#The first time you saw those sprouts rise up out of the dirt you felt fathomless triumph and then the sickening lurch of hubris.

[chaoticneutralbell]

Which Member of a Doomed Space Crew Are You?

Botanist What were you thinking, growing green things in the middle of space? The first time you saw those sprouts rise up out of the dirt, you felt fathomless triumph and then the sickening lurch of hubris. Did your recklessness have consequences? Maybe. But how best to find your way out of disaster than to cling to all the life you can find in this desolate place?

X

[astriefer]

Just Let Me Breath With You

Pairing: Thomastair

Word count: 3033

Warning: CHAIN OF IRON SPOILERS, injury, blood, mentions of trauma

It all happened in a swift blink of an eye. The demon attack, the fighting, it all passed in a great swipe of Thomas's boleadoras.

The attack was surprising - not because it was an attack, but because it was close to the stronghold of London's enclave- the London institute. Demons lurked in the road, near Fleet street. A get-together at the institute was held that gray, hazy day in London. What precisely they celebrated was beyond Thomas; what mattered was that old and young Shadowhunters as one joined the battle against the horde of Achaieral demons. Their numbers were the larger he has seen ever since the Mandikhor. It didn't pass smoothly - some injured, although Thomas hadn't registered who. During the fight, Henry or Christopher threw at the demons one of their newest innovation. He noticed only a blur, a small grenade-like object, thrown close to where he was fighting one of the demons. He tried to stop the nasty-looking Achaieral demon from flying - with Thomas himself- when smoke swirled from the thrown grenade. There was a hollow thud of metal hitting something, an explosion followed afterward, and the demon disappeared.  Maybe it was better not to inhale, but he was surrendered by the weird, thick smoke. He wasn't blown up from his inside out, so he considered it safe enough. As for now, the gates of the institute were behind him, hanging open to carry wounded and hurtling carriages. 

Thomas's hands were sore and calloused as he rubbed them against his neck. He swayed slightly, an expression of a fool sprawled over his face. He surveyed his surroundings in bewilderment. Soon enough, worried and relieved faces gathered around him. His friends and family crowded him, mumbling altogether to make no sense at all. It felt utmost importance to note to himself not all of his friends and family truly were there. Matthew wasn't, and so was Cordelia. He heard the word "overwhelmed" in all the havoc. He didn't understand what they were talking about - surely they had been fine if they were running around the way they did.

He kept his eyes on them, trying his best to decipher what they were saying, but his gaze inevitably slipped away from them. He caught a brown blur of torn red jacket, grey pants, and tousled dark hair. That instant, the world turned down, and all left was him and this man in another corner of the institute. Even the voices surrounding him ceased to exist.

On the spur of the moment, he briskly departed from his family and friends and walked to him, barely restraining himself from storming toward him. A hand rested on his forearm -  an attempt to stop him - but he shook it off without glancing at whomever it was. Sensing his intensive look, Alastair stared at him with a puzzled countenance. The short man was sitting against a wall, letting another Shadowhunter draw an iratze on his left arm. Thomas remembered Alastair charging to battle, now and in other battles they fought side by side, and relief I've washed him because he didn't seem to be wounded. By the time he reached them, It didn't matter who the other person was. The moment he captured Alastair's forearm, he broke into a run, not bothering to look at anyone as they hastily evaporated from the forecourt. Bad-mannered indeed, but Thomas was sure whoever that was would've understood urgent matter to talk with Alastair if he had known.

The tall man led the other through hurrying servants and leery eyes. Thomas almost knocked over a few people, but he did not find himself to care much more than mumble a half-hearted 'sorry'. He hadn't let go of Alastair, just loosened his grip slightly so he could slip his hand into Alastair's. His hold was firm nonetheless.

"Thomas!'" Alastair called out and caused him to turn his head over his shoulder. By the look of annoyance on his face, Thomas assumed the other man called his name a few times. Or perhaps, it was a result of being publicly dragged by Thomas for no apparent reason. Then he understood. Alastair had to run in order to follow him at this pace. For the first in entirety, Thomas cursed Alastair's shorter legs; but he quickly took it back because Alastair was, of course, the most beautiful the way he is. e slowed down his pace enough for Alastair to walk beside him, still dragging him after him. He felt a jolt of surprise Alastair didn't fight him about that, that he just let him take him to wherever he had in mind. Perhaps he was too stunned to really do anything else but stare at Thomas.

Thomas hadn't stopped to ponder over his good luck and no fuss from Alastair's side. He navigated through the maze of rooms and corridors, guiding Alastair to a casual unused guest room. He thrust the door open, let Alastair and himself enter before releasing his hand and shutting it close. He couldn't quite catch his breath.

He spun around to confront Alastair. Beautiful, he thought. The man in front of him was beautiful. Alastair - with torn clothes and dirt on his face - looked as charming as ever. In the last rays of the London sun, Alastair's eyelashes cast shadows upon his face. His cheeks seemed a bit red - was it because of Thomas or because of the previous fight? - and he chewed his lower lip. Thomas had the sudden urge to raise his hand and separate his lip from his teeth, pass his thumb on the soft mouth of Alastair Carstairs. The older man clearly tried to look expressionless, but he could see he studied him with concerned eyes. Thomas saw the question in them as well. Out of self-awareness, he looked down at his own clothes; they were rumpled and he lost his waistcoat in the fight, leaving him with trousers, a jacket, and a white shirt. All stained Ichor. He peered at Alastair, his clothes, and Alastair again. He must have looked like a corpse. Alastair, however, kept his captivating eyes on him, endearing-looking with his normal composed facade slightly off. 

Alastair's stopped biting his lip and opened his mouth to talk, yet before he could voice a word, Thomas stepped closer and buried his face in the soft hair of Alastair Carstairs. He relished the feeling of Alastair close to him, of his smell and heartbeat and warmth. "You're here. You're fine."

His voice was just above a whisper, but it filled the quiet room. "I wanted to talk with you for days now." Alastair's breath hitched. He hadn't pulled away. He hadn't tried to push Thomas aside. It was Thomas who backed away from their position. Alastair tilted his head up to look at his face and gasped loudly when Thomas crushed him in a hug. He groaned in pain, and it struck him Alastair had been injured.

"You are hurt." Thomas's voice was almost offended. He loosened his grip on Alastair, whose hand came to rest protectively on his side, where his bruise must have been. Thomas recalled all of sudden he had been given an iratze. Was his wound worse than just a bruise?

"It's nothing," Alastair wheezed and took a careful breath.

Their gazes met for a long moment. Alastair didn't squirm. Thomas leaned forward leisurely, testing his boundaries. When his lips collided with Alastair's forehead, he let out a sigh against the soft skin. Alastair stood strained at first, then slowly relaxed. it had not even been a week since the sanctuary, since Belial and his schemes, since Cordelia and Matthew disappeared to Paris. Alastair was avoiding him like the plague, and Thomas couldn't blame him much. He wished he could. It hurt seeing Alastair and knowing he could not be with him the way he craved to be. He suspected Alastair would back away soon, leave him alone in this room, disappear without a second glance. Come and leave like in a dream. Like in their time in Paris. 

Then, "I am glad you are okay as well."

Thomas's heart skipped a beat. Or a few. He abruptly ducked his head into Alastair's neck, close to his pulse. His body lost its tense as he devoted all his heed to the marvelous sound of Alastair's heart, beating strong and fast, addicting to Thomas's mind. Not a minute later he felt small palms pushing against him gently. He drew away begrudgingly.

His eyes were unclear, while Alastair's were shining brightly. Too brightly. He lifted his arm to touch the side of the fair hair on Thomas's head. When he lightly caressed it, Thomas winced. Letting his arm fall to his side, Alastair said, "You are hurt too. You need treatment."

Alastair dismissed his injury because he didn't want to worry Thomas and make it about him; Thomas dismissed it because he didn't want to be away from Alastair. His head was throbbing; it didn't matter. "It's nothing." he tried to enfold the small figure in his arms once again, but Alastair didn't let him. Thomas didn't try again, just silently observed Alastair. The dark man's eyes were conflicted as to if debating over himself what to do now. He sighed. "We can't, Tom. Please."

It was like a heated knife to his heart. He swallowed tightly. "I know," he forced himself to speak. "I am - I keep remembering all you are. All I love about you. Your hair," he counted and planted a kiss on his damp hair.  Alastair looked at him, surprise written over all his face. "Your haughty smile, your dark colors, your eyes-"  sparks of gray in a pool of black that reminded him of a starry sky. "Your lips," He closed his eyes. "your heart, so wide and loving, despite how much you try to conceal it. Your stubbornness, kindness, and selflessness. Your love for mundane movies and history and art. All of it. The feeling I can twirl around you for hours without getting a tad bit tired."

"Thomas," Alastair whispered.

"You deserve to be happy. I wish you would let me show you some of it," he continued tentatively. The man in front of him stood rigid, and it made sprouts of doubt rise in Thomas's chest. 

"Thomas. No. No. We cannot. Don't act like we- as we could ever happen. Don't say those things to try and convince me we can be more than heartbreak for each other."

The knife twisted. Thomas blinked. "I am not telling this to try and win you over, Alastair," he said slowly. "I am telling you this because you deserve to know. Because I want you to know how much you mean to me," he inhaled, feeling a bit lightheaded, and went on. "With my friends, I always hide this part of me. The part you take in my life, in my heart. I can be all I am with you. You understand me so easily, that it takes my breath away. I- I am not as good at words as James is. I am not as wild or charming as Matthew. I am not as talented as Kit. I am me, and with you, I feel it's enough."    

"Tom, it always has been enough."

Thomas sucked in a breath. How could he say this and expect Thomas to keep his face straight and his heart in control? He tried to push Thomas away but didn't let him think less of himself. He didn't let himself what he deserved, what they both did, because he believed they would both end up hurt. "I know so many things are - complicated," Alastair snorted at that. "But right now, everything is lucid, with you here."

He gazed deeply into those dark eyes. They held depths inside them he wanted to learn off by heart. Depths he wished to explore but could not reach.

Alastair shook his head and stubbornly kept his gaze at his dusted shoes. "You think we have reason by our side, but all we have is the burning yearning and stolen time." He knew if he let himself fall this time, he could not stand back. He would lose himself those kind hazel eyes, his deep voice, his brave heart, in everything that is Thomas Lightwood.

"We have more than this," Thomas declared. "I trust you."

Alastair piped his head up, "What?"

"I trust you," he repeated."And I want you, Alastair. I know you do too. But I want you to trust me as well. Trust me when I say I will never say those things just to make you give in and be with me. I am saying them because they are the mere truth and because I care for you."

Alastair glanced away hastily, eluding his eyes. "You are in no condition to make this decision. You- We can't -"

"But do you want us to be? Do you wish us to be together? "

Electricity filled the room, and both couldn't take their eyes off the other. Thomas knew it wasn't fair of Alastair to ask such a question. He knew on his flesh what it is to admit- even simply to oneself - you want something and believe you would never have it. That is how Alastair seemed to perceive them - a false fantasy, a feverish dream that would never come true. Thomas knew as well that Alastair had made it clear he didn't think they had a future, and making him fumble with those pieces of broken fantasy could hurt worse than words could. Yet, a part of Thomas couldn't help but wonder what the other had been through to be so hesitant to let himself be happy.

Do not say it's not possible on my behalf, he wanted to shout. If you wish to break my heart, do it because what you want is not a future with me in it.

"Yes."

Relief came so fast he felt abashed. His heart pounded ear-piercingly through his body. "Tell me," he asked gingerly. " Will you allow me to kiss you?"

Alastair drew in a sharp breath. Color flooded his cheeks. "Thomas..."

Thomas searched his face, which for so long was emotionless when he saw him the past week. He saw the hurt -  how much it must be for Alastair?  he pondered - and the fear. The dark-eyed gentleman wouldn't believe Thomas's words. He wasn't sure he could trust him with his heart. For now, he shall have the certitude for both of them. There was a voice telling him he wouldn't have come to Alastair after the fight if he could think clearly. He pushed that part away, locked it in a cage, and threw away the key. 

He swallowed down the odd, stinging feeling of being rejected. "Will you allow me to embrace you, then? " Just let me breathe with you. Let me hold you in my arms, to reassure us both, to know you are here. "You don't have to. I swear to it." He took a step back to prove his statement.

The judicious decision was to ignore the offer. To turn away from Thomas and all the comfort he had to give. Alastair was on the verge of tears. Thomas hated those tears were because of him. Because of them. Alastair opened his eyes and hummed acquiescently, soft and low.

The shreds of resistance left Alastair's body as Thomas swooped him into a hug. His big hand passed his head on Alastair's back, between his shoulder blades, and to his lumbar. He absentmindedly caressed Alastairs's side, touching Alastair's wound lightly. The smaller man shied away from the contact but immediately calmed back into the hug. He stifled a whine, and in the back of Thomas's mind, he knew they both had to get checked on. Thomas put his cheek on the other man's forehead. He closed his eyes and let out a pleased noise. Alastair's arms slowly cloaked Thomas's waist, holding him close. 

"We should return," Alastair whispered. A few minutes had passed. They were alone, far away from anyone who might hear, but the moment was so dreamlike and tender both were afraid to break the air around them. That alternate reality they formed in this godforsaken room, for a glimpse of a moment.

"I find it so tremendously difficult to do," his breath felt heavy; so did his heart. "Because I don't want to ever let go of you."

He heard Alastair gasp, and Thomas's own breath was quivering. The pulse beating deep in Alastair's chest raced, and Thomas was sure he could listen to it forevermore. The hug felt more private than a kiss, more overwhelming and welcoming and warm and protecting and trusting. "I missed you."

"Tom," Alastair's voice was suffocated, and thick from emotion, as if he was a boat that slowly sank because it's full of water. Thomas tried to retreat, suddenly fearing he passed the line. He must have passed it long ago, and yet Alastair let him, despite his own warnings. Thomas was about to apologize when he felt Alastair's hands tightening around him, and then the blazing understanding hit Thomas that It was Alastair's way of telling it was fine. Haltingly, he returned to their previous position.    

They were hugging, nothing more. But the proximity made Thomas feel a sense of internal peace, like a calm wave hitting the sand lightly. It made his lungs protest because he was out of breath. How could he ever let go? It was better than nothing at all, better than air and staring long at the wall of his room. It was Alastair, and he was ready to take every drop given to him. Yet, because it was Alastair, he could never get enough. It was hard to capture it - the soft looks, the thumping hearts, the yearning and the hurt. Thomas's cheek was still pressed against Alastair's forehead. He shifted to hide his face in his strands, dark like the night, soft as a feather. Alastair's smell was intoxicating. The words slipped his tongue before he knew it. "I am glad I am here with you."

There was a beat of silence. The voice of the man he loved - Thomas almost startled himself by the heedless use of the word love - barely reached his ears.

"I am, too."

[experi-sketches]

“Iron Blood” Snippet 2

Felt like sharing another brief snippet! Doubt many will see this since I’m so inactive on tumblr, but in case you want some context, here’s a quick re-cap from the last snippet post:

These past few months I’ve been working on a fantasy story, trying to make some sort of legible draft from the mess I’ve accumulated. I don’t think it’s ready yet, but I thought I might post a snippet here or there, for those who might care.

Working title for the story is An Iron Blood Tale, though that may change. Projected at two novels, Iron and Gold & Soot and Blood, I plan to eventually post it on AO3. Not going to say much about the plot at this point, but it’s a long-format dark fantasy story whose core themes focus on the corruption of ultimate power, the poisonous nature of prejudice, and the battles we face, both external and internal, when we survive truly awful experiences.

The bit below is from early on in Soot and Blood, just a quick little snippet! Apologies for any typos etc, I always manage to miss a few lol. If you enjoy or want to read more of my stuff, give a like or a reblog, and you can find me on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experi_neverendum 

 Thank you for reading!

~~

Emrik knew he was getting close to the town when the forest began to thin, and sure enough, he soon spotted a packed dirt road that ran east to west. Remembering how he'd seen the distant smoke rising against the sunset the previous evening, Emrik went west, and a short while later he came to the forest's edge. The world beyond opened out into flattened grasslands and wide, stretching fields, the trees long ago cleared away to make way for farmland. The road ran along the forest's edge, and Emrik followed it for some hours until the first herald of civilization came into view, little more than a dark, sagging cottage nestled in the center of some sprawling, unkempt farmland. Despite the dimming rays of the afternoon sun, no lights glowed from inside the cottage. It looked abandoned.

At least now he knew he was headed in the right direction.

Emrik went on past the cottage and some time later saw another small home appear on the horizon, this one clearly inhabited. Distant figures were out working the fields, doing as much as they could before they lost the daylight. They noticed Emrik coming down the road and stopped their work, silently watching him pass by the farm from across the wide field. Emrik didn't make any attempt to hail them. He never knew what sort of reception he could expect from humans, especially when they were in groups, so he usually made very little effort unless it was a necessary hassle. They were well out of earshot besides. As he passed the home one of the figures ran across the field and inside the cottage, and soon enough a few more people stepped out onto the porch to watch him stroll along. Emrik hefted his knapsack, adjusted the strap across his shoulder, and tried not to let their wary gazes pick at him.

Honestly, sometimes it was as though he'd sprouted a tail or an extra set of limbs. If this was any indication of how the townsfolk would treat him, Emrik wasn't going hold out hope for a warm bed or hot meal tonight.

He went on past this farm as well, content to leave them be, and soon he caught a glimpse of the same rising trails of smoke that he'd seen yesterday, and knew he was close to civilization. Focused as he was on the thought of facing a crowd of pale, gaping faces, and the hazards that might present, Emrik didn't notice the approaching footsteps until it was too late.

His attackers were on top of him before the footfalls cut through Emrik's exhausted thoughts, and he barely had time to spin around and get his arms up before a shovel came wailing down upon him. Not enough time at all, actually—Emrik sloppily tossed his arms up over his head as the flat, broad side of the shovel cracked across his skull. He cried out. Luckily he'd moved quick enough to blunt the blow, but the bright shock of pain made his ears ring, echoing in his head like thunder. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and stumbled backwards, seeing double.

"Move off, devil!" His attacker cried, raising the shovel again. "We won't have any more of your kind here!"

"What? Now hold on—Siho!" Another blow, but Emrik saw it coming this time.

He caught the shovel in his hand, and as his vision cleared he was able to see who had ambushed him: a man, older, though Emrik wasn't exactly sure how old, it was so hard to tell with humans. The man tried to pull the shovel back from Emrik, but Emrik didn't allow it. He had the advantage of height and weight, and ripped the shovel out of the old man's grasp, like taking a wooden spoon from a child. The man yelped as Emrik yanked it away, his eyes going wide as dinner saucers in his weathered face.

The man's companions, two younger men—no doubt his sons—also had makeshift weapons, a rusted old rake and pitchfork. They raised them, stepping in front of their father. Emrik huffed.

Well then. Coming here may indeed have been a mistake.

Their attack was sloppy, almost to the point of being laughable. It caused a flare of annoyance to spark in Emrik's belly at the throbbing in his skull. How had he let these fools get the drop on him?

They swung their weapons wildly, and Emrik used the shovel's wooden handle to easily glance away the blow from the rake, and then jammed the handle between the prongs of the pitchfork. He used the shovel as a lever to rip the pitchfork from the young man's hands. The man made a surprised noise as Emrik turned and swung the pitchfork away; its prongs slipped off the shovel's handle and it went flying off, landing a fair distance away in the tall grass. The man with the rake shouted and brought it down again, and this time Emrik simply caught it in his hand, the wood smacking against his palm, and one-handed made to pull it out of the man's grip. The man clung on for a moment or two, stumbling forward a few steps as Emrik yanked. Emrik brought his foot up and gave the man a gentle shove with the sole of his boot, and he went wheeling backwards, falling down onto the dirt road, kicking up a little cloud of dust.

Just as quickly as it had started, the scuffle was over, Emrik left standing victorious in the road with a shovel in one hand and rake in the other, the last of the ringing clearing out of his ears. Three wide-eyed faces stared back at him.

"Please don't do that again," Emrik said in rough Pulgavi, throwing the makeshift weapons down onto the dirt. The three men backed away from him. "I've already had a pretty shit few days, you wouldn't believe."

"Stay back!" One of the younger men shouted, throwing his hand up protectively.

"I didn't move," said Emrik.

"Devil!" The father yelled, throwing some sort of hand sign, no doubt a religious symbol of some sort. "Hasn't your kind done enough? Just leave us be!"

"I was only walking into town." Emrik assumed these men were farmers from the cottage he'd just passed, valiantly protecting their land from peaceful passerby. He fought the strong urge to roll his eyes. Great Iron Lords, humans.

"Don't spin tales," one of he younger men said, glaring at Emrik while he half-hid behind his brother. "We know your sort of filth well enough. We've had our fill of devils in Sysse. Why can't you stay away?"

Emrik sighed. Much as he would love to move along and leave these people to their business, their talk of devils had drawn his interest. This farm was, after all, still quite close to the Gate. Emrik had thought his work here finished, but perhaps the Strixa hadn't been the only abomination to slip through. It was possible that these people, while annoying, were not entirely insane. "Look," he said. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. And I'm not a devil."

"Then what are you?" The father spat.

"An elf," Emrik said. "And a tradesmen, of sorts."

"Not like any elf I've ever seen," one of the sons said.

"You've never seen an elf at all," said the other, earning a quick jab in the ribs from his brother.

"Shut up! You know the prayers. The elves are His hands. Does this thing look like a holy creature to you?"

"I am standing right here, you know," Emrik said, flat, and all three looked at him again. "Look, I really am an elf. See? Pointy ears." He lifted his white hair away from his temples, showing the ears in question. All three blinked at him like startled sheep. "Now. I might be able to help with your devil problem."

The father opened his mouth, then closed it again. "What?"

Emrik sighed again, and pointed at his own chest. "Elf," he said very slowly, drawing the word out, then pointed to the three farmers in front of him, his patience growing thin. "Idiots. But it sounds like you might be idiots with a genuine problem. If you point me in the direction of someone who actually knows what they're talking about, I may be able to help you get rid of it."

"You're lying," the father said.

"Am I?" Emrik shot back. "Tell me, what exactly have I done to hurt you? You attacked me. This devil you keep talking about, is it usually so peaceful? Does it usually talk?"

They were all silent for a long moment, but Emrik could see them thinking, the wheels turning behind their vacant eyes.

"Why would you help us?" The father asked at last. "What do you want from us?"

