, and walked into the cramped room. It was full of Quidditch  supplies- practice jerseys, brooms, and the trunk that held all the equipment. He picked it up, and you could see the muscles in his forearms flexing and shifting under his pale skin as he held the heavy trunk. 

“Well, I won't tell anyone. I’m sorry, I know how that can be. Will you grab two of those?” he asked, nodding at the wall behind you. Multiple brooms were mounted on it, and you grabbed two, following him out of the room. You replayed his sentence in your head. ‘I know how that can be.’ and wondered if you had missed something. You’d never seen Draco with a girl, much less a girlfriend. But maybe he was one to keep his relationships quiet. It made things much easier when you broke up if no one knew you were dating anyone in the first place.

“Yeah. It’s been… it hasn’t been fun. But, anyway, I really tried out because of that. When I didn’t hear anything for a bit, I figured that I hadn’t made it.”

“Yeah, the review takes a long time. Snape has the whole team review tryouts, then selects certain people to start training. Just about everyone was impressed with yours, though.”

“Well that’s good, right? I mean, if I’m being trained, I assume that I made it.”

Draco smiled down at you, dropping the trunk on the grass. “Welcome to the team. Let’s see what you can do.”

                                                       ☁ ☁ ☁

After a few hours of flying about Draco started packing the trunk back up, strapping the snitch back into place. The curls that had previously adorned your head had fallen limp from flying, and you were out of breath as the two of you walked back to the supply cabinet. 

“I can see why Flint was so impressed. You really could take my spot, if you wanted it,” Draco said with a smile, unlocking the hidden door once more. 

“I don’t think so. But thank you.”

He placed the trunk back on a shelf, and turned to you, crossing his arms. Again, you watched the muscles ripple under his skin and tried not to flush. “You really are good. Maybe not better than me, but good,” he said, and you could feel his eyes on you as you returned the brooms to their wall mountings. 

“I’ve seen you play, Malfoy. If you can take the snitch out from under Cedric’s nose, then I'm not sure I'll be put to much use.”

“Oh, please. Cedric isn’t what I would call competition’” he joked, locking the door behind the two of you. “And if you were watching Cedric play, how would you know if I’m any good?” he raised an eyebrow at you, and your heart fluttered in your chest. 

You’d always known Draco was good looking- it was hard not to notice that- but he was also wickedly funny, and quick witted. You felt better than you had in a week for the first time today, and you didn’t doubt that some of it had to do with the blonde boy beside you. 

“Just because I was dating someone in a different house doesn’t mean I ever stopped rooting for ours. I know where my loyalties lie.”

He gave you a sweet smile, and the two of you continued walking back to the castle in comfortable silence. When you ducked back into the bustling hallways from the courtyard, Draco cleared his throat, stopping in the small alcove. 

“So. Um, I think we should probably do this again. You did almost all solo flying today, but you need to feel the pressure of racing against someone as well. That’s half of being a seeker, is racing your opponent. Do you have a free period sometime this week?” he asked, and you felt your heart stir again- while you might’ve needed more training, you had a nagging feeling that it was a little more than that. The two of you had a good time, and you hadn’t seen Draco smile that much in the whole six years you’d been at Hogwarts with him.

“Sure. I have two on Thursday. Just let me know when you’re free; I’m in the common room a lot, so I should be easy to find.”

He grinned down at you, his blonde hair flopping down and over his forehead and cleared his throat. “Okay. sounds good. I’ll see you later, then?”

You nodded, and gave him a smile. “I’ll see you around.”

                                                       ☁ ☁ ☁

[puffyswritings]

@emzurl @fandomsilhouette I can’t even explain how hyped and inspired you guys have got me. Thank you for creating such beautiful art.

—————

At some point you stop counting. One day, the failed dates and the pit of loneliness makes you forget the last time you enjoyed yourself. It makes your self-worth shrink and shrivel until it transforms into the thing you have been fighting since you were a child; since the first time someone made you double check your own thoughts, your own conviction in that thing you knew so well. Self-doubt, as it stands, has erased what once was self-worth. It has taken bits and parts of your confidence and left it shredded beyond recognition.

As Marinette stares before her mirror in her spacious one bedroom apartment, two hours away from her next date, she thinks of this. There are shadows under her eyes she can’t remember a time they weren’t there. When she answers her phone she notes the hollow undertone to it; despite doing her best to sound cheerful and bright and happy.

When was the last time she was happy?

There should be worry there. Instead, Marinette is just not surprised. She can’t recall the last time she smiled genuinely. The last time her eyes watered not from depressing loneliness and sadness. The last time someone was able to make her feel like herself and not some ghost of the Marinette of three, four, ten years ago. She can’t even remember the last time that she was able to see a couple, a family, happy and smiling walking through the streets of Paris. When was the last time she didn’t throw a pillow at the television or change the channel because her tattered heart couldn’t stand seeing someone else enjoy what she has been searching for for twenty-three years?

Marinette inhales.

She holds her breath. Gazes over the battlescars from years of fighting.

Marinette exhales.

In the time that it takes her to change into one of her nicer outfits (this date is at a fairly popular, and affluent restaurant), brush and tie up her hair, she barely notices the time. These things have become nothing more than a blur. The excitement she used to feel pumping through her blood has long gone. Now all that stands is exhaustion. And a very poor expectation of anything good coming from her date.

When she arrives at the restaurant, the atmosphere catches her attention, if briefly. She knows the owner personally, as her parents would bake desserts for them often when she was a teenager. So the boisterous and distinguished air is as normal as sitting atop a Parisian roof at dusk.

But it isn’t until she makes it through the initial crowd of waiting customers, waiters coming to and fro and the sitting diners, that she sees the small, but almost closed off table in the farthest part of the establishment; if only a portion of it. As she gets closer to the high windows that sparkle in the light playing off the Seine, to the table where she is supposed to meet candidate number whatever, Marinette wonders if she will have to bail on this person too. If they get too pushy, she tends to just leave. If they try to pry too much on the first date, she could make them overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Or she could say nothing at all. Ugh, if Alya reached back out to—

No way.

The stoic young face that accompanied her childhood and university years is sitting at the table. He had been staring out at the water before she approached. His head turns when she is near the table, and just as he had been about to stand up to greet her he says, “Oh, it’s you.”

Correction: They both said it. A special mix of surprise, but also disbelief in their tones.

Hands on her chair, Marinette contemplates turning around. She eyes the blond man, memories she had forgotten floating up in her mind just as she does whenever she flies through the city. She can picture herself leaving him. Taking the short drive back to her one-story apartment. Taking off her shoes and handmade dress, taking her hair out of its ponytail. She would keep the lights off because she likes using the bright Paris lights to illuminate her place like they do, and then she’d lie in bed until the early dawn. She would run meaningless scenarios through her head about being swept off her feet. She would imagine what life would be like if she had stayed with Luka--just like she always promised as a teen. Her mind would eventually numb until her body moved into its normal routine.

And then she would only feel something when she became Ladybug. Saving Paris as she has for years.

In the end, she takes the seat. She smooths her skirt down, lacing her fingers in her lap. Maybe Felix could at least make her feel annoyed. Frustrated. Maybe his bland and monotone could make her feel amused. She could tease him like she did when they went to University. She stares at him.

Felix clears his throat. Blueberry eyes trained on him, she wonders what he is about to say. If he calls this date off, she could be angry with him and not loathe herself for having ended it herself.

“Miss Dupaing-chen… To say I am surprised to see you here would certainly be an understatement.” Unconsciously, her knee begins to bounce.

“Ditto.”

Felix looks off to the side for a moment. “It has been some time since I last saw you.”

“Which is surprising considering we all thought you left for America.”

At that, his green eyes flicker back to the glittering Seine. “Well, yes. It was necessary so that I could gain some new influence outside of France.” His tone, normally filled with a trademark boredom is tingling with something out of Marinette’s grasp. Did something happen?

With nothing coming to mind of how to respond to that, Marinette and Felix sink into silence. It’s only been about two years since she last saw him. Between now and then Marinette had forgotten about her old classmate. Being swamped with work, the ending of her formal education, and other, personal things, it was like “out of sight, out of mind”. Felix rarely kept social media that wasn’t managed by his father’s company, and then he stopped answering his phone, so there wasn’t any way for Marinette to reach him. She’s amazed Alya was--no, not really. Alya has been a journalist since grade school. Getting her hands on his contact info must have been fairly easy for her.

They eat their food in silence. When the check comes, and Felix pays for it, they both leave. Not arm-in-arm. Not chatting about the evening. Definitely not planning to meet each other again.

Not until Felix clears his throat, standing under the entryway as he waits for his valet. Marinette doesn’t turn, staring down the street for her way home.

The blond clears his throat again. “Ms. Dupaing-chen.”

She glances back at him. Then the street. The cab she was so close to waving down passes her, and she turns to him. Annoyed. She says nothing, waiting for whatever dumb thing he’s turning over in that pretentious brain of his.

After a moment or two, he extends his elbow. Marinette’s brow twitches. “I would like to take you for a walk. Perhaps to make up for the lack of entertainment this evening?”

Now this is shocking. So much so that, despite how relatively stone-faced she has been all evening, this brings a small blush to her face.

Felix?!

Impossible. Felix is stoic. If you looked up “pretentious” in the dictionary, you would see the picture of Felix Agreste. Yet here he is, bright green eyes steady on her, the nervous flint to them not entirely gone, but more confident than she has seen in years. His arms remains extended to her as she mulls over the shock, and then the pros and cons of going on an after-date with this former classmate.

This hasn’t happened to her in a long time. Who…? She can’t picture the last person who offered to take her somewhere that wasn’t a room with a bed in it.

If she takes his arm, she has no doubts he won’t do anything slimy. At the base of his nature, Felix was raised to be a gentleman; and one he, apparently, has remained. Where would they end up? How long does he plan to stay out? Will he criticize her appearance like he used to as children? Surely, this can’t be a prank.

The smile Felix attempts confuses her. “If you would rather not--”

“Walk along the Seine?” Her voice is weak. Her palms are sweaty so she doesn’t take his arm or his hand.

Oddly enough, he chuckles. Marinette finds herself caught off guard by it. It sounds familiar. “So long as you don’t push me in.”

It isn’t happiness or joy or love that curls her lip into a tiny smile in that moment. She doesn’t find herself wistfully planning their wedding after the first, second, or third date. She keeps her torn bits to herself until she can find the strength to ask for help in holding them together. What she does find after that is comfort. A presence that isn’t stifling or pressing her to be the same person she was ten years ago. She sees that it’s possible to like leaving the lights off and be happy with it; and nothings wrong with that.

At some point, she walks past the mirror in their bedroom, and she stares. Dark circles still remain shadowed under eyes, but they come from late nights of working and talking and laughing and loving. She runs her fingers through her hair and admires how well it looks on her now. She smiles at herself because she isn’t faking it anymore. Not all the time. Less often these days.

Her love has multiple sources now. From places she accepts and sees to be for her, and not forceful. Even though she always said no one could change the way she saw herself, or make her love anything more than herself, she has no issues with it now. Loving someone else has helped her love herself.

That’s more than enough.

[areyoureadyforsomemeatballz]

Cast Away (8): Tomorrow the Sun Will Rise

Summary: After a mission gone awry, you end up stranded on a deserted island. While you know that you have the skills to survive in the desolate paradise, you’re not sure if your heart will.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings: Swearing (as per usual). Descriptions of a panic attack, if you want specifics please message me before reading.

A/N: I’m back! I took a break from the craziness that has been work and was able to finally finish up my draft for this part. The next part is already in the works, too. I hope you all enjoy, if you have a second please, please, please let me know what you think! Beta’d by the lovely @throwmyheartawayagain​ thanks so much, baby.

Bucky was right, neither of you dried before dark. Instead, you stayed close to the fire, wrapped up in each other. Your clothes do nothing to fight off the chill in the early evening air so you nuzzle closer to his warmth.  Bucky’s chest rumbles beneath you and you peek up at him. His soft smile is contagious. 

“Are you asleep?” 

His eyes crack open and meet yours. “Mm-mm.” 

“You’re snoring.” 

“And you’re killing the mood.” He can’t help the bright smile that breaks across his face.

“The sleeping mood?” 

He shakes his head and turns you on his chest so he can fully look at you. “Nah, the ‘this is the best night of my life’ mood.”

You snort and he dips his head to catch your lips in a long kiss. Your fingers dig into his shirt as his tongue sweeps across your bottom lip. A whine escapes you as he drags his lips away from yours. 

“I was enjoying that…”

“I’m serious,” he murmurs as he strokes your cheek. 

You grin at him and lean into his touch. “So am I. You’re a really good kisser.”

He scoffs and then goes completely quiet, not pushing you any further. 

After a few minutes you wiggle in his arms and his arms tighten around your waist. You snort and try to push off his chest. 

“Buck…” 

A horn cuts through the still air around you and you shoot out of Bucky’s arms. He’s on his feet just seconds behind you. 

“Was that a-” 

Before you can finish he’s taking off towards the beach. You follow close behind, not quite able to keep up with his speed. Had he been going slower around you this whole time? 

You plow into his back and you let out an undignified cough and he throws a grin over his shoulder. 

“Walk much, babydoll?” 

You elbow him and your eyes scan the horizon until a string of lights catches your attention. Another horn blairs, this one sounding much further away. 

You dive towards the fire pit Bucky had set up for just this purpose. The flint in your hand won’t catch and you curse in frustration. A rough pair of hands closes around yours and you drop the little stone. Your heart drops as the lights float further away. 

“Buck, the boat…” you whisper. “We’ve gotta… I can’t…” 

You scoop up the flint and thrust it into his chest. As soon as you know he’s got it you jump to your feet and take off into the shallows, waving your arms wildly. 

“Hey! We’re here!” You scream at the top of your lungs, cupping your hands around your mouth. “We’re right here. We’re here! Don’t leave!” 

There’s a flash behind you and a sudden heat and you whip around. You’re back at Bucky’s side in an instant and each of you take a stick to dip in the fire. You wave the sticks until they are charred almost all the way down to your fingers. 

Bucky wrenches your branch from your hands with his metal hand. “You’re going to burn yourself!” 

The branch lands in a pile of leaves and another burst of flames erupt at your feet. 

“They’re getting away,” you mutter. “We need a bigger fire!” 

You move to run to the forest for more kindling, but a solid arm around your middle stops you. “They’re gone, Y/N. Look, they’re gone.”

“No.” 

He angles your body towards the water, but you refuse to look out towards the darkening skyline.

“Honey, I need you to look at me,” Bucky’s soft voice breaks through your defenses. 

“No!” 

Bucky’s arms drop from you as if he’s been slapped. You take the opportunity to throw the palm tree branches you can reach into the already roaring fire. 

“Buck, help me,” you reach out for him. “Baby, please…” 

His face crumbles as your voice cracks. “You gotta stop. You’re going to set the whole fucking island on fire.” 

“I don’t care!”

“You’re going to kill yourself!”

“I don’t care!” You reach for a nearby branch and suddenly his arms are around your waist again.

You ball your hands up into fists and pound on his chest, willing him to let you go again. He drags you a safe distance away from the blaze and you start to scream. The lights on the water are nowhere to be seen. 

Bucky’s hands cup your cheeks and he forces you to look into his eyes. The normal crystal blue is marked with worry and you can’t hold back the sob that tears its way from your throat. You bury your face in his neck as you cry. 

He presses a soft kiss to your hairline and stokes his hands down your back, whispering soft words that you can’t make out. Your head is spinning when you realize you’re not crying anymore. Your eyes are trained on the horizon, only to find the night sky dissolving into an even darker ocean. 

“We’re never getting off this goddamned island,” you croak. 

“Don’t say that-” 

You pull back, a burst of rage filling you. “We might have if you had helped me.” 

He grits his teeth and his hands ball up at his sides. “Excuse me?” 

“You just stood there!”

“Well someone had to protect you from yourself,” he says. “You could’ve killed us...” 

You roll your eyes. “Fuck you! I knew what I was doing.” 

His hand circles your wrist and he brings your fingers into your line of sight. There are blisters forming on the tips and you reel back as pain shoots through them. 

“I’ve had worse,” you mutter. 

