#and say farewell to good governance since governing bores him

[dastardlydaemon]

au where viserys dies from a broken heart/guilt after killing aemma and losing his heir and DAEMON BECOMES KING SINCE HE WAS THE HEIR this is before viserys decided to name rhaenyra heir obviously and then she ends up being his ward ig???

[loving-daisy]

Cry For Me | George Weasley x Reader

Masterlist | Cry For Me Masterlist 

Chapter 3 - Break Your Heart In The End

Words: 7.8k

Warnings: Small spaces, Bullying, name calling, underage drinking, truth of dare, jealousy, scheming

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Stay by your side and break you heart in the end.

____________________

“Icestone, about last weekend…” George began as sat beside his potions partner from the Slytherin house, the ginger fidgeting his fingers as he attempted to recall last night’s rehearsal of the speech of apology he constructed with his brother. 

“I’m sorry about how me and Fred acted. We knew none of it was your fault, you weren’t even a part of the quidditch team! We just thought that since you’re the Slytherin queen you would…” The Gryffindor sighed, his eyes giving Icestone a sincere look of guilt. “I’m so sorry, Icestone. Let me make up to you.” 

The girl beside the ginger snapped her head up at him, turning her attention away from her half empty parchment as she raised a brow towards the Gryffindor. For a minute or so, the atmosphere between the two students from rivaling houses was quiet. Unlikely for a Gryffindor, George lost his confidence of gaining the forgiveness of the Slytherin, thinking that she had enough of him and Fred’s continuous distrust towards her. I mean, it’s not like they trust her. They really don’t. That’s why a plan was generated from the minds of the ginger pair. Take the queen down is what they said. And that’s what they’re planning to do. 

Meanwhile, the Slytherin had a few battles on her own. Mainly with her head. Do I accept his apology as simple as that or should I make him put an effort to earn my forgiveness? In all honesty, her head was telling her to do the latter but her heart was saying to do the first option. Should she listen to her heart or should she listen to her head? But then she thought that everyone deserves a second chance and from the look the Gryffindor has been giving her, she couldn’t resist but to simply say “Apology accepted.” 

As if the Weasley boy saw a ghost, he looked up from his fingers, eyes wide as his mind and face was enveloped with disbelief. “Wait, really?” 

Y/N plastered a small smile on her face before turning her attention back to her parchment. Shrugging as she directed a small nod. 

The disbelief from George’s expression did not falter. Placing a hand on top of the girl’s parchment to gain the attention back on him. “No kneeling, no crying, no cleaning your shoes?” 

Y/N scrunched her nose from the statement. “Excuse me, what?” 

George gave her a shrug. “Don’t you do that when someone does you wrong?” 

The Slytherin dropped the quill she was holding, crossing her arms and fully facing the ginger with an amused look on her face. “Is that how people these days pertain to me? Brainwashing the system now, huh?” Y/N scoffed. “Don’t let them get into your head, George. I’m nothing like that.” 

George Weasley, was once again, in disbelief of the Slytherin’s personality. Just a few weeks ago he and his twin were turned into cats for accidentally pranking the girl and then suddenly she’s been following them everywhere and has been endlessly flirting with him. And then she bullies some 1st years, gets lashed out but accepts their apology anyways. Now, they got even more furious at her for assuming that she was behind Slytherin’s foul play but she accepts George’s apology like he didn’t do her wrong at all. She could have turned me into a cat again George thought. 

George flopped his elbow on their shared desk, his chin letting it rest on a hand as he stared at the girl with a knowing smirk on his face. “You know what, Icestone? You’re not so evil like people describe you to be.”

Y/N dropped her arms, mirroring George’s actions as she rested her chin on her palm, rivaling the Gryffindor’s smirk with her own astonishing one. “Well that’s because I’m much worse.” 

____________________

“Ms. Icestone.” A tall man with long platinum blonde hair muttered as his eyes as blue as the winter sky pierced at the next heir of the Icestone wealth. Y/N turned her attention away from her thoughts, feigning a small smile before doing a small curtsy as a sign of respect. 

“Mr. Malfoy. Lovely to see you here.” She greeted politely, hopeful for the man to not say another word and just leave and ignore her like what he does with the other students he encounters. However that would be less-likely, seeing as the man greeted the girl, a thing he does not usually do.

“Likewise.” Lucius answered, nodding as he examined the girl from head to toe. “Say, how have you been?” He inquired, which resulted in the girl to raise suspicion as to why senior Malfoy was suddenly curious about her well-being. 

Of course, with the Icestones being a wealthy pureblood family that has been present since the ancient times, respect is greatly handed down to them. Not to mention how the family runs a consistent bloodline of successful wizards and witches from the house of Slytherin, one would kill to be a part of it - whether letting their daughter marry an Icestone offspring or ordering their sons to sweep the feet of the current Icestone princess for their family to get involved.  

The Icestone family runs as early as Dionysus Icestone, one of Salazar Slytherin’s outstanding students. Married to Coraline Velvet, who bore Athena and Anthony Icestone, one of the most well-known healers in the wizarding world with their invention and contribution to the field. Generation to generation, wizards and witches coming from the name Icestone has been nothing but utterly successful. Not only in the field of healing, but in the ministry as well. Edward Icestone, one of the appointed ministers, the first ever Icestone to be so and definitely not the last, who governed for more than 8 years, maintaining peace and order in the magical world. A few more years later, John Icestone was conceived by the love of Alice and Cyrus Icestone, who then was married to Aurelia Phoenix, Y/N’s mother.

There must be something going on. She mentally scoffed at the thought. At least other families don’t make it so obvious, I’m just not stupid enough to not notice. 

“Aurelia, I am beyond delighted that you and your family could make it today.” A woman who looked like she was in her 30s, greeted. The woman was wearing an all-black outfit, covered in finest silver jewelries, as she gave Y/N’s mother a small hug. Breaking away, she turned to Y/N’s father, shaking his hand as she muttered his name with a smile. 

Retrieving her hand, the woman looked down at the young Icestone girl, giving her the biggest smile as she offered a small flower, in which Y/N gladly took. “And you dear, must be the lovely Y/N Icestone. Ecstatic to finally meet you.” She said. 

Y/N feigned a mirror of the woman’s smile. “It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting us to your lovely home. Congratulations on your birthday.” She remarked, obtaining words from gratitude from the woman before turning her attention back to her mother. 

“Aurelia, you raised your daughter so nicely. She’s beautiful.” The woman complimented. Suddenly, a young lad who resembled the appearance of the woman showed up, announcing his presence to who seemed to be his mother through a kiss on the cheek.  