"Like I said, a place to sleep. A hot meal or two. And some coin." Emrik smiled at them, but it didn't look as though it brought them any comfort. "You make your living farming, and I make my living hunting. It's really not so complicated." He watched them shuffle nervously, looking at one another, their uncertainty written in the hunched line of their shoulders. "Tell me, wouldn't you like to be rid of that devil once and for all?"

The father glanced at each of his sons, then back to Emrik. "You really think that's possible?"

"Trust me, the way these things go, I'll either do it, or I'll die trying. Either way, you really haven't got anything to lose." Emrik figured that was close enough to the truth.

The father looked at him, a spark flaring behind his eyes. "Hirr's blessing, you're actually serious."

"As a whore at judgement." They all gawked at him. Emrik cleared his throat. "Now, who can tell me more about this devil?"

~~

Thanks again for reading! I know it was quick and out of context, but I hope you liked! If you did, let me know :D And here’s my AO3 one last time: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experi_neverendum

[mediocre--writing]

Heyyyyyy can you write something sweet with George Weasley?

Maybe reader works in a flower shop nearby? Or literally anything with him because reasons😄 thanks😘

Summary: After your initial meeting, you and George become fast friends, but what if there’s more under the surface?

Word Count: 2066

Warnings: none

The Weasleys, a large pack of gingers who seemed to always overtake any space they were in, were on their yearly trip to Diagon Alley.

As usual, it was destined that one of them would get lost or get distracted by the pretty displays along the sidewalks.

Ginny, the youngest of them, was entranced by the flower shop near the corner of the street. There was a lovely bouquet of daffodils near the window and their bright color was so magical, she felt as though they were calling to her.

As the rest of the family moved onward, Ginny started walking towards the flower shop.

The twins, ever the distracted, decided to follow their younger sister into the shop.

An older man stood behind the counter, going through the till, wrapping coins into rolls and putting old receipts in a box. Behind him, there was a woman arranging a bouquet of roses and baby's breath.

There was soft music playing in the shop and when the bell above the door rang, both the man and woman turned to look at Ginny, then the twins behind her.

“Hello!” The woman perked up at the shoppers, “What may I do for you all today?”

“Just looking around, ma’am,” Ginny spoke as she looked around the shop.

There were vines crawling down the walls, lavender in bunches hanging from the ceiling, drying out. It seemed as though flowers were being grown in the shop itself, rather than another field somewhere.

A younger girl, probably around the twin’s age, came from the back of the shop, flowers braided into her hair as well as pinned on to her apron.

Fred had followed Ginny over to the window display, where she saw the daffodils, and George had been taking in the spectacular shop. The girl who had come from the backroom looked at George for a moment, recognizing him from somewhere.

“Do you go to Hogwarts?” She asked him, jumping him out of his trance. He nodded, “Me too! What year are you?”

“Going into Third, you?” He asked, unconsciously straightening his sweater.

“Going to Third, as well,”

She has such a pretty smile, George thought to himself as he stared at her face, which had to be made by the gods.

“So why’re you here?” She asked kindly, to which he jabbed his thumb over to Ginny and Fred.

“Sister came in ‘cause she thought the flowers in the window were pretty.”

“Cool, cool,” She nodded. “So what’s your name?”

“George,” he smiled, then nodded over to his siblings, “That’s Fred and Ginny.”

“Well, my name’s Y/n. What house are you in?”

“Gryffindor,” He held himself up a little straighter, as if being a Gryffindor was the greatest accomplishment. “What house are you?”

“Slytherin,” She smiled and he felt his brain hurt after her statement.

She was so kind and sweet and if he had to guess, he would have said Hufflepuff, or maybe Ravenclaw, but not Slytherin.

“Right, well,” He didn’t know what to say, how were you supposed to react to that?

Luckily, he didn’t need to respond, as Fred had called him to leave the shop and go back to school shopping.

“I’ll see you at school!” Y/n yelled to him as he walked out, but she didn’t get a response.

“Make another friend, Bug?” Her dad asked sweetly.

“Probably not,” She smiled the best she could.

While walking away from the shop, Fred noticed that George seemed out of it, he wasn’t laughing along with them.

“What’s up?”

“The girl in there, she was sweet, right?”

“Seemed it,” Fred commented, “You were all blushy around her,”

“She’s a Slytherin,”

“Ooh, bad luck,” Fred said, then the conversation was dropped.

He tried not to think about her.

He didn’t think about her smile and how she seemed so inviting. He didn’t think about the pretty red flowers she had in her hair. He didn’t think about how she had dirt all over her apron and clothes, but still looked absolutely stunning.

He most definitely didn’t think about how in her element she looked in the shop, like there was no other place in the world where she felt so at home.

It wasn’t until they were back in school that he saw her again. But it took a few weeks into the term for them to talk, since they hadn’t been alone.

They talked for the first time when McGonagall had to separate Fred and George, so she stuck George next to Y/n.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, but seemed tense and reluctant when doing so.

She tried to start conversations, and he talked along, hesitant at first, but ultimately relaxed as she went on about her day, or a story from when she was younger, and he would respond with a childhood story of his own.

And thus began the wondrous friendship between a Goofy Gryffindor and a Sweet Slytherin.

Every once and awhile, she’d sit with the twins at dinners or breakfasts, which got her weird looks the first few times, though people were used to it by the fifth time.

With the years following, they only ever got closer.

She comforted him in their fourth year when his sister, Ginny, had gone missing during the Basilisk attacks.

He wouldn’t leave her side when word of Sirius Black being near the castle was going around.

When he and his family had gotten tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, she’d been invited, being close with the twins and all.

Molly instantly took a liking to her, especially because she showed up with a bouquet of Our Molly Roses Y/n had made as a thank you.

When the attacks happened the night after, George refused to let her out of his sight, insisting that she preceded him while running to the forest.

He’d become a bit more protective after that, not letting her out of his sight when he could help it.

During their sixth year, when he and Fred tried to get past the age line, she was the first to laugh. That year, she also became closer with Ron, Harry, and Hermione.

Ron was a little twerp and Harry had so much anxiety she wasn’t sure how he was still alive. Hermione, however, became a good friend to Y/n. She looked up to her as an older sister, which made Y/n want to cry, being an only child and all.

But as the Yule Ball approached, Y/n was being asked left and right, given her kindness and beauty wooed most of the boys, and some girls, at Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang alike.

George instantly felt inferior compared to all the others attempting to coerce her into being their date. He felt he had an advantage, however, given she’d said no to every person who’d asked her so far, and he was her best friend.

When he’d finally gotten the courage to ask, a mere week before the dance, they’d been laying on a hill far from the castle, watching the sun rise early in the morning.

She was the only person to make him wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to watch a measly sunrise.

She was threading flowers around themselves, fashioning a ring of yellow and green as she picked them from around where they lay.

While she was focusing on her flower crown, peeking up at the vibrant sunrise every once and awhile, George couldn’t take his eyes off of her beautiful side-profile.

He admired the way the new sunlight made her face a beautiful golden shade and enhanced each curve and point of her face.

“Stop staring, Weasley,” She said with a smirk as she continued her ring of daisies.

“Wasn’t staring, L/n,”

“Don’t lie,” she chuckled as she began to wrap the first daisy around the last, officially making the circle.

“That’s a wonderful flower crown you’ve made there,”

“Yeah, I’m giving it to the most amazing person I know,”

The way she looked into his eyes made his heart falter for a moment. He felt like she could see into his soul, like she knew what he wanted to ask her.

However, she proceeded to place the daisy crown onto her own head, straightening it as she kept eye contact with George, who let out a loud snort.

“Of course,” He said through giggles, eventually laying back onto the grassy hill, her body following after his once the crown was secure on her head.

“I mean, could you think of anyone better?”

“Never,” He smiled as he tilted his head to stare at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Course,” She smiled, “But if you want the crown you’ll have to fight me for it,”

“Oh, I’d never steal your crown, your highness,”

“Ooh, I like that. You should always call me ‘your highness,’” She smirked wickedly, but her eyes were filled with pure joy. “So what’d you wanna ask?”

He scratched his head, pushing his hair out of his face. “I know you’ve been asked by just about everyone, and said no, but would you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

“Yes,”

“That was quick,” He grinned at her immediate response.

“Well I’ve been waiting for months,” She rolled her eyes. “All those other people just wanted to go with me to say they went with me, but if I went with you, then it would really mean something.”

“You mean a lot to me,”

“Same here,”

They laid there, in their chunky sweaters and pajama pants, on that hill, until they could see kids walking to their first class of the day.

George and Y/n had the same first period class, so they leisurely walked to the greenhouses in their warm pajamas and none of their school supplies, to which they talked their way out of a detention with Sprout, and then got dressed and grabbed their stuff before going to their second period.

As the Yule Ball drew closer, Y/n became more and more frazzled.

The night of, she’d promised to help Hermione first, given she was going with Victor Krum, and therefore had to have the first dance. She’d done her hair and gotten mostly ready, apart from the dress and final details, then gone to prepare her little friend.

Y/n had done Hermione’s hair, which looked great, thank you very much, and helped her learn to walk in the heels she’d gotten, which was a lot harder than it needed to be.

About 20 minutes before Hermione needed to leave, Y/n had gotten her dress on, since it needed to be tied in the back, and gotten Hermione’s opinion on her hair and makeup.

Y/n then sent Hermione to the dance.

She was still making sure that her hair wouldn’t get too out of place and was fastening her shoes when she began to hear music from the Great Hall.

She was running so late.

She raced down as quick as she could in her heels, trying not to sweat too much as she got to the Great Hall.

Waiting until the first song finished, she pushed open the door and began searching for George, who was already staring at her in awe.

So was most of the hall.

Scurrying over to the ginger, she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

“You look…” He let out a breathy sigh as he couldn’t find the words.

She had on a deep green ball gown that had a faint floral pattern on the skirt, shining in the lights. In her hair, just like the day they’d met, she had flowers braided into her hair, yellow ones this time, and they looked almost as beautiful as she did

“And you as well,” She chuckled as she took in his maroon, velvet robes that had lace detailing on the trim, though it looked really good on him, or maybe she was just biased.

“Shall we dance, your highness,” He bowed jokingly.

“Ahh, you remembered my real name, how nice,” She laughed as they went out to the dance floor, twirling around and smiling brighter than any other couple there, and drawing the most attention, too.

For good reason though, they gave hope to others that happiness bloomed from the heart, and despite scary times, love would grow endlessly.

[rune-writes]

Rekindled Hope

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

@aerith-week » Day 7: Cherish the Memories

Word count: 2482

Rating: G

Summary: A brief look into the times Kunsel visited Aerith at her church after Zack went missing. Two people in grief. Two people seek company in each other.

Note: A little late entry for Day 7′s prompt, featuring Kunsel!^^ (because ever since I saw his mail to Zack where he spoke about Aerith’s broken wagon and her refusal to accept his help because she’s still waiting for Zack, I just need to see their interactions).

Part 3 of Follow the Yellow Flowers: Aerith Week 2021

Read on AO3. 

~*~*~*~*~

He came again—the friend—sauntering over to the flowerbed, then lounging on one of the wooden benches. He sat with his arms resting over his thighs as he folded his fingers loosely together. “How are you?” he’d ask. “How’s the garden? How are the flowers? How about your mother?” How, how, how, as if it was genuine interest and not some kind of obligation he’d felt toward his missing friend. He always kept his helmet on, ever since that day he’d taken it off and introduced himself. 

The man—boy?—was around her age. He had come knocking on the church’s door before pushing it open enough for him to slip through. Aerith had looked up then, fighting against the urge to jump and grin and say, Welcome home, Zack, because she’d gone through that scenario in more times than she could count, and not once had it been her SOLDIER with the sky-blue eyes. Reno had come one time with that swagger in his gait, grumbling at what a pain Tseng had been for putting him under babysitting duties; Aerith had frowned at him and said, “Well, go, if you don’t wanna babysit me.” Another time had been Rude, who had entered the church with a small basket in his hand. He had apparently visited her house, and her mother had told him to bring her something to eat. He’d said nothing much, just stood in the corner with that unperturbed coolness. And when Tseng came to visit a few days after that, Aerith had been prepared, rising to her feet just as the door slid open.

“What now?” she’d said, arms folded over her chest. 

Tseng had crossed the large hall with a small smile playing across his features. “Have Reno and Rude bothered you so much that you won’t give me a simple ‘hello’?”

“Even if they hadn’t, why should I?” 

Her voice had been testy, but Tseng had only scoffed, soft and amused. He’d remained silent, facing her with that impeccable smile. 

Aerith’s lips had pulled into a taut line. It had been a struggle to maintain her anger, if only because she’d had no energy left to stay angry. Not after she’d spent months waiting for someone who never came. She’d dropped her gaze, the tension leaving her shoulders in a quiet sigh. Wordlessly, she’d turned around, then crouched before her flowerbed. The yellow lilies had gazed at her, offering what little comfort flowers could give. It had been a moment before Tseng moved to her side and helped her tend her flowers. 

So when, some time later, the church’s heavy doors creaked open once more, a part of her had expected it would be one of the Turks, checking up on her as part of their daily routine. But it hadn’t been those men in black striding toward her. The person had worn none other than the SOLDIER garb she’d come to miss. A different color, she’d noted—a dark, muted purple. But it had been still a SOLDIER garb, with a SOLDIER helmet, and the person had paused mid-step on his tracks, gave a slight tilt of his head followed by a small nod, before resuming his walk and stopping in front of her. 

“Are you Aerith?” he’d asked. 

Aerith had blinked, surprised. How had this person known her name? Had the Turks sent a SOLDIER instead to watch over her? She’d given him a quiet nod, then seen a smile blossoming on his face. 

“Good, I was afraid I got the wrong person.” His voice had been light, sweet. He’d reached up and lifted the helmet off his face. A sharp, strong jawline; sculpted cheekbones; and dark brown hair that fell over his forehead; but it was the eyes that caught her attention—bright blue like the sky, rimmed with a Mako glow. 

Just like him. 

With the smile still plastered across his face, he’d held out his hand and said, “My name’s Kunsel, Zack’s friend.”

Somehow, Aerith had always evaded hearing that name. A conscious decision, perhaps, or maybe a subconscious one—the way her mind shut off any mention of it. Her mother had never spoken it, and neither had the Turks whenever they visited her. The slum residents had barely known him. Even when the so-called fan club had approached her, her mind had been ready. But when this friend introduced himself, Aerith hadn’t had the chance to prepare herself.

Zack’s friend. 

Unbidden, a lump had formed at the back of her throat. Aerith had fought back against the choke as tears sprang to her eyes. 

***

The first month Zack hadn’t returned, Aerith had believed when people said he was busy, caught up in whatever assignment the Company had given him. But then three months rolled by, six months, and now it had been well over a year, and there was still no news of his return or whereabouts.

Kunsel rose from his seat and strode over to her, crouching before the flowerbed and reaching to stroke the yellow petals. With his helmet settled over his head, Aerith felt his glance more than she saw it, but he said nothing, then went to pull the weeds sprouting from the ground. 

Why exactly was he here? She had figured SOLDIERs would have their plates full, with how many times a phonecall or mission had interrupted her date with Zack. But here Kunsel was, months after he’d introduced himself and seen her cry, months of helping her tend her flowerbed as though he had all the time in the world. He’d offered to fix her cart one time, broken after using it so many times to sell flowers around the slums, but she’d refused and said she’d wait for Zack. Because Zack would come. He had promised her he would. 

Kunsel deftly pulled at the weeds, reaching deep into the roots so as not to let them grow again. He moved quietly, scouring her flowerbed for the parasitic plants that would kill her flowers. The pile on his side grew higher with each passing moment. When he was about to go to her side, Aerith spoke up.

“No, I’ll—I’ll take care of this side.”

The SOLDIER looked at her. Even through his visor, Aerith could still see those familiar Mako-rimmed eyes. Her heart clenched. She only spared him a glance before dropping her gaze back to her chore. 

“Alright,” she heard him say. She watched him from the corner of her eye, at the efficient way he moved as he cleaned his side of the flowerbed. Silent, but still a reassuring presence. 

When had it started—when she’d started looking forward to his visits more than she would admit? She’d told him one time he hadn’t needed to help with the flowers, but Kunsel had only given her a sideways glance and said, “You let Tseng help.” No, she hadn’t. She’d told Tseng the same, but true to his character, Tseng had never listened to her. Not once. But maybe that’s not true, now that Aerith thought about it. Tseng never brought her back to the lab, and he had lent his phone that time she had wanted to call Zack. The man had known her since she was little, and despite whatever true intention he and his men had behind their visits, Aerith was grateful for the Turks’ company—as grateful as she had grown to accept Kunsel’s too. Because having someone else beside her… it helped keep the sadness at bay. 

With that thought in mind, her next words rolled out of her tongue instinctively: “I started writing letters.” She felt his glance, felt the quiet surprise, but Aerith only focused her attention on the rhythmic way her hands pulled at the weeds.

Her admission made it true—those nights she’d spent staring at her ceiling. Worry had gnawed at her heart, wondering what had happened to Zack, wondering where he was and what he was doing and if he was okay. Everyone said he might have moved on. Her mother had said to forget about him. And Aerith wanted to, if only she could. 

She was never a stranger to loneliness. She had spent her days alone in Shinra’s lab, then spent more days alone in the slums. None of the kids had played with her. The only friends she’d had were the flowers. Yet when Zack crashed through her church’s roof and fell onto her flowerbed, everything had changed. The church that had once offered her solace became a source of joy. She’d started playing a game of when-would-Zack-visit-again, and sometimes, when Aerith opened the massive double doors, she would find him already waiting for her with a grin radiant like the sun.

Across the flowerbed, Kunsel still stared at her. Aerith gave a little shrug as she said, “For a few months now, I think? Mom told me to. She hated seeing me so… down for so long, so this one night, she came up to me and asked me what I wanted to do. That if I can’t reach him by phone, I could try writing to him. Who knows? Maybe he’d read it, no matter how busy he gets…”

Busy… As though being “busy” was the one thing that had kept Zack away. As though nothing bad could have prevented him from coming home. Every time Aerith voiced her concerns to Tseng, he had always been quick to say that Zack was fine. That the company was keeping him busy for longer than anyone had expected. But Tseng had always been a trained liar, and there had been no doubt he was lying to her.

Aerith sneaked a glance at Kunsel, gauging his reaction. Would he lie to her too? But Kunsel had his eyes fixed on the weeds at his clutch, his jaws set as his gaze took on a hard glint. 

“Busy, huh…” His grip tightened, his knuckles going white. “If only that’s all there is.” He pulled the weeds with all his might. Dirt burst out in a sprinkle of dark brownish matter, showering his lap, his hands, his boots. Kunsel stared at the now-lifeless plant on his palm. “That’s what we wish, isn’t it? That he’s just too busy to check his phone or that he’s stuck somewhere with a low signal. But… is that all there is?” 

“What do you mean?”

“The news, that Zack might’ve been—” His breath catching on the word, Kunsel pursed his lips. But Aerith knew what he meant. Killed in action. She’d heard. When those fan club people had approached her—they might not have realized, but she’d heard snippets of their conversation. Her fingers twitched, a muscle fluttering along her jawline. Aerith didn’t believe it.

Across from her, Kunsel cleared his throat. “I never believed it. Not one bit of it. I know he’s out there somewhere, and the Company is hell bent on keeping it a secret.”

Aerith blinked in surprise. “How are you so sure?” 

“Because I tried looking for him, and they cut my search short.” 

The silence that followed was deafening. Aerith stared at Kunsel, trying to make sense of his words. Was Kunsel insinuating that Shinra was the reason Zack went missing?

Kunsel’s face was hard as he returned to his chore, his movement swift and efficient. Before long, he’d cleaned the entire flowerbed, even the section Aerith had meant to clean herself. He gathered all the weeds, then rose, bringing them to the trash can outside the church. When he returned, the hard glint was gone. In its place was a brilliant beam. 

“Have faith, Aerith. He’ll come back. One way or another, he’ll come back for sure. He promised, didn’t he?”

Aerith stared at him, at that conviction that was so strong, so bright, so contagious. It made her own hope flickered back to life. She had not yet felt his soul pass her by—the way Elmyra’s husband’s had after he died in Wutai. Zack was still out there. She was sure of it. 

“Is that why you’re here?” she asked then. “To give me hope?”

Her question had taken Kunsel off guard. It showed in the widening of his eyes and the slight slackening of his jaws. Her mouth quirked into a little smirk, Aerith snorted, turning away to hide her laughter behind her hand. 

“Hey,” he said, and she heard the amused chuckle in his voice. Kunsel snorted, then scoffed. “For your information, I’m Zack’s best friend. You ask every SOLDIER, grunt, or even the Turks who Zack’s friend is and they’re gonna say me. I know everything about your boyfriend, including how head-over-heels in love he is with you. So, if you ask me why I’m here…” 

His voice trailed off. The way Kunsel had nonchalantly bragged about being Zack’s friend had made her want to laugh, but seeing his face now, seeing his melancholic smile… Aerith pursed her lips. 

Kunsel lifted his face and stared at the hole in the roof. In a voice so low that Aerith had almost missed it, he said, “I promised I’d look after you, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

A shift in the clouds outside gave way to sunlight slanting in through the hole. It shone on Kunsel’s helmet, making the metal sparkle. In another timeline, had she met Kunsel when Zack was still here, would they have become fast friends without this sorrow hanging over them? Laughing and joking around as the boys visited her at the church. 

Kunsel shielded his eyes at the blinding sun. “It’s sunny outside. Wanna have a walk?” Those sky-blue eyes were bright and clear, Aerith found the sight of them didn’t hurt her anymore. Still a twinge of pain, but nothing she couldn’t handle. 

Aerith rose to her feet. She brushed her hands against her dress, then stretched her arms over her head. Holding her hands behind her back, she followed Kunsel’s gaze and, for the first time in a long time, looked at the sliver of blue between two metal plates. She held her gaze, even as her heart constricted at the sight of it.

When you come back from your assignment, let’s go sell flowers under the sky together. I won’t be afraid if you’re with me.

A lump formed at the back of her throat, Aerith pressed her lips in a thin line. The flowers on her feet swayed in a nonexistent wind, as if trying to comfort her. As if trying to say, he’ll come back.

Aerith threw Kunsel a sideways glance. The SOLDIER was looking at her with an inviting tilt of his head. “Sure,” she said, and felt her lips parting into a small, genuine smile, one that came from her heart. “Let’s go. And you can take your helmet off if you want. Isn’t it stuffy?” She met his look of surprise with a grin, before heading off to exit the church.

~ END ~

[imagine-nation20]

Mutants, and Magic, and Stones, Oh My

Summary: After the fighting stops, and everyone returns to the mansion to get back to their semi-normal lives, they meet an unexpected guest.