He snorts and you glare at him, pushing yourself off his lap. “Whatever, Human Torch. I might have some first aide skills, but charred skin is a little out of my wheelhouse.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You wouldn’t have been.” 

“Bullshit, Barnes. I’ve survived this long without you and your holier than thou attitude.” 

“This isn’t my fault!” 

“Maybe if you hadn’t been making puppy dog eyes and professing your undying love we would’ve been able to act faster! You didn’t let me up fast enough!” 

“That was before the goddamned boat blew its horn and you know it, princess.” 

“Don’t you fucking call me that!” 

“Don’t you fucking try to blame this on me! You were a more than willing participant in everything that happened. Except for maybe the cuddling… Was that too real for you?” 

“You are such a jackass!” 

You’re through the trees before he can even get to his feet. You sigh when you hear him stomping behind you. 

“Go back to the beach.” 

“No.” 

“Go back to the fucking beach.” 

“Ask nicer.” 

This stops you in your tracks and he smirks. He fucking smirks. 

Your shoulders tense and he leans against the tree beside him, crossing his arms. “Go ahead, sugar. Yell at me. Let it out.” 

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” you seethe. “Believe me, I will. And not that it matters, but I can make it look like an accident.”

He snorts and you want to slap the smile off his face.

“Why do you think I got recruited by the team?” 

He lets out an annoyingly melodic laugh and a smile splits across your face uncontrollably. “You done?” 

“No.” 

“Oh joy.” 

“You don’t have to be here.” 

“I want to be.” 

“So I can threaten you more?” 

“Mm-hm. It’s actually pretty cute.” 

“You’ve got a weird kink, Buck.” 

He laughs again and you step closer to him. His arm curls around you and you sag into his chest. “What, you? Yeah, you’re pretty weird. And somewhat terrifying.” 

“Somewhat? C’mon I’m trying my hardest,” you say with a small smile. “Why can’t you just let me scare you away, huh?” 

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and you squeeze your eyes closed as he cups your cheek in his palm. Fuck. 

“Look at me?” 

His voice is barely a whisper and you can’t help but look up at him. His lips are on yours and you force yourself closer to him, pushing every ounce of yourself into the kiss. He sighs against your lips and your arms work their way around his neck. 

You pant and pull back a fraction, breathing in his comforting, woodsy smell. “Bucky?” 

“Yeah?” 

Your lips move, but no words come. He smiles sadly and kisses your forehead, dropping his arms from your waist. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs softly. “It’s okay.” 

You force the tears to not spill down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m so sorry. I wish-”  

He squeezes your hand and shakes his head. “Don’t. Let’s go get some sleep, yeah?” 

You nod and follow him back to your camp, not understanding why your heart felt like it had been torn out and left to dry.

Part 9 (coming soon)

[queensparklekitten]

Been scrolling through @minecraftheadcanons for ages and now i’m thinking about players raised by illagers and, to a lesser extent, the human rights violations committed in trading halls

“Hey Sumi! There you are!” 

At the mention of the name she went by, the player looked up from where she was sitting, at the top floor of the outpost.

 “Hey Argo! What’s up?” 

“So. There’s going to be a raid on a village soon, and you’re coming!” 

Sumi jumped up. “No way. You’re kidding! How did they find the village?” 

“Some of us are tailing a player we ran across recently. They haven’t seen us yet, but they will when they lead us right to a village and we strike!” 

“Oh my god, I’m going to be in a raid! Can I go in as soon as possible?” 

“Of course you can!” 

“Oh yeah, by the way. Got any ideas on when this will be? I want to know if I have time to go mining a little, look for some diamonds. I want a diamond sword for the raid.” 

Argo gestured to the iron sword Sumi had on her, glittering with enchantment. “I’d say with the enchantments you’ve got on that thing, you don’t need a diamond sword.” 

“I suppose. Oh yeah, one more question. Can I blow up the buildings?” 

Argo paused at that one. She knew Sumi had been taught to conquer and be unafraid to kill, but she’d never seen anyone want to set off explosives in a raid before. 

“That could hurt some of us, though... I’ll ask the higher-ups, and if they say no, stick to arson.” 

“Sounds fair.” 

Two days later, the horn resounded. The first wave went ahead, and Sumi geared up. 

“I’ve got food, arrows, armor, some blocks, a little TNT, and my flint and steel. I think I’m ready.” 

The raiders arrived at the village, all holding crossbows and axes high. All except for one raider, different than the others, with long midnight blue hair and a smaller nose than those around her, short red dress concealed by a diamond chestplate and iron helmet, leggings, and boots, all shimmering with enchantment. The helmet in particular had gold accents on it, purely for aesthetic purposes; Sumi had crafted it herself and decided why not. 

The horn sounded and the second wave charged. 

Sumi ran through the village, searching for a completely wooden building to torch, a villager or an iron golem to kill-

“Look, a player! Think she’s here to save us?” 

Sumi turned to where she heard the villager. 

There. In that little house. 

Sumi opened the bright orange door to find two villagers hiding inside, crouched underneath the window. 

“Player! Have you come to fight off the illagers?” 

Sumi took a step closer to them and began to laugh. 

“Now just why would I fight my family?” 

The closest villager had no time to react before Sumi stabbed him twice. Almost as fast, she tore out her sword and turned to face where the other one had been a minute ago. 

Sumi saw them running out the door, and had to laugh at their idiocy. Did they really think it was any safer outside? 

No matter. She had blood to spill. She charged after the villager and swung her sword, managing to land a hit, the enchantments on the sword knocking them forwards and causing them to fall onto the ground. 

“I’ll give you one chance to join us. Take a crossbow and prove that you can use it against the wretched scum of this village, and you can live.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Your loss.” Sumi finished off the villager and ran through the village to find her next target. 

The first thing she noticed was Loika was on a roof and there was an iron golem staring up at them. 

“Ooh, sniping them from the roof? Good one!” 

“I’ve shot this golem like 6 times and it’s not going down! Is there a ravager here yet?” 

“I don’t see one. They’re probably on their way with one, though.” 

“Great, because this golem’s already taken out two or three of us-” 

Sumi dropped her sword. “Wait, WHAT?” 

“Yeah. It got Blaine and Ori.” 

Sumi didn’t pick up her sword for a minute. More dead. She knew there was a risk, she’d been there when they’d honored illagers who had fallen during raids, she’d had a vindicator tell her about how they’d died in one of the best ways one could die, but to actually be in a raid with casualties on the wrong side... 

“Everyone back up!” 

Sumi pulled out a block of TNT and placed it next to the iron golem. After checking to make sure there was no cats nearby, she lit the TNT and ran. 

The explosion went up behind her, decimating the entire building. Not much of a building, just a small yellow clay house, but the iron golem didn’t make it out in time. 

Loika just stood there, staring at the crater where there was once a house. 

“Whoa.” 

Just then, a horn sounded. 

Argo ran into the village, alongside some others Sumi recognized from the mansion, a witch she didn’t recognize, and an enormous ravager that would certainly have destroyed that iron golem had Sumi not gotten to it first. 

Loika lowered their crossbow. “Well, I’m going to go see the witch, I kind of just had to jump off a roof so I wouldn’t get blown up.” 

While Loika was regenerating, Sumi went looking for another target. 

“Hey Sumi! How’s the raid going!” 

Sumi turned and looked at Argo next to her. 

“It’s going great! I killed two villagers and blew up a house-” 

“And she destroyed the iron golem before the ravager even showed up!” 

“Yes, I also made that monster pay.” 

Argo high-fived her. “Oop! Villagers, 9-o-clock!” 

Sumi turned to where Argo had just pointed them out, running out of a building that had had its door broken down by a vindicator. “I call the one with the black apron!” 

She was about to use her sword, but as the villager ran away over the wooden bridge, she had a better idea. 

A pair of pillagers paused to watch as Sumi set fire to the block on which the villager stood. 

This guy was a mason, huh? How utterly worthless. Well, at least they’d served one purpose in their so-called life: entertaining her as they burned to death, running around in a desperate panic, trying to get rid of the flames, never making it to the water before they died. 

As Sumi continued what had turned into an arson spree, she didn’t even notice that the raiders who had arrived alongside her had left to restock on ammunition or that new raiders had arrived until a witch asked her if she needed a healing potion. 

“Uh, no thanks, I’m good.” 

“You’re... certainly destructive.” 

“It’s a talent of mine.” 

“Well, if you want to keep using that TNT I hear you brought, better hurry, we’ve almost won!” 

At that, Sumi felt a rush of excitement. They’d almost won the raid! 

No more time to talk. After all, what was the use of blowing up a village if none of its residents were alive to witness what they deserved? 

Sumi found another mostly-clay building. She didn’t see any villagers, but the two she’d taken out earlier were hiding under windows, so it wasn’t out of the question they were hiding. 

“Everyone back up, I’m setting off explosives!” 

Sumi placed TNT around the red clay house, before lighting it up. This time, she didn’t look away. Why would she, when she could watch the house and the nearby farm and some gray and orange wood building be reduced to dust? 

As the explosions finished, however, Sumi did regret not standing back further; even if the blast didn’t kill her, she still had smoke in her face- 

“Villager!” 

Sumi looked up. Villager? Where? 

Then she saw it running. White fabric over red, trying to make it to the one completely untouched building in the village, doomed to fail. 

Hers. 

Sumi took off like a baby zombie after the villager, sword in hand. She could see it already, the look in his eyes when he realized he may as well have already died, the celebration afterwards, maybe she could even take any stuff he had on him? 

As she walked up the stairs to the building he’d run into, several other raiders followed. Looks like they’d already gotten rid of all the others. 

“Where are you hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiding!!!” called Sumi in a singsong voice. “Come on out! You can’t hide forever!” 

Movement next to some block she couldn’t tell the purpose of by looking. 

There. 

As she and her family closed in, Sumi took in this villager. Glasses, book looking hat- wait. 

“Guys, wait, don’t kill him yet, I need to see something.” 

“What’s this?” 

Sumi lowered her sword. “Show me what enchanting books you have.” 

“Uh, I can pay you for paper, or I can get you Mending-” 

“Perfect. Guys, don’t kill this one.” 

A vindicator Sumi didn’t remember the name of stepped forwards. “What do you mean, don’t kill this one?” 

“I mean he sells a rare treasure enchantment that can make our stuff unbreakable. We should take him back to the outpost or mansion, keep him in a cage or dungeon, and make him give us Mending books.” 

The vindicator nodded. “Not a bad idea, but how will we make him cooperate?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I have some ideas.” 

Sumi knew zombie villagers could be cured. And if illagers who committed major infractions were turned into ravagers as punishment, a villager who refused to cooperate could be turned into a zombie. Then he’d be brought back, and all she needed to do was make it clear she could easily do this for as long as she needed to until she got cheap enchantment books. As she explained this, she couldn’t help but to make eye contact with her new villager, savor every minute of the terror on his face as she detailed what the rest of his life would be like. 

“A round or two of being turned into the mindless monster he fears so much, in what must be a painful manner, and he’ll be practically giving us enchantments for free. We can use the iron from the golem and the loot chests in the anvil to enchant everything we have.” 

“We had the right idea taking you in.” 

Sumi stepped out of the building as the villager got tied up and took in the destruction she’d caused. 

The center of the village was one giant crater. A few acacia stairs floating in the air were the only indication there had ever been buildings there. Further on, cracked glass panes were the only sign that wooden houses had once stood where there was now nothing but burnt ground. And flames, everywhere in the village, on almost every building she’d gotten near. 

A celebratory cheer came from within the crowd, and soon more mimicked it, some even doing a victory dance. 

Sumi could not help but to dance herself. 

While she was dancing, one of her best friends walked up to her, carrying arrows picked up from the ground. 

“Wow. You were vicious out there. I’ve never seen someone do this level of destruction.” 

“That’s TNT for you! You were great out there by the way, I saw that kill you got!” 

“Thanks! You too!” 

“So, I suppose we’re looting the chests now, huh. Hey, bet you I can find an emerald before you do!” 

“Oh, it’s on.” 

[tennesseewilliamshakespeare]

flint in the hospital, part 3

Hospitals fucking suck. Flint is tired, and he feels like shit, and being here isn’t helping. He’s seen Kyle three times, Alex twice, and Greg came once but didn’t stay more than twenty minutes. He hates it here with a passion reserved for few things.

The problem is that he knows what’s here and he doesn’t know what’s next. The last time he didn’t know what was next and didn’t have any way of finding out, he was probably thirteen. Seventeen years of having a plan, and now the absence is clawing at him.

Michael Guerin is standing in the doorway. Flint’s blood turns to ice. “What are you gonna do?” If he’s here to return the favor, Flint is absolutely fucked. On the bright side, he’ll be able to give Alex an “I told you so” from beyond the grave, but at the moment that’s a wildly less attractive prospect than staying alive.

Guerin rolls his eyes. “Hey, I come in peace.” His relaxed tone only serves to piss Flint off. Of course he’s relaxed, he’s not the one in a hospital bed still waiting for his full range of motion to come back after some monster tried to kill him. And even if Flint wasn’t, despite everything his dad drilled into his head for years, Flint knows that the biggest difference between them is this: Michael isn’t a soldier. No one counting on him, nothing to protect. You can’t predict how someone is going to react if they don’t care about anything.

Alex. Guerin cares about Alex. Flint still can’t wrap his head around why, exactly, one of them would get so attached to a human, but that doesn’t change the fact that Guerin did. And not just any human, a Manes. He’d either picked Alex on purpose to try and undermine the entire family, or he was just remarkably stupid. His father had always insisted it was the former, that Alex was in grave danger and needed to be protected, but all the evidence Flint has seen in the last few weeks points to the latter.

It doesn’t explain why he’s here, though. Flint only gets more confused as Guerin holds up a guitar.

“I just got a guitar for myself,” he starts to explain, as if Flint has any reason to care, “so I figured I should return this one that Alex and I have been passing back and forth for the past ten years. He said it was his brother’s, so I tried to give it back to Greg before he left town, but…”

Flint finally recognizes the guitar.

“…Greg says it’s not his, he never learned to play,” Michael finishes.

All things considered, twelve years isn’t that long ago, but it is when suddenly made to face a piece of wood that you hadn’t even thought about because you just needed to get out, go.

It doesn’t matter what he would’ve done with the guitar if he had given it a second thought, anyway. None of them were made to make music except Alex. And if Alex decided he was going to share that music with Michael Guerin out of everyone else in the world, Flint could be upset about it but he couldn’t really say he was surprised.

Flint can’t even begin to formulate a response to any of this. “Why are you here?”

“I told you before,” Guerin replies. “I was a good person until I was provoked. And the guy who provoked me? He’s dead. I’m extricating myself from his legacy. Now, I’m assuming you don’t want me over there and you definitely don’t want me using my evil scary brain powers to float it to you, so I’m gonna leave it here and you can get it when I’m gone, or you can ask Kyle or whoever’s in here next to bring it over.”

Extricating? “What about Alex?”

Guerin shrugs. “He still means a lot to me, but I’m stepping back.”

“Greg said he had a boyfriend,” Flint says, trying to see if he can get a reaction.

Michael just nods. “Forrest’s a nice guy. Well, nicer than me, at least. Alex deserves to be happy.”

“That doesn’t make you angry?” Flint keeps pushing.

Michael shrugs. “I know this is confusing for you, but I don’t own him. He chose to be with me, and now he’s choosing to be with someone else. There are choices I hope he’ll make, sure, but I don’t make them for him. Get it through your head, there’s no alien brain magic or whatever at play here.”

“You really think that’s gonna work? To convince me that you have no ulterior motives?” Flint asks.

Michael shrugs again. “Honestly, I don’t care about convincing you one way or the other. If you thought I was a monster with no soul, you wouldn’t have taken Alex to get to me. And if you were a monster with no soul, you would’ve kept your hands clean and left him with Jesse. There’s something we agree on. Leave me and my siblings alone, and we don’t have to see each other ever again. Got it?”

Flint doesn’t say anything.

“Listen, I’m not sorry your dad’s dead, but I’m sorry it had to happen like that. Losing family sucks, especially when you don’t get to say goodbye.” There’s no doesn’t it? because he’s not rubbing it in. “Bye, Flint.”