“Great! You’re here!” The woman exclaimed. Directing her attention back to the young Icestone, she grabbed the boy’s hand on her right one and gently reached for Y/N’s using her left. “I would like you to meet the lovely Y/N Icestone.” she spoke, bringing their hands to rest at each other. 

The boy gladly held the young Icestone’s hand, raising it to his lips to give a small kiss. “It is an honor to be in your presence tonight, Ms. Icestone.” He declared, causing Y/N to mentally roll her eyes with the formality and with the act. Reluctantly retrieving her hand, she spoke with feigned kindness. “Please. Call me Y/N.” 

Uninterested with their building conversation, she eyed father, who was giving the boy a stern look. Meeting his eyes, she immediately caught onto what her father was thinking. 

Another one. Another one trying to slide their way up the family tree. The young Icestone thought. 

“Y/N.” The boy pronounced. “Lovely name for a lovely girl.” He continued. 

Great. Another one of those overused lines. Where is the originality? Y/N thought.

Throughout her encounter with the boy, the noise in her head was loud with her ranting and complaints. She was tired of being attempted to be used like this. She has had enough of these families' constant effort to pursue her for other intentions. 

“My name is Ethan. Say, would you be delighted to be offered some cake tonight? It is my mother’s birthday after all. We have chocolate cake. I heard you a-” 

“No thanks.” She answered, giving a charming smile like she always does that would hurt her suitor’s ego. 

It was basically normal for her to encounter elite pureblood families that try to get on her good side but it was not normal for the Malfoys to join her list. Throughout her life, not once did the Malfoys befriend the Icestones. Mainly because John and Lucius were best friends turned rivals, even if they were sorted into the same house during their Hogwarts years. 

Clasping her hands in front of her, she eyed the tall man, trying to read his body language to know his real intentions. Not that it worked though, Lucius Malfoy was just standing there like an old creepy statue. 

Clasping her hands in front of her, she eyed the tall man, trying to read his body language to know his real intentions. Not that it worked though, Lucius Malfoy was just standing there like an old creepy statue. 

“Splendid, sir. Are you here to see Draco?” She answered, deciding to ask another question in hopes to see some sort of emotion. “No. I’m here to see Severus.” He muttered. 

“Oh…” Y/N trailed off. A few moments into the awkwardness of the silence, the young Slytherin decided to bid her farewell. ”Take care then, sir.” 

Giving one last glance, the blue-eyed man nodded, tightening his grip “Likewise Ms. Icestone. I’ll see you soon.” 

“Soon?” 

____________________

The same evening, the Slytherin found herself situated inside the Great hall with Daphne Greengrass surprisingly seated across the table, joining her for supper. Prior to digging on the plate her fairy prepared for her, she chirped a short teasing towards her friend as to how it's been so long since Daphne sat with her that she thought that her best friend forgot what a proper meal is for snogging the same boy every night at the same hour. “Got tired of tasting the boy’s lips after a few days?” She snickered, earning a piece of bread to be sent flying towards her face. 

Traveling her eyes passed her best friend’s figure, she slowly examined the Gryffindor table, seeking for a certain tall ginger amidst the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff table blocking her full view. Finally spotting two fiery redheads beside each other, she narrowed her eyes as she examined their faces, slightly being challenged to determine which is which because of the distance. Directing her eyes from the Weasley on the left to the Weasley on the right, she met eyes with the ginger who then gave her a wink with a knowing smirk on his face. 

Getting flustered at the interaction, on impulse, she gave the boy her signature ice-cold glare before reluctantly grabbing her goblet to quench the sudden drying of her throat as heat creeped into her frame. 

Daphne examined her friend, her eyes narrowing as she watched the interaction unfold. Sighing, she dropped her bitten muffin, drank on her goblet and set it down before resting her elbows at the Slytherin table, her hands clasping one another. “What now, Y/N?” She bursts out.

Y/N pried her eyes away from her plate, turning her attention towards her best friend, confusion enveloping her features by the sudden question. “What do you mean?” 

Daphne sighed, her chin leaning against her clasped hands as she was dying to know what her true best friend’s intentions towards the Gryffindor were. “You’re acting really weird these days.” She began. “It’s getting really suspicious. You told me that you’re just gonna play with the weasel’s heart but it seems like you’re the one being played!” She exclaimed, earning a small “huh?” and a confused look from Icestone. 

“I heard about your quarrel at the halls!” The black-haired girl retorted. 

“Oh.” Icestone answered casually with her realization. Shrugging, she continued to divulge in the feast prepared for her, muttering a short “Which one?” before taking a sip of her pumpkin soup. 

“Both of them! The one with the little Hufflepuffs and the one after that quidditch game. Especially the one after that quidditch game! That was crazy! How dare they accuse you of being the reason for their loss? Blimey! I would punch them if I could.” Daphne indirectly threatened, causing Y/N to giggle at her overprotective best friend. “Calm down, Daphne.” She encouraged. 

Daphne Greengrass was irritated at the thought of the Weasley twins crossing Y/N. She knew how that isn’t how Y/N is to be treated. Although her best friend built an ice-cold hard stone aura around her, she knew that all of those were just an act to protect herself. Past the icy stares, she knew Y/N Icestone’s heart was soft and fragile that should be handled with the utmost and proper care. 

“But they did you wrong!” She blurted out. “Remember when you told me about those little Slytherin blabber mouths that crossed you? You tortured them at the great hall the day after!” 

“Torture?! I did no such thing! I just warned them! Unless you think that asking for Weasley’s information was torture, then fine!” Daphne groaned at the response, earning a small chuckle from Y/N. She really wasn’t taking this conversation seriously. 

“You know, for someone who’s younger, you do nag me a lot.” Y/N piped, earning a small glare from Daphne. 

“I’m only a year younger than you, Icestone. Besides, we’re literally in the same school year! I don’t know why you suddenly care about age. You’re 15, I’m 14, we’re in 5th year, and most of the students in our class are 16 but so what?” She sassed, earning laughter from the Slytherin queen. This resulted in the students around them turning their attention towards the sound. It’s not everyday you hear Y/N Icestone laugh. This was a rare occasion! For once, she was actually in a good mood and she projected it, which was favorable to the Slytherins because they knew they wouldn’t get lashed out anytime sooner. 

Once Icestone’s laughter died down, Daphne did not hesitate to fire another question. “But why? Why do you still act so nice towards those Gryffindors when they have crossed you for like….too many times?” She asked, earning a knowing smirk from Y/N. 

“Daphne, you can’t have a plan if you don’t know how to execute it despite the challenges you may face.” 