Requested: No? But also yes, by an anon

Request:Wild card! write whatever you hell you want to read! (or don't, if you don't feel like it)

Pairing: Sean Cassidy X Reader (Sort of. Its hinted at)

A/N: I’ve had this idea in my head for a very long time, but I haven’t seen to First Class movie since… like it came out? So excuse my weird lack of information. This was just a fun idea that I felt like writing, and thank you to the anon for giving me the means to do so! Also, reader is hinted more towards being female, so sorry.

~~~

Stephen Strange stared at you from across his desk. “I’m not angry,” He started.

You groaned in response, “Please don’t do that, ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ speech, okay? I get it, I screwed up-”

“By almost destroying the New York Sanctum,” He grumbled back.

“But I didn’t,” You insisted, crossing your arms in a huff.

“(Y/N),” He tilted his head, hands clasping in front of him on the desk. “You’re a smart kid, but I took you on as my personal apprentice under the assumption that you would set an example.”

You threw your hands up, “I have, Doctor Strange,” you insisted, “I’m the best in the entire sanctum, maybe even every sanctum! I never lose a sparring match, I practise every spell given to me until I’ve perfected it, and yet, I make one little mistake, and suddenly I’m a disappointment?”

“I never said-”

“What do I have to do to prove to you I’m taking this seriously?” You asked, eyes wide in an earnest plea.

Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose, and you could have sworn you saw three new grey hairs sprout from his head. He was silent, staring down at his hands, which were now rested flat on his desk. His eyes trailed to you. 

He had taken you in as his apprentice on a whim. A car crash, which should have been fatal, instead left you paralyzed from the waist down. He had come to you in the hospital, clad in strange robes and a bright red cape, talking of magic and giving you back you ability to walk. You had thought he was crazy, if not for the demonstration he gave in the middle of your scramble to call a nurse or doctor.

You had accepted without any further fight. If you could get your freedom back, you would take it. So, you studied. Harder than any other apprentice. You weren’t going to take this miracle opportunity for granted. If Stephen told you to jump from a cliff, you would, with the faith that he knew what he was doing, and it would better your training.

So when he pulled the Eye of Agamotto from his neck, you tried not to let your jaw drop to the floor.

“There are disturbances, I can feel it through the eye,” He mumbled. “Something, or someone, is messing with the timeline.”

“And?”

He took a deep breath, sliding the eye across the desk to you, “And I want you to go back and fix it.”

“You-” You stuttered. “You want me to use the eye to go back and stop someone from messing up the past?”

“Yes,” He shrugged. “I would do it, but I have to look after the Sanctum, make sure we can recover from this recent setback,’ He leveled you with a look.

“Are you sure you want me to do it?” You asked, reaching out hesitantly.

“Weren’t you the one just grovelling for forgiveness?” He quirked a brow.

With that, you snatched up the eye, pulling it over your head and letting hang from your neck. The old, brassy metal and glowing green of the amulet contrasted with the white and grey of your robes.

“Take the staff with you,” Was his last fleeting comment, waving you from the room. “When you are ready, come find me in the training arena.”

You walked away, moving to prepare. Your robes, you switched out for more moveable, mission-like clothes. Black pants, tucked tight into brown, wrapped boot. Next came the long sleeved, brown undershirt, which had arm guards wrapped over top, then a darker, short sleeve top. A cloth, which looked like a long strip of bright red material with a hole dead center for her head. You slipped it over, each part hanging down past your knees. A thick, black belt held it all together, with a paler, brown cloth wrapped over top to hide a dagger sheath.

It was a lot of layers, and took you awhile to get on. The final touches consisted of the eye, which was tucked under the red cloth, and the brown straps to hold your staff. At your waist hung a small spellbook.

Stephen was meditating when you showed up.

“Good, you grabbed the book,” He never opened his eyes. “You will need it, seeing as you wont have access to the Sanctums where you are going.”

“Which was going to be my first question,” You said. “Where am I going?”

“1962, New York,” He said. “What do you know about mutants?”

~~~

“Come on, Alex,” Sean smirked.

The blonde shook his head, “I am not helping you push Hank off the roof as payback,” Alex pushed the redhead away.

“But he deserves a taste of his own medicine,” Sean was adamant that this was fair play, despite the slight flaw to his plan.

“Hank doesn’t have the ability to fly, Cassidy,” Alex stood from his spot on the couch, moving towards the exit to the sitting room.

“So? I couldn’t fly when he pushed me,” Sean snarked.

They walked through the almost empty halls of the mansion. Despite Charles’ claims that they would soon have students wandering the halls, it was still quiet even weeks after the incident on the beach. Charles hadn’t quite recovered yet, and those who still remained in the mansion were hesitant in thinking he ever really would.

From down the hallway, Hank turned the corner, Charles beside him in his wheelchair. Sean was about to open his mouth to snark at the tall brunette in a lab coat, when a commotion outside hit his ears. A glance out the window from the four pairs of eyes left them all speechless.

In the gravel of the driveway, to the right of the fountain, was carved out by a large crater. It looked like a meteor had hit, despite no previous signs, and no fire. From within the crater, a green glow spread out.

The four glanced at each other.

“Uh, Professor…” Alex whispered.

“I don’t know,” Was Charles' answer to the unasked question. “Let us find out, shall we?”

Outside, there was no scent of smoke or fire. Instead, a metallic tang on electricity hung in the air, the tingle setting everyone’s arm hairs on end. The light from within the crater faded.

A hand appeared, grasped onto the ledge of the crater. Their palms were caked in dirt, but the back of their hand was surprisingly clean.

From within the crater, you grunted, cursing out Stephen in whatever language came to mind--even the more ancient ones. With great effort, and the use of already sore muscles, you pulled yourself from the hole your impact into the year made.

Upon rising from with depths, you locked eyes witha group of very shocked men. You must’ve looked crazy, with your old-looking robes and metal-tippedstaff. The glowing green necklace probably didn’t help.

“Hi,” You said awkwardly, “One of you wouldn’t happen to be Charles Xavier, would you?”

One of the older members of the group, who was in a metallic wheelchair, raised a hesitant hand. You smiled, sighing.

“Great, that makes my job way easier,” You joked. “I’ll be quick, but I’m from the future, someone from my time is trying to change this past, and I’m here to stop it.”

The redhead, standing stock still in the front, choked out an odd noise. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, as he collapsed.

“...oops,” You shrugged.

When Sean Cassidy came too, he could’ve sworn he had died and gone to heaven. You hovered over him, a pale yellow light emitting from the sigils you created over him. You smiled, hesitant and almost guilty.

“Sorry about all that,” You said. “Didn’t realize how shocking it would be if I just unloaded all of that.”

You were in one of the many sitting rooms, Sean sprawled out on the ugly, floral print couch. His head hurt, but the pain was quickly subsiding with every pulse of light from the sigils.

“What…” He trailed off.

You followed his eyes, seeing the confusion, “Oh, I guess I explain to the others, but not to you. I’m a… magician, of sorts. These are healing spells, I hoped they would help.”

“Magic,” Sean whispered, eyes wide.

You nodded.

“Are you a mutant?” He asked.

With a laugh, you shook your head, “No, I was human, up until about a year ago,” You explained.

The symbols disappeared, a smile stretching onto your face, you mumbled an ‘all better’, before helping him sit up.

“I feel bad that I made you pass out though,” You said.

“It’s fine,” Sean smiled. “At least I have a good nurse.”

Alex came strolling in at that moment, the calm mood rupturing with his loud steps. His blonde hair, which had previously been combed and well kept, was now sticking up in odd places.

“Professor wants to speak with you,” Alex said to you.

You nodded, shooting one last smile to Sean, before getting up to leave. As you rounded the corner out of the room, Sean spoke up.

“Am I hallucinating?” He asked his friend.

Alex chuckled, patting him on the back harshly, “No,” He sent him a sly look. “You really did pass out in front of the pretty girl from the future.”

“God dammit.”

[boneswriteswords]

I have seriously fallen in LOVE with your writing now. Thank you so much but I would love to request another if that's alright! Iv always wondered what Jason would do if hid s/o turned out like him? Drowned or killed in some way only to come back stronger than before ?

***sneaks in and posts this after letting it sit here for 100 years***

Sorry. Hope you like it anyway. Its not my best but I tried. 

~~~~

Jason cried behind his mask, garbled wounded sounds from broken vocal cords. He clutched you to him, drenching himself in your blood as it trickled to a stop. You were gone, had been for hours, and he was frantic. He rubbed against your rigid skin, desperate to return the warmth and color to it.

Grey didn’t suit you.

He couldn’t feel your thumping heart against his chest. He regretted every moment he took it for granted.

“Jason. Sweetheart. You have to bury her.” His mother’s voice echoed inside his head, strong in all its softness. He shook his head, clutching your corpse tighter against his chest. He would not put you in the ground. It was cold and dark and you deserved the sunshine. You deserved to see the day.

“Oh my sweet boy,” she sighs and he can feel her phantom fingers stroking his head, “You must let her go. You must honor her. Let nature take its course. It will be okay.”

For the first time in his life, he doubted his mother’s words. How could anything ever be okay again? He lost you. He failed you. He miscounted and those stupid teenagers ripped you apart before he could catch them. Your screams echoed inside of his rib cage. You had cuts all over your hands and arms, skin jammed under your fingernails and blood on your lips and teeth and bruises on your eyes.

You had fought them. Viciously.

But they had been too much for you.

Jason wished he could resurrect them, pump life back into them just to take it away again. He had raged, slashing at the group recklessly until parts of them started flying off with the force of his machete. Torture wasn’t really his thing but his time with Freddy had showed him the benefits of a long drawn-out kill. He wanted them to experience the pain they put you through before your body gave out, before you had fallen helplessly into death’s waiting arms.  

He regrets their short deaths and promises to get his revenge on the next group of teenagers that show up. They were all the same and all of them would fall victim to his blade.

“Jason,” his mother coos again, “We can’t leave her here. Let’s put her close to us. They did like that spot beside your cabin. They used to read out loud to you as you cleaned traps. You can watch over her there.”

Another wail, a sound that can only be called a hybrid between agony and haunted, burst from his mouth. You did like to sit outside and read to him while he worked. You had said that you liked being close to him and, this way, you could spent time together while doing different things. He wasn’t really interested in the stories but the soothing lilt to your voice kept him calm and focused.

He had known that you loved him then, that everything he felt was reciprocated and he didn’t have to worry if you left. You had sought him out instead of running. You had chosen to spend your time with him as a companion instead of locking yourself away from him, thinking of a way to leave.

And now you were gone and he’d never experience the feeling he got when he saw you approaching, book in hand and sweetness dusted along your face, ever again.

“Oh my sweet boy,” Pamela shushes as her son moans, distraught “I know it hurts but you need to get her buried. Come on now.”

You were buried in a well dug, perfectly shaped hole. Jason didn’t go six feet down, it was too dark and he didn’t want you to be scared down there. He crafted a headstone from a chunk of rock with the tools he had around the campsite. He couldn’t spell so he engraved a love-heart into the stone instead of your name.

Pamela watched on with fondness, her hands guiding his when they started to shake.

Jason, changed in ways he had never understood before, returned to his life before you. He was no longer the man he had been before he had known your soft eyes and kind touch. His killings became more brutal. More drawn out. He chased them more. He skinned and flayed his victims in ways that even Freddy was intimidated by. His trappings became more elaborate – filled with ways to break their spirits before he broke their bodies. He leaned into a nature that wasn’t completely his but fit him well enough all the same, determined to uphold your honor and destroy those who sought to taint the land you were a part of now.

He visited your grave consistently, making sure it remained untouched and nice. After a month, he saw that grass had started rising from where he buried you and he wept. He was tempted to pull it all out but his mother reminded him of how much you liked nature. You liked grass.

So he left it.

He left the grass that grew on and around your grave.

He left the dandelions that sprouted soon after.

He left the ladybugs and butterflies and all manner of critters that came to hang out alone.

He left the bush that began sprouting from the hole.

A cycle of seasons passed and he remained the same, standing guard over the camp and your grave. You had become your own legend, the counterpart to Jason and Pamela. The last batch of campers had told ghost stories of you, weaving words of malice as they compared you to Davy Jones’ chest. How finding your grave was supposed to bring them protection.Their deaths were brutal but Jason savored the way your name sounded out loud. He made sure to rest his weary head beside your headstone that evening, his hand buried in the dirt under the bush that grew there.

He had no need for sleep but his dreams offered him the comfort of you alive in his arms so he took to doing it regularly. Freddy didn’t touch his dreams any more. The last time he interrupted a dream of you hadn’t been pretty and neither of them had really recovered from the incident.

On the anniversary of your death, he woke up to something feeling very wrong. He could feel his mother nudging him, urging him to wake up. She sounded pleased but something in Jason’s stomach told him that there was something wrong. Something was different. The energy around the camp had changed.

“Go to the grave Jason,” his mother urges, “Go now.”

He did, anger rising to the surface as he turned down the path that led to your cabin. Was someone at your grave? Had someone escaped his notice and found your resting place? He knew that finding your grave had become a sort of game for those who intruded and bringing back proof that you existed was ‘desirable.’ There were ‘bragging rights’ associated with the desecration.  

Jason would not allow it. God himself would tremble at the fury he would unleash on those who dared lay a hand on your grave.

As he neared, he could feel the presence of another and he was fully expecting to find intruders to slaughter. He couldn’t hear any and he couldn’t see any but someone was here.

He wasn’t expecting to see you.

But there you were, sitting in the dirt beside your headstone, confused and terrified and new. The bush was gone. The dandelions were gone.

If he had a heart, it would have stopped. Distractedly, he could feel his mother smiling.

“Jason,” you whimpered, eyes wet and wide as you gazed at him, “Jason.”

Jason has never moved so fast in his life.

~~~~

End 

~~~~

[hoe-imaginess]

Kakashi Hatake x blind!s/o

STOP this was so cute I had to write immediately. Chose Kakashi because he jumped at me and demanded it

and thank you so much!! (hope you’re staying safe as well!!!)

~

With the sun going down, the glow of activity in Konoha’s streets was diffusing. Shopkeepers closed their doors for the evening, and vendors packed their merchandise and disassembled their stalls.

Kakashi strolled through as the village quieted itself. One of the shopkeepers, recognizing him, waved in greeting. He waved back, sluggish despite having taken a relatively early leave from work. 

Though the hour was a rare but generous one for Kakashi to find himself on the path home, he was exhausted to his bones and had to more than once remind his feet to carry their own weight and stop dragging along the dirt. 

He loosed a sedative breath. 

Paperwork had done in him that day, and though the notion of sliding under his sheets and picking up a novel he was close to finishing was a tempting one, he didn’t think he could scroll his eyes over another inch of lettering without going nauseous. He decided he’d let his pillow have his attention the rest of the night. He needed sleep, desperately. 

And so deciding, took a shortcut down a narrow alley which would bring him closer to his street. Turning out of the the alley, he glanced another shopkeeper, stooped to the ground and gathering something in their hands. 

When they stood, unaware that Kakashi—who was himself errant of his surroundings, courtesy of exhaustion—was at their heel, their pivoting motion put them in his path and they collided. The shopkeeper’s belongings were knocked from their arm’s clutches.

Senses returned, Kakashi managed to snatch one or two of the tumbling items, which he now saw were various books and pamphlets, before they toppled down into a heap with the rest. 

“I’m sorry,” he uttered quickly, going on his haunches to retrieve the others, as he did so, noticing the shopkeeper bent down with him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay,” she said, her hands roaming over the ground in search of the fallen objects. He was too muddled by his own inattentiveness to notice the oddity of her seeking movements. “I didn’t see you, either.”

Only once they’d gathered her capsized belongings did he glance up to greet her with his eyes, and only then as he took his careful inspection did he understand why her previous comment had been fastened with such a... nimble, humorous undertone.

She was blind. The glaze of cloudiness over her pupils was indicator enough—a paleness unlike those of the Hyuuga, Kakashi saw—but not the most telling demonstration; though she faced him, she didn’t appear to be looking at him, her eyes idling somewhere around his chest, centering where they felt most agreeable without the proper perception to guide them. 

“Sorry,” he muttered again, now stranded with an advancing fluster, and stood to his feet slowly, rising in punctual fashion only when she followed suit. 

“It’s okay,” she insisted again.

Behind her on the shop windowsill was a box, which she reached for and claimed with surprising precision. Once she’d slipped her reclaimed books inside the box she proffered it to him, and realizing, he carefully placed his own salvaged items along with hers. 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” she granted, smiling kindly, eyes still settled comfortably on a horizon of her choosing, somewhere under his chin. “I might have heard you coming otherwise.”

“My fault, really,” he amended. “I was... I’m sort clumsy when I’m tired.” 

But the desire for sleep had absconded his head, and the uncomfortable debacle pumped alertness back into his system. It was silly of him to be so debilitated by this, he knew, yet the pulsing nervousness in him went undisputed.

Another box filled with books caught his attention, previously stocked and placed against her shop door. 

“Can I help you with all of this?” Unthinking and without a reply to inspire him, he bent to take the box. “Are you packing up for the day?”

The box included scrolls swathed in metal clasps. She knew he’d claimed it in his arms when the clasps rattled noisily against one another. “I am,” she said. “These are the things I keep out here, on display. And I appreciate the offer, but I can manage. I live a ways down.”

Her nod in the direction at her back confirmed that assistance would take him in the opposite direction of his home, but a searching and restless energy had curtailed his desire to go there.

“I really don’t mind,” he insisted, a touch of over-enthusiasm in his tone. A kind description of willingness in his expression clearly would do no good; he would have to compensate how he could to win her assurance. But he swore he could hear the sheepish skittering of his own voice, and hoped she didn’t hear it, too.

“I do it every day on my own,” she said, with what he presumed was a practiced patience; she still smiled at him, but there was a curve in her lips now that was aware of his fluster and unabashedly amused by it. “Don’t go out of your way.” 

Readjusting the box already in her grasp to rest upon her hip, her free arm extended to him, inviting his relinquishment of her other possessions. 

Fearful that his persistence might offend, but unwilling to so carelessly resign, he debated his next move until his hands decided course for him; they held the box to his chest resolutely. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he said, moving, making his foot falls pointed and auspicious as he took a step in her desired direction. “I’m off work early today, anyways.”

“If you insist,” she yielded with a little laugh, still committed to her friendly smile.

He watched her carefully as she walked in tandem at his side, holding his tongue when he saw some foreboding dip in the terrain’s evenness, or a fellow villager on a direct course to bump into her. But each of these encumbrances she remedied flawlessly, with an unhurried detour in her gait or an acute twist of her body. Clearly she had been telling the truth when she mentioned this being normal routine. Kakashi was almost convinced that she had memorized each and every step of the route.

“Kakashi, is it?” she spoke up, pulling his focus from external anxieties.

“Uh—yes.” Before he could form his next inquiry—though given its presumptuous nature, it would have been a hesitant one to produce, anyways—she anticipated his puzzlement, and granted him mercy by way of an unprovoked answer.

“I’ve heard your voice before,” she explained. “It’s easy to remember voices. Once that’s the only thing you can go off of, at least.”

There was no self-pity in her voice, which in turn, invited none from him. He imagined that was a purposeful tactic of hers. 

“But it’s also the chakra,” she went on. “Everyone’s is a little different. Not by much. I’m not a sensor by nature, but I rely on it now. The body will adjust, give a little in one respect when it feels a lacking in another.”

Kakashi looked at her. She was still smiling her little smile, as though this wasn’t the first time she had reasoned through the phenomena and wouldn’t be the last. Nor was the explanation without a sort of confidence; she appeared to have no qualms of her condition, and spoke of it with such steadfast acceptance that it was no doubt she gave it much thought at all anymore.

It was a nice thing, he decided, but it returned to him a meek warmth of shame that he had been so blatantly skeptical before, that he had made such a show of charity in response to his own preconceived doubts.

“That’s interesting,” he replied. “So... you weren’t a sensor at birth? Or at least, as far back as one can really remember that sort of thing...?”

A sweet chuckle sounded from behind closed, smiling lips. “Exactly. I don’t remember much, but I do know when I first started noticing.”

The proceeding conversation put him at ease, made the guilt he felt for trudging along in a hopeful correction of his earlier embarrassment slowly ebb away. She was kind, and clever, too, with an unfairly natural quick-wittedness about her. She made him laugh more than once: a genuine laugh that felt good and warming to be loosed through his wearied body after such a long week. 

“I can take it from here,” she said, and came to stop in front of a house. 

Kakashi slowed at her side to give the abode a quick admiration: small, but modest and seemingly comfortable. Potted plants lined her windows, well-nurtured vines and flowers sprouted over the edges. 

He entertained no hesitation when she reached for the box in in his hands; he gave it over, but, feeling suddenly restless with its desertion, stuff his hands into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. 

“Thank you,” she told him. “I hope this didn’t put you on too much of a detour.”

“Not at all.” He swore her eyes were higher in their post now, though not quite where they could yet make an imitation of eye contact. But Kakashi found it comforting, in a way, and for his own indulgence would resign it as something purposeful and not coincidental. 

“You live near my shop, don’t you?” she was asking. 

He nodded. “I do. A bit farther down...” Without prompting, he knew what should be offered to mark a pleasant end to their short—regrettably short, if he was being honest—chat, and to secure they might be granted another one soon. “I’ll make sure to stop in when I can. I read quite a bit. Is that all you sell? Books and the like?”

“Among other things. It’s a little ironic, isn’t it? Why own a book shop if you can’t make use of the books? Most people get a laugh out of it.” As if to prove a point, and furthermore soften the vexatious innuendos, laughed at her own notion. “I have my reasons.”

Though he was curious to hear those reasons, the sun was going down behind them, orange and warm, but a reminder nevertheless, that their encounter was a chance one and better left concise for the time being. 

“I’d like to hear them at some point.” He would settle on saying that much. Another lukewarm suggestion, a way to tease a future promise of reunion.

“I’ll be happy to tell you. Do stop by, when you get the chance.” 

“Will do.”

“Goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

He waited until she had felt her way up her porch, opened her door, and closed herself inside—all of this, while still supporting boxes under each arm—then he set about back the way they had walked.  

The attentiveness to conversation which usually suffered him through unwanted dialogue had diffused, yet that adrenaline, the one which kept him as engaged as his duties usually needed, still remained. Clearly, it hadn’t been unwanted dialogue after all. 

There was a comforting hum relaxing his limbs as he walked, making the hands buried in his pocket slump cozily with the ease of gravity. Liable as he was to avoid trivial contact which exasperated him when he could, especially with his job making sociable demands of him already, this brief run-in had been all parts trivial but none exasperating. 

Had such an incidental thing really been so eventful that it continued to swarm over him long after he had left her? Long after he had walked by her shop again, taken a good few minutes to admire it, before heading home?

It was like a little glow, one that hadn’t been there before, clinging to him now that they had parted. 

Even when he arrived home and climbed methodically under the sheets, the glow went with him, straying his mind from the invitation of sleep and instead recounting the evening’s events. 

Piecing together every little facet of the encounter was like a game, a silly and overkeen game which kept his brain up far longer than his body would have liked. 

What was that thing she had told him as they walked, about having in her collection one of the oldest scripts written on The Land of Fire’s river systems?  And had she really been returning his attentive glances, as though she had noticed him staring, or was that a trick of his mind? Had he said goodnight first? Or had she? And did she have that same smile on her face when she said it? 

Some of the answers were stolid in his memory; others he fought to elucidate, for no reason other than the fact that he wanted to appreciate their encounter in its true, undiluted form. 

Such confusing and superfluous thoughts. He was being so stupid, he told himself. Stupid. 

But when he twisted under the sheets and finally set his mind to finding sleep, little inklings of memory, her face, her smile, her laugh, continued to ripple beneath the surface. 

[grouptalekindnesssoulstories]

Prince Lee? Zuko the Tea Server

@fyrelordzuko i got some inspiration from your post. It sounds adorable. 

I decided as writer that I wanted more homosexual pining/tension. So I edited events to make it so! (Also Jet’s accusation was hard to find. Like, seriously you’d think there’d be more clips of it but noooooo)

Warnings: There’s some switching of perspective and names. ~ <- means a change in perspective (--) <- means time passes. When Sokka is the focus, Zuko is Lee. Otherwise I think I called him only Zuko?? IDK

“Uncle, that’s one of the avatar’s friends” Zuko tugged on Iroh’s arm, pointing to the customer who had just walked in. 

“Yes, so?” Iroh sighed to himself. He’d just gotten Zuko to stop obsessing over the group. 

“So, do you think he’s here to attack me?” Zuko’s voice was so scared and raw, and Iroh wanted nothing more than to just hug him. The banished prince acted so much older than his 16 years that hearing him just be 16 was good. Iroh wished it were something other than fear, but he’d take it as it came. He settled for calming his nephew’s nerves for now. 

“It’s broad daylight. He won’t do anything, and besides he hasn’t confronted you. He seems like the type to use the others for witnesses, so if he hasn’t said anything, you’re fine. Now, go take his order before he starts to get suspicious” Iroh gently pushed Zuko towards the table where the other kid sat. 