[peterparkers7evilexes]

Lightless miles, miles and miles [Starker - darkfic]

Words: 3.6k

Summary: Peter has one rule that's helped him stay alive the past 5 years: Don't get in the john's truck. Or: The one where Peter's working a truck stop for cash when he catches one particular trucker's eye, and Tony has to have him.

Notes: Wazzup it’s ya bitch back with another dark fic who’s fuCKING SURPRISED!!!! Peter is in his 20s. Dark!Tony, sex worker!Peter. TWs for smoking (cigarettes), mentions of cheating, kidnapping. There will be non-con in the next part. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

Also on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918384/

Peter has one rule that's helped him stay alive the past 5 years: Don't get in the john's truck. He'll suck cock behind the fueling station, let men fuck him up against their cargo, he even let one really hot driver handcuff him to a pipe in the bathroom and call him 'Mommy' while he fucked his face.

Peter likes what he does - sure, it was never in the plans but shit happened, and at least this way he gets a steady income, food in his belly, and an added bonus of maybe a couple of orgasms a day. So all that said, Peter has never once been tempted to bend or break his only rule. After all, he's heard enough horror stories of girls and boys like him who show up months later halfway across the country (as Captain Stacy never tires of reminding him every time she stops by the lot).

Luckily, most of Peter's clients are perfectly normal men with a normal amount of empathy, if a little on the kinky side. "Thank you for breeding my pussy, Mr. President," Peter says sweetly, batting his eyelashes at one of his regular clients, Ross.

Ross groans appreciatively and pulls out, using his soft cock to slap Peter's ass. "God, wish I could take you home with me," he sighs, not the first time he's voiced this desire.

Peter winks at him, pushing himself off the grimy brick wall and rolling the spent condom off Ross' soft dick. "And let me meet the missus? Don't you think it's a little soon, baby?" He lets Ross lean in and kiss him one more time, his breath stale from days on the road but the two crisp hundred dollar bills pressed into Peter's palm make his chapped lips taste a little bit sweeter.

He sees Ross off, the chug of his 16-wheeler raising up dust as he rolls back onto the highway. Peter sighs and tucks his earnings into his jeans, then makes his way into the cramped convenience store attached to the lot’s fueling station.

The bell above the door jingles, announcing his arrival and MJ looks up from her phone. "The usual, please," he says, leaning against the counter.

MJ rolls her eyes, spinning around in her chair behind the cash register to grab a pack of condoms and a fun-size bag of Skittles. "You're not cute, Parker. Also, that last guy looked like an extra hairy, stubbier Abe Lincoln."

Tearing open his pack of Skittles, Peter laughs and tucks the condoms into his back pocket. "Funny enough, he pays me almost double to call him Mr. President. Also he's nice, don't be rude. When's your shift end?"

"Ah." MJ's face twists into an apologetic grimace. "About that, Pete. I can't actually give you a ride tonight-- I'm sorry!" she cries, holding her hands up defensively at the hurt look Peter gives her. "My car broke down! But Gwen's giving me a ride if you want to come with."

Peter gives her a flat look, glumly shoving a handful of Skittles into his mouth. "Your girlfriend is turning out to be real inconvenient for business, MJ," he says as the doorbell jingles again.

"What business?" comes Gwen's voice from the door.

Peter spins around on his heel and smiles politely. "My burgeoning soap-making business, Captain Stacy!"

Gwen raises her eyebrows at Peter but comes over, leaning over the counter to give MJ a kiss. "That so, Parker? I'd love to buy something from you, help out a local business owner," she says, her bright blue eyes piercing into him.

"Ah, I don't think you'd be into the kinda soap I'm selling," Peter snorts, and when MJ snickers as well, Gwen gives her a chastising look.

"Don't test me, Parker," she warns. "There's only so much I can turn a blind eye to."

That nettles a bit. Like the cops have ever done anything but hurt him, all under the guise of protecting an orphaned, homeless kid. "Don't you have innocent children to drag from their only remaining families? Murders to ignore or something?" he snaps, his hands clenched into fists on the counter.

To his surprise, Gwen's face softens and she takes off her captain's hat. It always shocks him, seeing how young she really is when she lets down her walls like this - reminds him that they're about the same age, that if things had just... not gone to shit for him, maybe they would've graduated high school together, even become friends.

"I'm sorry," she says honestly. "I... Look," she sighs, combing a hand through her tight ponytail and meeting Peter's eyes with a firm sort of sincerity. "I just want you to be careful." When Peter purses his lips, she continues quickly, "I'm just saying, there's been a spike in people going missing from truck stops. So just... you know. Be aware, okay? Besides," she adds more lightly, reaching over the counter to punch MJ's shoulder and ignoring her indignant yelp, "MJ likes you, I guess. I can't explain it. And it'd suck if something happened to you, 'cause she'd be sad or whatever and she can't eat me out if she's crying."

MJ flushes pink but looks pleased. "You're a fucking psychopath, baby."

A little mollified, Peter shrugs his shoulders. “Message received, Captain Stacy,” he says placating, not really in the mood to argue with an officer of the law again - not tonight, in any case.

Through the smudged plexiglass window of the convenience store, he can see the headlights of a red 18-wheeler rolling in. He salutes Gwen and flips MJ off, shouting a goodbye over his shoulder as he walks back out to the dark lot.

The driver who steps out of the truck cab is about middle-aged, stocky build with a flannel rolled up at the sleeves and a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. The parking lot lighting is too dim and yellow to discern much of his features, but from what Peter can see, he’s definitely one of the more attractive men he’s met. Peter imagines a man with looks like that has got to have a wife at home - which means he’ll have been lonely on the road. Good odds.

“Hey sir!” he calls, approaching and waving his fingers at the man. He smiles as the man looks him up and down, dark inky eyes drinking him in hungrily. “How long you been driving?”

The man takes his cap off, sweeping his fingers through thick black hair as he looks Peter up and down like a piece of meat. “Little under twenty hours,” he says in a voice low and smooth, leaning against the cab of his truck. “You’re not auditing me, are you?”

Peter laughs, ducking his head and tugging at the hem of his shirt, revealing the sharp angles of his collarbones and not missing the way the man’s eyes flick down to watch the slow expanse of his skin. “I dunno sir,” he says with a shy little smile. “Do I look like a truck auditor?”

The man laughs, a handsome rich sound, and reaches in his flannel pocket to pull out a pack of American Spirits. “No,” he concedes, propping a cigarette between his lips. “Guess you don’t, kid.”

“Here,” Peter says, reaching in his jeans for a lighter. “Let me.” He steps forward into the man’s space and clicks the flint wheel, flame bursting forth from the tip. The man meets his eyes curiously but lowers his head, letting Peter light the end of his cigarette. As it catches cherry red, thin smoke rises from the end of the cigarette and the man watches him hungrily. Peter shivers, suddenly feeling like cornered prey.

“I’m Tony,” the man introduces himself, taking the cigarette from his lips and letting a smoky exhale vanish into the evening’s humid atmosphere.

“Hi Tony,” he says breathlessly. “You looking for any company tonight?”

Tony gives him a crooked smile, taking another drag. “You're sweet. What's your name?”

“Peter,” he says, licking his lips. “Can I?”

With a wry look, Tony reaches forward, gripping the back of Peter's neck in a firm, gentle hold and lifts the cigarette to his lips. “Pretty thing like you shouldn't smoke,” he murmurs, his voice low and and gravelly in Peter’s ear.

Peter shudders as he inhales, the acrid taste burning down his trachea. He holds it in his lungs, slowly exhaling through his nose, furls of pale gray smoke floating in the still air between them before it disperses in thin wisps. “So?” he presses, the remnants of cigarette smoke fading from his lips. “You wanna order me around some more, handsome?”

Tony gazes appraisingly at him, something flashing in his dark eyes. “No,” he says finally. “I can’t. But thank you for the offer,” he says politely, like they’re concluding a boardroom deal instead of discussing the commerce of Peter’s body.

Peter can’t lie to himself and say he isn’t a little disappointed. Something about Tony’s piercing eyes and the primal look in them makes his cock twitch and he feels certain that Tony would’ve been an excellent fuck. “Well,” he shrugs nonchalantly, turning to leave. “if you’re sure.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Tony calls, halting him in his tracks, “you’ve made quite an elevator pitch. Can I buy you dinner or a bus ticket outta town or something?”

Peter turns to look over his shoulder, batting his eyelashes. “Why sir,” he says in an exaggerated, sultry voice, “are you trying to take me out on a date?”

Tony laughs again, his face open and surprised. He’s really handsome when he laughs, Peter notes with some glumness. “I got a route to keep, kid,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the red of his truck cab. “But if I just cost you a meal, let me at least make it up to you.”

Hands on his hips, Peter huffs out a breath. “Are you implying that I’m a hooker? How d’you know I’m not just really slutty and looking to get laid?” he teases, although he’s grinning back at Tony. He should get home, a stern voice tells him, and stop flirting with a mid-tier sugar daddy who won’t even fuck him.

“Hey, easy,” Tony smirks, finishing off his cigarette and crushing it beneath his heel. “Nothing wrong with making a living wage. Besides,” he leans forward, his eyes glittering beetle black and intent in the dim evening, “You're such a sweet, gorgeous little thing, I hardly imagine you'd have to resort to a truck stop to get laid.”

Despite himself, Peter chews at his lower lip, unconsciously leaning forward into Tony's space. The man smells good, like engine oil and cloves, and Peter thinks for a harebrained second about offering to fuck the guy, free of charge. That thought snaps him back. “Um,” he clears his throat, grateful the awful lot lighting can't give away his flushed face, “You're a real sweet talker, sir. But I'm not gonna take your charity. Thank you,” he adds earnestly with a smile.

Tony pulls his cap back on, tugging the brim low over his eyes again. “No problem, kid,” he says lightly. “Take care of yourself.”

Peter nods, walking backwards regretfully. “You too, sir. Drive safe.”

He continues watching over his shoulder as Tony goes to the fueling station seemingly unbothered by their interaction, before Peter remembers that he doesn't have a ride home.

“Damn you, Captain Stacy,” he swears under his breath. He could call a cab, but getting one all the way out in the middle of the freeway at this hour would cost him his next week's meals. He's better off hoofing it the two and a half miles back into town, he decides. Besides, he thinks, squinting up at the waxing moon above head, it's light enough outside that he can follow the road back.

As he walks along the wire fence of wheat fields that hem in the highway, Peter trudges home, feeling perhaps irrationally annoyed at Gwen Stacy. It isn't really her fault that MJ's car broke down, and he's sure that if he'd asked, she would've been more than happy to give him a ride home. But it's the principle of the thing, Peter thinks petulantly to himself, kicking a crushed beer can off to the side of the road.

As each set of headlights passes him by, he keeps an eye out for state troopers, hyper-vigilant since the last pair of clowns that picked him up had him cited for ‘public intoxication’ (untrue) and ‘trespassing’ (what's he supposed to do, walk on the highway?), and then thrown him in jail for the night for ‘resisting arrest’ (technically true). 

It's not like the local cops don't know what he's really doing at the truck stop in the middle of the night - they're not quite that dumb, unfortunately. It's only been a combination of a lack of hard evidence and Captain Stacy somehow keeping her guys in line that Peter's really been able to continue working in relative safety. He should maybe be nicer to her, a reluctant little voice says (that sounds suspiciously like MJ). She doesn't represent all the wrongdoing that the entire institution of law enforcement has done to him.

But, Peter counters himself, maybe kicking another beer can in front of him a little more violently than necessary, when Gwen's job is to literally stop him from making his livelihood, he can't let his guard down and get too cozy with any cops.

He's still mid-tirade when he notices a set of headlights that lingers behind him a bit too long. Peter grits his teeth, expecting to have to justify himself to the power-addled state troopers again, but as he turns around, he's blinded by the massive beams of a semi-truck. Instantly, Peter tenses as the truck rolls to a stop just behind him, the only other occupant on the lonely highway.

He can't exactly outrun an 18-wheeler, nor does the wheat field offer much coverage. As he's frozen in place debating his best move, the window rolls down and he hears a familiar voice.

“Kid? Do you need a lift?”

Tony kills the engine and leans out the window, his handsome face wrinkled in concern.

“No, no thanks,” Peter says reflexively, his muscles easing a bit. “I thought you were a serial killer,” he jokes weakly.

Furrowing his brow, Tony unlocks the passenger door and swings it open. “Get in. This isn't charity,” he adds knowingly with a reassuring smile. “It's for my own ease of mind, kid, seriously.”

Peter worries at his lip, looking anxiously up at Tony. “You really don't have to do this, sir--”

“Tony.”

“Tony. I can walk myself home fine, it's just another mile up--”

“Then it's not a big deal at all,” Tony interjects firmly. Another truck blazes by them then, blaring its horn indignantly at how haphazardly Tony's pulled over. “C'mon kid, hop in.”

Fuck it - Tony isn’t technically a john, he didn't even want to fuck Peter. He nods to himself and makes his way to the truck, holding onto the tall door handle and carefully climbing the metal steps up into the cab.

It's nicer inside than he’s expecting. The black leather seats are well-kept and clean and every button and switch on the dashboard looks polished. There are signs of Tony's long hours on the road - crumpled receipts and empty coffee cups in a little plastic bag, a sun-faded photo of Tony and another man in army fatigues grinning taped to the dash. There's a thick, light-blocking curtain behind the front seats that's pulled aside, and Peter can see a bit of the sleeper cab from where he’s sitting. It's cramped but just as tidy as the rest of the cab, holding just a twin-sized bunk, an ice box, and some stacked, clear plastic drawers filled with clothing.

“Nice place,” Peter says once he's snooped his fill.

“You sure you're not an auditor?” Tony grins, locking the doors and turning the ignition.

“Pretty sure. Thanks for the lift though, seriously. It's really nice of you.”

As he pulls them back onto the highway, Tony looks aside at him. “It's my pleasure,” he says with a little smile.

“So, um, it's really not that far,” Peter says, leaning forward so he make out the signs in the glare of the truck’s headlights. “The next exit for Forest Hills is me. You'll take a right off the exit ramp and then a left.”

“Sure,” Tony says lightly, his voice harder to pick out as the truck picks up speed, rumbling loudly beneath them. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel while he digs around in the driver's door compartment for something.

“Um, it's coming up,” Peter says, realizing they're not slowing down as the exit ramp comes into view. They whiz by it. “Uh, Tony, that-- that was the exit,” he says, his voice polite even as alarm bells start humming in the back of his brain.

“Oh, did I miss it?” Tony asks with concern, his inky eyes flicking across to Peter.

Fuck. “It's okay, I can just hop out here,” Peter says quickly. “Can-- Can you pull over?”

Tony looks at him and smiles, and a chill shudders down Peter's spine. “It's okay Peter,” he says coolly as if they're discussing where to stop for breakfast. “We’ll keep going for a bit.”

Peter can see his hands beginning to shake in his lap, and he presses them tight to his knees. “There’s another exit ramp in about three miles,” he says as calmly as he can, forcing the tremble out of his voice. “Can you make a U-turn there?”

Tony doesn’t answer, just looks serenely at the road ahead, one wrist draped over the steering wheel and completely unbothered.

Moving as slowly as he can, Peter’s eyes flick to the passenger side door and he leans his head back a little, trying to see how fast they’re going on the dash. It can’t be more than 70 miles per hour, but it’s a long, hard fall to the ground, and the highway shoulder is hard, unforgiving gravel. He’ll be lucky if he only breaks a few bones.

They pass the next exit ramp and Peter tries one more time. “Tony?”

“Hm?” Tony doesn’t look at him, just keeps driving and staring at the road ahead.

“Pull over. Please.”

“I’m not gonna do that, sweetheart,” Tony says, low and composed. Fuck. Peter makes his move.

He grabs at the door and flicks the lock, but when he yanks at the handle, nothing happens. He yanks again - the handle clicks uselessly but the door doesn’t budge, and Peter scrabbles at the window, finding that this too won’t roll down. He turns to look at Tony, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and adrenaline racing in his veins.

Tony is looking at him now and his lips are curled up in a smirk, his eyes dark with that hunger again. In his other hand, he’s holding a thin, black taser and he clicks the switch in a clear threat, electricity sparking between the two needles. “I made this myself, you know,” he says offhandedly. “Delivers 100,000 volts per pulse with modified electrodes that make for a much more efficient shock, enough to paralyse a full-grown man for up to 10 minutes after a 5-second cycle.”