____________________

Two uneventful days later, as Y/N made her way towards her Charms class with Professor Flitwick, her arm was hastily grabbed as she was forced to mirror her kidnapper’s running pace. 

Finally being enabled to process what was happening after the heart-dropping shock, she found herself in an alcove, face to face with no other than George Weasley, who looked and smelled like someone who survived a small explosion. 

“What did you do?!” Y/N inquired, George immediately shushing her by covering her mouth. The boy had his eyes fixated on the entrance of their hiding place, a plan generating in his ginger head in case their cover was blown. Meanwhile, the Slytherin was glaring at the boy for bringing her into their mess. 

After the passing of a few minutes, George finally retrieved his hand, facing the girl as he offered a sweet smile. 

“How exactly did you know about this place? This is like...one the hidden spaces in the castle.” Y/N questioned, amused by the small secluded place. 

“Me and Fred know every hidden space in the castle, Icestone. We know every single corner, every single room, and every single shortcut!” George answered. Y/N nodded, however still not satisfied with the reply. “Yeah, but how?” 

“Well, that’s for me to know and for you to find out, Icestone.” 

“That’s why I’m asking you, Weasley. To find out!” 

“Touché.” 

Y/N suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be in her class a few many minutes ago. Growling before facing George with raised brows, she questioned. “So are you gonna explain why I got dragged to this?” 

George gave her a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck to think of a reason. “Because I want you here with me?” 

“George Weasley-” 

“Fine! Fine! You were blocking my way and I figured that if I was stalled by your presence, Filch would have caught me!” He deducted, causing the Slytherin to look at him in disbelief as she crossed her arms around her chest. 

“Then you should have avoided me then. I have a class in like...10 minutes!” She exclaimed. “I couldn’t avoid you. You’re Y/N Icestone! You would have turned me into ice!” George reasoned. 

Y/N rolled her eyes at the response. “Haha, very funny, Weasley. I don’t have superpowers that could turn you into ice.” 

“Correct, but you have a wand that could turn me into one, ice queen.” George sneered, shooting a teasing wink towards the girl. 

“Stop calling me that.” Y/N bellowed, unamused. “Why not?” 

“Just....stop.” 

“Fine. I’ll call you sweetheart then.” He mused, causing Y/N to drop her hands in defeat and sighing. Eyeing the entrance to the alcove, Y/N gave the boy another glance before declaring her leave. “I’m gonna leave now…”

“Aww! You don’t want to stay with me any longer?”

Y/N grumbled, her hand massaging her temple as she thought about the boy keeping her longer away from her class. “Why would I even? I’m already running late for class because of you!” She exclaimed.

“Alright, alright!” George confided, Y/N finally letting herself turn away and exit the small space. 

“See you this weekend?” The boy suggested, unsure if the girl heard him.    

____________________

The next weekend, Y/N Icestone found herself being dragged by a certain female redhead towards the hospital wing. The Slytherin was confused. The hospital wing is not the place she wouldn’t want to be after the quidditch match. It was always full of injured players and their loud and obnoxious friends. Loud and obnoxious. Some of the things she really despised. 

The week’s quidditch match consisted of Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw to which Gryffindor succeeded in getting their victory. It was no match actually. Everyone knew that the team of lions would win anyway. They were the most promising team in the school afterall. 

Unfortunately, George was accidentally shoved off his broom by Fred as he dodged a bludger, which is why Y/N found him laid on one of the beds in the hospital wing, his eyes closed as a cast on his head and some bruises in his arms are visually seen. Right beside him was his twin and another familiar redhead who Icestone is yet to formally meet. 

The older Weasley twin caught the emotionless eyes of the Slytherin, his thoughts slightly clouded with disbelief and amusement as to how his sister managed to convince Y/N Icestone into dragging her here. “Surprised to see you here.” He stated nonchalantly, earning a small shrug of the girl.  

“Well, Ginny here told me that she was about to show me something really urgent. I didn’t expect it to be this.” The Slytherin explained. “What happened to him?” She asked, pointing her finger to the direction of the younger Weasley twin. 

“He went out of balance.” The older twin answered briefly, pushing to shrug off the question to satisfy his curiosity. “I didn’t know you and Ginny were close.” 

Y/N shrugged. “I guess you can say that me and Ginny are friends.” 

“This boy went out of balance?” She questioned, scoffing as she stared at the unconscious boy. “I thought he was the great George Weasley who is the master of Quidditch? Bragger.” 

“Actually…” The boy who Y/N knew was another Weasley boy that was friends with the famous Harry Potter spoke, turning his attention away from the snack that he was divulging and meeting eyes with the Slytherin. “Fred accidentally shoved him off his broom during the quidditch match earlier.” He informed. 

Y/N put her hands on her waist like a nagging mother who scolded her child for being mean to his siblings. “Oh…so it was Fred’s fault.” 

“Hey! I don’t even know why you’re asking me what happened with him when you should have known! You weren’t at the stands earlier!” Fred pointed out, crossing his sweaty arms around his chest. 

“Yeah and that’s because Slytherin had no match!” 

“But Gryffindor does! And me and George are there!” Fred exclaimed, causing Y/N to raise a brow and cross her hands on her chest. She really didn’t like it when someone raised a voice on her but it was technically her who started it and seeing George lying unconscious on the bed worried her, even if she didn’t want to admit it. Inside, she wasn’t really feeling herself. Outside, she tried to mask it. She wasn’t really keen on picking another fight with Fred today. Not to mention how the boy hasn't even apologized to her yet. 

“So?” Icestone questioned. 

Fred placed his hands on this chest, feigning hurt as his face portrayed a look of hurt and offense. “Ouch. Show some support, Icestone. I thought we were friends?” 

“Icestone? Y/N Icestone? Like THE Y/N Icestone from Slytherin?” The younger Weasley boy spoke again, the second sentence he has ever given since the Slytherin arrived at the hospital wing. This caused Y/N to turn her attention towards the younger redhead, the thoughts of cursing the older Weasley twin slipping out of her mind. 

“Uh...yeah.” Y/N answered awkwardly. She examined the boy from head to toe. “And you are?” 

“That’s Ronnikins. Our brother.” Fred cut in, earning a glare from the Slytherin for speaking when not consented and another glare from the young Weasley boy for bringing up the twin’s made-up nickname for him. 

The 3rd year Gryffindor turned his attention back to the girl, opening his mouth to speak. “I’m-”

Once again, the boy was interrupted but this time, by an entering pair of students who was known to be ⅔ of the Golden trio. “Ron! There you are! What happened with George?” The curly-haired girl asked, eyes full of concern. 