~~~~

“What can I get you?” A quiet voice interrupts Sokka’s thoughts. He looked up and his mind went completely blank. There was another boy around his own age, with black hair that looked so fluffy. One of his eyes had a burn mark over it, and Sokka immediately trusted him. It looked like the fire nation was no friend to this guy either. 

“Recommend?” Sokka croaked out after a second. That stupid face crinkled in the cutest way. 

“Huh?”

“What do you recommend! I’ve never had much..tea” 

“Oh. Jasmine tea is my favorite, and my uncle is the best at making it in my opinion” Sokka nodded and the boy started to walk away. 

“Wait, what’s your name?” 

“Oh, I’m Lee” The boy moved too quickly for Sokka to introduce himself. Lee comes back half an hour later bearing a teacup, placing it in front of Sokka. 

“I’m Sokka” 

“I know” Lee acknowledged that fact with an almost familiar smile. Sokka couldn't place it, but it set his heart on fire. Lee retreated once more, and barely reappeared until Sokka paid and left. 

~~~

“Zuko, are you alright?” Iroh asked after the shop was closed for the night. There was a small smile on his face, but it looked like he had aged several years. 

“I’m fine Uncle. Just....tired” Iroh pressed a hand to his nephew’s forehead worriedly. No sign of a fever. 

“Well, get some rest. I’m sure it was a one time occurrence” Iroh soothed, getting their apartment tidied for the night.  

----It wasn’t----

“Uncleeeee he’s baaaack” Around the same time the next day, Iroh was interrupted by Zuko tugging on his arm. Spirits, was this going to happen every day now?

“Well, go ask his order. This is a tea shop after all” Iroh was far less gentle pushing Zuko out from behind the counter this time.  

“What can I get for you today?” Zuko approached the water tribe kid awkwardly, repeating his standard customer greeting automatically. 

“Lee! you were right, the tea was amazing” Sokka visibly brightened the moment he heard Zuko’s voice. It was nice for once to see him not react defensively. Made Zuko smile a little wider. 

“Yes, like I said, Uncle is very good at what he does” 

“Well, can I get the same thing” Zuko nodded, turning to deliver the order. When he came back, Sokka was hunched over a map and a schedule, muttering to himself. 

“What’s that for?” Zuko asked, leaning over as he set down the tea. He had some time to just sit and talk, long as it remained this quiet. 

“Huh? Oh. I’m trying to get in to speak to the king, but we have a deadline. Plus, we haven’t seen Zu-someone in a while. And Appa is still missing.” Sokka was too distracted to notice the nervous half-stand Zuko dropped into.

“Maybe the person you’re looking for is on vacation? And the King is uh...private. So good luck with that” Zuko eased down again, glancing towards his uncle. The former general gave a slight nod, face uncharacteristically serious. 

“Maybe he got his honor back at last. It was restored by Azula!” Sokka huffed a laugh, shifting to pay attention to his companion. Zuko was gaping, his mouth open like a fish’s. After a moment he started to laugh from the sheer ridiculousness. His sister restoring his honor? She was the one who’d driven him to come here. Though his uncle was so much happier now, and it was nice without the pressure of being Prince Zuko. 

“...Perhaps-” he tried to suck in some more air “-anyway, you mentioned someone named Appa is missing?”

“Yea, my buddy’s air bison. It’s how we’ve gotten around since I left the south pole” Sokka shrugged, not realizing the mess that was Zuko’s mind. Because, first of all, damn those muscles were fine. Second, the avatar didn’t have his spirit guide and the bison had a name. 

“That’s-that’s ummmm”

“I have to get back anyways. See you Lee” Sokka stood up before Zuko could do more than stammer a vague response. 

He came back every day after that. Sokka lit up Zuko’s entire day, and he never wanted to go back. Iroh began looking forward to closing time since that was when his nephew truly lived. It was, to put it simply, the best thing for his heart. Until it wasn’t. 

“We’re making plans to invade the day of the black sun. We’ll have the advantage, especially if I can figure out this last piece” Sokka was busy writing situations in his messy shorthand as Zuko leaned over his shoulder, listening and pointing out flaws. He’d figured out they planned to attack the fire nation capital, but he found he didn’t care. For the first time in his life, he felt happy and there were no strings attached. He and his uncle had found a place to carve out a life, free of the fire lord. There was the problem of who would take over, but that was a problem for future Zuko. Then that hotheaded prick walked in. 

“That old man is a firebender! I saw him heat up his tea!” Jet yelled, glaring at Iroh. All of the patrons swapped glances. A pair of soldiers were the first to speak up. 

“Kid, he works in a tea shop. That’s his job” 

“He heats the tea with firebending! I saw him” 

“You’re confused. How about you come with us...” the other soldier said, rising slowly from his chair. 

“No! Fight me old man, and i’ll prove it to you” Jet drew his swords, ready to fly at Iroh to prove his point. 

“You want a show? I’ll give you a show” Zuko straightened completely, drawing the closest soldier’s swords. 

~~~

“Lee, be careful!” Sokka called, drowning out Iroh’s cry of “Zuko, no!” Sokka tried to jump in and help, but the pair were moving too fast and too precise. He didn’t dare jump in and risk Lee’s life. And damn was it hot. Lee ignored all of Jet’s taunts, using those swords as if it were his only weapon. Finally some more guards intervened, taking Jet away. Lee returned the swords and slipped into the crowd. 

“Uncle, can I get some of your special tea? Seeing him again was nerve-wracking” Sokka heard Lee say. He sounded so conflicted and tired. Sokka wanted to run in there and hug him. 

“Of course, we’ll close the shop early today. We both need to lie low for now. Hopefully that’s the end of it, but we should pack just in case” The old man’s voice was muffled. Sokka couldn’t remember his name. Wait, they knew Jet? Was...could Lee have been an old flame of Jet’s? Before he became so...back-stabby. Sokka decided now was not a good time to run to the other boy. He’d think over this and process whatever was sitting so heavily on his heart. 

----

“Uncle, I haven’t seen Sokka in days” Zuko paced the floor a few days later. After what had happened with Jet, Sokka hadn’t returned. 

“Maybe he had to go do something. You said he was looking for the avatar’s sky bison. Or is it buffalo? I can never tell...” Iroh mused, a cup of tea in his hands. 

“Uncle, this is serious. He hasn’t been here in a week! He never misses more than one day!” Zuko’s pacing increased as his panic rose. 

“Zuko, take a deep breath. We just got through a scare about someone figuring out who we were. I’m sure you’ll get a letter soon saying he had to leave for his invasion” Iroh beckoned the teenager to the table. he sat reluctantly, taking his uncle’s hand. Iroh guided him through some de-stressing methods. As they were finishing, a knock came at the door. Iroh stood to answer.

“The king has requested your presence. He would like you to serve tea to him. He wishes you to come now” A soldier stood there stiffly, his face expressionless as he delivered his message.