“Pull over,” Peter demands, pressing his back into the door and watching the taser warily.

“I had to have you,” Tony says, somewhat apologetically, his eyes flicking between Peter and the road. “I wasn’t going to. I let you go, back at the truck stop - God, it was hard, but I did it. And then, seeing you walking along the highway?” Tony laughs, a cold, cruel noise that makes Peter bite down a whimper. “It was like you were giving yourself to me. Laid out pretty on a platter.”

Peter is shaking so hard, he can feel his elbow trembling against the cold glass of the window, sure to leave a bruise. “Pull over,” he says again, his voice cracking, betraying his fear.

“You’re going to behave for me,” Tony says, smooth as silk, like Peter hadn’t interrupted him. He looks across at him, desire swimming in his dark pupils. “And in return, I promise you Peter, I’m gonna take care of you.”

Peter lunges. He throws himself across the cab and grabs at the steering wheel, but Tony is expecting him. The older man boxes him in the jaw soundly and, as he tries to reorient himself, Tony backhands him across the face so hard he tastes blood exploding over his tongue.

“You’re brave,” Tony growls, his voice feral and low. Stars swim in Peter’s vision and every little movement sends a jolting pain through his skull. He pushes himself upright against the dashboard and grabs at the wheel again - his fingers close around the black leather and he pulls - he can't tell if he's actually throwing the truck off the road or if the lurching is the dizzying nausea building up in his brain. He feels Tony's hand close, tight and bruising over his wrist. “I'm going to enjoy you.”

“Stop,” Peter gasps, and he feels twin needles piercing the meat of his thigh, then an agonizing pain shoots through him, locking up every muscle in his body. As he collapses uselessly across Tony's lap, his vision blurs out at the edges and the man's glittering black eyes meet his.

Tony grins, baring white teeth, and Peter slips under.

part 2

[deathbyvalentine]

A Peter Pan Story

Once there was a boy called Peter who was brave and clever and quick. He lived on an island he ruled over called Neverland. He was beloved by children, fairies and mermaids and despised by adults and parents. He never grew up and he was never sad and he never died, though the latter was more from luck than anything else. He liked fighting and flying and hated love and families. He also liked himself, perhaps most of all.  

One day he was walking along the cliff line, putting one bare foot in front of the other like a circus performer. His tongue stuck out between his teeth from effort, his noble brow furrowed in concentration. Beneath, the sea raged and reached up for him with claws of foam, but always came up short. He didn’t even notice it’s efforts. From here, you could see the whole of Neverland, from the forest to the jungle to the desert to everything inbetween. There were some hidden bits, but for the most part, he knew the place by heart because it was his heart. He could see the clearing by the big old tree where the Lost Boys were currently, plumes of smoke tumbling upwards from their fire. He kept a careful eye on them - the smoke could lead the pirates straight to them, if they were feeling particularly foolhardy. But apparently today the rough sea kept them occupied enough, the Jolly Roger tossing on the waves with no sign of making ground.

It wasn’t just the sea that was unhappy. The sky above grew a darker grey by the moment and the leaves of the trees twitched in the anxious wind, gusts sending fairies tumbling as easily as petals. It took Peter a long while to notice. Usually storms came when he raged and rain came when he sorrowed. This was neither of those things and he was neither of the others.

He sat down with a thump, resting a foot on his knee. He checked the sole for thorns, his elbows and knees for grazes. He felt no aches, no shivers or fevers. As always, he was the very picture of bright vitality. But yet the wind blew and the sea clattered against the rocks. Though he hated to do it, he risked a glance inside himself. His mind was messy, as it always was. He was a disorganised being, feelings and thoughts and memories and dreams all tumbling over themselves to be at the forefront of his mind. Everything was fleeting and everything was as solemn and frivolous as the next. 

Something was different this time though. Underneath the piles and piles, there was something off. Something rotting. Peter had seen an infected wound before, seen the way the skin swelled up around the cut, became red and hot and smelling sickly sweet, the opposite sweet of medicine. That sweetness was here now. Frightened, he slammed the door shut. That was quite enough of that. He’d never had an infection in his life, let alone one you couldn’t see. But the weather’s anxiety seeped through into his bones and he decided to fly home to the Nevertree, just in case of sudden downpour. 

The Lost Boys were huddled in a small group, peering intently at the sky. They all stood to attention when their leader landed in their midst (or at least, what they thought of as attention which wasn’t the same thing at all). Kitty, a slight and fierce girl who had earned her name by riding a tiger for a whole ten seconds before it threw her off, even attempted at a salute. Kitty’s younger sister, Squirt, for once did not copy her sibling.  Instead she looked at the sky and then at Peter, her mouth pressing down into a hard line. Peter shook his head in a silent warning. One she wisely heeded. For his orders, they waited. Peter let them, letting the tension build until the children were practically vibrating with it.

“There is a monster in our mists.” Possibly, he meant ‘midst’ but nobody dare correct him, and anyway, there were mists on some corners of Neverland, especially if Peter had a cold. He looked thoughtfully above him, and all of them mimicked him, though they could make neither head nor tail of the shifting clouds like he could. “What type of monster Peter?” Saint James queried, only just managing to keep the tremble out of his voice.  Saint James was so named for the golden pendant around his neck, which Peter had declared to be a name tag for he had seen dozens before. He was not a particularly bold boy, often relying on Kitty and Tin to check under his bed for haunting shadows. He preferred days spent by the lagoon rather than hunting or playing at war. He was fascinated by the mermaids (a mystifying trait considering the merpeople were a great deal more dangerous than most of the pirates) and enjoyed the languid pace. He did not enjoy blood or mud or facepaint. 

Peter considered the question. He caught a whiff of that rot again, almost enough to make him gag. Something dark and tangled shifted in his chest.  “A big one. Probably as big as a house.” Saint James paled. Tin stood forward, chest puffed up, the feathers tangled into her wild curls dancing in the wind. 

“I ain’t afraid Peter. When do we go get it?”

“Dusk.” It was stronger in the dark. This much he knew for certain. He didn’t want to try and get through a night without doing something about it. It was midafternoon now, and so the children threw themselves into preparations. Tin got to making new arrowheads out of sharp pieces of flint, frowning as she chipped the rock away into a more lethal shape. Doodle (a child who had left gender at home along with adulthood) started designing the warpaint they would wear. They said it was bad luck to go into battle without war paint but really they enjoyed the sense of authority they got from daubing inks and juices onto their friends’ faces. Kitty and Squirt got into a spirited fight about who got to use the better rapier, one that Kitty predictably won. It was in this small way that several hours passed without consequence.

It was when the bits of sky that weren’t clouded turned a deep and violent orange that Peter stirred himself. He had sequestered himself in the boughs of a tree, whispering furiously with several fairies. Angry bells could occasionally be heard and the pitch of Peter’s voice rising in indignity, but apparently a concord was eventually reached. He floated down to the ground, brows furrowed, ignoring the dark aching in his chest.  “Are you ready?” A chorus of affirmations and one less than enthusiastic agreement greeted him. Good enough. He beckoned and dove deep into the brush surrounding the clearing.

The fairies had told him where to go. They hadn’t wanted to. The place they were going was the monster territory and generally, Pan knew to leave well enough alone. The monsters would come out when they were ready to be defeated, a great story would be told and the Lost Boys would return to their beds, exhausted by their victory. But Peter needed to stop this monster before it became a story. At the moment it sat in the part of the map he didn’t broach, growing fatter and fatter on the fear of storms, of the nightmares Peter had late at night, of the future. It had no reason to leave when it could feed so well. So Peter had to take the fight to it.

It was a long hike, longer still for the Boys that had to pick their way over fallen trees and crops of rocks, unlike their leader that drifted above the tree tops, diving down occasionally to crow about some sight he had seen before disappearing again. They bore this well enough, telling stories to pass the distance when they had the breath to do so. Neverland seemed to stretch out dusk for them, until it was a tight and taunt thing, pregnant with possibility.

Finally, finally, they reached their destination. Out of breath and more than a little grubby with greenery and mud, they stood in front of Peter who had been waiting for them. For once, he didn’t seem impatient to charge in. He stood, surveying the entrance with his hands on his hips.

Unsurprisingly, the place where monsters came from was a cave. It went deep beneath Cloud Mountain, perhaps even to the center of it. The caves around the other side, they had explored to completeness, but they had never entered this network. It somehow seemed much darker, the blackness inside gobbling up any light that tumbled in. The darkness was big. It dwarfed all of them. Saint James thought that it looked like it could spill out, and keep spilling, until all of Neverland was coated in it, as filthy as an oil slick. The thought made him shiver.

Peter had made them torches, chunky unwieldy things made of wood and old clothes. He didn’t carry one himself. Instead two fairies sat on his shoulders, casting a small but certain glow. He didn’t ask them if they were ready this time. He just plunged into the caves without a second glance. He would be going in if they followed or not.

The cave was narrow for about fifty yards before it loosed up, allowing them to walk in a jumbled mix rather than single file. The corridor sloped downwards, not dramatically but certainly. Every few steps seemed to bring the temperature down a few degrees until Doodle was thankful for the warmth the torches gave, not just the light. Another fifty yards and there began to be rival tunnels, branching off this way and that. Squirt, surprisingly sharp for her age, began to drop crumbs as they walked.

Every time the path branched, Peter would stop stock still and tilt his head, as though listening to some far off song. After a moment of silence, he would start forward with absolute surety. Squirt hoped it was actual knowledge rather than Peter’s usual assumed correctness. There was never any way to tell which it was.

They had been walking for what could have been minutes or hours when something changed. It was almost imperceptible. But the air, that had thus far been dry and arid, became damp. Kitty wondered if they were getting close to the sea coves, if they had walked far enough they had crossed the island completely. But the air didn’t have the taste of sea salt or seaweed. The dampness smelt more like something rotting, body heat or the breath of a bear. A moment later, she realised that it was getting lighter too - she could start to see outlines of those in front of her and the edges of rocks. But they were still deep within the earth. Where could the light be coming from?

She got her answer and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Peter had stopped very suddenly and Kitty collided with his back, almost catching him with the torch. She was about to curse when she realised why he had stopped. The tunnel had opened up, split like a fruit to reveal a towering cavern. You couldn’t see the top it soared so high. That wasn’t the exceptional thing. The exceptional thing was the creature waiting in the centre of the cavern. 

The first thing you noticed was its size. It was hulking in a way that not only dominated sight, but dominated the mind as well. Doodle’s mind stuttered as he tried to take it in, some part of his mind shrieking ‘too big! too big!’. The second thing you noticed was that the light that illuminated the cavern was coming from it’s eyes. It was a deep yellow, like the gas lamps that illuminated London Town. There was a fierce intelligence in it’s eyes. This was no dumb animal, disturbed in slumber. It had been waiting.

Kitty thought it looked a little like a huge mutated lion, a rough mane framing it’s face, four paws, teeth as sharp as razors - or sharper even. Black blood matted it’s thick fur, making her stomach turn. There were curious things about it though, things that didn’t fit - it seemed to be clothed in skeleton leaves. Not just covered in them, but deliberately dressed. All the way down it’s thick limbs, stopping just short of the massive paws (the paws which were home to some claws that made the bottom drop out of the brave girl’s stomach). Around it’s neck was an odd sort of pendent. It looked like a street sign. Kitty didn’t know how to read but she knew it began with a K, because that is how she signed her name. 

Nobody moved as though somehow they could go back to being unnoticed, unseen. Saint James had taken a few steps back as if he hoped he could slip back into the tunnels. Peter, for his part, didn’t notice. His blue eyes were fixed solidly on the creature in front of him, his lip curled as though it personally offended him. Doodle was about to open their mouth, perhaps to ask what they should do, but there was no need. With a cry of rage, Peter had charged forward.

The Not-Lion charged forward to meet him and for a heart stopping moment Tin thought Peter was a goner. The Not-Lion had swept out a paw with a strength that could shatter bones, but Peter had rolled underneath it, scraping a bare shoulder across the cavern floor. He regained his feet and charged again, managing this time to get in a slash at the thing’s thigh. Blood spilt from this wound too, sticky and steaming. It reminded Saint James of the tar-pits, where you could find skeletons from centuries, maybe even millennia ago, perfectly preserved in black. The Not-Lion howled in a voice that was not dissimilar to the sound of a wolf, turning back to it’s prey. Tin felt she should do something, anything, but all she could think to do was stoop and retrieve some shards of slate and flint, hurling them at the creature. It bounced off it without so much as a wince. It didn’t even look at the other children. It knew it’s quarry. 

They circled each other, eyes fixed. Peter, for his part, did not seem scared. There was a steely determination in the way he held his sword and his gaze, unflinching. He meant to finish this and he could not envision losing. And why should he? He had never lost before and did not intend to start now. The creature bared it’s teeth and Peter noticed something stuck between the lower canines.

Quick as a whip, he flashed forward and plunged his hand into the sweltering mouth, siezing upon whatever it was and pulling back, beating a hasty retreat. He looked down at what he had in his hands, confused to see a dress. A ragged and stained dress, but a dress all the same, with frills and ribbon. He only had a moment to contemplate this before he realised the Not-Lion had taken advantage of his distraction. He didn’t quite manage to skirt the blow this time, and tumbled in his flight into the nearby cavern wall. 

The smack gave the signal the Boys needed to snap out of their awe. With a mighty war cry, Kitty ran forward, bopping the creature squarely on the nose with the hilt of her sword. It reared back, more confused than it was hurt, only to have Doodle attempt valiantly to trip it up with the rope they had brought (in case of rock climbing). By the time this had happened, Peter was back on his feet. When it reared up, he dashed forward to bring his sword right down it’s middle.

It was not just blood and guts that gushed forward. Objects came out too. A hand mirror, a compact, a baby’s rattle - all of the Boys (except Squirt), stepped forward to search through the viscera. Peter’s eyes were still fixed on the dress. Kitty had found a pair of ladies stockings which she discarded with disgust. Tin found a wooden toy gun, much loved and much mourned once lost. Saint James found a prayer book, pages stained pink with blood. Doodle looked up from the pallet, about to show it around when they caught sight of Squirt. Squirt was crouching by the monster’s head, crooning to it and brushing it’s mane as it perished. Slowly, it’s eyes went out, leaving only the torches as light. Doodle felt a some flash of something unsettling in the pit of their stomach - something that didn’t feel like victory or adventure. Something that felt bad and wrong. But then Peter was speaking and it washed away, the way all bad feelings did in Neverland.

“We defeated the Memory Monster.” He crowed, doing a flying lap of the cavern (which was large enough it took him several moments to reappear out of the dark). “We should have a mighty feast to celebrate. Down by the beach, so the pirates can know we’re braver than they ever wear!” And so they did. Once they found their way out the cavern, following Squirt’s crumbs, they made their way to the beach. The sea had calmed now and the sky was so cloudless Saint James declared he could see every star there ever was. They built a bonfire, taller than even Tin (who was the tallest amongst them, even taller than Peter). It started crackling with very little encouragement and Kitty went off to empty the various traps in the forest so they could eat. While they waited, they danced around the fire, Doodle entranced by the way their shadows jumped and flickered and grew. At the climax of the whooping, Peter hurled the dress into the flames. Being a little damp from monster spit, it took a while to get going and he watched with flames dancing in his eyes until it did.

He was calmed, the darkness in his chest quelled and forced back to sleep, into the box where he didn’t have to think about it. Neverland was safe again and more importantly, it was just his.

[women-inthe-sequel]

Memories (Lily/James)

For Petals (@petalsandfishes), in honor of her birthday! Here’s to another year of Taylor Swift references, Jily AUs, and being a dolphin princess.

AO3

--

Sometimes, she remembers a jigsaw puzzle castle and rolling grounds. There’s a smooth lake and ceiling that looks like the sky. In an instant, things repair themselves with little pieces flying together again and food appears on long tables. There are crackling fires and squishy armchairs that fit two people, if they’re willing to be very close.