The redhead sighed. “Ron. My name is Ron.” He said, making the Gryffindor girl turn her attention towards the Slytherin. “Oh, hi. My name is Hermione. This is Harry.” She introduced, earning a small nod from the 5th year. “Y/N Ice-“  

“Icestone?” A hoarse voice called, making all 6 people who were surrounding the bed turn their attention towards the boy laying there. 

“Georgie!” Fred called. “You’re alive!” 

“Congrats.” The youngest Weasley muttered, gently holding her brother’s bandaged left hand.

“Wow...you wake up and the first person you call among us six is Y/N.” Ron stated, shaking his head as he made his way back to his chair, grabbing another snack from his pocket. This earned him a laugh from Harry and a smack on the head by Hermione.

“Quiet down, Ron! You’re not as special to George as you think you are.” Fred teased. “You’re not so special either, Fred. He called Y/N even before you!” Ginny clapped back, bringing realization upon the tall ginger. 

Once again, Fred placed his hands on his chest, feigning hurt. “Wait, that’s right! How dare you, George! I thought I was your best friend.” 

“Can you guys leave us for a moment?” The lying Weasley requested, earning a grunt from his twin who in the end, was pulled by Ginny to leave with the others. 

Y/N made her way towards George’s side, extending her arms as she gently caressed the boy’s bandaged head. “What did you need me for, George?” She whispered softly. 

“I just…” George began, looking directly into Y/N’s eyes. “...wanted to see your face as soon as I regained consciousness.” 

The brave Gryffindor’s cheesy remark caused Y/N to snort, partially not believing what just came out of George’s mouth. “You get shoved by Fred and fall off your broom, get brought up in the hospital wing but the first thing you wanted was to see me?” 

“...yeah. To heal myself.” He reasoned, causing confusion to flood Y/N’s mind. “What do you mean?” 

“Seeing your face makes me a lot better.” George recited. 

Y/N looked away, muttering a stern “Shut up.” 

“But it's true!” The ginger convinced. “Besides, I didn’t see you on the stands earlier. I was expecting you’d watch our game against the Ravenclaw.” 

The girl raised her brows in return, crossing her arms and interrogating the boy. “And why in Salazar Slytherin would you look for me?” 

George smirked. “For good luck.” 

____________________

“Hey look! It’s the ice queen!” A group of Gryffindors teased as Icestone passed by them. She gave them a glance, shooting icy daggers but the group just mocked her even more. “Ooh I’m so scared.” One said teasingly. 

Suddenly, a group of Slytherins made their way towards the teasing Gryffindors, staring them down, their actions being fueled with hate and disgust as they dared hurt Y/N Icestone. “Leave Icestone alone you git!” One threatened. 

“Or what? Is she gonna turn me into ice?” 

“If you don’t stop, I’ll be the one who’ll do so. I-” 

“Icestone!” George beamed as he called, him and his twin suddenly bumping into the Slytherin as they turned to the next corner. Expecting a reply, George was disappointed to only get a small glance and a shove on the shoulder. 

____________________

The boys’ dormitory was enveloped in light snores coming from young individuals who conquered another day and are trying to recharge their empty batteries. It was dark, but not pitch black as the bright moon that illuminated the dark sky, shined beyond their window. 

George laid on his bed as he stared into his room’s ceiling, failing to fall into a deep slumber no matter how he stretches his feet, no matter how he closes his eyes. He was completely wide awake on a Thursday night. The Weasley boy has had his own episodes of insomnia. This was not new to him and it frustrated him because no matter how tired he is, he couldn’t bring his mind to shut down. 

Looking at his side to see a sleeping Fred, he eliminated his warm blanket, got out of bed, and quietly picked up his wand. He tiptoed towards the door, his steps gentle to not wake anyone up and get caught. He made his way outside the Gryffindor common, illuminating his wand as he roamed around the halls of the wizarding school.

Somehow, George found himself climbing up the steps of the astronomy tower, suddenly wanting to find a secure place to capture the stars with his eyes. Upon entering, he saw a figure of a girl sitting on the ground, her arms snaked around her legs, her chin rested on her knees as she quietly stared at the sky. 

“Surprised to see you here.” George began, completely startling the girl.

Y/N did not fail to recognize the boy as his shadow was all too familiar for Y/N Icestone. Not to mention the deep voice the Slytherin has got to know for a while now. “Weasley.” 

George quietly entered the girl’s territory, sitting next to her own the cold wooden floor as the stars burned right above them. Silence was in their atmosphere. Silent, but no hints of awkwardness. Just peace and quiet. 

George eyed the girl, noticing how she showed no hints of slumber nor hints of falling into one, as she stared at the night sky. “Can’t sleep?” He questioned, whispering to retain the mood both were in. 

“Too many thoughts.” Y/N answered. The girl not taking her eyes away from the million sparkles the universe has to offer.  

“Care to share?” George suggested, finally earning the girl’s attention as she stared deeply into his eyes, contemplating whether to open her heart out and let the boy inside. She shrugged, shook her head from side to side before answering “I think I’m good.” 

But as the boy reciprocated the doe looking eyes of the Slytherin, he knew that the girl needed some sort of consolation despite her decline of the offer of a listening ear. Y/N Icestone’s eyes shined under the moonlight like a light illuminating the black lake. It shined like melting ice, with waters threatening to fall. 

Almost immediately, the Slytherin felt a pair of arms snaked around her figure, warmth enveloping her as the Gryffindor pulled her into a tight embrace. She blinked once. She blinked twice. She blinked multiple times to evaporate her ice-like eyes before seeking an answer to her head full of questions. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She croaked out. 

George moved a hand to the back of Y/N head, straightening, patting her hair as he pulled her head into his big chest. “Shush, Icestone. I know you want this too.” 

Y/N had her cheek planted on the Gryffindor’s chest, her ear directly above his heart as she heard the calm beating of the organ. She closed her eyes, focusing on the beat which washed all her worries away with the cold wind. 

“I didn’t ask for a hug.” She muttered. George had a grin plastered on his face, though Icestone couldn’t see as she still had her eyes closed. “Warmth, Icestone. It seems like you were asking for warmth since you were shivering like a wet kitty.” 

Y/N fluttered her eyes open, giving a glance towards George but not breaking away from their intimate position. She gave him a smile. “Thanks.” She whispered, her voice full of sincerity, earning a soft smile from the ginger. 

The Slytherin snaked her arms to the waist of the Gryffindor, reciprocating his warm hug, which made the boy feel cold sweat as he felt the familiar butterflies enter through his stomach. The girl once again shut her eyes out, unable to catch the reddening face of the redhead boy. 

“You know when I can’t sleep, I think of good memories. It makes my mind calm. Makes me feel a little bit better.” He began. 