“Serving tea to the king? What an honor. We will be ready in one moment. I must grab my good pot!” Iroh beckoned Zuko over, handing him the pot and leading the way after the soldier. 

~~~~/-----

“Zuko, get out of here! Make sure the Avatar does too!” The old man pushed his nephew towards Sokka and his friends. Azula had taken over the castle and they needed to get the king and get out now. 

“Follow me. I know a way out” Lee, no Zuko, pulled Aang after him. 

“No! We need to get Katara!” Aang pulled back, stopping the escape. 

“Fine! But stay close to me” The prince turned around, running deeper into the compound. “Uh, Miss-, whatever I need you to see if you can find her with your earthbending!” 

“Turn left and then I can dig down!” Toph yelled, pointing towards a patch of grass with flowers sprouting out of it. 

“Hurry! I can hear pursuit!” Sokka yelled, pulling out his boomerang. 

“Twinkle toes! Help me dig a hole!” Toph yelled and Aang began pushing dirt out beside her. 

“They’re coming from the opposite way now. Azula won’t be far behind, Uncle’s only one person and she seems to have an army” 

“You would know, wouldn’t you, Prince Zuko!” Sokka yelled, turning on the prince. He didn’t miss the way his expression crumbled. Not the time Sokka, not the time!

“Get in! Now!” Toph yelled, breaking up their fight. Zuko hesitated as the rest jumped in.

“Go, I’ll hold them off. I can do that at least” Zuko’s face had that sorrowful smile that Sokka had gotten to know so well in those first few weeks with Lee. 

“That’ll give them a hint. Get in idiot!” Toph yelled and Sokka grabbed Le-Zuko’s arm by instinct. He pulled him into the hole and Toph covered them again before digging again. They finally reached Katara a few minutes later. It was too late, Azula had beaten them to her. 

“Oh Zuzu, I thought you were better than this” She sneered. 

“...go. Sokka, please. Take your sister and run. Run far away and do your plan. Make it the best damn plan. Wipe the whole group out. Start all over” Zuko turned to Sokka, eyes already tearing up. Katara didn’t hesitate, and ensnared her brother’s arm to drag him away. The last view of Zuko that Sokka got was him fighting desperately. He dodged every lightning bolt his sister threw at him. One bounced off, hitting Aang in the back. Sokka turned away to make sure he could get Aang out alive. Zuko could rot for all he cared. 

---

“This entire time, he was PRINCE ZUKO?” Sokka yelled, tempted to crawl into a hole and die. He had flirted with Prince ZUKO. 

“His scar’s pretty distinctive Sokka. Who else looks like someone tried to blind them?” Katara groaned, totally done with the whole ‘I like the guy whose been chasing us around the world’ thing. 

“Lee! Who I guess is just an alias for Zuko” 

“Ok Sokka, we’re done. Time to move on” Toph groaned, stopping her vigil over Aang for a moment. He had barely stirred. They knew he was alive, but who knew if he’d last long enough. All they could do was keep him healthy, and hope. 

(To Be continued?)

[antiaircraftcrayon]

The Mistake of Sanctuary

Prompt:  You are a small god, with very little power or influence. But you are happy, and take care of your few worshippers as much as you are able. An extraordinarily powerful being stumbles bloodied into your sacred place, and cries “Sanctuary.”

In another time, there was a village that lived at the base of a tall mountain. The mountain reached above the sky, piercing the clouds like a blade. The sides were steep as if the peak itself connected directly to the ground. Trees clung to the rock walls like hands grasping during a fall. Water cascaded from the heights forming a large pool at its base. A river extended to the village and wound in a circle around the mountain yielding fishes and nutrients for fruits to grow along the banks.

The village ancestors had built a temple at the mountain’s base long ago. Made of wood, grass growing between the cracks in the steps, another patchwork building dotting the village. It was modest and to their means. It suited their needs well. Daily the village would stop by one by one, sometimes a few at a time. They would offer what they could. An orange from the tree, a fish from the river, a woven doll from the wheat stalks of the field. Some would come with prayers of asking, some with prayers of thanks, and some would come with conversation and spend hours in mediation.

They communicated with a god. He was not considered a great god by any outside of the village. None made pilgrimage to his lone temple inside the river circle. He was god of the mountain, an outlet for a spring to bring freshwater from the earth. He was god of the mountain, a firm surface for trees to grow to catch the breeze passing by. He was god of the mountain and nothing else. They communicated with a god that could not bear down upon their enemies. One unable to produce a bountiful harvest. One unable to keep the distant skies clear of storm. This was what he believed as he sat upon his mountain peak looking down at the tops of the clouds.

He sat upon a stone cliff. A single tree grew from a crack in the rock fed by a small trickle of water sprouting impossibly from the mountain top. He listened to every prayer and conversation from his temple below. He would often go down to taste their offerings and be an unseen comfort. He would look out at the village under the night stars. Centuries old it had stood at his mountain’s base inside the ring of water. He had received fruits and labors, kind words and words of distress, curses and blesses from generations of sons and daughters. They were simple people to one as old as he. They survived on the fish in the river and fruits and vegetables. The occasional traded meats would often become offerings to him rather than dinner on a table. The villagers offered him all they could as little as it was and in return, he offered them little wishing he could offer more. For he was only god of a mountain.

It was the same morning as any other but attention was drawn to an approaching storm from the south. Storms never brewed in the south. They always came from the north and break around the mountain. But this one had the villagers on edge and it flashed and thundered, slowly edging closer. Even the god on top of the mountain was attentive to it.

Lightning crackled across the sky and left black waste on the ground where it struck. Even fire fell to the earth from its smoky clouds. It pushed closer and closer to the village, lightning striking out and setting the building at the village edge ablaze. A strong wind of panic swept through the people as the withdrew to the temple at the mountain’s base. They called for help, tore their clothes, and cried for assistance. The god heard them all but what could a god of a mountain do.

More fire and lightning fell into the village as the storm crawled ever closer to the mountain. The despair among the villagers grew greater as a great blaze fell from the sky and crashed into the dirt in front of the temple. They screamed as it slowly moved closer, and then they were speechless as the fire extinguished and they realized it was a woman.

She crawled through the dirt as six lightning strikes broke ground behind her revealing six knights adorned in static-charged armor. She was bloody, leaving a trail of deep red mixing with the dust. The six advanced.

One sword was drawn. It’s owner stepped forward toward the soon-to-be corpse and raised the sword overhead.

“May your soul run blessed among the stars,” the sword-wielded spoke.

The blade came down through the air as her hand reached the first step. The villagers cowered in horror from within the temple shadows as they heard her ragged voice cry out.

“Sanctuary!”

Not a moment passed. Not a heartbeat, not the pulse of a hummingbird’s wings. But for the god on top of the mountain, the moment stretched into an eternity. He could feel her hand when it touched his temple. He could feel her body; every bloody wound was known to him. He could feel her pain and her rage masked by fear. But more than that, he could feel his body pulse with energy at her call. And in that eternal moment he appeared there, sword in hand from a place he did not know. The god redirected the falling blade into the dirt and their his own sword joined it. He let it fall to the earth as he knelt to the ground and lifted the woman into his arms.

“Man. You do not dare to come between the storm and our command. You do not know what you do. Come now. Give her to me.”

Spoken by the knight who now sheathed his drawn sword, it was said as a command but there was kindness in it. He held out his hand for the woman expecting her to be given.

The god hesitated. He felt the energy surging within him as he responded.

“I am not man. This temple is a sacred place to commune with the god of this mountain. I am he. I am bound to protect those within and those who claim sanctuary in it.”

The six knights were taken back at his statement. One helmet was removed revealing a woman. Her skin was blue, dark blue like the darkest storm clouds and her starch white hair was pulled back into a tight braid. Her eyes were white and blue at the same time, a lighting strike that bore into the god’s own eyes.

“You? A god? Of this mountain, you say? You may as well be a god if nothing. How do you know of the old laws? Who is here? Who are you herald too?”

She spoke down at him as if he were a big to be squashed. The energy seemed to boil inside the god. It put anger and pride into his voice.

“I am herald to no one. I am of the first. I am of those who saw the earth separate from the waters. I saw the valleys deepen and the mountains rise. It was i among the first to see the world become. You talk down to me. I am the god of this mountain. Of where you stand. Be gone now. This woman is under my protection.”

The god hoped his words carried more weight than he felt they did. While true, he was still only god of a mountain.

“As you wish. But our master will return. And he will bring a force to bear witness to,” the lightning knight replied.

She replaced her helmet as the winds picked up and began to scream. The sky above grew dark with storm clouds and in a great crash of thunder and a flash of lightning, the six were gone.

“Quickly! Water and herbs!” The god called to the villagers.

The whole village surged into action, the fear and horror from seconds earlier dissolving away in the wake of their god’s commands.

Water was brought, along with crushed herbs and hot food. A fire was built and cloth was cut into bandages. The god attended to the woman as she slipped in and out of consciousness. The villagers created a paste from the herbs and hot water as the god washed her wounds. They applied the paste with bandages and fresh clothes were brought. The god stepped out of his temple as several women assisted the wounded woman into clean clothes. He surveyed the village as men and women scrambled around with buckets of water, putting out the remaining flames.

By evening, the storm had reappeared on the horizon, darker and more dangerous than before. The blackened storm clouds pushed closer and closer to the village as spider webs of lighting spread across the sky. The breeze turned to a wind and nearly a hurricane. The villagers slowly moved to the temple where the god continued to provide care to the unknown woman. Their eyes never left the horizon as lighting struck the earth revealing a single knight that stood at the south end of the village. A second strike revealed a second knight standing next to the first. Two more struck the east side and two on the west. They spread around in a circle just outside the river creating a border. The message was clear: none will cross this river.

The god washed his hands and helped the villagers back up the stairs into the temple steps.

“Go now, into the temple. Pray for sanctuary and it will be granted to you,” he spoke to them.

The villagers gathered inside and said their prayers for safety. Some came forward to the steps with their god, others knelt with the woman and continued to apply cold cloths and change bandages. The rest pushed into the back of the temple.

The storm overhead pulled together into condensed dark clouds. The thunder became more concentrated as lightning lit up the mass from within. All the winds gathered in the air and pushed the mass to the temple. The six knights appeared in front of the steps as the cloudy mass swept in front of the armor-clad reapers and formed into a humanoid shape. A man stood in the midst of the dissipated clouds. He wore the storm around his chest like a breastplate. Lightning pulsed with every breath and when he spoke it was the echo of thunder from within him.

“Greetings god. I am told you stand in the way of my bidding,” he boomed.

The god stepped down from the temple and extended his hand. The hair on his arm stood on end, not from the static of the man standing before him but from the tingle of fear creeping up his spine.

Curiosity emerged across the stormy man’s face as he too extended his hand. The two embraced for the necessary moment of chivalry and then for a moment longer. The hairs on the mountain god’s arms laid back down as their hands released. In those brief moments, the fear crawling up his back had receded and was replaced by a sense of calm.

“I meant no offense. But I am god of this mountain, and she has called for sanctuary at my altar. I am but a humble god of little. But I will provide for those at my altar,” the god replied.

“God of this mountain,” the stormy one repeated. His gaze unfocused as a thought reached him and then his gaze returned. “You are of the first. One of the old gods of the earth. Fierrum.”

Fierrum was shocked. His name had not been spoken in centuries. He had thought it lost from the tongues of men.

“You are also of the first. King and lord of the sky. Nubis,” Fierrum replied.

The six knights drew their swords and one spoke in a commanding tone. “You will not speak the king’s name!”

“Peace, Thunder,” Nubis commanded. “Fierrum means no disrespect. He has only followed the laws that we are all governed by.”

“Tell me Fierrum, do you know who it is you give sanctuary to?” Nubis asked.

Fierrum looked behind him to the woman laying on the temple floor. The entire village was standing in the entry watching the events unfold.

“I do not. Though she prayed for sanctuary and I grant it as I am able,” he replied.

“I understand. I am sorry Fierrum, but you leave me no choice.” As Nubis spoke, storm billowed from his mouth and formed overhead, wrapping themselves around the mountain from the base to its peak.

“Nubis! Stop!” Fierrum shouted above the sounds of the hurricane coming into being. The knights disappeared one by one as they were called into battle. Thunder, Lightning, Deluge, Gale, Cumulus, and Destruction joined in their masters call.

“Run!” Fierrum called to the villagers. “Clear the temple!”

Fierrum stood in horror as he watched the storm engulf the surface of the mountain. The villagers ran in every direction. Only few remained inside the temple.

“Run!” Fierrum called again. He ran into the temple. “You must leave. I cannot weather this storm. I cannot protect you.”

The four villagers had wide eyes as trees were ripped from the mountain side and rock crashed down around the temple walls. One of the villagers walked forward down the steps of the temple and swallowed her fear.

“Fierrum is god of this mountain.” Her voice cracked as she spoke her god’s name for the first time. “His mountain holds the trees firm, the homes of the birds of this land.”

Another villager walked foward and stood in front of the temple. “Fierrum is god of this mountain. His mountain gives rise to the spring, and the spring feeds the rivers of this land. The mountain provides home to the fish and sustains us.”

A third and fourth villager walked forward. “Fierrum’s mountain parts the northern storms. It breaks them down and provides rain to our village,” one said.

“The mountain parts the winds and brings the breeze into our homes,” the other continued.

The god of the mountain could barely believe what he was hearing. He was only the god of the mountain.

The storm raged and continued to break the mountain piece by piece but now the winds carried more than the storm. They carried the voices of the villagers whose attention was no longer in preservation of their lives.

“Fierrum tends to the river.”

“Fierrum’s mountain gives life to this land.”

“Our prayers are answered daily.”

“He helps us farm.”

“He tends to our needs.”

“Fierrum comforts me.”

The list continued and Fierrum found he could hardly hear the storm over the words of the villagers being spoken. He, a simple god of a mountain, heard their gracious words. He heard again and again what his mountain provided. With every word he remembered their prayers, their laments, the songs of happiness. He remembered these villagers fathers and their fathers before. And he found strength in it. He found more strength than he had ever felt in his millennium.

“Nubis,” Fierrum spoke softly. “Stop this.”

The storm drowned out his voice so he spoke louder. He stood more firm and felt the mountain behind him. He gripped the trees tighter and held onto the rocks. He fought the six knights behind him as he spoke louder to Nubis.

“Nubis!” he called. His voice was louder, greater, stronger. “I am god of this mountain. The trees cling to me and provide home. The spring runs through me and provides. I part the storm to bring rain to crops. I part the wind to bring a cool breeze. I block the sun to bring shade. I am the mountain and the mountain is me. And I provide sanctuary to those in need.”

The mountain was like a blade the extended from the earth into the sky. Fierrum unsheathed his own blade and held it to Nubis’s throat.

“And I will defend those who live at my mountain.” Fierrum said.

The storm broke around the mountain as the six knights fell from the sky. They hit the earth like the falling rocks from the mountain. They each stood, slowly and bloody from their fall, and drew swords in defense of their master.

“Fierrum. God of the mountain. What will you do? You will slay the storm?” Nubis asked. His gaze was deadly now, filled with anger.

“I don’t wish death on any. But you attack those in my protection and that I cannot allow,” Fierrum replied.

Nubis considered the old god. “Fine then, Fierrum. Be it on your own head then.”

In a bright flash, Nubis and his six were gone.

Fierrum felt his shoulders released the tension he didn’t know he had been holding. He could still hear the trees and the rock of his mountain settling again but the threat was gone. He took in each of the villagers faces. Miraculously, they were all still alive.

He breathed a sigh of relief. And then he felt a pain in his side causing him to gasp for a breath. He felt his ribs. No wound. No blood. He gasped again for another breath as he turned towards the temple and saw the first villager fall. A bloody dagger was held in the hand of a woman. Now fully healed, she held her head high. Her eyes were red and her skin was flush with life.

Fierrum recognized her. She was before the firsts, before Nubis and himself. She was of the oldest, of the originals.

She was Thanis, queen of the end of life, deliverer of death.

[sloppy-butcher]

Waitin’ On a Superman - Chapter 2: Living with the Flies

(The Hillbilly (Max Thompson Jr.) x female!reader)

Previous; Next 

With his hands dripping in a thick syrup mixed from blood and other unidentifiable substances, the high-pitch whining in his head finally ceased to a distant thumping. He had been granted peace at last, a reprieve from everything and everyone that had been clawing away at his mind, consuming his every waking moment with its greedy need for his attention. He was finally free, finally allowed to think clearly, finally himself, finally Max.

That's who he had claimed himself to be - Max. It was his name, his birth-right had his face not come out the way that it did, and no one could take it away. Even when the water rippled and became too murky to see through and Boy would be called on for work, Max knew he was Max and that eventually everything would settle and he would return to being just Max. It is one of the many things Max had learned since his arrival to this strange world. Everything comes in turns like how the pouring of heavy rain and hail that used to hammer on the roof of his shed - as bad as the whining would get, it would soon swallow itself up and laze its volume. And though it would never stop completely, a wish too selfish and good to be true, he found that he enjoyed every opportunity he had to think.

Right now was one of those moments, there was sacred silence in his head and he could think of anything he wanted to. He was Max and he was free to think, free to be normal. However, try as he might, his mind always trailed back to the person in the red barn. Or rather, the girl he could never seem to get rid of. 

She had been lost in the corn fields for as long as he cared to remember, forever walking to some undisclosed destination. He has crossed her path many at times before, found her mindless wandering his land like a dazed, head-less chicken, and he had dealt with her the only way he knew how - he left her for Boy to find. He would take care of this most unfortunate trespasser quickly and without much of a fuss, removing her in such a way that it hard to tell if she had ever been there at all. It was what Boy had been made to do after all, to deal with all those laughing, unwelcome people.

He supposed she had somehow gotten trapped here like he had - the corn was like a deep, sinking mud, it grabbed anyone that strayed too close and it never let go. There were no physical walls that bordered his land, not of brick or wood or stone that one could touch or climb over, but Max knew that there was something binding him to that place, he could sense them surrounding him. And her. She was trapped just like he was.

How it burned him to be stuck in the same hole as this insolent girl. This was his farm! His land! His alone and no one else's! He fought for it, through years of blood, sweat and flies, he himself reclaimed this part of the world for his own personal occupation. All he wanted was to be alone here! Safe from the eyes of the judgmental and hateful others, a sanctuary. His sanctuary. Yet here, slithering in like vermin into an open feed room, was this girl. 

When he first saw her, Max felt no remorse leaving her to the mercy of Boy. Die, he spat at her, die and never come back! Don’t you come here to laugh at me! To laugh at Max!

But after the failure of his sixth attempt to remove her stain from his fields, Max learned another lesson about this realm. Nothing stays dead, not forever at least. Even if he were to take off her head and crush her heart in his hands until it was nothing but mush under his fingernails, she would not stay that way. It was only a matter of time before she’d reassemble herself and wake as if from a deep sleep, completely normal and none-the-wiser to her previous demise. Then she’d start walking again.

Boy was beginning to get fed up with her, turning his back when confronted by her on his daily rounds rather than slaughtering her straight out. With Boy refusing to handle the trespasser, a waste of energy and time he condemned, Max begrudgingly and resentfully accepted that there was no getting rid of the wanderer in the field. He simply had to wait until she managed to squeeze her way out the fence that same way she had snuck in.

Time is the most peculiar thing to the man who never learned to read a clock. Even before Max had been taken away to this endless night-time realm where nothing aged or moved, the stars never blinking and the moon hanging lifeless in the shallow sky, he was not one able to tell when minutes turned to hours or hours to days. There was only the rise and falling of the sun and the tuning in of his T.V programs to help him navigate through the daily grind. Without these markers of passage however, he was adrift at sea, confused. Time did not exist here. Regardless, there was no denying that he did feel the weighing of age begin to get heavier and grow longer. Max knew that it had been a very, very long time since first the girl had arrived.

A thought had started to bubble in his mind whenever it would be quiet enough to think. It started as soft as the wind through an empty field then grew louder and persistent like the dripping of a leaky faucet. Eventually it became as booming and demanding as the grinding of a rusty chainsaw motor. With every passing night, Max had to put up with the thought maturing and expanding until it developed the same frequency and urgency as that of the whining.

He should try to talk to her. 

A most simple idea, when written on paper, but one that seemed completely and utterly unattainable, unfathomable, unreal in reality. Max had only spoken to one other person and it was a miserable experience to say the least. He made a personal vow then, when staring down into his mother’s mortified and busted face as her blood dripped from his clenched fist, to never utter a single word to anyone else again. People didn’t like it when he spoke, so why even try? He decided to remain a speechless monster, sparing himself the terrified looks.  And so he did - it was, of course, made easier when everyone he encountered after his oath of silence were all dead or soon to be so. The girl was the first in a very long line of lonely nights and murderous routine who had presented something of a conundrum to his vow. He couldn’t kill her so what to do now? 

He should try to talk to her. Opportunities like this don’t just fall into his lap everyday. Max, though made from mud and filth, had always the hopeful spirit. Uncrushed optimism that had only been covered in dust, untouched, but never destroyed or rotted. Maybe one day his parents would love him. Maybe one day his face won’t be so ugly. And maybe one day he could try to talk to someone like a normal human being. 

Preposterous! Unthinkable! He should just kill her! Keep killing her until eventually it sticks. Or get Boy to do it one last time. Max grumbled, hunching over with his head in his hands trying to dig out the worming voices in his ears. Though this new voice was as loud as that of the whining, it was nowhere near as painful - it didn’t make his stomach feel achy nor his chest fume with anger. Instead this voice tickled him and brought about interest of a forgotten kind. A voice that said ‘What if.’

He buries head in the dirt. Tunneling deeper into soundless soil until there would be nothing at all, digging so far down that he might lose all sense of who Max was. Anything to get away from the thought, which had now sprouted its own self-importance and action, and ground any of the daydreams that accompanied it. Oh yes, Max had started to dream about it all. In his weaker moments, he’d start imagining what it would be like talking to her. Not only that but he had started to like the fantasy, to hold on and encourage the idea of interaction like how they did on the T.V - like ordinary people. A small part of him fluttered whenever thinking about how it would go, whether that was because he feared her rejection like so many before or because, deep down, he was stupidly hopeful was a plea he did not seek to uncover. It was simply a fantasy, a dream but one that always tasted so tangible and delightful.

What if… What if…

He stumbles upon her in the corn - the very thing he had been trying to avoid entirely yet could not stop thinking about. There's an impressive silence hanging in the air as he feels his breathing hitch. She stops, her back facing him and Max knows that she has sensed him near her however refuses to react. She is quiet, completely motionless as a wind rips through the corn and between them. So close and yet so far away. He feels a rising panic in his chest like the jumping of frightened pheasants after the firing of a shotgun. It's too soon, he has no idea what to say. Hasn’t practiced anything. How would she react? Why did he care so much? Just kill her. Kill her, kill-

“I know you are there.” It was the girl who broke the inflating silence. She spoke first and her voice, ever the small and quiet thing like its master, was so ordinary and plain. Max found himself taken aback - did all people speak so distant and mundane? It was not exactly like the gnawing of his parents but it certainly was no sound from the T.V. It was just a voice, neither grand nor harsh and something he hadn’t heard in years.

“Be quick.” She answered his unsaid command. She was smart, it seemed. Somehow she knew that he was debating on killing her yet, rather than fight or show fear, she accepted it. And asked only that he would be quick and painless. A finger flexes around the trigger of his chainsaw. It was easier this way - avoid confrontation by snubbing it before it could bloom. This had already gone too far, she had actually said something to him. Acknowledged his being. It was all becoming too much for him to handle. 

“Please.” Max, at first, did not even recognize the word. He had heard it before, yes, but never directed solely at him. It was a gesture of pleading, an appeal for respect and for the saving of face in the approach of death. She had asked Max, begged him in a mellow, drawn-out tone, to do what he wanted. All without a hint of aggression, resistance or even resentment. She just sounded tired, tired beyond words. It certainly was not his parents speaking, and with knowing the outcome of attempting to cut her down, Max felt a sudden urge to act on that dream of his.

Why, on this Earth of yellow and mud, did Max mention the pigs? Of all the things he could have said, of all the ways he could have started the conversation and he just mentioned pigs. What was he thinking? The simple explanation for his outburst would be that he panicked and picked the first thing that came to mind. The long explanation would be that it was the only thing he could think of. His voice, when pushed with air, was sticky and sore and his words shook uncomfortably in his ears. But as sure as he was that whatever mutated and horrible sound he was producing would drive anyone mad, he noticed how you barely even flinched. Though small, his confidence to speak erupted at your lack of reluctance to listen. With each utterance he became bolder. With each syllable he drew closer. 

All too soon his jar ran full and threatened to overflow and Max had to think of a way to get rid of her. Tuck her away somewhere until his mind was clear again and he would think straight. Max contemplated a moment before ushering her to the red barn that had once housed Boy many, many years ago. He couldn’t stand to be near it, let alone even look at it and hurriedly pointed the girl inside. As she walked away, her back once more turned towards him, Max heard another unfamiliar phrase being directed at him.