Other times, she remembers a little flat with too many football jerseys on one side of the closet. Rooms light up with the flick of a switch and small flames on the stove top help to boil water for dinner. There’s a couch in the middle of the living room, where it’s always more fun to sit on someone’s lap rather than on the other side.

Now, she thinks she can only remember the feel of starchy sheets against her skin. The air smells like disinfectant or other mysterious fumes. Soft voices murmur somewhere around her, but she can’t figure out what any of them are saying.

Occasionally, it feels like she could sit up or even just open her eyes. Her brain convinces her that it’s as easy as that until the moment she tries. When she determinedly gathers her strength and is about to move, everything goes fuzzy on the edges again. Thoughts are too heavy.

She mentally falls back, wondering if anyone notices her attempt at movement.

--

The sun shined off the dark surface of the lake. Pockets of teenagers dotted the edge of the water and the coveted spots in comfortable shade. Luckily, summer storms held off for a few more hours while students casually enjoyed the time outside.

The lazy, post-exam feeling was tangible in the air. It made everyone more relaxed than they were only days ago. With no tests or essays in front of them until the next term, they all had some free time to just be together.

A boy with wild hair stood in shallow water near the edge, arms wrapped around the smaller frame of a girl with bright red locks.

“You said you’d rather go out with the squid, Evans! I’m just introducing you!”

The small group on the nearby grass called out a variety of responses, ranging from teasing to annoyance to offers of assistance.

“Come on, Evans, you can do better than that!”

“Throw her in, Prongs!”

“Snog already!”

The girl - herself, she realizes a moment too late - giggled and struggled playfully against his hold.

He made another move to dunk them underneath the surface. Quickly, she sidestepped and attempted to wriggle out of his grasp. A renewed grip on her waist made her laugh loudly. His fingers tickled her sides and caused her to splash, covering them in scattered droplets.

Finally, she wriggled away enough to push him back into the water. He grabbed her wrist at the last second and pulled her down with him. Surprised, she lost her balance and ended up on top of him. Fortunately, the sand was soft and the water was low enough that he only had to prop himself up on his elbow.

In that moment, the reality of the next day’s train ride and the weeks away felt real and imminent.

Unhurried, she brushed back his wet hair and straightened his glasses. Fingers lingered on his jawline for a few seconds. He traced the smattering of freckles across her nose with his eyes before meeting hers. When their eyes met, he threw her a familiar grin, as if laying in the water with her on top of him was something he fully expected.

Though her voice got low and serious, her eyes still sparkled. “You’ll write, yeah?” she asked, softly enough that no one else could hear.

“Of course,” he answered sincerely.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his. His hand moved from her wrist to her waist, holding her more surely. He smelled like grass and sunshine, and she closed her eyes to memorize it. She felt him relax beneath her and sigh.

Before either of them could move, a torrent of water came from the sky. Coughing, they untangled their legs and tried to recover their breath.

A boy with flint eyes and rolled sleeves stood above them, wand in hand. “Cool down, lovebirds,” he taunted, though a good-natured smile threatened to show itself by the corner of his mouth, “There are firsties around.”

-

She wasn’t in one of her better moods, but she was trying her best to not whine too much. Of course, her sister would barely give her notice of her arrival, and, of course, she had to scramble to perform so her older sibling didn’t have even more of a reason to think she couldn’t function normally.

Unbelievable, she thought, although she should have seen it coming. Her sister was quiet for too long. She could already hear the echoes of past complaints and potential future ones repeating in her head. Comments about their flat, gripes about the trip, and snide remarks about everything in between. Her sister obviously took great pleasure in going out of her way to make her life miserable.

As soon as she got off the phone, after hearing the news of their impending visitors, she practically jumped into the car. Every second staring at the phone for a second closer to her sister and her fiancé walking through the door.

With an easy smile, he appeared in the front seat beside her. “You know, Evans, I said you didn’t have to face her alone anymore.”

Another time, she might have found it the right amount of charming, but now there was no time to lose. Determinedly, she commanded, “Let’s go.”

He knew it was serious, since he drove to the grocery store as fast as the pedal and (most) traffic laws would allow. If nothing else, they would have a dinner that could leave no one unimpressed.

She was filled with some kind of dread when she walked in past the automatic door and retrieved a cart. He trailed diligently after her, surveying the hasty list she scribbled during the ride. Nudging her shoulder gently, he directed her toward the right sections and kept her on track.

As she agonized over which cut of steak to buy, it became more and more difficult to tune out the shoes scuffing on the floor next to her. Her sister always brought out the worst in her, and she could already feel the pressure balloon in her chest trying to burst.

Mouth drawn, she looked over, ready to snap.

His whole body was moving to the song she didn’t realize was playing until his shuffling and silent karaoke brought her attention to it. His hips swayed and hands reacted in time with shake, shake, shake. Looking directly at her, he made a heart with his hands and demonstrated the break, break, break.

Instead of a sharp retort, a laugh bubbled out of her.

Whatever her sister had to say about her degree or job or boyfriend didn’t matter. This person cared about her happiness. Dancing in the back of the store was more important than impressing someone who would never admit it, even if it did happen.

Without hesitation, she turned away from the refrigerator and joined in with the lip sync to never miss a beat and be lightning on her feet.

-

She feels something - someone, she corrects herself tiredly - squeeze her hand.

There’s no pattern to it. The pressure of someone’s hand against hers is usually there. She swears that she can hear the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside her. Alert, like they’re paying attention to everything. The cadence that comes with sleep. The occasional outtake of breath that means they’re tired or frustrated or impatient.

She doesn’t know how, but she’s sure that someone is there, even when she’s not sure that she is.

But, sometimes, that other presence will hold more tightly, just for a second. A brush of something against her forehead. A soothing movement against her hair and cheek. It’s a series of small comforts, but she craves them. She doesn’t remember wanting anything else as much. Except wanting to see whoever it is, maybe.

She wants to let them know she can feel it. She wants them to know that just the fact that someone is there makes things a little easier. Unfortunately, thinking too hard or opening her eyes feels like an impossible task. Everything is heavy.

“Lily...”

That’s a sound she hears often enough, one of the only ones that consistently forms into something resembling a word. Close to her ear, whispered above her somewhere, said in a long breath, or after a catch in the throat. She doesn’t know what it means, but it fills her chest with warmth. It sounds like snuggling under a blanket in front of the fire and picking marshmallows out of her hot chocolate. It’s so dark, but that voice is a pinprick of light, floating in front of her.

She manages to squeeze back.

-

They both leaned against the wall, practically lounging in place. It was a routine watch, nothing exciting. Someone was there because they were instructed to be, and they offered to take the assignment, even if no one really expected anything out of the ordinary to happen.

“Alright, Evans?”

The check in broke her out of her thoughts. She twirled her wand absently, looking over at the person next to her. Tilting her chin up, she seemed to consider him for a moment. “Potter, are you planning to make an honest woman out of me?”

Ducking his head, he ran a hand through his hair and grinned. The usual look of confidence was there, but she could see the suggestion of shyness that managed to always bring her closer to him. She shifted in place, her arm resting against his. “I might be,” he answered with a noncommittal shrug.

Without permission, her heart contracted affectionately. She moved onto her toes, ready to distract him temporarily from the mission at hand. He looked up to meet her eyes, and his fingers caught the edge of her sleeve. With a soft smile, she moved forward.

Until she heard it. The unmistakable crackle of a curse flying through the air.

Instantly, she whipped around, wand drawn.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. One hand darted to his arm, holding him back. She froze and refused to move. After a few long moments of silence, her shoulders hurt from the tension of holding the same position. Not intending to be caught off guard, her fingers tightened around her wand. In a fit of bravery, she dared to look around the corner.

A reactionary shield on her part kept the curse from hitting its mark. She flicked her wrist, causing the enemy’s light to ricochete into the night. The number of calls from the other side communicated quickly that they were outnumbered.

Letting go of his arm but keeping him in her periphery, she launched a hex of her own. Instinct took over. She just hoped hers would do the part of keeping her alive long enough to get out of there. She heard him make a sound a few feet away from her, and her gaze immediately went to find him.

In a flash of color she didn’t have time to recognize, everything went dark.

-

The music on the radio played quietly, giving them steady background noise whenever the conversation halted. It’s never uncomfortable, though. Just the silence of two people who are fine with talking or allowing the moment to sit. The piano of the last track on the album gave a good soundtrack to her wandering thoughts.

She tapped the button by her side to open the window slightly, letting the wind stream through her loose hair. His eyes were intent on the road while hers drifted out of the window to catch the passing scenes. Between them, his fingers laced with hers, resting over the gear shift.

Without realizing it, she ran her thumb over the inside of the band on her finger. It was still new, and she was not quite used to wearing it yet. The feeling of the metal against her fingerprint gave her a mild thrill. When looking over at him, her smile caught his attention. He glanced away from the road and flashed her a trademark grin of his own, as if he knew what she was thinking about at that moment.

Nothing felt rushed or urgent, not even in retrospect. There was no reason to worry or try to fit everything in at once, because it was a day like any other. An errand, a trip to the movies, a highway drive to nowhere to get their minds off anything weighing on them. A million other places they could go. Anything feels possible.

“So, Sirius is going on and on, and we can’t manage to calm him down long enough to find out what it’s actually about,” he explained, in the middle of a story. She loved hearing him talk about random things in their shared life, little moments that only meant anything because they knew every person involved.

She laughed, clearly picturing the way her friend’s voice speeds up when he doesn’t feel like he has time to say everything. She could picture another friend’s frustrated expression at failing to figure out what’s happening and the barely contained chuckles of the person sitting next to her at the whole situation.

Without warning, there was a crash. The sound of a thousand things breaking at the same time. The song cutting abruptly. Familiar scenery replaced with impenetrable blackness. Pain shooting through every part of her that she can feel. The jerk of his hand being torn from hers.

-

Breath enters her lungs suddenly, making her gasp.

She struggles for a moment, trying to deal with the flood of information from her senses. A floral scent from somewhere beside her. The sour taste in her mouth from forgetting her brush her teeth before going to sleep. A dull ache across her forehead. Bursts of moving color behind her eyelids.

After a period of the same flat things over and over again, it’s overwhelming.

Visions all knock at once on the door of her memory, demanding to be heard over the others. She doesn’t know which ones are true and which ones her mind made up to fill in the gaps. The din in her head is so loud that she wonders if anyone else can hear it.

She needs help to wade through it all. Maybe now, when everything feels more real than it has in a long time, she has the energy to do what she has been trying to do all this time.

With so little effort that she wonders how it possibly took her this long, she opens her eyes. Quickly, they dart around to find her constant companion. His posture marks him as clearly at attention and on the edge of his seat. His expression is open, displaying the conflicting feelings of elation, worry, hope, and fear.

Amidst the whirlwind in her brain, she’s found her calm. She manages a smile. Something in his face breaks suddenly, in a good way, prompting him to dip closer to her. Nothing can stop him and only him from taking over all of her senses.

“Lily,” he says, as if the name contains the answers to everything he’ll ever ask.

He practically glows. The comforting smell of him surrounds her. She wants to reach out and touch him, taste him, remember him. The hand in hers does the job of proving that he’s real, but she wants every part of him desperately.

Everything is turned upside down and shattered, but she knows one thing for certain.

In all of the memories, his eyes are the same.

[lurkerdelima]

83 I cant swim! SilverFlint

To make up for all the angst, here’s something cute! I hope you like it, anon.

Without further ado…

Silver sits with Flint in his little room in the Maroon camp, feeling woozy from the warmth of the evening and the strength of the liquor they’ve been passing back and forth. He’s a bit drunk, and he’s tired and jittery all at once.

Mostly, though, he’s hot. His shirt is plastered to his lower back, strands of his hair are stuck to his face, and he can feel a bead of sweat rolling slowly down his neck to the hollow of his throat, joining the others that have already pooled there.

When he looks at Flint, he realizes even his unflappable captain is looking a little rumpled - he’s got a sheen of sweat to him, his clothes are hopelessly wilted and wrinkly from the tropical air, and his eyes are at half-mast.

“It’s hot,” Silver says intelligently, mopping at his face with his sleeve.

Flint snorts. “Of course it is, look where we are,” he says dryly. All of a sudden, he puts his cup of liquor down and stands up, extending a hand to Silver. “Come on. I have an idea.”

Silver grasps Flint’s hand and pulls himself to his feet (one iron, one flesh and bone). “Where are we going?” he asks.

“You’ll see,” Flint says, leading the way out of the room and into the humid night air.

It’s full dark out, but that hasn’t done much to cool things down. The jungle beyond the outskirts of the camp is thick with steamy heat, and the smell of green hits Silver in the face as Flint leads him further from the settlement, deeper into the thick, choking underbrush.

“Where are we going?” he asks again, but this time Flint doesn’t answer.

Finally, after what feels like an hour of stumbling through the verdant darkness, they arrive at a small clearing. Silver has his hand on Flint’s shoulder, relying on him to help keep himself upright on the uneven terrain. He’s been watching the ground, keeping a sharp eye out for vines and other things that might like to trip him up. When Flint stops, he looks up, taking in the scene: there’s a small lagoon of sorts in the center of the clearing, and the moon is shining right down on it, making the surface glitter like sea glass.

“How…?” Silver starts to ask, but Flint is already pulling away, stripping his shirt off over his head and charging determinedly toward the pool of water. “You aren’t serious!” Silver calls after him.

Flint pauses, his hands on his belt. “Oh, but I am. I’m going for a swim, and you’re free to join me.”

“I can’t swim!” Silver protests, feeling put out.

“Yes you can, I’ve seen you,” Flint says, sounding nonplussed, unbuckling his belt and shimmying out of his trousers.

“Not with this,” Silver says, shifting his weight to pointedly thump his iron foot on the plush greenery of the jungle floor. “It’s not exactly buoyant. I’ll sink.”

“So remove it,” Flint says, and then he’s fully naked, all freckles and wiry red hair, strolling confidently toward the water. Silver feels himself blushing and looks quickly away. He hears a quiet splash, and when he looks up again Flint is standing in the waist-high water, his arms open and reaching for Silver. “Come here. I’ll help you,” he says.

“I can’t swim with just the one good leg, I’ll go in circles,” Silver protests lamely. The water does look cool and inviting, though, and he knows Flint won’t let him drown, whatever happens.

Doubting himself the entire way, Silver walks to the edge of the pool. He methodically removes his shirt, his belt, and his one shoe, then sits down gracelessly and leans over to remove his false leg. He doesn’t look at Flint as he takes off his trousers and then his breeches, feeling more self-conscious about his leg than anything.

He scoots forward to the edge of the small lagoon, dipping his five remaining toes in the water. It’s not cold, not by a long shot, but it’s cooler than the night air and wonderfully refreshing. He slides hesitantly the rest of the way into the water, landing on his one foot and pitching forward, bad leg kicking helplessly. Fortunately, Flint is right there to grab him and keep him from falling on his face.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Flint asks, and in the moonlight his eyes are as green and haunting as the jungle that surrounds them.

“It’s not so bad,” Silver allows, gripping Flint’s arm with one hand and dragging the fingers of his other hand through the water, watching the ripples.

“How old were you when you first learned to swim?” Flint asks, and Silver lets go of his arm hesitantly, kicking off the silty, sandy bottom of the lagoon and leaning back, letting himself float. He can feel Flint’s hands come up to rest under his back, supportive and reassuring.

“I can’t remember not knowing,” Silver says quietly, staring up at the bright, full moon.

“There are some Navy men who’ve spent time at sea and still don’t know how,” Flint says, and Silver silently admires him while he’s not looking, taking in the broad chest and strong arms, the stud gleaming in his ear and the dull shine of his close-cropped hair. Maybe it’s the moonlight, or the liquor he was drinking earlier, but his ever-present attraction to Flint is starting to feel overwhelming.

“Really?” Silver asks, barely paying attention to what Flint has to say, he’s so distracted by the sheer sight of him.

“Mm. It is not a requirement, bizarrely enough. You’d think they’d want a man to know how not to drown before they turn him loose on the ocean,” Flint murmurs, meeting Silver’s gaze. When their eyes lock, Silver suddenly feels like he, himself, is drowning.

Then Flint’s hands are gone. He’s sinking under the surface of the water, and spluttering, fighting to find his way back up. He takes a deep breath once he’s standing again, pushing his wet hair back from his face.