“Well, I like to count stars whenever I can’t fall asleep.” Y/N answered. 

George looked at her in disbelief, huffing as he thought that it would be impossible to count something like that and for what? It’s not like you’re gonna get A+ on Snape’s class when you managed to count all the visible stars in the sky. “You know it's useless to count stars, right?” 

Offended by the statement, Y/N pulled away from their warm embrace, sitting straightly as she crossed her arms around her chest. “You know it's useless to count freckles too, right?” She began. 

Y/N raised a hand, moving it towards the ginger’s face as she gently poked a cheek. As light as a feather, she used her finger to trace the outline of the boy’s face. Cheekbone to cheekbone, to his forehead down to his nose then to his chin, and finally his jawline.

“But you have 41 on your face.” She stated, breaking the moment of silence as she retrieved her hand.

The Gryffindor felt sudden heat at his cheeks, getting flustered at Y/N’s statement. “Am I too good looking that you always stare at my face, sweetheart?” He covered up. 

Now it was the Slytherin’s turn to feel heat creep at her cheeks. “Shut up.” She growled, earning a light chuckle from the boy. 

“You’re so cute when you’re red. It matches my hair.” George further teased, poking the sides of the girl. 

“Weasley, it’s like you're inviting me to punch you in the face. Do you have a death wish?” The Slytherin threatened. 

“How brutal you are!” He exclaimed. “Speaking of invitation...are you perhaps busy this Friday?” 

“Are you asking me on a date, Weasley?” 

“...yeah” George confessed, the floor suddenly interesting to look at. 

Y/N raised her brows. “Well? Then spill the details!” 

“That incident during one of McGonagall’s class where you accidentally opened Malfoy’s invitation...the ones me and Fred sent to the rest of the class was an invitation for our party this Friday for the holidays! I was hoping you would want to come with?” 

“I don’t get a handwritten invitation?” 

“That’s why I’m inviting you right now.”

“Okay.” 

“Okay?!” 

“Yeah.” 

“Wow.” 

Y/N slanted her head with the comment. “What’s wrong?” 

“I did not expect you to actually agree on going on a date with me.” George beamed. 

“Why not? We’re friends. Friends go on dates too.” 

“But sweetheart, I’m not asking you on a friendly date” He teased, turning his head to mimic the girl which earned him a glare. “I have a name, and it’s certainly not sweetheart.”

“My apologies Icestone, it must have slipped my mind how your heart isn’t as sweet as I thought it would be. Ice queen.” 

“Right now, I’m not so sure whether I want to push you off that window or kiss you.”

George smirked, crossing his arms against his chest as he raised an eyebrow at the glaring Slytherin queen. “Can I pick?” 

____________________

Friday night came, wizards and witches invited to the Weasley twin’s holiday party began making their way to the portrait of the fat lady. This included Y/N Icestone. Who carefully sneaked out the Slytherin dungeons, dodging anyone who would suspect to know her whereabouts. Reaching the next hall to reach the Gryffindor common rooms, she was met with a line of students, which she assumed was the line for the entrance. Making her way at the end of the line, she kept on looking towards the portrait, in hopes to see George and let her enter without having to wait any longer. Besides, the one handling the entry duty was seeking for the student’s invitations. Y/N Icestone didn’t have a handwritten one. She was just invited by George. 

“I can’t believe the Ice queen was invited.” Spoke the student behind her. 

Y/N turned her attention away from the portrait, turning around to eye the student who dared to talk to her like that. With her famous icy expression, she glared at the boy, shooting daggers. If it was any other boy, he would have whimpered like a puppy but this boy didn’t because it was no other than Draco Malfoy. 

“And you’re here because?” Spoke Hermione, who came to fetch Y/N with Ginny, as per George’s requests. 

“Here to stop Icestone from entering your stupid friend’s party.” Draco began, his expression sour as he started to fume. “She doesn’t belong here. And she definitely should not be hanging around with blood traitors and filthy little mud-” 

“Shut it, Malfoy. Or I'll turn you into a white ferret once again.” Icestone threatened, her wand at the tip of Draco’s throat as Y/N trapped him against the wall. She placed her left hand beside the blonde’s head, leaning her face closer to the boy. “You are to leave this place unless you want me to curse you. You do not ever tell me what to do and what not to do, Malfoy.” The Slytherin girl glowered. Draco smirked, raising both his hands up in surrender, before escaping Y/N’s grip and walking away. 

____________________

The crowd trumpeted as the spinning bottle landed on Fred Weasley. Hours after their holiday party began, the sneaked firewhiskeys were finally served, but with a twist. In a game of truth or dare through spin the bottle, one is to choose between the two after taking one full glass of the said spirit. 

“Fred, truth or dare?” George asked with a full blown grin plastered in his face, placing the full glass in front of his twin. Fred smirked, grabbing the glass and gulping it in one shot, earning more and more cheers from the crowd. Once empty, he put it back down, stood up and boasted. “You think I’m a coward, George? Where’s the thrill in picking truth? I’m all in. I pick dare!” 

“Of course, he’s gonna act like he’s the star of the night. Typical coming from one of the twins.” Ginny muttered beside Y/N, causing her to spat a small giggle. 

George spinned the bottle once again, this time to decide who would be giving the dare to Fred. As the bottle came into a halt, it was pointed to no other than Lee Jordan, who gave the twins a knowing glance. 

“Fred, have you ever kissed a girl before?” He questioned, earning a cackle from Ron. “I picked dare, not truth!” Fred huffed, pouring himself another glass to consume, obviously tipsy now. 

“Well, then I dare you to kiss…” 

Y/N rolled her eyes at the statement, thinking that it was another attempt of the twins and Lee at helping Fred make a move on Angelina. 

“Y/N Icestone.” Lee called. 

This caused the crowd to go wild. Some gasping for not satisfying their expectation of calling Angelina’s name, some murmuring at the thought of a Gryffindor calling out Y/N’s name, and some disappointed for their name not being called. Y/N gave the boy a stone cold glare. Beside her, Ginny gave the same look Fred and George, who she was really suspicious of. 

“Excuse me, what?” The Slytherin asked, confused. Lee turned his eyes back to his tall friend. “Fred, I dare you to kiss Y/N Icestone.” He repeated. 

Y/N eyed the younger Weasley twin, the grin on his face no longer there as he blankly stared at his brother. Fred, clearly caught up in the moment with all the drinks he took, didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he made his way towards Icestone, kneeling down and grabbing her hand. 

The Slytherin stared at him with wide eyes, not believing that Fred agreed to perform the dare Lee gave him. Trying to get out of the situation, she gave the boy a glare, to which he was unfazed with. 