“Thank you.” 

It was said in a heartbeat and was gone before the wind touched his face. So nonchalant she made it seem, throwing the appreciation over her shoulder like it was nothing at all. Like it carried no weight or meaning. Yet to him, it was everything. A thank you. God knows he does not deserve it - those were the forms of human kindness reserved only for the good ones. He was not one of those good ones. But she said it, offering to him her gratitude and how strange it was to wear it. 

He waited a few minutes longer, hidden perfectly in the towering corn, his brain slowly digesting the events that just happened. Not only had Max spoken to the someone, who did not hit him nor scream, but also thanked him. 

Max wanted to bathe longer in the warm glory-light of the conversation, take in and commit to memory all the little things she had said and done and how he had responded to it all. But there was a ringing in his ears, replacing all that had happened with its deafening white noise. Without fighting he turned to face the call of the void and hoped beyond anything that everything had been real and he was not dreaming again. 

[lupinlongbottom]

Burning Bridges pt. 3

Neville Longbottom x Reader

Summary: Finally settling into her new role, (Y/N) has found her calling. Teaching is easier, now that she has a friend at her side. As taxing and stressful teaching can be, maybe some tea and a good chat can calm her mind. 

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Some swearing, slight bit talk about sex if you squint

A/N: AH! I love these two. They’re burning. Slowly, in my brain. Enjoy the pain!

Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 4 ... Part 5 ... Part 6 ... Part 7

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It had been two months. Two months of teaching at the most prestigious wizarding school in the world. Many would argue that Ilvermorny could rival it, but many of those wizards were blind Americans, unknowing to the true superiority of the other school. Either case, to say that (Y/N) was swamped and stressed beyond her wildest dreams was an understatement.

“Can anyone tell me how many uses dragon blood has?” (Y/N) asked to her audience, doe-eyed first years. A hand shot up. “Mr. Butler.”

“Twelve,” the scrawny Slytherin retorted, looking pleased with himself.

“That’s right,” she smiled, crossing over to the blackboard. “Now, Mr. Butler, could you tell me each and every one of the magical properties it possesses? Giving it the twelve uses?”

The Slytherin sat silently, mouth slightly agape. “My mum only told me she used it to clean our oven…” he trailed, almost unsure of himself.

“Exactly! That’s one use, good job Mr. Butler,” (Y/N) scribbled in tight words ‘oven cleaner’ onto the black board. “Could anyone else help him out?” Another hand shot up, one of a Ravenclaw girl. “Yes, Ms. Hoyt?”

“I’m sorry, Professor (L/N), but are you expecting us to know all of the uses?”

(Y/N) smiled widely. “No,” Loud murmurs erupted from the classroom, confused at their professor’s response. “I don’t expect any of you to know more than one or two uses. You’re first years, barely begun reading your textbooks or learned anything about potions, so,” (Y/N) spun the blackboard around. “You should know I hate assigning papers, but I want you all to write me an essay on the twelve uses,” she pressed her wand to each bullet point. “Who discovered them, when we’re to use it and how to use it correctly,” more groans. “Be thankful you’re not in my seventh year N.E.W.Ts class right now, they’d take this assignment over the behemoth I gave them earlier today.”

“By next class?” a Hufflepuff girl inquired.

“No, two classes time,” (Y/N) said, smiling lightly. “I want you to take your time. I can imagine you have bigger fish to fry in your other classes, no?” the room grew silent. “Or perhaps not. Either case, take your time. Really comprehend the assignment, it’ll be in your best interest to do so,” the bell chimed. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Murmurs of ‘thank you Professor (L/N)’ fluttered around the room, filling (Y/N)’s heart with pride. She began to clear her workspace, preparing for her third year class she had next. A Slytherin boy had stayed behind. “You’re going to be late to your next class, Mr. Butler,” she said, not turning around. 

“It’s just Herbology,” he shrugged. “Professor Longbottom won’t mind.”

“I highly doubt that,” (Y/N) turned around, crossing her arms. “That man cares more about his plants than you could ever comprehend.”

“Tell me about it! I can’t stand it,” he huffed, slowly packing his knapsack up. “I wish I could just take potions all day, not have to worry about plants biting me.”

“Herbology is an important class to learn,” (Y/N) said, continuing to write on the blackboard, with her wand of course. She wasn’t a buffoon. “Many skills and information you learn in that class is pertinent to potion-making. What better way to learn about your ingredients than caring for the plant itself?”

“Did you like Herbology when you were a student, professor?”

“I enjoyed my professor,” said (Y/N) truthfully, thinking of Sprout. “I don’t have the patience, or green thumb, for it,” she laughed, recalling her various dead plants over the years. “Regardless, it’s important for you to learn.”

“That’s the same sap Professor Longbottom told me,” the Slytherin groaned. “Told me that it could be beneficial to potions class and whatnot. He says stuff like that all the time, connects it to potions. He said you’d agree.”

“He’s right,” (Y/N) clicked. Of course he said that. “I do,” she began scribbling on a small square of parchment. “Give this to Professor Longbottom, seeing as you’re going to be late, he might appreciate to know why.” 

“Thank you,” he mumbled, grabbing the note, finally exiting the classroom.

(Y/N) allowed herself to sigh loudly. “Never a rest for the wicked, huh?” she mumbled to herself, finally finishing her preparations for her next class. Her mind trailed, recalling her student’s words. “He can’t possibly talk me up that much, can he?” She didn’t have much time to dwell on it, as the third years finally filed  in, settling in their seats. “Right, welcome class. As you’re sitting down, please open your textbooks to chapter seventeen…”

__

“(Y/N)!” Neville shouted down the corridor, hoping to catch her attention. She turned around. “There you are,” he smiled, catching up to her. “Been looking all over for you.”

“Could’ve checked the dungeons,” (Y/N) jested. “I never seem to leave my lair.”

“Tell me about it,” Neville groaned, stretching his arms. “Been barely out of the greenhouses. I reckon I have dirt in places a person shouldn’t ever have dirt.”

“You should bathe more, then,” (Y/N) laughed, noticing the streak of dirt that danced across the bridge of his nose. “Or at least wash your face,” she signaled to the mess on his face, a finger tracing the space on her own.

Neville felt the heat rise to his cheeks, quickly rubbing his nose with the end of his sweater. “Thanks,” he mumbled, hopefully removing all of the mess. They arrived at their chambers, their own doors respectively. “Hey,” he hesitated. “Did you want to some tea? Gran sent me some herbal tea from her last trip,” he wrung his wrist slightly. “I know you like herbal.”

“I do,” (Y/N) answered honestly. “Like herbal, I mean. It’s my favorite. What kind?” 

“Not sure, I think it has roses?”

“Bring it over,” (Y/N) nodded to her door, opening it. “I have some extra biscuits from my mum. Would make a good pairing, I think.”

“Oh, you want me to come over? I was just offering—”

“Merlin, I’m so sorry,” (Y/N) felt the heat rush to her ears, burning against her ears. “I didn’t realize that you were—”

“No, it’s fine! I can come over!” Neville practically shouted. “I mean,” he coughed, trying to cover his exclaims. “If you want me to come over.”

“Of course I do,” (Y/N) smiled. “We’re friends, right?”

Neville felt a grin pull to his ears. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

(Y/N) entered her chambers, immediately realizing what a mess she had left her living space. Scrolls and books littered the table, ink pots were left open with abandoned quills, a cauldron was burbling in the corner. “I suppose it’s not as bad as it could be,” she hummed, moving to start a kettle. Edgar was preening himself on the kitchen perch, allowing his excess feathers to fall to the ground. “Honestly Eddie, preen in the Owlery,” (Y/N) sighed, bending over to pick up the feathers.

“…turns out it’s a rose and saffron blend,” Neville laughed, entering her chambers. “Gran got really fancy,” another laugh. “(Y/N)?” (Y/N) yelped, hitting her head on the countertops, rising far too quickly. “Are you okay!?” Neville rushed over to the small kitchenette, noting the witch withering on the floor, hand held to her forehead.

“Been better,” She groaned, answering honestly. “Doesn’t hurt more than a knock-back jinx,” she laughed, recalling the various times the spell was used against her.

“Is that…?” Neville glanced at the barn owl, offering his hand to assist (Y/N).

“Edgar?” (Y/N) took his hand, pulling herself up. “Yeah. He’s grown a bit more distinguished since the last time you saw him I bet, but he’s still the little clumsy Eddie you remember.”

“He was hardly clumsy,” Neville crooned, reaching a hand out hesitantly to Edgar’s face. The owl leaned to the touch. “No more than me.”

(Y/N) laughed, taking the fistful of feathers and set them in a box, closing it gently. “I keep his feathers when I can,” (Y/N) mumbled, feeling Neville’s gaze on her actions. “They make fine quills, sometimes need them for potions… or maybe I’m just a sentimental mother,” she laughed. “Probably the latter.”

“It’s sweet,” Neville beamed. “You’ve always been the sentimental type.” 

“It’s true,” (Y/N) replied honestly. “I’m as close to a hoarder as they come. It takes every ounce of restraint to not keep all the letters my mum sends me. I keep a few, only to laugh,” (Y/N) removed the screaming kettle from the stove. “She’s dating a muggle, you know.”

“Your pure-blooded mother? Dating a muggle?” Neville’s eyes felt as if they were as large as saucers.

“Shocked me too,” (Y/N) shrugged, pouring the hot water into light pink cups. Neville handed her the tin, allowing her to infuse the leaves properly. “She said it was a good change of pace,” (Y/N) allowed the cups to sit, the wine-red color seeping into the hot water. “He makes her happy, so who am I to judge?” 

“Would you ever date a muggle?” Neville asked, absentmindedly. “You know, being pure-blood and all…”

“I would,” (Y/N) hummed, thinking about it lightly, leaning on her counter. “I don’t care much about blood status, unlike…” she shook her head. “That stuff doesn’t matter to me. I guess I would appreciate it if he was a wizard. At least it’d be easier to explain my profession,” she shrugged, glancing at her bubbling cauldron. Felix Felicis. Been working on it since moving into the castle. “What about you? You’re a pure-blood too.”

“Never thought about it,” Neville admitted. “Don’t really think much about that stuff. Never have, really.”

“Come off it,” (Y/N) poked Neville in his side. “You’re telling me you’ve never thought about dating a muggle?”

“Honest!” he laughed, moving away from her touch. “Ever since Luna and I broke it off, I put all my energy into the plants."

(Y/N) felt her face fall, just for a moment. The tea was done steeping. She handed Neville a cup, walking over to her deep purple couch. “You and Luna?” 

“Yeah,” Neville rubbed his neck, sitting on the adjacent chair. “We didn’t last much past the one year mark.” 

“You two seemed great together,” she lied, allowing herself to take a sip. The warmth flooded her senses, the taste lingering on her tongue. “You guys were inseparable seventh year,” another sip.

“I wouldn’t say inseparable,” he remarked. “Just had a crush. War does crazy things to people’s perspectives. Really thought we’d work out.” 

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Neville assured, taking a sip of the tea. He scowled a bit, never really liking rose tea. “It was mutual. We were both young and confused. Didn’t really know what we wanted…” He sighed. “Sorry, I try not to think about it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” (Y/N) replied, waving her wand, a tin of biscuits landing on the table. “I know we agreed to catch up on our lives, but if it’s a sore subject, we don’t have to...”

“A lot can happen in five years,” he shrugged. “Good and bad I reckon.”

“I dated Seamus,” (Y/N) smiled into her cup, changing the subject. “Only for a month or two. Still can’t decide if it was good or bad.”

“Get out!” he exclaimed, hopping onto his hands, rising high in the chair. “You and Finnigan?”

“That could hardly be a surprise,” (Y/N) scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Considering we snogged a fair bit in the Room of Requirement seventh year.”

“I guess,” he admitted, recalling catching the two practically sucking their faces off the other. “How was it? Dating Finnigan?”

“Slobbery,” she recalled. “We barely ever just sat down to talk. We usually just…” her face grew three shades darker. “Well, didn’t talk,” she coughed, noticing the redness in Neville’s face as well. “Like you said, we didn’t know what we wanted. Or needed, I guess.”

“Was he good? In bed?” Neville boldly asked, somewhat unashamed.

“Look at Longbottom, asking the naughty questions,” (Y/N) smirked, teasing the dark haired man further. “I don’t have anything else to compare it to. It was fine,” another shrug. “I mean, I guess it wasn’t sometimes. Would have to polish myself off rather often after if you catch my drift.”

“I do,” Neville sputtered. “Well, not like that. I’ve never had a problem with… that,” he set his cup down. “On my end though, I guess I never asked Luna if she… oh no. What if she—” 

“Neville, you’re going to hurt yourself, just breathe,” she laughed. “I’m sure you were more than satisfactory in bed,” Neville took a deep breath. “Look at us, chatting about our sexual escapades like real adults.”

“Who would’ve thought?” Neville chuckled.

“Not me, that’s for sure,” (Y/N) smiled, enjoying the gentle company. “I’m glad we’re friends again.”

“Me too,” he smiled back, closing his eyes for a moment. “A bit different than before.”

“No kidding,” she took a bite of the tan biscuit. Sweet. “Instead of essays and exams to prepare for, we’re the ones writing the exams and stressing about lesson plans.”

“A bit over our heads, I reckon,” he laughed. “From what I can tell, the students like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Hear a lot from the first year class, especially Noah Butler. I think he has a crush on you.”

“Stop it,” (Y/N) said, rolling her eyes. “He’s just really into potions. I was that student at one point, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Neville clicked. “But you never said Snape ever had ‘beautifully wonderful hair’ or ‘nice eyes’, did you?“

“Merlin’s beard. My student fancies me! He’s eleven!” (Y/N) roared, amused at the thought. “If anyone were to fancy me, he wouldn’t be at the top of the list.”

“Who would be? Professor Knight?” Neville slanted his eyes, cocking an eyebrow. (Y/N) was silent. “So it’s true. You two’ve been spending loads of time together, no?”

“Lance and I are just friends—”

“But you want to be more than that right?”

“It’s not wise to date a co-worker,” (Y/N) said, trying to convince Neville. Maybe herself. “He’s smart enough, sure. But…”

“Ask him out,” Neville said, shoving another biscuit in his mouth. “He’s not going to say no. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Looks at me? Lance?”

“Practically undresses you with his eyes,” he laughed. “You two would be good together. You said so yourself, you’d date a muggle. He’s muggle-born, best of both worlds, right?”

“I suppose…” (Y/N) exhaled, thinking it over. “I just can’t believe Neville Longbottom is giving me dating advice.”

“I can be useful sometimes,” he smirked, finishing his cup of tea. “Say, is your bathroom connected to your room too?”

“Yeah, door next to the bed if you need it,” she pointed a thumb at her bedroom door. “Feel free.”

The Gryffindor excused himself, allowing himself to enter her bedroom. (Y/N) had decorated lightly, ivy dangling from nearly every corner of the room, just like her classroom. Moving photos dotted the walls, some of their friends, some of what Neville guessed was her family. Her room was orderly, less so than the living area in the room prior, work and private life separate it seemed. Her dresser, dark oak, had trinkets from her past littering the surface.

“Sentimental indeed,” Neville chuckled, noting the old Honeydukes box. He had gifted her that on her 15th birthday, it was filled with chocolate fudge. Not terribly magical, but she loved it none the less. His eyes glanced at the pile next to the box. “She kept a jumper from school?” He lifted the jumper. “Always loved wearing…” his eyes noted the stitching under the tag. His stitching. “Jumpers.”

“Find it okay?” (Y/N) called from the other room, slightly worried about her friend.

Neville shook his head, rapidly folding back up the cardigan. “Yeah, of course. I’m not that thick,” he called back. Quickly using the bathroom, he made one last check to make sure nothing seemed out of place.

“Had me worried for a minute,” (Y/N) mused, already on her second cup of tea.

“Got distracted by that photo of you, Harry and Ginny,” he lied. “When’d you take that?”

“At their engagement party. Gin practically begged me to take it,” she hummed. “But I’ve grown rather fond of that one. Ginny just looked so happy.”

“When do you think they’re planning to have the ceremony?”

“Ginny said something along the lines of February or March,” (Y/N) recalled, memories filtering through the various letters they had sent back and forth. “I wouldn’t be surprised to get an invite soon.”

“Me either,” Neville guessed. “Well, it’s getting late, got exams to grade and whatnot…”

“By all means, don’t let me keep you,” (Y/N) forced herself to finish her cup, standing up. “The company was nice while it lasted.”

“Yeah,” Neville retorted, practically scrabbling for the door. “Have a goodnight!” Just like that, he was gone.

“Odd,” said (Y/N), putting her china in the sink. “Guess he was always a bit odd, right Edgar?” The owl cooed, not paying attention.

__

It took exactly three glasses of firewhisky for Neville to calm down. He hated turning to alcohol, but he felt like there was no other choice.

“Why’d she keep the cardigan?” he mumbled, playing with his fingers. “I knew she never gave it back, but after all this time?” He shook his head, trying to read the answers on the exam in front of him. “It just doesn’t make sense!” Neville slammed a fist onto the table, rattling it. “Trevor, give me some advice.” He turned to his oldest friend, a bumpy toad sitting in a cage across from the table.

The toad croaked, eyes glossed over.

“I dunno,” Neville mumbled. “After today, the way she was talking about Seamus… Professor Knight…”

Trevor croaked again. 

“Shut it!” Neville exclaimed, accidentally pouring his inkwell onto the parchment below. “Shit,” he quickly recited a spell, cleaning the ink off the paper. All of the ink, including his student’s answers. “Great.” He seethed, reluctantly giving the student full marks. What else was he to do?

“I thought I was over it,” Neville shook his head again, almost reaching for the bottle of booze sitting far too close to him. “Thought I could ignore it forever. Blimey, Trevor! We’re just becoming mates again and all I can think about is—is—damnit!”

-

The ruin around the grounds was massive. Boulders that used to be ceilings, bodies that used to be students, all littered around him. Neville’s head was reeling. Voldemort was gone for good. Dead. Never had the Gryffindor’s head pounded the way it was. Was it adrenaline? The fear finally leaving his body?

“Neville!” 

He turned around, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of her. A cut was dripping across her forehead, flowing onto her pink cheeks. Her hair was down, her pink ribbon lost in the wreck. “(Y/N),” he mumbled, practically falling over the rubble to meet her halfway. Without thinking, his arms wrapped around the girl, pulling her in tight.

“I’m so glad you’re alive!” (Y/N) sobbed into his blood-stained jumper, hugging him tighter. “I got caught up… my mum’s here. I-I don’t know why, she wouldn’t tell me,” she shook her head. “But I can talk to her later. They’re saying you killed a snake? Helped defeat Voldemort?” 

“I guess, yeah,” he responded sheepishly, eyes darting between hers. As he was about to open his mouth to continue, he couldn’t. A somewhat wet pair of lips was stopping him. (Y/N)’s lips. They were soft, supple, in comparison to his cracked and bleeding ones. Without thinking, he ran a hand up to her hair, feeling the locks tangle around his fingers, deepening the kiss.

She pulled away, expecting Neville to say something, anything. He looked down at her, confused, eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“(Y/N),” he pleaded, begging her to not let go.

“No, I don’t know what came over me. You and Luna…”

“What?” his eyebrows drew together harder, almost touching. “(Y/N) I don’t—”

“Forget it,” she released herself from his grip. “I—I have to go find my mum.” (Y/N) ran away, mumbling something else Neville didn’t quite catch. He stood still, body paralyzed to the one spot, hardly noticing the streak of pink that rested by his boot. 

-

He decided that the exams could wait until morning, the third year class not meeting again until the day after next. He needed sleep like he needed to breathe, mull over his thoughts. Falling flat on his face amongst his covers, Neville tried to fall asleep, ignoring the scent of her bleeding from his clothes.

__

General Tag List: @maralisa124 , @leighxlover , @hey-its-me-rai , @missihart23 , @biatheintrovert , @chocolaterumble, @why-am-i-sad-and-sleepy , @steve-thotgers

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[antisocial-af]

Day 10: Jeliorn

Title: The Day the Roots Invaded

25 Days of Pairings: Day 10 Jeliorn

Promo:

If you are interested in Rare Pairs, think about joining Shadowhunters Rare Pair Gift Exchange. I’ve already sent in my form! Sign-ups End on December 19th so don’t miss your chance and don’t be afraid to be as specific as you want on the forms!

Rating: G

Wordcount: 1612

No Major Archive Warnings

SFW, Holiday Fluff, Christmas Tree Mishaps, and Small Misunderstanding.

Summary:

Seelies don't appreciate real Christmas trees.

Click Here to Read on Ao3

Story:

Jace rummaged through the disheveled storage closet. He needed to pull out the Christmas Tree decorations that the Institute kept tucked away. This year Jace had the honor of setting up and decorating the tree for the holidays. Usually, it would fall onto the Institute Head to decorate the tree as tradition, but Alec had been busy lately with some warlock winter tradition. 

Izzy then pulled the whole ‘Alec is your Parabatai, and he covers for you, so you should too.’ Jace was well aware of the times his brother had covered for him. So he sucked it up and played right into his sister’s hand. 

Jace had been relieved that Meliorn didn’t mind having to reorganize their date. They had planned to see some more of the Seelie Realm. Instead, Meliorn was going to come over and help Jace with the tree and decorations. 

Isabelle had told him the Clave usually had the trees delivered to the Institutes. Jace had never seen anyone do it before, so he hadn’t believed her till Andrew had woken him up by banging against his door this morning because they needed him to sign-off on the drop-off.  Dropping off a tree was one of the few things that the Clave never failed to provide on time. 

The tree had been massive when they had wheeled it in. Luckily the branches were being contained because of the net around the tree. They had carted it to the main entrance hall of the Institute and set it up. Jace figured it had to do something with appearances. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it was true, after the first week of December, there would always be a Christmas Tree fully decked out with decorations proudly standing whenever you entered the Institute. 

“Hey, Mel just got here,” Izzy’s voice pulled him from the mountain of boxes and his thoughts. “Are you okay? Why are you here?” 

“I’m looking for the damn tree decorations!” Jace responded, irritated as he brushed some dust off his jacket. 

“They are in the boxes, Jace.”

“This whole room is filled with boxes, Iz. So you are going to have to be more specific than that!” Jace snapped back. His only thoughts right now were on how Meliorn was here, he looked a mess, and he still hadn’t found the damn lights! 

“No idiot, I mean the ones they delivered with the tree,” Izzy responded as she rolled her eyes at her brother. “You signed the inventory list. Jace, they delivered a tree and twelve boxes. What did you think the boxes were for?” 

“I thought it was just stuff to keep the tree healthy. Mom and Dad always put stuff at the bottom,” Jace explained. He couldn’t believe he had just spent the last hour down here searching for boxes that were upstairs next to the damn tree already. “How much of a disaster do I look?” 

“Well, since we are Shadowhunters, the scratches and dirt are on point with our aesthetic but maybe shake it off your face and hair,” she teased and patted the sleeve of his jacket to get some spider webs that fell on it off. 

Jace groaned and stuck his tongue out before rolling his eyes at his sister and leaving her behind in the mess of a room. He knew he would have to back and fix that later. Right now, though, Jace was mostly kicking himself for not checking the boxes before going off and wasting time. 

“Melio-” Jace stopped mid-sprint and sentence as he reached a very angry looking Seelie. “Hey, everything okay, Mel?” 

Jace had seen Meliorn angry before, but this was a mix between disgust and anger. He didn’t know the combination of those emotions could be displayed on a person’s face, but Meliorn had proved him wrong in other ways before. 

“Jace, why do you have this?” Meliorn asked with a scold as he waved at the now fully extended tree. 

“The tree? We have one every year,” Jace tentatively explains, all while trying to decipher what about it upset his boyfriend. “The Clave sends one to every Institute for the holidays.” 

“So you partake in the barbaric ritual of decorating dead trees?” Meliorn accused him with a growl. 

It then dawned on Jace what was going on. He had never thought that the tree might be offensive to Seelies. He knew that they were attached to all things that sprouted from the Earth, but Jace never realized it would extend to this. Jace then started to wonder how many times in the past years had Seelies been angered or made uncomfortable by this. 

“When you put it that way, I can see the fault in it,” Jace answered with a sigh. “I told you I would be decorating the Institute’s Christmas tree when I had to reschedule our date. I thought you knew. I didn’t know it would be offensive, I swear.” 

Jace watched as Meliorn’s anger dissipated. He moved towards Meliorn and reached out for his hand. 

“I know I can be an idiot at times,” Jace stated as he curled his fingers in the Seelie’s hand. “But I wouldn’t purposefully ask you over to do this with me if I knew it was offensive. I would never do that to you, Mel.” 

“I know, my petal,” Meliorn assured as he kissed the top of Jace’s hair and pulled him closer. “I just assumed you meant a plastic one, especially since you mentioned having to find the boxes for it.” 

Jace leaned into his boyfriend’s embrace and sighed. 

“I was looking for the decorations, which I didn’t have to since they deliver them with the tree as well,” Jace cleared up and started to play with the long strands of Meliorn’s hair. “The Institute has one every year. Have you never seen it before?” 

“It wasn’t till last year when your Parabatai took over that we were even welcomed to enter the Institute, my nectar,” Meliorn explained and received a groan and head shake from Jace at the new pet name. “Another fail?” 

“I don’t know why you insist on calling me by names or parts of flowers,” Jace grumbled into Meliorn’s winter coat. “I’m not fragile like them; I’m a Shadowhunter.” 

It had become a small game with them. Meliorn was always trying to develop new names to call Jace, and other than Petal, all were rejected. 

“That may be true, but you hold the beauty to rival theirs,” Meliorn complimented and laid another kiss to the top of Jace’s head. “On most days, you surpass it.” 

“Is this another stab at my snoring?” Jace redirected and buried his blush further into his boyfriend’s chest. “Just stick to petal, please, Mel.” 

“That’s not fair, you know I can’t resist your pleads,” Meliorn answered and tipped Jace’s chin so that he would be forced to look up at the Seelie. “How could I deny you anything, my petal.” 

Jace felt Meliorn lean forward and kiss him softly. He eagerly reciprocated and smiled. 

“How about I deal with the tree, and you go grab your coat,” Meliorn offered. “We can go out still.” 

“What are you going to do with it?” Jace asked and raised an eyebrow as his boyfriend stepped away from him. 

“Watch.”

Jace watched as Meliorn stepped up to the tree and brushed his hands against it. The scent of burning sugar and rain warned him of what Meliorn was doing, though. After being together for so long and at times in the Seelie Realm, Jace had learned to associate that smell will Seelie magic. Jace kept watching curiously as the tree rustled a bit. He saw the small tendrils of pastel green magic bleed off Meliorn’s fingertips. 

“There. All done,” Meliorn claimed as he walked back to Jace. “It was still holding on with the water you were giving it, so it was easy to coax the roots to take.”

“Root? Take where?” Jace asked, confused. He didn’t understand why the Seelie was talking about roots. 

“There is only one room below before dirt; so I fed it some of my magic so the tree could extend its roots down to the dirt past that.”  Meliorn nonchalantly explained. 

Jace felt the panic start rising as he understood what his boyfriend had done. Underneath, where it was mostly storage, there were now roots breaking through down to the dirt. There was a hole that extended two-floor technically since Jace assumed there was now a hole underneath the tree’s skirt. Jace would now have to explain to Alec why the hole that hadn’t been there previously was now there. He could already hear his Parabatai’s lecturing voice. Jace had started to wonder why the Institute alarms hadn’t been triggered yet, only to listen to the alarm signaling an infiltrator. Since Meliorn had broken the structure, Jace understood it. 

“Jace!” Isabelle’s voice called out from behind him, and he could hear the fast clicking of her heels. 