“What the fuck?!” he squawks accusingly at Flint, startling a flock of birds from a nearby copse of trees. “Why did you let me go?”

“I thought you had the hang of it! I thought you could float on your own without my help, at least,” Flint says, looking stricken, like he’s genuinely upset about what just happened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you still needed me.”

Silver huffs, looking up at Flint. They’re practically toe to toe, and the water comes up higher on Silver than it does on Flint, owing to their height difference. He skims one hand across the glassy surface of the water, splashing Flint right in the face in retaliation. He laughs at the shocked expression he gets in response, and then Flint grabs him and they’re wrestling playfully in the water, both of them giggling like children.

Slowly, they calm. They wind up standing even closer than before, both of them soaked, chests heaving. Their eyes meet again. Before Silver can stop himself, he’s leaning in, clinging hopelessly to Flint. He tips his head to one side and presses his mouth to Flint’s.

For a long, terrible moment, Flint doesn’t react.

Then his right hand is at the hinge of Silver’s jaw, fingers spreading out to cradle his face, his left hand gripping Silver’s hip under the surface of the cool, clear water. They kiss ardently in the moonlight until Silver has to pull back to catch his breath.

“Did you take me all the way out here just to seduce me?” he asks smarmily, and he can feel a delighted, ridiculous grin taking over his face.

“You kissed me first,” Flint rumbles, then kisses Silver, and the point becomes moot.

He hates the sea - always has, always will - but that little lagoon in the jungle clearing on the Maroon island rather quickly becomes his favorite place.

[authormitchel-blog]

SS: Part 5

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake looked like chilled steel. The colder weather meant that Quidditch season had begun. Saturday would be the first game of the season: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

            It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn’t know how he’d have gotten through all his homework, without her, what with all of Flint’s last minute practice sessions. It didn’t matter that he hardly got off the ground or that the others barely acknowledged him. Flint told him that he wanted him to be there, that he maybe had a chance, so he was there. Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Millicent strolled out for a walk the day before the game. Harry may only be a spectator, but there was something about the feel of the pitch. Hermione conjured a bright blue fire that could be carried in a jam jar to keep them warm. They were standing with their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry and Millie moved in front of the jar sure that it wouldn’t be allowed. He limped over. He hadn’t seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off anyway.

            “What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?”

It was Quidditch Through the Ages, a book Hermione had showed him. Harry showed Snape the book.

            “Tsk, tsk, library books are not to be taken outside of the castle,” said Snape. “Give it to me.”

            “It’s his own copy,” Millicent covered quickly. “I got it for him.”

Snape looked at her, but Millicent stood even straighter.

            “Well then, Miss Bulstrode, nice to see you’re making friends.” Snape looked like friends was anything other than a positive word.

            “He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped away.

“What’s wrong with his leg?” Hermione asked.

            “I don’t know, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron angrily. Harry tucked the book into his bag, grateful to have it for a distraction from tomorrow.

  Harry had a feeling, and that usually meant that he was going to get into trouble. “Keep that look to yourself, Potter,” said Millicent. “The last time I saw that look Granger and I had to save you from a mountain troll.”

            Harry huffed, rolling to his side so he could see her better where she hanged upside down off the side of Blaise’s bed. Blaise sitting on the floor beside her.

            “You saw Snape’s leg, something happened.”

Millicent rolled her eyes.

            “You’re going to ask him to strip for you?” asked Blaise.

“I just want to see his leg, see what happened.”

            “You want to get expelled,” said Millicent. “You’d think you wanted to go back home.”

Millicent didn’t know the full extent of his time with the Dursley’s, but he had a feeling the Slytherins knew more than they let on. Harry slipped out of the room their eyes on his back.

            He slipped out of the common room then into the hall. He made his way down to the staffroom where he found the door ajar.

            He peered inside where a horrible scene met his eyes. Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages.

            “Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?”

            Harry tried to step away from the door quietly, but part of his leg nudged it. Both Snape and Filch turned toward the door at once. Snape’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg.

            Snape hobbled toward the door, and Harry dared not breathe. Filch moved to stand beside him.

            “Probably just Peeves,” said Filch. Snape didn’t look convinced, but he moved back into the room making sure to shut the door all the way this time.

            Harry left, moving as quick as he dared back to the common room. He had something to tell Millicent and Blaise.

            In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen.

“You know what this means?” he finished breathlessly. “That’s where he was going when I saw him on Halloween, and I’d bet anything he’s the one who let the troll in as a distraction.”

            Millicent spoke up.

“He wouldn’t, Harry, I know Snape’s not your favorite Professor, but I don’t think he’d go against Dumbledore. He’s smarter than that.”

            “I agree,” said Blaise and Millicent gave him an “I told you so” look. “Unless,” said Blaise. “It was something really worth it.”

            But what, Harry wondered, would that be for Snape?

  The next morning dawned bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of friend sausages and cheerful chatter of those who were looking forward to a good Quidditch match.

            By eleven o’clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be raised high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes. Harry had walked down with the rest of the Slytherin team. In the locker room, the team changed into their emerald Quidditch robes. Harry opted to wear his school robes, Slytherin green tie, and a scarf he borrowed from Blaise because he knew it might get a little chilly.

            His job was to hand towels to players, to fetch them water, and basically be the mule that carried whatever it was the players happened to have need of. Harry knew he was decent on a broom, but his team was stout. There was no way he was going to get play today. It didn’t matter though, Flint said that they were in for an easy win. Fred and George had told him about Gryffindor’s new seeker, but they wouldn’t be a match for Slytherin’s more experienced one.

            Harry followed the team out of the locker room his knees apparently having not got the message that he was just standing on the sidelines as they shook with each step he took. Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her broom in hand.

            “Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said, once they were all gathered around her. Harry noticed that Flint got the most of that message, but he seemed unperturbed as he stared hardly at the Gryffindor captain and fellow fifth year, Oliver Wood.

            “Mount your brooms, please,”

Harry clambered to the side of the field. He wouldn’t be on a broom, but he had a school one at his side just in case he needed to fly up to deliver something to a waiting player.

            Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her whistle, and fifteen brooms rose high and higher into the air. They were off.

            “And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor—what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too—“

            “JORDAN!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

            Lee Jordan with several asides from Professor McGonagall was giving the commentary. Flint looks good like he’s about to score when he’s blocked with a shot by Wood. A few more passes and the Gryffindors score.

            Cheers fill the air from the Gryffindors and their supporters. Even from the ground Harry was watching for the Snitch. The two seekers were doing nothing more than zooming up and above the rest of the action, but Harry’s eyes were peeled. He caught something flicker off one of the Weasley’s wristwatches, before one of them shot a Bludger straight at Marcus.

            Slytherin was in possession again. Adrian Pucey was flying through the Weasleys and the Chaser Bell straight towards the goal, but when Lee Jordan said something about the Snitch Pucey looked up at the flash of gold that passed his ear and promptly dropped the Quaffle.

            Harry saw it. And with a rush he saw his team’s seeker, Terrance Higgs see it as well. He zoomed after it slyly so that the Gryffindor seeker wouldn’t get suspicious. It didn’t work. Spotting Terrance moving toward the Snitch the unexperienced seeker moved toward him at full speed nearly toppling him in his inability to stop if it wasn’t for Flint moving in to take the brunt of the blow. Flint fell from his broom in a spectacular manner, the Chaser falling to the Earth faster than Harry could believe before Madam Hooch cast a charm that slowed Flints decent. Still, Flint hit the ground his body making several loud cracks that silenced the stadium. The game stopped as Wood went straight over to chastise his overzealous seeker, his eyes on Marcus as the boy was floated and carted toward where Harry was standing. Flint tried to sit up, but it was clear that part of his leg was bent in most unnatural way.

            The game was halted as Wood flew to the ground to stand beside Marcus as the Captains and Madam Hooch conferred.

            “You can’t play minus a player, Flint,” said Wood. “And you don’t have an alternate, and you simply cannot play with that leg even if Pomfrey came down right now. Just forget it and we can reschedule.”

            Harry thought that was good of Wood, but Madam Hooch quickly squashed that idea.

“Your team has already scored Wood, and so, the game cannot simply be waved away. If Mr. Flint cannot continue then that means that you win.”

            “BUT!” the two captains said at the same time.

“But nothing, Mr. Wood, Mr. Flint, you two know the rules.”

            Wood looked sorry, but Marcus looked furious and defeated until he caught Harry’s gaze. Harry looked away quickly realizing that he had no business to be watching the exchange in the first place. He wasn’t even on the team.

            “Wait, Potter,”

“Yes, Mr. Flint,” Madam Hooch said patiently, looking at his head to see if maybe he had a head injury as well. “That is Harry Potter.”

            “No, Potter,”

“I think he means that Potter is his alternate?” said Wood looking to Marcus for confirmation.     

            “Yes, he knows how to fly, he knows the rules. He can play. Potter can play.”

Wood smiled.

            “Can you do it, Potter, think you could be a chaser?” said Wood.

Yeah, Harry thought, putting his hand out, and the broom automatically finding it’s way to his hand. He nodded.

            “Great,” said Wood at the same time Marcus said, “Don’t mess this up, Potter.”

By the time Harry was in the air, Pucey had gotten their penalty shot, and the score was tied. Harry had never played Chaser before, but he was sure that he could manage. Put the Quaffle through the hoop, don’t get slammed by a Bludger. Simple.

            Except, as Harry moved to dodge another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously past his head his broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall too. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. He hadn’t been flying for long, but he didn’t think a broom was supposed to do that.

            It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off. Harry tried to turn back to the goalposts conscious that Marcus may not be watching, but that he wouldn’t be at all pleased if Harry somehow messed this up.

            It was when his broom stopped mid-air that he knew something was dangerously wrong. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him.

            Someone was cheering, Harry didn’t know who. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.

            “What on Earth is he doing?” Millicent asked.

“Going for a stroll,” replied Malfoy, laughing with Crabbe and Goyle.

            “A violent stroll,” Pansy noted. “It looks like he’s lost control of his broom.”

Suddenly people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a wild jerk, leaving Harry dangling off from it, holding on with only one hand.

            “Harry’s better than that, we all saw it,” said Millicent.

“What could be wrong? It would take strong magic to jinx his broom,” said Blaise.

            At these words, Millicent looked around, spotting Snape in the teacher’s section. She made a choice. Turning to Blaise, she whispered, “Snape.”

            Blaise turned that way inconspicuously. He had his eyes on Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath.

            Blaise nodded. “What should we do?”

“We have to help him, he’d do the same for us,” said Millicent, prepared to tackle Snape to the ground if she had too.

The game had slowed to nothing as Pucey and Wood had moved closer to Harry, but every time they got close the broom would push Harry even higher.

            Higgs zoomed by them, hovering below Harry, but he could see his eyes were still peeled for the Snitch. Harry knew he was going to fall, and decided to do the only thing he could think of. He saw it the same time Higgs did. Letting go off his broom at the perfect moment he fell mouth open and screaming until he landed on the back of Terrance’s broom. The combined weight of the two boys pushed the broom closer to the ground, and Harry jumped rolling then stopping on the ground on all fours. He coughed and something cold fell into his hand.

            “I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his head, and the game ended in complete confusion. Cheers and awes filled the stadium, but Harry heard none of it. Slytherin had won, Marcus was in the hospital, Higgs announced that after that scare he thought he would be safer on the ground and thus, was quitting the team, Harry was promoted to seeker by a happier than he’d ever seen him Marcus Flint, Malfoy was sour, and Blaise and Millicent had something very important to tell Harry.

            His broom hadn’t lost control on his own. It was Snape.

His head of house had tried to kill him.

            Harry had to go to the only adult who he knew he could trust.

“It was Snape,” Ron explained. “Hermione and I saw him, too. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you. Hermione was most of the way toward Snape when you made that daring leap.”

            “No way,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of what had gone on next to him in the stands. “Why would Snape do something like that?”

            Harry, Millicent and Blaise had been heading out the door of the castle when they stumbled upon Ron and Hermione. They were just about to head to the Slytherin common room to warn them about Snape. Harry asked them to come to Hagrid’s with him just in case he needed back up.

            “I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid. “He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal whatever it’s guarding—“

            Hagrid dropped the teapot.

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.

“Fluffy?”

“Yeah, he’s mine, bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year. I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the….”

            “Yes!” said Harry eagerly.

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. “That’s top secret, that is.”

“But Snape’s trying to steal it.”

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.”

            “So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried Millicent, clearly unhappy with Hagrid’s nonchalant attitude.

            Hermione shook her head. “I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”

            “I’m tellin’ yey, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’ know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all of yeh’s, yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel…..”

            “Aha!” said Harry. “so there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved is there?”

            Hagrid looked furious with himself. 

[shardclan]

Air trapped by hands gently but firmly choking her to death. The soothing hum of a mother who loved them above all else thrown off-key by withheld sobs. Ears ringing with alien screeching and the sound of waves closing in all around. Younger siblings laid reverently side by side. A father’s footsteps, hasty, anxious. Splashings of liquid without scent. Nervous hands holding flint and steel.

It had to be like this, but they weren't alone.

The rot washed over them, disintegrating them all to dirt and spores. This was the only way. If it took them; if there was anything left of them to take, it would never let them know rest. They would bear witness to an eternity without gods that it would usher in. Exaltation would not put them out of its reach. So they rotted by their mother’s hand. And once they were naught but grime and oils, they would all burn together.

Gods, they hoped it was enough.

Faded breathed their icy, corpse-sweet breath over Kiele. The tide-granted vision froze and shattered, releasing the young witch from its grip. Her shrieks faded to breathless gasps, and then to braying sobs that shook the her entire body.

Omen's voice was quiet but permeating in the starwood-wreathed hall. "Do you know what she saw?"

Faded wrapped their arms around the distressed imperial, mostly to keep her from writhing in a way that would hurt the smaller witches. "A glimpse of the old things trapped in the crystalspines. They are petty creatures in baleful half-sleep who look back when gazed on, and so it showed her an ugly dream."

"Only a dream?"

"So long as it remains trapped. This I assure you as Third Witch."

Omen sighed and folded her arms into her robes. "I leave her to you then. Dust, come. Kiele will need time to recover. Faded knows what they are doing far better than either of us could."

Dust trotted after the pearlcatcher, though she spared a look back for Kiele. They had gotten off to a rocky start with Dust arrived, but they were far more alike than they were different and bonded quickly. Kiele was tide-touched the way Dust was earth-touched. She had left her mother and father behind in a lair abandoned by its Presiding One after being trapped there for almost 2 full epochs. Just like Dust once had, she woke up every day with fear. But she feared the fickleness of a spirit, she feared being trapped again. She couldn't fight it, kill it, or otherwise overcome it as Dust had.

And on top of that, when she lost control, her visions were often terrible.

Water seers often saw awful things; dark futures and visions of the unknown creatures down in the deepest, darkest depths of the Leviathan Trench. But they were creatures of the planet. Monsters no less a part of the natural order than an emperor, though they were monsters still. But to be a water-seer and an Arcanite at the same time was to see into the minds of creatures who had come from Outside. Other worlds, other stars, other dimensions and planes of existence. She was surrounded by them, and they loved to gaze back into her in the hopes of escaping their crystal prisons by breaking her. It was a level of horrid knowledge that was likely only replicated in the groanings of the Tidelord, whose prophecies pained him and drove lesser dragons to insanity.

"Now there's a familiar feeling..." Omen mused, snapping Dust out of her worried thoughts. "You should go say hello."

Dust didn't ask. The vast majority of witching was remembering to pay attention instead of asking someone else to explain what was happening. And sure enough when she let her awareness spread out, she understood Omen's words.

She hiked her skirts and darted out of the coven into the open starwoods on bare feet. Since her growth spurt, her soles had hardened even when she was in her shift and she was unperturbed by twigs and crystals that she crushed underfoot. She arrived into a clearing at the base of the Focal Point. Once, most of the clan's lairs had been there, but now the cliffs were pocked with longneck caves.

Lutia stood before it, looking terribly small in spite of her being many times bigger than Dust's shift.

"You look better," Dust called.