“Well?” Fred mocked. “What do you mean, ‘well?’” Y/N inquired, causing the ginger to chuckle.

“Well, pucker up, Icestone! I’m going to kiss you now.” 

In another attempt to avoid the unwanted rumors of her snogging a Gryffindor, more or less rumors of her snogging the twin of her controversial ginger friend, Y/N tried to flee but the grip of Fred on her hands was too strong. She then eyes Ginny, who was only giving her an apologetic look until the Slytherin decided that she would have to wake up to new rumors of herself being spread around the castle. 

Closing her eyes, she froze on her spot, waiting for Fred to lean in until she heard a “Ow! Hey, George! What was that for?!” Fred exclaimed at his twin, who gave him a glare, before grabbing the Slytherin’s arm and pulling her outside the Gryffindor common room. 

In the mask of Y/N Icestone, her form was confused as to why George Weasley would pull her away from his twin. Y/N knew that George was also on Fred's side for his crazy shenanigans. Fred was a troublemaker and so was George. Y/N did not understand what crossed George’s mind to not agree this time. But behind the mask of Y/N Icestone, she knew. She knew that the plans she told Daphne one night were coming true. However, she didn’t want to continue on what she was planning to do if ever her thoughts of what is to come next actually happens. 

With the couple swiftly arriving at one secured and quiet hall, she retrieved her hand to cross her arms, deciding to interrogate the ginger in hopes to unfold what the future holds for the both of them. “What has gotten into you, Weasley?”

Almost immediately, the boy in question answered “George.” 

“What?” Y/N mused. 

George sighed, running one of hands in his lustrous hair. “My name is George. Call me George.” 

Slightly confused at the answer, the Slytherin nodded slowly before continuing. “Okay, George. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Nothing is wrong!” The Gryffindor claimed. 

“If nothing was wrong, you wouldn’t have shoved your twin away from me.” 

“Merlin!” The ginger exclaimed, “Are you that oblivious, Icestone?” he challenged, earning a knowing smirk from the girl. “Of course, not. But I want to hear it from you, George. Tell me.” She demanded. 

Silence enveloped their shared atmosphere with George having a conversation on his head and Y/N watching him quietly. Getting impatient, the Slytherin scoffed, opening her mouth to say another word before she was cut off by George's confession. 

“Alright, fine. I’m jealous, okay?” He revealed, his heart beating 10x faster than it usually was because of the drinks he had or because of the situation he was in. It definitely was the lather. 

“And why would you be?” Y/N quizzed. 

George sighed, dropping his shoulders as he motioned for the Slytherin to come closer to him. Y/N obliged, thinking that the boy was probably being shy to say it out loud so he opted to just whisper it instead.

In a swift motion, the Gryffindor placed his hands on the back of the Slytherin, pulling her close for a quick touch of the lips. 

When he pulled away, he suddenly felt his stomach drop, butterflies filling in as he stared at the wide-eyed girl who looked at him in shock. George feigned a smirk, hoping to hide his nervousness. “Does that answer your question?” 

Y/N’s face went from shock to disbelief to confusion to questioning, in a span of seconds. She raised a brow, examining the boy before her before narrowing her eyes in interrogation And crossing her arms against her chest. “I told you, George. I want to hear it from you.” She demanded. 

“I fancy you, Icestone.” George croaked out. “Y/N Icestone, you have managed to steal my heart.” George declared, his eyes showing a glint of hope and his voice sweet and sincere like a lullaby. 

With George’s sudden confession, the Slytherin dived deep into her thoughts, carefully examining the ginger that’s in front of her and contemplating on what her next action would be. 

Under the moonlight, Y/N Icestone looked like a red rose full in bloom. Beautiful but hard to grasp. George did not understand Y/N Icestone. One minute she’s cheerful and the other she’s as cold as ice. He did not understand what Y/N was feeling. 

With no answer coming from the Slytherin, he felt as if her thorns were snaking around his neck like a serpent, prickling him as he waited with anticipation. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” She asked. 

“What will you do about it, Icestone?” 

“Y/N.” She answered. 

“What?” 

The girl’s face was plastered with a charming smile before taking two steps back and finally turning her heels away from the confused ginger. Walking away to retrieve back to her house dungeon, she gave the boy one last glance before saying “My name is Y/N. Call me Y/N.”

____________________

“Be honest with me, Icestone. What is your deal? And don’t you dare give me one of those reasons on how I’m making this such a big deal. This is a big deal!” Daphne criticized as she paced in front of a sitting Y/N who was cuddling her pet cat. 

“Nothing, Daph! I have a plan, remember?” Icestone advertised, earning a grunt from the dark-haired girl. 

“Oh quit it with your stupid plan! You said you’re going to make him fall for you and rub it in his face that he’ll never have you. But now you tell me that he was able to kiss you?!” 

“It’s not a big-“ 

“Oh yes, it’s a big deal! He’s your first kiss! And you kissed back. Now tell me, Icestone. What. Is. Your. Deal?” Daphne repeated, a speculation already crossing her mind but she ought to confirm it with the proper words from Y/N Icestone. 

Y/N contemplated for a second before calling her friend. “Daphne….” 

“Go on.” Daphne pinned. 

“I think I’m having feelings. How do I make it stop?” 

____________________

Fred claimed his place beside his twin after bidding Angelina a sweet good night kiss. The Gryffindor common room was finally calmed as guests made their way back to their dormitories. It was 5:00 in the morning of Saturday with George sitting by the fireplace around the Golden trio, as well as the youngest Weasley.  

“Nice acting skills, George. I didn’t expect you to push your face against Icestone.” Fred commented, breaking the silence. The statement caught the attention of Ginny, who sat straightly, praying that she misheard her brother. 

“What?! You did what, George?” She questioned, causing Fred to exclaim “He kissed her!” 

“You kissed Icestone?!” Ginny repeated. 

“Bloody hell!” Ron cursed. “Have you really developed feelings for her, George? A Gryffindor and a Slytherin, huh? You’d be the talk of the whole school! Not to mention how Icestone is literally labeled as the Slytherin queen and George is just...George.” He stated.

“Hey! What do you mean I’m just George?! Just George?! I am George! One of the greatest pranksters in Hogwarts history!” George claimed, unamused by his brother’s statement. 

“And what is so great about that?” The Weasley girl challenged.  “Ginny! Why can’t you ever let your own big brothers have some fun?” Replied Fred. “Besides, what are you even blabbering about, Ronnikins? It was all part of the plan!”

“The bottle was secretly enchanted by Fred to make it land on Icestone on purpose!” George confessed. 