It was then he realized not only had Izzy heard the Institute alarm, but Jace had left her downstairs in the basement where there was no doubt now roots growing. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mel, we have to go,” Jace panicked and started to think of how long he could hide in the Seelie Realm before Alec would get Magnus to track him. “How am I supposed to explain the hole to Alec?” 

“Jace Lightwood-Wayland-Herondale!” Izzy’s voice came again, but this time she was at the hallway entrance staring at both of them. “Care to explain why we suddenly have a root infestation?” 

Jace groaned and buried his face in his boyfriend’s chest again.

[vanillacraftau]

Chapter 1

Once upon a time there were three idiots.

The first idiot was named Erik. With auburn hair and bright blue eyes, he was the jokester. Always quick to respond and earn a laugh, Erik was one of the kindest men you would ever have the honor of meeting. At 23 young, he was skilled with a sword, and found joy in sparring with one of his best friends, Suga. 

Suga, the second idiot, was the handsome one of the group. With warm brown hair and caramel skin, they were quite the sight to behold. Not quite as tall as Erik but still a decent height. Intelligent and creative, Suga was a skilled strategist and kind friend, always quick to help and support those around them. 

The final idiot was Fallen. With dark brown hair and eyes, she was the plainest of all of them. Unskilled really in combat, Fallen found her world to be more academic. She studied and learned, always reading some book or journal to pass the time. She was a tad short tempered, but being with her partner Suga, best friend Erik, and crow familiar Pam made her happier than anything. 

The world these three idiots lived in was unfortunately not a peaceful one. They lived within the territory of The Order. A large kingdom with a powerful regime, The Order stood unchallenged on almost every side. Except the northern border. Constant attacks from a neighboring country, called the Provinces of Lumen, had sent The Order’s army up north close to the small village in which Erik, Suga, and Fallen lived. 

The constant presence of some soldier or another inspired a lot more sparring sessions than usual. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erik drew his sword, the plain steel blade gleaming in the mid-afternoon sun. He faced off against Suga in a small clearing behind their houses. Large oak trees towered around a small green meadow. Erik took an attack stance, dropping his weight and holding his sword ahead of him before he shouted "Prepare to be destroyed!" as he lunged forward to attack Suga. A quick side step was all it took to get away from Erik’s overhead strike. Suga deftly swung one of their small battle axes against the side of his blade, knocking against it before he had the chance to take another swing.

 "Hah I don't think I'll be the one getting destroyed today." Suga smirked as they swung their axe in a wide arc towards Erik’s chest. The taller man quickly jerked his sword, catching the strike on the hilt of his blade and leaping to the side out of harm's way. 

  "Hey guys-!" Fallen’s voice suddenly rang out from the edge of the clearing, making Suga jump and miss, throwing their weight wrong and crashing awkwardly down into the dirt. Fallen let out a shocked gasp as she ran to the side of her downed partner. "Oh my gods Suga-" She knelt beside them and quickly touched their shoulder. "I'm really sorry!" Fallen frowned with concern, her eyes flitting over their body as she assessed for injuries. As if a stumble could really do that much damage. 

 Wiping a stray piece of dirt from their cheep, Suga turned towards their wife and grinned. "Heh, it's ok. Not the first time I've fallen over you." Fallen struggled to contain a heavy blush from spreading over her cheeks when Suga added a little wink onto the end. 

  Erik fondly rolled his eyes at the two smitten dumbasses. "Fallen, what are you doing here?" He questioned. She rarely ever showed up to their sparring matches, claiming it just wasn’t her place and watching made her anxious that they’d hurt one another. 

Fallen quickly stood up, brushing dirt and plant debris from her pants before pulling a neatly folded letter from her back pocket. Even from this distance, Erik could see the official seal of The Order keeping the note together. She held it out to him. “I was talking with Ceutie when the mail arrived. It’s a letter from someone named Camorrista. If I recall correctly, he’s one of the archons of The Order.” 

The archons. There were 3, each surrounded in mystery. They were the supreme leaders of The Order. If they had a letter from one of them, it had to be something important. 

“It’s… addressed to both of you.” Fallen’s voice went slightly quieter as Erik took the letter in his hands. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 It had been two weeks since the letter from Camorrista arrived, offering Suga and Erik a place in the Order’s army. 

Both of them had accepted.

Leaving one behind. 

Suga pressed a hand to their forehead, a small desperate plea entering their voice as they tried to reason with their partner. "Fallen-"

 " You said you were gonna leave in two months, not two weeks! Why are you so eager to go?!” It had been the longest weeks of Fallen’s life. Two months turned into two weeks before the two new additions to the army were set to head out to the capital and begin training. Fallen didn’t want them to go. Why would she? They were her world. Pam sat on the table, her feathers ruffled in reflection of Fallen’s despair. The two were bound, telepathically able to communicate and easily able to pick up on each other’s feelings. The arguing had only gotten worse as the deadline for their leaving neared, leaving Pam miserable most of time.  

 Dropping their hand from their forehead, Suga stepped forward to where her partner stood rigid in their living room and wrapped their arms tightly around her. "I'm not leaving you, Fallen. I'm just going away for a little bit. You know I'd never abandon you."

 Still shaking, Fallen buried her face in their chest and let out a weak breath. She grabbed hold of the back of Suga’s shirt, the fabric twisting in her grip as she tried to anchor herself against them. Maybe if she held on tight enough, they wouldn’t go. “I just don’t want to be without you…” Her voice felt weak.  She knew they were going, no matter how hard she begged them to stay. A gentle hand cupped the back of Fallen’s head, running through her hair. 

“You’ll never be without me Fallen. I just...have to do this. It feels like it calls to me. Like… like it’s my destiny finally coming true. Just like it was when I knew I had to be with you.”

As Fallen opened her mouth to reply, a few light taps on their door interrupted. Drawing a hand quickly across her stinging eyes, Fallen pulled back from their embrace and took a heavy breath. “I’ve got it.” She pulled open the door, trying not to break down when she saw it was Erik, bag slung over his shoulder and new armor gleaming in the sunlight. It was time. He had a lopsided grin on his face as he waved Suga over. 

 "Ey guys! Suga are you ready to go?" He asked as Suga cast Fallen a small pained glance before nodding and picking up their own bag from beside the table. 

 "Yeah I'm about ready. Guess we'll be taking off then huh?" They brushed their hand against Fallen’s back before heading out the door beside Erik.  Suga and Erik stood side by side for a moment before sharing a glance and opening their arms. Fallen couldn’t help it. Tears welled up in her eyes as she raced forward into their arms. Burying herself into Suga with Erik pressed against her back, She shut her eyes tightly for a moment and just tried to imprint this moment into her mind. Pam flew out from the home and quickly landed on Suga’s head, her wings spreading over both soldiers in the closest thing to an embrace she could muster. 

   Erik couldn’t help but quietly laugh. "Of course, safety is my middle name!" That got a smile to flash over Fallen’s face. She reluctantly let go, trying to hide the fact that she was blubbering like a baby. 

Suga caught her, gently pressing their hands against her cheeks. They smiled encouragingly and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We’re gonna be fine hun, don’t worry.” Fallen wished that was possible. The two people in this world she loved the most were headed off to a war. There was no possible way she wouldn’t worry. Regardless, she put on a brave smile and turned to Erik. “You keep them in check for me.” Erik smirked and nodded as Suga gave a small fake pout. “Hey!” 

Fallen tried to hang onto her brave smile until Suga and Erik had turned onto the next road and disappeared from sight before crouching down and burying her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking as she let out a heavy sob. 

 Come home soon… Pam murmured in their shared mind. Fallen couldn’t agree more. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 "So off to the capital then huh?" Erik smiled as he got settled into his train car seat. Suga sat down across from him, their eyes bright with excitement at this new adventure. "Off to the capital indeed." They spun their wedding ring around, already missing Fallen. But this would be good for everyone, they just knew it. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been four whole years since Suga and Erik boarded that train. The pair proved to be intelligent and reliable, rising up and gaining more respect in The Order, each now claiming the title of ‘General’. Fallen couldn’t be more proud of them, eagerly reading each and every letter the two of them sent her. She missed them horribly, but thankfully each summer they returned home. The three of them would spend each day together until they had to return to the battlefield. Fallen would be a liar if she said it got any easier saying goodbye, but she could see just how much this mattered to Suga, and no longer gave them any grief over this way of life. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Spring had arrived. Pollen covered the ground in a thin yellow sheet as bees buzzed through the trees. Birds tweeted joyfully as new buds of flowers and herbs sprouted up all over the village. It was a time of growth and new beginnings. Fallen set down a warm bowl of stew in front of Ceutie, as agreed upon for their lunch. Fallen settled down with her own bowl, swirling it around with her spoon for a few moments before taking a sip. Ceutie followed suit, smiling brightly at the taste. “Not bad!” The blonde girl smiled. “Almost edible!” “Oh, you shut it.” Fallen laughed warmly. She and Ceu had been best friends for as long as either girl could remember. Fallen told her everything. Ceutie had been her support for the times Suga and Erik were away. She could never imagine being able to repay her for that. 

 Nor did she imagine she’d ever have the opportunity. 

A horrendously loud boom against the door made both girls jump out of their skin. Fallen was quick to her feet, Pam fluttering around in a panic over her head. Danger danger danger danger!!! The crow frantically screeched. 

Despite Pam’s warning, Fallen hesitantly reached for the door. 

 “CEUTIE. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR TREASON AGAINST THE ORDER. EXIT THE PREMISES WITH YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD. LEAVE ANY WEAPONS BEHIND.” A horrifically loud voice, matching the volume of the knock from before, rattled the house. Fallen stumbled back from the door, her head snapping towards Ceutie with her eyes widened in horror. 

 Ceutie had paled, her knuckles white as she gripped the spoon tightly in her hand. “No…” Her voice was barely a whisper, cracking with fear. 

“What are they talking about?!” Fallen clutched at her arms in fear. Ceutie bit her lip and shakily stood. Without a word towards Fallen, she started towards the door. “Hey- wait where are you going!?" Fallen practically knocked her chair over to chase after her best friend

 Before Fallen could stop her, Ceutie was opening the door. A heavily armored man stood in front of them. A large white cross was blazoned across his black chestplate. A horrifically large silver trident sat at his hip, and his gauntleted hands were folded sternly. His figure blocked out the sun, looming over the two women and casting shadows over their faces. 

Slowly, Ceutie raised her head to face the armored figure before her. “It’s me you want…” Her voice was small, and her frame looked thin and frail next to such a giant of a man. 

The beautiful spring day had dissolved into something from a nightmare. Smoke was rising in the distance, the sharp stinging scent finally reaching the girl’s homes. A number of Order soldiers were marching through, yanking open doors, shattering windows, even killing those who resisted. Bodies  littered the streets. All in the search for the small blonde woman standing before them. Fallen couldn’t help but wonder as she tried not to gag how they didn’t hear the screams. 

 The General before them uncrossed his arms, grunting at finally finding the woman he was looking for. “The Archons have ordered your execution for spying for the enemy, Lumen. If you resist, I'll drag out your death until you beg for its release. Come quietly and we can make it quick.” 

Fallen and Pam surged forward, planting themselves in between the Order soldier and Ceutie in a moment of uncharacteristic bravery. “Wait!” She held up her left hand, showing off the silver and blue wedding ring. “I’m married to one of your fellow generals, Suga Snaps! Surely they wouldn’t agree to such drastic measures! Please, let’s discuss this!” 

 The general narrowed his eyes and made a small growl. “What do you want.” It didn’t sound so much like a question as it did an accusation. Fallen’s hands had begun to shake. 

“S-surely the law requires some form of trial, giving Ceutie the chance to argue her innocence! I know she would never do something like betray The Order! I’m Suga would attest to that as well, just ask them!” She tried to reason with him, Pam landing on her shoulder and pressing against her cheek as comfortingly as she could. 

At that, the General burst out laughing. It was cold and cruel, echoing from his chest with a dark malice. "Look honey. Seems your little wifey didn't tell you how things work around here. When the archons want somebody dead. They die. No trial needed!" He spread his arms, showing off the cross on his chest with pride.

Fallen’s shaking hands suddenly stilled as her fear was replaced with nothing but a hot rage. First at misgendering her partner, second at his arrogance. “That’s WRONG.” She took a step forward. “I WON’T let you do this.” 

 "Good.” He smirked, stepping back and drawing his trident. “I love a pointless fight."

 What happened next could barely be considered a fight. Fallen ducked and bolted to the side, Ceutie watching in a muted, frozen terror. Pam took flight, diving down with her talons extended towards the man’s eyes. He smacked her aside with ease, Fallen crying out as their pain was shared. She barely had time to turn around before the handle of his trident was brought down on the back of her head. Finally, Ceutie snapped out of her paralyzed fearful state and raced out of the house to Fallen’s side. The brown haired girl’s eyes were swimming, black edging her vision from just the single blow. “R-run!” She cried as Ceutie’s face came into view. There wasn’t a chance. 

Ceutie suddenly froze and Fallen felt something warm splatter against her face. Ceutie slowly looked down to her chest, where three prongs had been driven all the way through her body. As the general pulled the weapon free from her already dead form, Ceutie fell sideways. Fallen was frozen, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to think. Her eyes were wide. 

The man laughed. “Tell you what. Since you are married to one of my cohorts, I won’t kill you too.” His trident was still dripping red as he pointed it at Fallen’s upturned, tear stained face. 

The last thing she saw was a glint of metal, and an order banner waving in the distance. A single upward strike with the three pronged weapon was all it took to leave sizable gashes. One over each eye, and a finishing one vertical on her forehead. Fallen’s scream was the only thing anyone in the village heard until she fell unconscious, her body twitching with pain. 

All around her, the village that she, Suga, Erik, and Ceutie had grown up in, burned to the ground. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 "Hello? Can you hear me?" An unfamiliar, muffled voice brought Fallen’s attention back to the world of the awake. It hurt. It all hurt. Everything was white. It felt like she was lying on some sort of cot, a thin blanket over her legs. She weakly tried to sit up. 

 "Mmgh wha- who?" She asked weakly. Her throat was dry and raw, her tongue swollen. 

A hand pressed against her shoulder as she began to rise, pushing her back down against the bed."Hey, calm down. My name is Fire Fox. You've been seriously injured and need to rest."

The white that had consumed Fallen’s vision was beginning to send her into a panic. “I-i can’t see? Why.. why can’t I see?!” Her voice quickly grew hysterical as she fought to open her eyes. The hand on her shoulder squeezed gently. 

 "I won’t lie. Your eyes are quite damaged. You might not be able to see again." It was honest, but far from any form of comfort. It was too much. This stranger, ‘Fire Fox’, the bandages over her eyes, the white where there should’ve been color. Lying in a strange place, completely defenseless. And without Pam. Fallen again tried to sit up, this time desperation making her thrash. “W-where’s Pam?!” She cried out, a dull ache in her mind where her dear familiar’s gentle words usually could reassure her. Quickly, a feathered wing was pressed against her hand. Fire audibly sighed. “Don’t worry, your bird is alright. Please, you really need to calm down. You’re safe here, I promise.” Once more he eased her into lying down, and this time Fallen reluctantly stayed. Fallen’s hands found the edge of the blanket, and she pulled it up over her arms. She felt cold, goosebumps rising over her body as she struggled not to slip back into a panic. “W-what happened to me…?” “I heard news of another Order attack, so I went to go investigate. I found your village, and you lying on the ground hardly alive. Your eyes were cut up, and your bird was unconscious beside you. Not finding any other survivors, I brought you back to my camp. That’s about it.” Fire’s voice was mostly calm, only a small edge of anger slipping into his words as he recounted what he knew. “Frankly, you’re lucky to have survived. The order usually just kills whoever stands in their way.”

Fallen couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice as she curled up on her side. "I-I’m pretty sure being dead is better than this..." Pam shifted in response to her pain, but could only find the energy to weakly flutter her wings as an acknowledgement. 

 Fire just let out a small pained laugh. "Heh, maybe. But this isn't as bad as what they did to me.” Not that Fallen could see this, but Fire bore a thin ceramic mask in the shape of a fox. Hints of scars touched his cheeks where the mask didn’t cover. 

 Fallen tilted her head towards his voice, unable to help the curiosity that bubbled up at his statement. “What.. what did they do to you…?” 

 He took a moment to think before letting out a sarcasm laced reply. "What they do to everyone who dares speak against the might of the noble order."

 End of Chapter 1

[royalcordelia]

shy daydreams & stardust (2/3)

Summary: He can’t help how he makes her magic spiral out of control whenever he’s around, but maybe she can help him when his own abilities bloom out of nowhere like a lily pad in a teacup. Shirbert Magic!AU. 

Especially dedicated to the kind anon who delivered me back my muse. Sweetie, this one's for you! ♥

• 4.7k words • Read Part 1 • Read on ao3 •

She told him everything.

“So the ice on the pond, the flowers randomly growing out of my floor, and the lily pad in my tea...That was all you?” Gilbert asked carefully. Anne nodded as she handed him a new cup of tea, hoping that the hot liquid would cool down his restlessness. He’d been clutching his fingers the same way you hold back a barking dog begging to unleashed, and she knew the feeling. Suddenly having a power you didn’t want and couldn’t control at first seemed like a curse, but Anne knew that with time, he would accept it as a part of him.

Not to mention, he had Life magic. Magic that could restore and revitalize. It could take things that never had an ounce of spirit and fill them so completely with life that they’d rise and chase him around the room. Surely there was no true curse in that.

“The candles must have been you,” Anne added. “Fire has never been within my control.”

“That’s ironic,” he muttered, taking a sip of tea. Something humorous in his mind was making him chuckle, causing her to look at him suspiciously. “What with your hair and all.” Anne rolled her eyes, settling on the couch beside him. Some of the color had returned to his face, but he still kept looking up at her forehead where she’d been bleeding as if he expected the wound to open right back up. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Of course, Gil. It’s my own fault I got hurt, anyways. I should have been able to control it better.”

“Can you control it now?” he asked, and for a moment, Anne wondered if he was afraid of her. Then, she met the light in his eyes with her own and saw no fear. He was intrigued, dipping his toes into unfamiliar water with a burst of bravery that came from trusting her.

“Yes, I think so.” The unwanted tingling of her magic behind her skin had stopped after the explosion of the window. It now simmered in the background, just tangible enough that she knew it was there, but subdued enough behind her rigid control that she wasn’t concerned about breaking any more windows. “Would you like me to show you?”

He replied in one captivated, breathy, “Yes.”

 If mother nature existed, she was walking before Gilbert, bare toes getting caught between wildgrass as they made their way to the desolate garden. With each step Anne took, the grass around them grew taller, the leafy trees grew ever more verdant, and little toadstools sprouted to mark the way.

The earth wanted to consume her, wrap around her legs, and turn her into another tigerlily, returning her from whence she came.

“Don’t mind all of that,” Anne murmured sheepishly, kicking some of the spare grass from between her toes. “I want to start your garden completely unrestrained. This is what it looks like when I’m not holding back any of my magic. Bits of it trickle over, like a boiling pot.”

To prove her point, she caught a handful of daisy petals that had been floating around her like an aura. She opened her palm, and the petals blew in his direction, carried on the soft touch of the breeze.

“Is this too much?” she asked. “You look a bit pale.”

Truthfully, maybe it was too much. Too much admiration for her loving touch as she plucked the petals from mid air, and the graceful strength in her stride that made the earth grow up from nothing to touch her. If he had adored her before, now it was a tornado unleashed on himself, wreaking destruction on everything he thought he knew.

But one thought stayed the same, an irrefutable fact that that remained true since the first day.

He loved her - the same romantic love that made his magic turn into flames and consume him alive with unavoidable sensation. It was Anne. How could he not love the girl whose words and smile were forged with gold?

“It isn’t too much,” he answered finally, small smile lifting his lips. “Show me.”

Anne crept forward, lifting the skirts of her dress as to not sully the pale colors as she dug her toes into the loose soil.

“You raked everything already?” she asked, focused as she pressed some of the dirt between her fingers.

“More like the rake did the work for me,” he replied a bit sheepishly. This broke Anne out of her focus and she met Gilbert’s eyes with her own storm cloud ones.  In the daylight sun, she read him like a book. Each wrinkle around his eye, each hidden message in his expression - they were all words that she comprehended.

“This whole time, you’ve been going through it alone,” she murmured, the words floating from her heart like feathers in water. “You lost your father, traveled the world, made a new family, and had to weather the strangeness of developing magic all at once?”

Gilbert looked at her funny as the muscles in his face constricted, the raw exhaustion of the past year from making itself visible to her. A gust of wind swept past him, wisping bits of Anne’s floral fragrance along with it. Of course she saw right through him. Her soul had known his intimately before they even met.

When he didn’t respond, Anne smoothed her hands down the skirts of her dress and nodded.

“Alright, Gilbert. Your abilities might seem scary now, but I assure you as your trusted confidant…” She knelt down in the dirt, digging her fingertips into the soil. “Magic is nothing to fear. It’s love and grace at its warmest and kindest. And those are all things that you are. You can make great things happen, you just have to trust yourself.”

The rows of the barren garden suddenly sprouted to life. Tiny blossoms of green stems and leaves popped up as if several days of time had passed in a mere few seconds. Gilbert knelt down, struck with amazement as he watched the new buds flourish into a thick patch of what he recognized as carrots, potatoes, and cabbage. Sunflowers, roses, peonies - an entire array of greenery that she’d brought to life with just the feelings in her heart and the thoughts in her head.

Anne had done it all. Heaven above , she was exquisite.

His shaky fingers reached out and took hers, soft skin tangling in the soil and roots. Their magic sparked when they touched, but neither let go.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” she asked quietly.

His grasp tightened in hers and he bit contained a grin into a small smile before saying, “Not even a little.”

* * *

Gilbert spent the next several weeks practicing. He practiced and practiced and practiced, until his nerves were raw with streaming magic and his muscles were achy from the strain. He worked alone in his barn when Bash was out, extending his hand to rain magic down on watering jugs, wrenches, stray wagon wheels. The inanimate objects careened into his touch, renewed with life and vigor. This time, they didn’t chase after him or attack him. They simply bustled about quietly and awaited instructions.

He did have Life magic, it seemed, because his powers worked wonders on a sick apple tree suffering from blight. The dark disease that had consumed the long branches and fruit dissipated with Gilbert’s careful touch, and the leaves suddenly shone with bright, new verdance. As where Anne’s magic was radiant, Gilbert’s was calm, like a soothing balm on a burn.

Whenever he felt like he was losing control, he thought of Anne. And if she was with him, he’d reach back for her hand, feeling the relief of her support almost immediately when she took it.

A strange, lonely part of him worried about what would become of him and his abilities if she ever left him. He voiced this to her one day, trying to leave out any hints of his longing for her.

“That would never happen,” answered Anne firmly. “But I agree. It’s nice to have a small handful of people supporting you. Even I have Marilla.”

“You told Marilla?” Gilbert asked, astonished. Fuschia settled over Anne’s cheeks, and she shrugged.

“It was an accident, really. She caught me practicing with deer behind the barn.”

“What were you doing?”

“Giving them flower wreaths,” she answered honestly. “Oh, they were the most majestic creatures I ever saw, auburn beauties with their white spots. I thought they were much like me in that way, so I wanted to speak with them. When Marilla found me, I was laying against the mother deer, adorning her baby with the most beautiful queen anne’s lace on the island - quite out of thin air. I had to explain myself.”

“I can’t even imagine what that must have been like,” Gilbert replied. “How did she react?” A content smile flitted across Anne’s face and she turned her face up the blowing breeze.

“Love makes people accept the things they don’t understand, Gil. Marilla loves me, magic and all. She calls it my gift from the Almighty, and I say it is the best thing he ever gave me.” Anne threw him a side glance. “That and my family and friends. And you, of course.”

They stopped walking at the gate of Green Gables, and Gilbert leaned an arm against the wooden post. Anne waited, knowing there was something weighing on his mind.

“Do you think I should tell Bash and Mary?”

Anne considered this for a few moments, kicking a small pebble underneath the toes of her shoes.

“I think if there’s anyone that understands what it feels like to be different and misunderstood, it’s Bash and Mary. Whether or not you decide to tell them is completely up to you. Only you can predict how they’ll truly react.”

Gilbert knew Sebastian. There was nothing he could say, or do, to make Bash leave him for good. They were family - a bit messy, a bit unconventional, but a family nonetheless.

He would tell him tomorrow. 

* * *

Except Gilbert did not tell Bash the next day, nor the day after, nor the day after that. But the delay wasn’t out of fear. In fact, Gilbert was anxious to voice his news to someone who wasn’t Anne.

“I just want it to be right when I tell them,” he explained to Anne one day in the meadow. “I thought maybe I could offer them some sort of peace offering. Like proof that it’s real that doesn’t involve bringing any of our cutlery to life.”

The grass had grown tall around Anne, and she allowed it to. If anyone looked down into the valley at them, they’d only see Gilbert whispering his secrets into a thicket of wild grass high enough to hide the elusive Anne. She looped her fingers through the verdant strands and bit her lip. This was one of the pleasures of discovering his new skill, Gilbert reflected. Getting to know the graceful quirks of her personality up close and intimately.

He even dared to say that they were kindred spirits now. Perhaps they always had been.

“You know, I might know just the thing to help you,” she said to herself, eyes locked on the Avonlea hilltops. Snapping out of her reverie, she jutted a finger into Gilbert’s face and glared at him with serious daggers in her eyes. “But you cannot tell anyone about what you see. I mean it, Gilbert Blythe, not a soul!”

“I believe I can handle one more secret.” She wasn’t convinced until he matched her solemn expression and said, “On my honor, Anne. Wild horses couldn't drag the secret from me.”