Lutia looked her way. The child--no, she wasn't a child anymore; she had clearly spent time in her true form enough for her shift to catch up to her appropriate age. She was a young woman now, tall and willowy by snapper standards, but thriving. She worse a long, thin dress that went nearly to her ankles in a shade of green very similar to Lutia's old, faded kelpie guise.

"So do you," she finally answered. "I'm afraid I can't stick around to play catch up though."

"I know. The Seat."

"You've gotten better at witching, I see."

Dust smiled wryly and shrugged her shoulders. "It's less magic than it seems. I've never seen it, but the stronger I get the more I can feel it. Out in the west just..."

"Pulsating," Lutia finished.

"More these past few days. You're near and it's excited."

"It's not alive, Dust."

"Neither are a witch’s powers and yet mages don’t trust magic that thinks for itself."

Lutia took a deep, quick breath. "Where's Camellia?" The last thing she wanted to think about was the Seat behaving in witchy ways.

Dust shuffled shyly and it didn't escape Lutia that the current in her horns flashed for a moment. "She's at the Observatory. Praying."

Lutia raised a brow, but said nothing. "Anybody else around?"

"The Inquisitor went to the Icefield with the guardian Camellia nested with. The other witches are...dealing with something right now."

"Something bad?" Dust gave her a meaningful stare, and Lutia held up her hands. "Witch business, understood. I'm headed to the Seat. Please send Camellia my way if she comes down."

Lutia flew off, veering to the west. She had hoped to have Camellia at her side for this. Anyone would have done really, but she knew the Seat would be poison to all but the strongest Arcanites by this point. Camellia might not be a mage, but she had been inhabited by the Arcanist. She was practically a living holy Arcane object at this point. The Seat was powerful, but couldn't possibly harm someone who had bathed in the Arcanist's presence as intimately as she had.

She liked to think so, at least. But the closer she came to the site, the more she questioned if it was true. The cracks under her eyes grew hot and shone a harsh, oily pink. Her body grew light, and her mind clouded. The gems lining her arms and legs flared to life, their original purpose restored as Lutia flew deeper into the Seat's field.

The clan had once worried Lutia would sublimate into raw magic. She grew cryptic and disassociative the higher they climbed toward the Observatory. It wouldn't have been strange if she had gone up like a starfall blossom. In the Sunbeam Ruins, there was no reason for all those precautionary measures. But now she had to remember, and she had to remember quickly. How to breathe so that the magic left her in tiny twinkles, only now they were vast clouds. The gems were hot, their connecting lines shining. Her staff was sprouting new branches and bright new starwood leaves that crystallized rapidly. Massive formations of celestine surrounded the site, like a cosmic pearlescent flower that might very well have given birth to the Arcanist himself.

Inside the formation was the Chalcedony Circle, and Lutia landed in its center. It felt as Dust said. Thrumming. Excited. Active. And she felt her connection to it, unsevered for eons in spite of her going to the opposite end of Sornieth. The Seat was at the head of it, faced toward the distant Observatory. It shone like a star while the smaller stones of the circle flickered almost like they were laughing.

Stardust spilled from Lutia's mouth regardless of whether she exhaled or not. It floated freely from the cracks under her eyes. The magic was escaping any way it could, but it wasn't backing up and threatening her life.  It was an amazing experience. The raw power of it was enough to get drunk on. But Lutia didn't want power. Not more than she wanted peace.

She raised her staff and traced concentric circles in the air. Murmured syllables blended together, trapped and humming in the saturated air, and one by one the stones gave up their light and deactivated.

The Seat took several moments of such coaxing before it finally went quiet. The clearing was still again, though the silence was the deafening sort that only followed an extended cacophony. The stardust cleared from Lutia's mouth, and the gems cooled and steamed on her arms. She could hear a strange glassy grinding sound that she realized was the celestine actively continuing to grow.

The Seat flickered, and the rest of the circle shone a rippling light.

With no build up, no magic circle, and no warning, Ashes erupted out of thin air and crashed into her.

[khazadspoon]

Tipped With Longing pt3

starts with an adjusted end to pt 2. this part is NSFW it has sex and getting off in it but not of the threesome kind

also it’s my fic and i’m ignoring everything after the first couple of episodes in season 4 so miranda’s house is FINE AND NOTHING IS WRONG

--

Thomas looked at Charles as though he had pulled a fortune of gold and gems from his pocket. “I can see why men would follow you,” he murmured. He put a hand on Charles’ bare shoulder and ran his thumb over the skin, catching the edges of the brand on his chest. Charles fought the shiver that threatened to run through him as that thumb, as those piercing eyes, made his core shake. “And again; thank you.”

In a moment of what must have been madness, Charles leaned into Thomas’ warm hand and shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. It had been so long since someone had touched him… The press of lips on his cheek shocked him, soft and lingering, making his eyes fly open.

Thomas stood quickly, hand drawing back slowly as Charles struggled to understand what had just happened.

Charles watched as Thomas left his side to join Flint at the helm. His eyes caught Flint’s, holding his gaze. There was no jealousy or anger on his face, only understanding. Charles was confused. His lover had just sat and kissed Charles’ cheek, why would he just stand and watch? But Flint did nothing. He nodded, put an arm around Thomas’ waist, and the two began to talk softly.

Vane touched his cheek, rubbing at the place Thomas’ lips had touched. Something warm and comfortable unfurled in his belly as he watched the two men at the helm press their foreheads together.

It wasn't jealously. It wasn't distaste or disdain. It was... satisfaction, maybe. Whatever it was, he let it wash over him as Flint kissed his lover in full view of the skeleton crew managing the Walrus. No one spared a second glance. They'd all sailed with men who loved men before. No doubt they all would again, after this.

"First time I've seen him smile properly," a voice said beside him. Dooley, he thinks the man is called. "Never seen him happy before, not really. Shame."

Charles hummed, not looking up.

"Think he'll retire now?" Dooley asked.

"Depends," he replied. "If his lover wants it, he will. No way he'd go against Thomas' wishes. But if not... Well. He's as much a part of the sea as we are, can't see him settling down in a cottage by a forest, can you?" Dooley laughed. He went away, doing his duty aboard the ship, and Charles turned to the ocean.

He'd have to ask Flint that question himself.

---

Thomas' eyes were full of wonder and surprise when they got to Nassau. Flint was watching him with a suppressed smirk, showing off the place he had called home for the last ten years and Vane followed them inland with a hand on his belt. The gun there was a pleasant and reassuring weight as well as a warning to anyone that would try to come near.

Not that many tried to approach Captain Flint, not after Charles Town and the victories he had won since.

They moved further inland, grabbing fresh food and water on the way, and Thomas was almost bouncing with excitement as he saw the locals thriving. Flint kept a hand on his back, steering him gently through crowds and clearly trying not to laugh at the man's enthusiasm.

As town turned to road, and road became track, the group of pirates became just the three of them. Charles hung back and let the two men in front of him talk quietly between themselves. He bit into an apple and felt the juice dribble down his chin just as Thomas turned to look back at him. The bright grey-blue eyes watched the droplet fall and Charles tried to ignore how Thomas licked his lips. He took another bite and wiped his chin. Thomas turned away and moved ever so slightly closer to Flint.

They reached the Barlow woman's house just before dark. Flint opened the front door and sagged as he walked inside, Thomas at his side as he moved to sit at one of the chairs still left at the table. "We lived here, Miranda and I," he said softly, taking Thomas' hand, "for ten years. She grew vegetables in the garden. You'd have loved it; there was always the smell of perfume and food..."

"Perhaps... Perhaps you'd like to stay?" Thomas asked him softly. "All we need do is tidy up and rekindle the garden."

Charles hung back in the doorway, letting the two of them talk for a moment.

"It'll be dark soon. Wind's already getting cold," he interrupted after a few moments silence. "I'll start the fire."

Flint followed him outside and round the back of the small house. As he picked up a few logs Flint fixed him with a sharp stare. "Why are you here?" He asked, not coldly or unkindly, but unsettled.

"Got no where else to go while I'm here. Not right now. Here's as good as anywhere else," he replied. Flint snorted, shaking his head.

"In London, not long after I'd first met Thomas, someone called 'indescribable'. He speaks and people listen, he looks at you and... you feel lighter somehow. As though just being near him is enough to release you from the past;" Flint paused. His gaze softened. "You're feeling some of that now."

Charles dropped the logs, crossed his arms and glared. "I'm not feeling anything."

"Then why are you here?"

He frowned, at a loss. Why was he there? Why had he followed them to this place? He shook his head and picked the logs up, ignoring Flint's half frown.

"You're allowed to want things. You're allowed to enjoy being near people," Flint said at last, putting a warm hand on Charles' arm. It made him shiver. There was no true friendship between them, not really, but there was something there. A trust, a bond forged in gunfire and blood. Vane admired Flint's tenacity, his single mindedness and his fierce protectiveness. Damn, he liked the man's sense of humour. He secretly hoped Flint felt that way, too.  

He didn't want to admit to enjoying the man's company, though.

Flint's hand stayed longer than it needed to. His fingers clasped tight at Vane's arm, the man's eyes hard as they kept locked on his own. "I know-" Flint licked his lips, pausing, and Charles tried and failed not to look. "I know you have given up a lot to help me," he continued. "And I want you to know I appreciate that. I appreciate you. No matter what happens to me, whether I stay a captain or not, I want you to know you will always be welcome where I am."

Charles swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He saw Flint's eyes dart to his neck and back, saw the slight widening of his pupils and felt heat form in his gut.

"James?" Thomas called from the doorway, his voice breaking the moment. Charles breathed a sigh of relief, adjusting the logs in his arms and heading back inside. He brushed past Thomas and ignored the warmth coming from his body.

He busied himself with lighting the fire. It was a mindless task, one he had done countless times before. He ignored the sounds of Thomas and Flint murmuring softly to one another, ignored the soft sound of kisses and sighs. There was jealousy in his stomach, bitter and stinging, but he pushed it down and watched the flames come to life.

They ate quietly beside the fire, not bothering with the table. Flint sat almost in Thomas' lap, the two of them touching from hip to shoulder with Charles opposite them. Thomas' knee touched Charles' and he wanted to put a hand on it, to touch and feel what it must be like to touch a Lord. Not a current one, sure, but a lord nonetheless. He also just wanted to touch Thomas; a man who had survived an asylum and a prison, a man who was bright and intelligent and unashamed of who he was or who he loves.

He wondered if Eleanor had been ashamed of him. The thought stung less than it might have before, and he let it float away with barely a second thought.

When the two other men drifted off to one of the bedrooms Charles stayed near the fire. He heard the creak of the wood floor, soft conversation, a softer moan. Charles' blood went hot, cold, his heart started to hammer as he heard gasps come from down the hall.

A sharp curse followed by another moan, louder this time. He heard the groan of a bed adjusting to weight and felt his body stand. His feet moved silently across the floor, taking him down the hall to the half open door of the bedroom. It was almost as though he were dreaming as his eyes peered into the gloom behind that door.

There was a stream of moonlight coming through the shutter-less window. It illuminated the figures on the bed. Thomas' hair glowed silver in the moonlight, his head moving steadily down Flint's body as the pirate moaned under his breath. Hands were tangled in that shining hair and Charles felt himself shiver. He watched as the two men on the bed, naked as babes, moved against one another. Thomas moved back up Flint's body and kissed him, harsh and filthy and Vane saw how Flint's body arched against him in the dark. He saw Thomas' hand move between them, grasping at Flint's cock and his own, stroking them together until Flint was gasping and writhing beneath him.

Charles stumbled back, suddenly realising what he was doing. His cock was hard in his pants, pressing almost painfully against the fastenings and he pressed the heel of his palm hard against it, trying to dampen the arousal with pain. It didn't work, never had. He stomped to a spare room, throwing himself down on bags of what could have been linen or feathers. He closed his eyes and tried to push the images of Flint from his mind, tried to ignore his own throbbing cock as it begged for attention.

He wanted them. What he had seen was burned into his mind. Flint, James, open and wanting, moaning and grasping at his lover. Thomas' strong body, so pale in the moonlight as he touched James and moaned against his lips. He saw the two of them in his mind as they came together, the sound of it drifting down the hall. Thomas' lower moan, long and trembling, joined by James' fast pants as they reached their peaks together. Charles rubbed at his cock through his pants and shivered, wondering if Thomas' hands were as big as they seemed, if Flint could bite with his teeth as much as with his words. What would it be like, he thought, to be caught between the two of them? Probably too much to handle.

But he wanted to handle it. He imagined himself pushing Flint against the wall, tasting that caustic mouth and finally getting him to do something Vane's way. He saw Thomas behind him, directing him, whispering into his ear as those hands that had been made rough with labour drifted down his body.

He pushed his pants down, grabbing his cock and tugging almost painfully as the images rolled through his mind. He came with a barely stifled shout and a shiver, coming in thick ropes over his stomach and hand. As his breath evened out he wiped his hand on his shirt, discarding it across the room with a hard throw, mind whirling even as tiredness set in.

[mxrcusflint]

like fizzled out fireworks

pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood setting: best friends au, summer before oliver’s sixth year wordcount: 1852 a/n: a foray into one of my favorite au’s for flintwood

They’re stargazing on a clear summer night in the field that separates Marcus’ house from Oliver’s and he rubs his bare heels against the grass, knowing he’ll have stains on the bottom of his feet when they finally part for the night.

It’s late and quiet. He’s got the bridge of Oliver’s nose in his peripheral, and content washes over him. Normally he gets fidgety this late in the summer, the premise of school drawing ever closer a damper on the holiday spirits, but they’d flown and practiced for hours in the evening and it’s quieted his nerves.

When they go back, it’ll be another season of rivalry and biting remarks. But for now, Marcus breathes in the sweet scent of grass and broom polish, relishing how similar it is to their first summer together in little league, and every one after that.

Oliver’s voice breaks the silence. “Look,” he points towards a cluster of stars, “Didn’t we learn about that one in astronomy?”

“Probably,” Marcus rumbles, “S’ probably one of the boring ones, though.”

They’re so close that he can feel Oliver’s chuckle on his left side, but he doesn’t look over.

“What do you consider interesting, huh?”

Marcus pokes his tongue into the corner of his cheek. “I dunno. The stories, you mean?”

“Sure.” Oliver props himself up on one elbow and Marcus steels himself to avoid the warm brown gaze that he’s gotten so used to over the past few months.

He grips a handful of grass and pulls, feels the give of the roots in his palm. “I guess Eridanus is cool.”

Oliver snorts. “With the son trying to drive the sun chariot?”

Marcus can feel Oliver’s gaze on his face. “Yeah, that one.”

“You have weird taste.”

“Sure.”

Oliver lets himself fall back onto his back, shifting restlessly to get comfortable again, and Marcus watches the faint spiraling of the stars. He wonders if he’s imagining the movement, wonders if he’s imagining how Oliver seems to be just the slightest smidgen closer.

Maybe it’s better that they don’t really have the space for this, for these moments, at school. Marcus doesn’t think he could take that much of Oliver in one bout. He’s sure he’d drown too quickly.

Usually he hates the start of term because it means their tempers and egos and their rivalry flares back up and they’re no longer really friends, per se, at least not on Hogwarts grounds. But Marcus finds himself a little thankful, this time around. Means he won’t have to keep swallowing down words.

It always happens, no matter how much it causes them grief during the year. They wind up biting at each other’s heels, pent up in – something – that Marcus can’t quite place, but he knows Oliver gives back as good as he gets. Sometimes it’s about Quidditch. Most of the time. They apologize for whatever it is before the last train home, anyways.

The semester is full of arguments but being home brings them to a lull – the sarcasm still flies, of course, but there’s a shared agreement: they’re not going to be fighting with one another when they already have enough of that in their own houses.

“Your father still away?” Marcus asks, after Oliver finishes tucking his hands behind his head. He chances a look, watches the little furrow in Oliver’s brow appear, the line of his mouth drawn tight and he has the overwhelming urge to reach over and kiss him, hard.

It’s not the first time he’s wanted, not for a long time. So he looks away.

“Yeah,” Oliver breathes, and they leave it at that. Oliver doesn’t ask about Marcus’ mother. There’s only been one answer for that for years.

The silence is weighted between them and Marcus can’t bring himself to disrupt it by bidding Oliver goodbye and saying goodnight. He doesn’t want to leave, anyways, likes to toe the line for a little longer.