“And George was to pull Icestone away before we got to do so!” Fred continued.

“To act jealous, that’s right.” George gloated as he nodded. “And to finally confess my non-existent romantic feelings!” 

“Georgie here has been doing really great with the execution. She must be mad for him right now!” Fred broadcasted, giving a proud pat on his twin’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know Fred. I don’t think it's such a good idea to mess with Y/N Icestone to this extent. You’re going to break her heart after this stunt!” Ginny protested, not really amused with her older brothers’ plan against the Slytherin. 

George smirked. “She has a heart?” 

____________________

tag list:  @abrunettefangirlnerd​  @gloryekaterina​  @lilypad-55449​  @memekingofwwiii​  @leovaldez37​ 

Author’s note: Hello~ it been awhile since the last chapter~ My apologies for taking too long to update. I was caught up with university work that I had to use my free time to accomplish requirements as well. To make up for it, here’s a longer chapter compared to the first two. Hope you enjoy <3 Thank you so much for reading! 

EDIT: I’m so sorry :’< This was meant to be posted earlier as this was supposed to be a scheduled post but I think something was wrong so it didn’t push thru aaa my apologies! 

[aquatik]

history in the making

pairing- atsumu miya x reader

word count- 1500

genre- fluff

fem!reader

history isn’t a common class many people enjoy. sure, they might not hate it, but it’s certainly not their number one subject. you quite happen to enjoy the subject. you found it entertaining how the study of the past occurred. how viewpoints have changed, or overall how different the past is from your now present. this current semester, your curriculum was starting to learn about american history. this you found exciting since it was different than what you were used to. to make sure everyone was paying attention to the last few chapters the teacher briefly touched on, you were put into pairs to present a certain topic of the chapters you had gone over. you had gotten the early development of the american government, dating back to the declaration of independence, the first president, etc. you were given a couple of main questions to answer then you had to make a presentation on the whole topic as if teaching it to the class.

this was a relatively difficult project concerning you and your partner were responsible for teaching the class on the subject. especially since you had gotten mr. ’head empty, only setting’, as you like to call him. your partner was miya atsumu. you could still feel the glares of the angry fangirls on your back, but you chose to ignore it.

miya atsumu, you both weren’t exactly the closest but you would like to consider you were more than strangers. perhaps friends? you both sat next to each other in your classes you would ask for the page number, he would ask for notes, etc. you had noticed throughout the time he had a dislike towards history. when you both got assigned partners you couldn’t help but notice how his then bored expression now became a little less bored. he turned toward you and gave you a small thumbs up. you had honestly found it adorable. well, you had until you could swear you heard most of the girls in your class start to snarl- wait was that a growl?

sighing, you shift your body forward returning your full attention to your teacher. well as much of it as you could with the two distractions- miya atsumu and now his fangirls. sure you had to admit to yourself that he was quite attractive. would you admit that to his face is another question.

“class, remember this is due in two weeks. miya, l/n, stay for a couple of minutes.”

“sensei, is something wrong?”

“not at all, i just wanted to say you guys are taking on the longest section. remember to manage your time correctly.”

“right, thank you!” you said as the golden blonde and you walked out of the classroom.

“finaally out of that class,” he said while stretching his arms.

“when are you free?”

“huh?”

“what do you mean ‘huh?’ i’m asking when you’re free for the project. you heard sensei, it’s the longest one in the class. it’s not something you can leave for the last minute you know?”

the older twin had stared at you, almost dumbfounded. his expression screamed ‘project? me? what, when? what about volleyball?’

“let me put this into simpler terms for you.” you had said, sighing into your hand.

“when..are..you..not..playing..volleyball..” you said slowly, trying to make the words sink into the setter like he was a sponge absorbing water.

“you see, i am playing every day!” atsumu says with a dumb, yet you had found adorable smile before smacking him.

“don’t give me that crap miya. it’s called a partner assignment for a reason. and no, don’t try that ‘i can present’ excuse on me miya. you need to know the lesson and with the number of volleyballs you draw in your notebook every class i doubt you know it.”

“yer’ so mean and for what l/n-chan.”

“it’s not mean it’s being a realist.”

“okay okay fine, i have a general idea but not the best.”

“great, now your brain is working,” you said with a slight smile. to another person, it might have seemed rude but this was your guy’ es normal.

“but it is true i have volleyball everyday. i have about an hour before practice every friday.”

“hmm, that won’t do...it’s too much material to cover in an hour.” you had said tapping your arm, a habit you had created.

“alright, the best way i can see us doing this quickly and correctly while taking away less time from your sport is one day you will need to skip practice altogether.”

“damn really?”

“yeah, sorry about that. but i think we can spend about maybe two hours, four being the max in the library doing research and answering the questions, and then heading to one of our houses to create the presentation. the atmosphere of a library can get exhausting, and i believe it’s the easiest and most efficient course of action. we could do it this friday so you miss a little bit less practice.”

“i hate having to miss practice, but it is what it is ain’t it?” he had said raking his hand through his hair.

“yeah, let’s do it this friday. i honestly didn’t expect you to want to consider my practice.”

“it’s fine so this friday-“ you had said before getting cut off.

“tsumu, your going to be late!”

“shut up i’ll be fine samu! here, just text me later okay?” he said while handing you his number while bidding you farewell and a small ‘see ya tomorrow!’

•

•

•

“ready to go miya?” you asked as you slung your bookbag onto your shoulder.

“atsumu.”

“what?”

“call me atsumu, it’s easier when we’re around samu anyways,” he said once again with the signature thumbs-up you both shared.

“alright then atsumu.,” you said, the word seeming foreign as it rolled off your tongue. not to mention the creeping blush appearing.

“what’s so weird about it y/n-chan? we’re friends ain’t we?” he said, facing you while walking, almost tripping in the process.

“y-yeah.” you had said, stuttering since you were still laughing at him for almost falling backwards.

“atsumu! you’re going to be late for practice,” his younger twin shouted at him. along him was suna and kita waiting for the golden blond to join them.”

“sorry! i have a project to complete!” he shouted at the trio.

“you? not going to practice what is tha- ohhh i get it.”

“well good on you prioritizing your grades miya, see you later,” kita said as he dragged the gray-haired miya and suna by the ear before they made fun of him.

“what was that about atsumu?” you had asked, pivoting to face atsumu face to face.

“who knows, anyways let’s go.”

•

•

•

“huh? why is this so complicated!” atsumu exclaimed as he banged his head against the written on table in the library.

“atsumu, it isn’t that difficult,” you had said with an awkward laugh. you guys had gotten all of your research for the presentation and decided to leave the questions for last.