And it was settled. Gilbert was to meet Anne the next day at that same hour at the predetermined destination - “The edge of the woods, right by Green Gables. You know the path, don’t you?” He knew exactly the spot of land she meant, for it was the beginning of the path Anne traversed to school on. The same path where they met. With a heart of anticipation, he counted the hours until their meeting.

The sun was stooping lower and lower when he found her there, sitting on a fallen log beside a wild raspberry bush. She was focused on the bush, arms folded comfortably in her lap. As he drew nearer, Gilbert realized that the blossoms and berry fruits were changing color - first to a startling fuschia, then a snow white, followed by a sunrise yellow, settling on the rosy red that the fruits began as.

“Oh, there you are!” Anne exclaimed once she caught sight of  him. She shot to her feet, scurrying over beside him. She tugged on his wrist, then linked their elbows together, leading him down the trodden path. “I’m so terribly excited to show you this. It’s something that only Diana, Cole, Ruby, and I know about. There is something thrilling about having a secret like this. It isn’t like the secret of having magic. That one is heavy, because if you tell it to the wrong person, you know it could cost you your life. But this one...Knowing this secret and sharing it with those you lov-” she paused, glancing nervously up at Gilbert. “Your dear friends doesn’t have any consequences. But it’s all yours just the same. And now I’ll share it with you, Gil.”

“I wish I had something to share with you in return,” he admitted, reaching up with his free hand to hold hers locked in his elbow.

“Oh, you already did share something with me, you goose!” she laughed. “The day you asked me if I believed in magic.”

“I guess you’re right. That’s something for just you and me, Anne-girl.”

“I do like the sound of that,” she admitted quietly. “But I hope you’re willing to allow one more person into the mix.”

And then it came into sight, a hut amidst the browns and the greens of the forest. It was built of scrap wood, adorned with Anne’s trademark flowers and greenery. Gilbert could easily see why she would want to keep this a secret. The tiny fortress was only big enough to fit a handful of people inside, but was big enough to offer respite away from the real world and its difficulties.

“Watch where you step,” Anne instructed sharply. Gilbert looked under him and found a small clay person held up by a twig. They were all around the hut, in fact, fairy sized sculptures of figures frozen in movement. Then it clicked.

“Cole did these, didn’t he? After his accide-”

“Anne? Is that you out there?” a voice called out from inside the hut. Her grin was toothy.

“Yes! Although, I didn’t come alone. I brought-”

“Gilbert!” Cole  finished for her, sticking his head out from around the small entrance, feathery pieces of auburnish blonde hair falling in his eyes. At first, he eyed Gilbert with slight distrust, but then he noticed Anne’s arm sweetly against Gilbert’s and raised his eyebrows with a smirk.

“Oh, don’t go getting any of your silly ideas,” Anne sneered, tearing herself away from Gilbert and stomping into the tiny cottage. “Come on, Gilbert. Cole started a fire.”

Suddenly feeling like an outsider, Gilbert followed her instructions and ducked into the small hideout. It was everything and nothing as he expected to find. Humankind and nature seemed to live together in harmony within the crooked walls - the ground revealing earthy soil and trodden leaves, the walls decorated with more wreaths that Anne had probably made with her magic. He settled on a chopped stump that had been placed there as a makeshift stool.

“I tried to light a fire,” Cole explained, fog coming out of his mouth in big huffs. He rubbed his hands together, then gestured down at the charless pile of wood in the middle of the ground. “As you can see, my efforts were fruitless.”

“Oh well that’s not a problem. Gilbert can just -”

She paused when Gilbert’s head spun at her, but he said nothing. His eyes held all the meaning, unspoken words that she understood immediately. What are you doing? A smile crossed her lips and she placed her hand on his. “Cole is one of us” she explained in a gentle voice, the same way she might speak to a startled deer. “He has magic, too.”

Magic - the word was sweet to taste and held so much power over him just to hear. Just by speaking it one time, Anne could alter his path, change his fate. He was painfully aware of all of this as he waited for Cole to say something, but the artist’s eyes were only filled with joy and pride.

“Welcome to our mystical little club!” Cole said finally, reaching out his hand for Gilbert to shake. Sure enough, he felt the same spark of magic that he felt whenever he touched Anne. It wasn’t as warm or potent as it was with her, and he wondered if it had anything to do with how he felt for the strong redhead beside him.

“It’s a pleasure,” Gilbert responded politely. “Truly. For weeks I had thought someone had cursed me, but Anne...Well, she helped me see there’s nothing wrong with me at all.” Cole glanced between the pair before him and tried, to no avail, to bite back an amused smile.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he assured. Gilbert could already see why Anne felt so safe around Cole.

“May I ask… What is it your magic, uh, does exactly?” he asked.

Amusement danced across Cole’s face. Sketch papers at his toes began to flutter as subtle as a hummingbird’s flight, and with the same sweep of his hand that Anne always used to guide her magic, the papers lifted into the air. Gilbert watched in amazement as the parchment folded upon itself, crinkling and contorting into complex shapes of birds, horses, and flowers. Color exploded onto them from out of nowhere, and suddenly Gilbert could hardly believe they had come from plain, white paper just moments ago.

“Art. My magic makes art,” Cole said in a loving voice. “I think it’s always been there, but I didn’t discover it completely until after my accident. My magic does what my hands can’t, bringing to life all the beauty I see in my mind. Look at this one.”

He reached out and grabbed one of the origami birds, unfolding it to reveal a sketch of Anne. It was every bit as beautiful as the real thing, drawn in mystical, soft charcoal. With a tug in his chest, Gilbert realized that it was so breathtaking because it made literal the way he saw her - every starry freckle, the wideness of her eyes, the joy in her smile.

There must’ve been a strange, reverent expression on his face, because Cole whispered - “Like that one, don’t you?”

“It’s very lovely,” Gilbert openly admitted, smiling in adoration over at Anne, who blushed at the compliment. “I suppose it’s only fair to show you mine, though I don’t believe it’ll be quite as impressive.” “Gilbert Blythe, that is a lie and you know it,” Anne scolded. She crossed her over her chest and leaned her arms on folded knees, nodding for him to continue.

Her encouragement was all it took for the magic in his bones to spur to life. With her gentle spirit at his side supporting him, he reigned the wonderful current into his control. In the way she’d taught him, he held his fingers over the fire, and snapped.

Immediately, a flame burst from the heart of the wood pile into a comfortable blaze that warmed the hut nearly instantaneously.

“Fire magic?” Cole asked in amazement.

“Close. Gilbert has Life magic. He can breathe life into just about anything. Lifeless objects, bloody wounds,” Anne supplied.

“Sitting room furniture,” Gilbert added bitterly. “Garden rakes…”

“Fire seems to be one of the odd additions, and I’m willing to bet there’s more.” Anne concluded, ignoring his utterances. “Maybe he adds life to a spark, and that’s how the fires are lit?”

Cole turned back to the piece he’d been working on a few moments ago, using the strength in his hand to mold a small figure out of auburn clay. Gilbert warmed his hands by the fire as he watched Cole work, noticing how some of the creation came from the artist’s hands, and other parts seemed to happen completely on their own.

“That must be an interesting story - you know, about how you two spilled secrets?”

Anne turned her sunny warms eyes over to Gilbert and smiled when his embarrassed cheeks turned to the ground.  

“It was mostly my fault,” she admitted. “For some reason, I couldn’t get ahold of my magic and it put Gilbert’s own powers in a state of distress. I think both of us were relieved to discover the truth.”

Cole nodded in understanding, his gentle eyes gazing down at his sculpture, but seeing something entirely different. What, Gilbert didn’t know. With a friendly smile, Cole placed the figure in front of Gilbert and nodded a head down toward it.

“Why don’t you practice on this? See, it even looks like you.”

Sure enough, the creation Cole had pressed in his tender figures was a small, clay Gilbert, complete with curly hair and big eyes.

“That’s incredible, Cole,” Gilbert admitted, stunned by the amount of detail possible in such a small sculpture. It reminded him of the ancient greek statues he’d read about in his history books.

“It’ll be even more incredible when you get him up and walking,” Cole prodded gently.

Gilbert’s breath hitched in his breath as the magic started to boil in his veins as hot as the fire. With each tense second that passed as Cole and Anne waited for Gilbert to make his move, he felt the tingling grow hotter and hotter, until it was agony to keep it restrained. Opening his palm over the figure, he released the building magic into the earthy clay.

The figure sat right up, looking around and blinking his eyes. Anne laughed when he rubbed his sleepy eyes and peered curiously at Gilbert. He rose onto his shaky clay feet, moving closer to the startled magician and placed a hand on his knee. Then, with a comforting smile, he patted Gilbert’s knee, to which the boy could only offer an awkward smile back.

It was then that the small Gilbert heard the music of Anne’s laughter and turned to her. It froze solid, stunned by something that Gilbert felt in his heart. The figure approached Anne, and she reached down a hand so he could climb on top of it. A tender smile fell on her lips when she let lifted her hand to her face.

Gilbert could feel what the figurine was going to do before he did it, but was unable to stop smaller Gilbert from reaching out a clay hand to caress Anne’s cheek. The expression in its eyes was the exact same one she saw when Gilbert looked at her, but she wasn’t expecting the figurine to lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek. Tiny fireworks lit under her skin where the magic transferred to her, turning her cheeks a pale pink color.

Cole let out a jolting guffaw and Gilbert reached forward and swatted the clay figure out of her hands, in turn knocking all the magic out of it. Unable to look Gilbert in the eye, Anne waved a flustered hand over the clay figure, and it turned back into malleable clump of earth. Eyes darting back between the two blushing friends, Cole took the ball in his hand and began pressing into it the outlines of a different shape.

“I think you’ll have the hang of it in no time,” Cole said with a smile. “It takes practice and patience, sure, but you have to know who you’re learning magic for, why you’re learning it. Do you know why you’re learning magic, Gilbert?”

Before he could catch himself, Gilbert’s eyes fell on Anne. Her focus was fixed to vibrant emerald vines bursting from the soil. She had begun braiding them into a crown, rubbing the soft leaves between her fingers to adorn the wreath with flowers, clover, and even a butterfly. When she realized Gilbert hadn’t answered - and instead was looking at her - she turned her face up to him and gave him an embarrassed expression of confusion. Gilbert only smiled at her, fighting back the urge to reach out and smooth the hair away from her face.

“I think I do,” he answered finally.

 A few hours later, Anne and Gilbert walked shoulder-to-shoulder towards Green Gables in complete silence. Anne was content in the soundlessness, closing her eyes to listen to songs on the wind that Gilbert wasn’t privy to. She’d let her magic loose, the usual telltale signs sprouting at their feets and growing from the forest tree roots.

“So, Mr. Blythe, you’ve had magic for quite some time now. Do you intend to keep it?”

Gilbert glanced down at the auburn clay figure in his hands. He’d taken one of the more simple ones from the hut in hopes of using it to show Bash and Mary the extent of his abilities. There was time to change his mind, yet. All he had to do was crush the figure into a clump and throw it into the stream. None would be any the wiser for it. But if he kept the tiny figure, used it to tell the LaCroix’s the truth, there’d be no going back.

“Could I even abandon it?”

Anne took a breath of the cool air.

“It’s not likely. You could certainly avoid and ignore it if you truly wanted to.”

“I don’t think I do. It’s a part of me,” he admitted. And he meant it, too. There was a certain thrill that came with letting loose the power that built to a peak underneath his touch, releasing the surge for the sake of doing good. Besides, certainly his magic could aid him somehow in his pursuit to be a doctor. With a touch of pain relief and restoration, it was no wonder he aspired so passionately to be a doctor. “You know, though, Anne...My magic ended the days of scorn between us. We could have been friendly enemies for easily another four years.”

“‘The days of scorn’ as you so call them were over as soon as they began,” Anne said, rolling her eyes at her own past foolishness. Gilbert’s pace lessened to a slow amble and tilted his head toward her shyly.

“So then what does that make us now? Kindred spirits?”

Anne gave him another cheerful grin, grabbing his head and squeezing it between her freckled fingers.

“The kindred-est, Gilbert Blythe! Whether you like it or not!”

 When they had made it back to the Green Gables homestead, Anne stood looking down at Gilbert with his one foot on the ground, the other on the second step. Strands of her hair grazed across her cheeks, and she handed him a gray, wool flat cap.

“You left this a few days ago,” she murmured, suddenly shy.

Gilbert took the proffered hat, a speck of green catching his eyes.

“Looks like I’ll be having some good luck soon,” he joked, pointing at a four-leaf clover that had grown near the brim. Anne blushed, shrugging.

“I didn’t think you’d want a daisy or rose blossom. Besides, everyone can always use a little good luck in their lives.”

He swung the cap upon his head, barely noticing the slight upturn of her lips when he did before her face was neutral again. Glancing down at the old wooden steps of the porch, Gilbert saw a small patch of dying red clover. The delicate weeds had been hidden from the sun, browning at the stem and in some of the long purple petals. With a small wave of his hand over them, they straightened back to life with a sparkling saturation, even when Gilbert plucked them from the ground and held them out to her.

“Today was nice,” was all he said.

“It was,” she agreed. “Would you like to practice some more soon?”

A chance to see Anne again? Laughing, speaking, using her magic? Gilbert bit his lip. 

“Of course. How’s tomorrow?” And the day after, and the day after, and the day after?  - his mind asked. Anne merely turned a wine color and nodded. 

"That'll be nice," she replied, a few red rose petals somehow getting stuck between the strands of her hair. Gilbert plucked one out and handed it to her, making her turn even brighter. 

"Be seeing you, then, Anne." 

As he walked up the lane, he could feel her eyes burning into his back and his magic singeing the tips of the grass along the side of the road. They smoked like blown candles, thousands of little smoke puffs billowing into fairy sized clouds as he walked. But Gilbert did not notice. He only clasped his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and listened to the songs that she heard on the wind. 

Oh, how Anne made him burn, but he'd be damned if she didn't make him live either.

[omgmusiclove]

An Introduction of Sorts

So...I finished an Hetalia one-shot that has been languishing around. Hope you enjoy!

Title: An Introduction of Sorts

Main Character: America

Secondary Character: Juan Ponce de Leon

Mentioned Character: Native America

Implied Character: Spain

Summary: Little America meets Juan Ponce de Leon in 1513 in the region now called Florida.

Early morning dew on wet grass was the best feeling in the world. It made your bare feet feel cool and slippery being able to squish together the damp dirt under the grass between your feet. It also made the grass smell and look good. It was like seeing millions of crystals against the rising sun.

This would be the last few times he could enjoy this as rising temperatures accompany the oncoming of summer. In the middle of the day, April would bring hot humid weather which really wasn't that fun to play in unless you were in shade or water. Little America got on his knees and felt the grass with his hand. The water would splay around his hand and evaporate quickly as the sun started taking its spot in the sky, the beautiful dawn turning into broad daylight slowly.

America crawled a little bit more on the grass. He would find all sorts of things when he crawled around. Like insects, mud spots, tiny creatures, and his favorite-worms. Worms were a sight to behold. They never died if you played with them to hard and accidently tore them apart (like America tended to) since they would just become two worms. They felt really squishy and cool and never bit you like some spiders and ants. Worms were America's favorite pastime and he found a little patch of them.

As time went on and America spent his day laughing and giggling with his worm friends, the ocean started losing its “quiet” sensation. The Atlantic was always one to be wild and have crashing waves but you could always tell when the waves started sounding different. Instead of following through, the wave would be interrupted with a smack against hardwood. A ship was breaking its way through the Atlantic heading to shore unbeknownst to America.

He didn't quite realize that anyone was coming until the ship hit shore, crashing against the hardened sand. Looking up, America saw a huge sleek wooden ship. It had majestic sterling white sails that covered the top of the ship and a huge intimidating flag that had four squares of castles and lions...things that America never really noticed or saw before.

The men (and there sure was a lot) ranged from light skin like his own to a little more olive skin color. They were tall and trimmed looking men wearing breeches, stockings, long overcoats over a simple shirt, and some of them even wore hats. Many of the ship men looked rather plain but some of them especially one figure stood out with more elaborate clothing that shined against the sun. Who were these guys?

America, being little enough to hide amongst the grass parts that were growing tall, hid himself. He crouched down into a little ball resembling a cat and peeked through the grass fields watching as the men started getting off of the boat and onto shore. America could hear them speaking in some language he couldn't understand and never heard of. It wasn't nation speak that he was inherently born to know but it wasn't the one of the native tribe languages either. These new voices were exotic sounding different from each man: hopeful, excited, curious, commanding, demanding.

There was one voice who stuck out the most. The man with the most elaborate clothing yelled over the group in a commanding leadership type way. He seemed bold and very forthright about his ambitions. It reminded of America of the leaders from the various natives. This man must lead them.

The men after hearing the instruction of whatever the lead man was saying starting going out into the fields away from the shore and started exploring. Each went different directions in a group, their voices exclaiming things in awe about this new world they were seeing for the first time.

America crouched himself together a little more not necessarily knowing what to do. He had overheard of new people coming to his lands from Native North America that was the other personification of the native peoples here and where his other brother whom he never saw lived in the north. Native was talking to other tribe's leaders of news from the South America and Caribbean tribes of people coming from the ocean on boats and cultivating their land. Some of the stories had sounded horrific with some tribes being conquered or used as slaves.

It had sounded scary to America and he didn't quite understand a lot of it. One thing is for sure, there was bigger nations out there somewhere older than him and they were not probably as nice as Native was to him. Could these guys be from one of those bigger nations?

Heavy boots clamped down on the now dry grass near his hiding spot catching America off guard. The man looked around and said something strange when he heard a little squeak that America couldn't stop in time. America closed his eyes and tightened his mouth shut trying not to be caught by this weird beast. The boots came closer and closer until America felt one on top of his head. It pushed down a little bit causing America to move quickly on instinct and consequently do a somersault that landed him on his bum.

Blue eyes and brown eyes looked at each other for a long while, just staring. America could see that this man was definitely one of importance because of his lavish cloth that draped him. It resembled the high level leaders of the Natives except without feathers or paint or bow. This man had silk, well-kept hair, and a sword. The man's eyes burned a hole through his emotions flitting through them a mile a minute. America shivered. Something inside him, an inner voice, was telling him that this man was not a nation. The way his eyes were staring showed various states but especially one of surprise of finding people on this land. It gave away a flair only a human could possess. A nice little curious touch to the human persona.

The man grunted and crouched down to America reaching a hand out to to keep him steady. America not really wanting to be touched by someone he didn't know used both his hand to grab the intruding appendage and push it to the ground. The man was startled a little a bit and uttered a word that sounded like a curse.

“You are a strong baby,” he murmured under his breath. A toddler shouldn't have been able to do something like that. Not a normal human toddler. He looked back at America curiously and wondered if this baby was special. Like the man that was always beside the royals. A special person...a personification. America not really understanding the man's tongue kept his hands on top of the others.

“What are you doing here?” America asked in broken nation speak. He was still young and not having much contact with other nations, his speech was not exactly up to par yet. Even though he had deduced that this man was human he figured that this was going to be the best choice for communication. He most likely did not know any native tongue and nation speak had words from all sorts of languages. He could probably understand at least some of them.

The man raised a chiseled eyebrow at the weird gibberish. He didn't comprehend many of the words used there.

Sighing, the man said, “Me llamo Juan Ponce de Leon. I am here on exploration from Spain. You being here shows that there is people here.” He smirked in an amusing way. “You are not a normal human are you little one?”

America's eyebrows went down in confusion. What was this...Juan person saying? He caught one thing from that gargin, his name.

America didn't know what else he should do and uttered the most intelligible thing that came to mind. “Huh?”

Juan's mouth dropped the smirk and turned into a frown which was followed by a silence. Everything was dead around them except for the distant ocean waves beating against each other in a competition.

Then like a geyser sprouting its water from its whole, Juan fell into a fit of laughter. It was jovial and heavy. It caught America so off guard that his grip on Juan's hands lessened which enabled Juan to break free. His freed hands immediately covered his belly as his laughter continued almost growing silent. America's face grew a wondrous shade of red across his cheeks. He didn't exactly know what he did to cause this man to laugh so heavily. He simply just couldn't understand him....he never really seen anyone from the Old World.

Juan was finally able to regain control of himself and cleared his throat. He got back up on his two feet and straightened out his lavish clothes. His stately eyes looked down upon America and his mouth formed into a patronizing smirk.

“You don't understand me...,”he stated. Then his eyes looked up onto the landscape. Scouting out the surface, America's land was new, clean, fresh with new resources that have never been abundantly used or even discovered. It was like looking at heaven's virginal angels-pristine and immaculate.

All his to exploit.

Juan's eyes landed back on America with a look of greed. His smirk turning from patronizing to hungry.

“You have never seen one of us huh? A European from the Old World. The way your land looks, little one, means your people live like savages. An uncivilized group.” Juan sneered, eyes leering. He bent down to pick America up and cradle him like the little child he was. America was too stunned to do anything other than let him be cuddled but the cuddle wasn't warm. It wasn't like Native's cuddles. Native's cuddles were warm and comforting. He knew he was safe from the world with Native's strong arms around him. This guy's cuddle was cold. Like a barren winter wasteland. There was no warmth in Juan's cuddle and at no time did he feel protected. America knew he had to do something.

The little child started writhing and wriggling around uttering little whiny noises. A kitten trying to get out of the bigger cat's grasp. Juan looked down and gave a patronizing smile.

“Oh, little one. You can't escape from me. You will help us bring new riches to Spain!” Juan started walking back to the ships where he would be able to gather his men. Catching young America was the first step (already completed) and the child could help them navigate the unknown lands and deal with the indigenous savages. This child would not grow up like them.

When they got to the ship, the soldiers automatically surrounded Juan ready to serve. One of the men noticed that Juan was carrying a bundle that was struggling to get out of his grip.

“What do you have there, Commander Ponce? A baby?” asked one of his men.

“There are people here? Asked another.

Juan looked at the man and scoured over the rest of soldiers and stated, “this is no ordinary baby. When I saw him, he showed too much intelligence and strength to be a regular human baby. This young one represents this new colony we have found here.”

Silence rung around the group. It was always interesting to the humans to hear about those special people. Most humans saw these “special beings” throughout their lives but always convinced themselves that it just had to be another person. Other humans knew better and believed in the nations especially if their late family has seen them in the past. Then there were high ranking humans that dealt with the nations on a regular basis. Subsequently, there were humans that did not necessarily believe Juan and those that did. No one dared to dissent or consent, though, to the commander.

“He will come back with us. It would be lovely to show the royal family that a newborn colony personification has been created. Vamanos!”

Juan led the way and headed towards the ship’s dock. His men followed after him.

Little America was scared. He started screaming and squirming in the conquistador's grasp. He did not want to go to wherever this man was taking him.

A squirmish had ensued between Juan and America. America was an abnormally strong country and, even was he little, he was able to play with the bison and swing them around just using his bare hands. America decided that he needed that strength now and started kicking and clawing and yelling out. Surprised by the burst of pure strength, Juan let go of the baby nation and America fell to the ground, shaken but unharmed. Juan, realizing that he needed to use force, grabbed his sword and quickly swung it at the child’s arm making a warning cut that went from America’s upper arm arm to lower arm.

America cried out from the pain not expecting the sword to come out. The blood was a small trickle (the cut was not that deep) and the blood was fresh and hot. Tears started rolling down America’s eyes and he looked up at his torturer with teary eyed fury. He was angry that this big guy that came from lands elsewhere had the gall to try to force him to go back with him. He wouldn’t allow himself to just be used as a toy to exploit.

Very swiftly, America grabbed onto the edge of the sword, new tears forming from the cuts it gave his hand, and yanked hard. The force of the yank was so much that Juan Ponce fell face forward onto the ground with a very grueling thud. He groaned and when he was finally able to lift his face, it was covered with dirt and grass. His head was pounding with pain from the fall.

America now in control of the sword, grabbed hold of the hilt and pointed it towards Juan.

“Leave now! I am not afraid to use this,” America shouted. His young voice was strong but not quite steady. It had a slight quiver to it that might have loosened the punch of America’s words.

Juan looked at his circumstances. He had lost against a baby! A little baby, not more than two years old, was now holding him at sword point. His pride was severely hurt. His men had just witnessed him lose against a child- not even a full grown nation! Oh, how he wanted revenge but he would have to bide his time. Juan, for once in his life, decided not to push his luck.

Staggering to his feet, Juan put his hands up and looked at the child.

“I will leave you now,” he stated. America just kept his gaze and held the sword at Juan’s face.

Slowly, walking backwards not daring to turn his back on the child, the great Juan Ponce de Leon was forced to retreat. He left behind his sword and finally turned his back when he got close to his men.

“Sir, are you okay?

“Si, head back to the ship and get it ready for sail. We have a lot to tell our superiors,” Juan ordered.

Looking back at America, who now had put the sword down, Juan vowed to come back and colonize this little nation. He would get his revenge and this little nation (no matter the strength) and the savages that live with him will  not be able to withstand the army that he would yield.

He would, personally, make sure that this New World would be his.