The stars twinkle a bit brighter as the crickets continue chirping around them.

“I like Orion,” Oliver pipes up again, and it takes two heartbeats for Marcus to realize they’re talking about constellations again. “Or the story, at least.”

“What’s the story then?” Marcus asks, even though he knows what it is. It’d been one that Higgs had struggled to remember before finals last year, and he’d heard the story repeated more times than he can count. Orion had been in love with the goddess of the moon. Not too difficult, in his opinion, but Merlin knows, Terence was shit at astronomy.

Oliver shoves an elbow into his side, pulling him back. “Go look it up.”

Oliver’s eyes are oddly bright in the moonlight. Marcus wonders if he’s in love with anyone.

It’s as if they’re on the same tangent because out of nowhere, Oliver blurts, “I got my first kiss”, because of course he would, he’d always been one for sharing and discussing and bringing up the conversations that make Marcus’ heart plummet. He had needled Oliver about it last summer - he supposes he’d brought this on himself.

“Who?” He manages.

“Sorry,” Oliver laughs, embarrassment purveying through the low sound, “Lydia? Your year, Ravenclaw?”

Marcus bites down on his tongue, but refuses to let his emotions paint his features. “Didn’t know you guys had a thing. Little late, don’t you think, Wood?”

He thinks Oliver’s rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to make sure, and a mutter of “Sixteen isn’t late, you prat” reaches his ears.

“It was weird,” Oliver says simply, even though Marcus hadn’t asked, and now he’s shifted back onto his elbow. Marcus feels his gaze cut through him like blade to skin but he stares resolutely at the grey low hanging clouds, barely floating across the sky.

“Not a thing,” Oliver continues, and there’s – nerves, underneath the nonchalant tone of voice, almost same in timber as when Oliver answers how his family is. Marcus closes his eyes, unsure whether to breathe or not. “It was – fine. I don’t know if it should have been.”  

That’s enough to make Marcus open his eyes, and he looks over at Oliver, directly, for the first time since they’d laid down on the grass. Wood’s biting his lip and sitting upright now, staring at him for – approval?

An answer, it seems, but Marcus doesn’t know the question.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oliver’s jaw clenches. “It was fine. Just that. Not great. I’m not sure I even liked it.” He pauses, as if testing the waters, which Marcus thinks is stupid because when has Oliver done anything but dive in unabashedly?

“Is that – usual?” Oliver asks, “Like how it was for you?”

Marcus is suddenly reminded of a six-year-old boy approaching him with a gap in his front teeth and a ragged broomstick in hand, asking him to show him how to do a roll in mid-air. Marcus had agreed, eager to show off, eager for the attention.

It doesn’t feel as good, this time around.

He shrugs, as much as laying down lets him. “Dunno. I don’t kiss girls.”

Marcus lets the words hang in the air and Oliver stills. He can feel the stare, can feel it whispering over his skin but he just counts the number of stars in a section of the sky that he’d predetermined over the last couple of seconds.

“That’s – good to hear.” Isn’t the answer Marcus is expecting, and it makes him meet Oliver’s gaze. There’s something there he still can’t put his finger on. “Did it make sense?”

“Did what make sense?”

He watches the rise and fall of Oliver’s Adam’s apple with a half interest, half concern.

“Do you think – for me – I mean,” Oliver’s words are running into one another, and Marcus can’t look away, “Kissing a bloke. Do you think that’d help make sense?”

Marcus pauses. “I don’t know. That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” is the next thing that Oliver mutters, more to himself than Marcus, so he turns back towards the sky. He wonders if he’d ever be able to touch a star. Maybe if he flew high enough, far enough away from the ground, where all he can do is lumber around and stay put.

“I guess it is.” Oliver says.

He hears Oliver shift before he sees it, but Oliver shifts all the same, hovering just a bit closer. And then – Marcus watches as Oliver places a hand, slow, on Marcus’ torso, where his ribs are rising and falling with his every breath.  

He expects Oliver to look determined, the way he usually looks before doing something big, with a drawn brow and a lip worried against his teeth, but all Oliver is doing is waiting.

Marcus waits, too. He’s afraid to speak, suddenly, afraid that one word would break the suspense and spook Oliver, and the hand that he has resting tentatively against his chest.

His heart’s pounding too hard to be healthy.

Marcus dares himself to meet Oliver’s eyes.

And maybe that does something, maybe the fact that he doesn’t speak works, for once, because then Oliver is leaning down with small little pauses in between each movement, before their lips finally connect and Oliver’s mouth is so soft and tentative against his own, Marcus thinks he might combust.

He still doesn’t dare to move, not much, doesn’t dare to drag his hands up from the ground and grip Oliver closer because this – Marcus isn’t quite sure what this is. All he knows is that Oliver is pressing a little closer, and his hand is still burning through the thin fabric of his tee where it’s resting against his side.

Oliver tastes like lemon candy, of course he does, Marcus has seen him pop the candy into his mouth more times than he can count. He should’ve known. He does now.

They part just as tentatively as they started, and Oliver is still staring at him, but this time there’s very little apprehension and something akin to wonder in his expression.

“Did that,” Marcus stops to cough, trying to dislodge the nerves bundled in his throat, “Does kissing a bloke make a difference?”

There’s a silence that Marcus’ heartbeat must be too loud for, before Oliver answers.

“No,” he says slowly, and Marcus feels the cold wash of dread start pulling at his chest, before: “I think it’s because it’s you.”

When Marcus looks back, that’s the moment he blames for his unraveling.

Before he can think, he’s pulling Oliver in by the nape of his neck and pressing his mouth insistently against Oliver’s, and Oliver makes this delicious little punched out noise against his lips, and he’s kissing back just as greedily, and then it’s a headfirst fall after that, minutes stretching on, because all Marcus wants is to keep pulling Oliver in closer, until there’s no more space between them, until they merge like all the stars haze over in a night sky.

“You,” Oliver murmurs, lips swollen pink, flushed. “It’s you.”

“S’ always you,” he grins against Marcus’ own mouth, when they kiss again, and Marcus never wants to go back.

[asktheguardians]

Ch.8 Volcanic Burst!

Years pass due to the volcano losing it’s magma energy and Kens recovery from the first day. Phoenix came to his room to bring him lunch but he wasn’t in bed again. Outside of the village Ken pull a vine like rope which release boulders from the hill to roll down towards him as he unsheathe his now sword made by the villagers. It’s heavier than his last sword but this raw material made from the molten boulder from the first day is stronger and more durable meaning it won’t be easy to shatter. He swing it full force colliding with the rock turning it to pebbles with the sword ringing giving some pain to Ken arms from the vibration. 

Phoenix: You know doing that too much will turn your bones to dusts...

Ken: It’s not a problem. I would say Ace and Shadow must of handle it well with their weapons too. This is only just a tiny vibration so it doesn’t bother me.

Distracted from the conversation the last boulder was about to collide behind his back. Phoenix in a blink of an eye pull her sword out quick cutting the boulder in half as both side fall with Ken eyes shocked. 

Phoenix: You should pay attention...If you lose focus you might get stab in the back... Also it’s lunch time so lets get going!

Ken: Um...ok I guess i could eat something now...And Phoenix um...

Phoenix: Yes Ken...

Ken: I never ask this but... can you probably teach me?

She stop for a second till she turn around and pull her sword out and come at him with a strike which both their blades clash and sparks are coming from Ken blade. She did the same technique once again to Ken which he backs off and try blocking each strike which became faster each on every hit. He then try to mimic her move but from the weight of his sword shown that it was little too slow to do the technique. The more swing he does the more it overheat his body which he stop and breath for air with Phoenix putting her sword back. 

Ken: I don’t... get how,, you do that? It looks like something from a movie or something like you treat it like one of those kung fu sticks.

Phoenix: With more practices and training than you can do it too but I bet you’re having trouble with the weight am I right?

Ken: Yeah...just yours look heavy too I don’t get it?

Phoenix: Well to tell you it’s not about the strength like flexing or using drugs. The way I do this I use the gravity and the weight. Yes it does feel heavy but once you get use to the weight of it you’ll see that it’s not heavy.

Ken a little confuse but look back to his new sword just thinking about what she is saying. Phoenix pat his back and bring him back to the village for lunch. Night fly by and Ken is back at the same area where his sword is stab to the ground and boulder are rolling down at him again but decided to move through the tight spots to dodge the boulders. He’s doing perfectly fine but later get more difficult as he got scratches from the boulders and almost got rolled over. He walk down to the lake breathing and splashing the cold water to his face. He grab his sword and try to do Phoenix technique but each swing he did is almost his death wish as the blade also cut his body and limbs. He try to use the weight but it feel so off and just not his style of using it. He just think that Shadow would do something like this but it just feel weird to him. He try one more time and it’s going good as the weight feels more lighter and suddenly faster. The blade is about to collide his waist but as it’s about to come right at him he suddenly jump with his rocket and did an overhead smash to the water causing a huge splash which villages can see the huge splash from the far distance. He breaths heavily with his head feel light and dizzy form a huge surprise that he can do that. From that he shoot his rocket and let out a huge excitement “ALRIGHT!!!” that echo the valley.

Months pass more and Ken been training with her each day trying to perfect his technique over and over. Till on the final day...

Phoenix: You seem to getting use of this are you? I never seen someone do this well a long time. I was usually the only one to use a technique in my army.

Ken: Really? I thought there would be like alot of train soldiers who can do something like this?

Phoenix: Well yeah but they use spears which I just kind of train with them just to improve my skills which surprises the general alot he made me second in command.

Ken: That’s really good!

He than notice the two rings that are on each of her finger which are wedding rings. He look back at her and thinking that maybe Phoenix and the general were a wedding couple. He stop and about ask her an important question. But that was stop when the volcano shake the ground and then exploded once again. Flint appeared once again as he let out a huge roar like battle cry meaning he’s ready to began the test one again with his spirit lifted making him excited.

Flint: I HOPE YOUR READY KEN CAUSE THIS TIME WILL BE YOUR FINAL AND LAST HOPE TO RETURN HOME! AND I HOPE YOU’RE READY CAUSE I WILL MAKE YOU FEEL THE FIRE OF HELL ITSELF!!!

The eruption blast out the lava boulders that crashes to the ground from the sky. Phoenix clenches the handle of her sword and began to run ahead of Ken faster than the first day they first met. Ken grab his sword too and run behind as she is long far head but boulders are rolling down. He remember his training and began dodging and hot striking the boulders which more came and became more difficult along the path. The heat grew more making it harder to breath but Ken just keep going with the help of his rocket to help him push him further and go faster. The test seems to be easy so far in his thoughts but he felt like something is off till he finally got to the top of the mountain seeing Phoenix and Flint together.

Ken: Phoenix what you waiting for you gonna kill him?

Phoenix: You know for my next generation you got good skills and tricks too. But if you think I will kill this guy right here then that would be a problem too.

Ken: What you talking abou-

Before he finish asking his question Flint threw his chains right at him tying him up as it burning his body from the heat of the metal.

Flint: Guess you didn’t know a thing about us do you? Guess the princess forgot to tell you that I was too part of the Guardians too with Phoenix here.

Ken: W-what...but you’re a demon how are you the Guardian!?

Phoenix: That is cause of me...turns out if I hunt about twelve demons I’m then curse with the last open I kill will join my body making my half demon. Which This bead I have here only have about eleven beads to prevent that from happening. Which he’s now like my partner over the year...but aside from that you still have to test your skills with me...

She unsheathe her sword which then her eye turn from white to black with the sword glow with flames out of the sword. Ken break out of the chain from Phoenix with Flint cut him out the chain as he pull his sword out and began to collide with her with their sword clash and sparking. She pushes him back and swing the blade to his chest but he dodge last second which only cut the clothes. She comes at him more faster which became more difficult so much. Each swing is cutting his skin and clothes alot which is difficult to block or reflect the strike. The lose of blood with heat rising higher temperature making it harder to breath and concentrate which Ken felt tired from all of that which is like his body will shut down any moment.

Phoenix/Flint: You think you can beat Lord Metal like this after all that training we just did? You’re having trouble with us more then that tin can. So slow and so weak right now. I’m proud that you can master my technique but you still can’t face me still...so Ken...you..have fail my test...

She stab her sword to his chest which leak out blood which sizzle on the surface of the volcanic heat. He shocked and look down as he grab the blade trying to pull it out but he felt weak to pull it out. She move him to the volcano lava pool which he hang on the sword still and try to get out. He then felt nothing which he then close his eyes with his arm now fall from the blade. She lay her sword down with his body slide off her blade and drop into the lava as his body sunken into it.

Ken: I...I can’t..die..n-not y-yet...I..I still got to....beat her...

As he try to struggle he heard a voice that is nice and calm. A light shine bright showing a women with long black hair and a white dress floating above him.

???: Tell me young knight...why are you accepting your life here...

Ken: ... I fail my test...Too be honest I never known why I was chosen as a Guardian. If I stop here then I fail everyone...

???: Then why you think you have fail?

Ken: Don’t you see I’m in the lava probably disintegrating here. I’m no match for her and Flint...They’re too strong and fast... I was the wrong person to be chosen...

The women in black hair came close to hug him relaxing his soul. 

???: You’re not ready to go yet young warrior...You still gotta beat her test if you’re gonna save everyone outside of this realm! Never give up and never think of failure too! Ok?

She smile happily with a giggle at him with his face confused but shake it off making a game face meaning he’s ready for round two. But one thing catch his mind is that she said “my wife”  but as he about to ask her she disappeared and is back to life in the lava. But it feels different the lava now felt cold and feels like water too? On the surface Flint think that maybe Phoenix probably went too far but she doesn’t care as she let her arm out to retrieved her gem back but it’s not coming back? The lava pool is bubbling up like boiling water now which is confusing both Flint and Phoenix which they back away from the lava which is about to explode. The eruption splashes out lava on the side and the eruption has lower down and stop shaking but the dark smoky cloud are still out. They run back to the top and they see the lava is all gone and it’s now a hollow like arena. But in the middle of the arena is a fire lime figure wielding the sword which the flames blown away and reveal that Ken has return from the dead with his face that showing him that he’s filled with determination. 

Ken: I am here for my rematch! For I am ready!

Phoenix surprised with a smile on her face and Flint feel so pump up which he enter in Phoenix body which make her more stronger as she enter the arena.

Phoenix: Thought you be burning alive in the lava this whole time but I guess I was wrong. I’ll just finish you here right now...but tell me...what spark the fire in you to keep going...

Ken has no answer to that question neither not knowing why he still alive and why he keep coming back.

Ken: I never knew why I came back...I never knew why I was chosen in the first place but...all I know that I must keep going no matter what or how high the obstacle is I must get back and help my friends to defeat Lord Metal! And That’s is what I’m Gonna Do!!!

He let out his limit break but instead he’s letting out even more which doing more can damage the body badly which can cause high risk of death but he just letting it all out more harder. The fire rocket on his back shoot out from bis back which burns the ground too and his gem glowing brighter too. One last cry out of his lung let him unleashed a new power that he now unlock. Phoenix is more surprises that she began clashing him with her sword over and over but he use his sword to which he clashes back faster. It seems so different right now then before but Ken now is going all out onto Phoenix. She then shoot the flames out from her blade which Ken rocket jump out of the range attack. He pull his sword to his back and he comes in full force spinning fast to Phoenix which she’s gonna block the attack but the impact of the sword causes her sword to shatter in half and cause a huge explosion when collided to the ground. The dust of ashes flow in the winds and Phoenix on her knee to the ground with blood leaking out on her right side of her body.

Phoenix: H-hehe...you finally pass the test....you’re skills have improve and...you finally think something other than strength itself...go now young man...beat that son of a bitch to hell...

When she finish she reveal the bright light which is the exit door to bring him back. Ken walk away thanking her but as he turn back he then see the same white black hair women holding Phoenix hand as they both kiss. Ken left the realm and back to his world stretching and letting out air as he feel the cold breeze to his face.

Ken: where is everybody?

Aura: He just flew off without us like at the speed of light. Sarah just hanging around and I told Ace to find a lake to wash himself off...and coming from you...meh you’re fine...nevermind go to the lake...

Ch. 9.2  Consume by Darkness