“yeah, easy for you to say y/n-chan, yer smart.”

“anything but that.”

”sure.”

“but really,” atsumu started. “why do we need to know about the first president of the united states? the question is ‘why did george washington know he was setting a precedent and how did this affect how he governed?’ what does precedent even mean?” atsumu asked.

“precedent means an action or event that sets a guide or example for similar events in the future.”

“but still, i don’t think it’s that important. setting a precedent and all,” he said

“really? that’s funny..” you said trailing off.

“hmm? why do you think that,” he asked, subconsciously leaning forward.

“well, it’s just ironic to me,” you said looking up, as if asking for permission to keep talking. like reading your mind he nods his head.

“i mean, i just feel- no scratch that. i know you are going to set a precedent. i mean look at you! haven’t you seen how great of a setter you are? atsumu, you’re going to be one of the best setters this world has seen! atsumu, you’re going to set an example of what a setter should be. you’re going down in the history. i’m so lucky to be able to see history in the making right in front of me..” you said, trailing off embarrassed at your sudden outburst.

“you really think that..?” he said, dumbfounded. slowly going back to his original position from before he leaned forward. now a dumb, lovestruck smile and slight blush adorned the setters face. not that you knew of course. you lightly nodded before you two continued to work.

“atsumu?”

“yeah?”

“george washington knew he was setting a precedent since he knew he was going to be an example for future presidents. he knew he would become an important figure in history, which made him carefully chose his actions while governing. that’s the answer.”

closing note: the actual historical information can very well be wrong i am going off my memory

general taglist is open, send in an ask :)

general taglist- @drabblily @bellesowl @miki-snake @newfriendjen

[heavenunderthemoon]

Growing Pains {Chapter Four}

Warnings: None, I believe. 

Prologue, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three

Nevada 1992

"I'm thoroughly spooked, can we go now?"

You rolled your eyes at the ten year old beside you. His whines had risen an octave over the last five minutes, the cause most probably being the increasing proximity to the house before the two of you, all of them had been ignored as you pedaled faster, hoping to reach the dilapidated structure before sunset.

The boy's scrawny arms looped around your waist, tightening to an almost suffocating degree every time you rode over a pothole and almost making you wheeze from discomfort. Spencer's bike was out for repair- 'out for repairs' was just a silly way of saying Spencer had all but begged your older brothers to take a look at the broken chain and then paid them $15 (probably too much, but he was desperate) to fix it. The bike was being looked at now, actually, but that still left the Reid boy without transportation. You had practically had to force him onto yours.

'I hate when you steer, you ride into every puddle you see and I didn't bring my rain boots-'

'Jesus, Sherlock, I'll go around them-'

'But, you don't have a helmet-'

'You can borrow my dad's-'

'Is your bike even registered?'

All of his questions had made you groan, almost pulling out your hair and all but shoving him onto your bike, taking up the front while he stood on the pedestals allocated for passengers in the back. Your bike wasn't anything flashy. In fact, it was a hand-me-down from your brothers, the seat sitting just a bit too high at the moment, though your dad claimed you would grow into it.

You pulled over, your worn tires coming to a halt in the over-grown grass, weeds poking up from every direction and basically engulfing the lawn before you.

"We just got here, Spencer, please, five minutes?" You shot a pleading look to the boy behind you, your father's helmet consuming the entirety of his head. His glasses, cracked from when Peter Thompson had socked him in the lunchroom the other week, slid down his nose and he pushed them back up as he hopped off the bike. His hands went to his shirt, wiping them across the material as he sighed. You liked when he did things like that, kid things.

"Fine, five minutes." He seceded, and you put the kickstand in place before hopping off the bike yourself, leading the way to the sagging building.

1497 Columbia Drive.

The house was practically a local hub for folklore. All ghost stories for the children in your community originated from this house in particular. Your dad said it was all hocus pocus, nothing of substance. It was probably just a bunch of kids trying to get a good laugh out of scaring the little kids, he even lectured you on the history of the house, no murders or strange incidents ever occurring on the property. But still, you had asked Spencer to come with you to check it out.

Your feet crunched the gravel beneath it, poking around the house here and there.

"What do you think you're going to find, Y/N? A ghost hiding under the rock?" His tone was condescending, as it was sometimes. Though, that was something he didn't quite know he was doing. You knew that. You knew that if he knew that he came across like that, like he thought less of you, he would never do that. His attitude was a little bit worse today than usual. His mother wasn't doing too well, her rants becoming longer, her paranoia keeping the boy from hanging out with you on most days. You had taken to climbing into his window to hang out, or sneaking him out when you could. But the tone still stung a bit. "This is stupid." He continued.

A small sigh escaped your lips as you kicked at a rock, shoving your hands into your pockets. "How come everything I want to do is stupid?" It was petty. Petty, and emotional, and a million other things you never were because you liked to keep things in, but your insecurities began pouring out of you like a broken spout. "Why are you even friends with me? I'm too dumb for you, you have to explain things to me a million different times and even then, sometimes I still don't get it. You're gonna go away someday, because you're smart and you're better than...than here. Than this. So, why do you even hang out with me?" The words fell sloppily from your lips, only angering you further because you knew how eloquently Spencer would've been able to express his thoughts.

And this was something that had bothered you for a while. Since you had met him, actually. Because you were different. Spencer Reid was different. And while everyone else in town thought that him being different was a bad thing, you saw it as something good. Good, because he was going to be something. He was going to be something big, something bigger than anything you could ever be, whatever he wanted, whatever he wished for, because he could. Because he was Spencer. And you were just...you. You didn't skip grades or read books super fast or have a photographic memory. You weren't a genius, your brain didn't move a million miles per minute, and how boring it must be for Spencer to have to hang out with you.

Your eyes stung with tears, quickly welling and spilling hotly down your reddened cheeks and you were grateful that your back was still to the boy because he had never seen you cry, not even when you broke your index finger playing baseball two years ago, and you weren't entirely sure that Spencer would know how to comfort you if he saw you crying.

But, he did know. He didn't say anything to acknowledge it aloud, probably because he feared you might turn around and deck him right then and there if he did, but he noticed. He saw the way your shoulders had tightened as you spoke and then began shaking lightly when you finished. He noticed the tremor in your voice, the small sniffles escaping your figure. He noticed your clenching fist, your nails digging into your palm, and the stiffness in your body, as if pleading with yourself to stop. He had never seen you cry. Come to think of it, he had never seen you sad. And it was then that he realized that he had never seen you sad because you tended to turn that sadness into anger. You turned your tears into insults and your wounds into punches because it was easier that way. He realized that you weren't as invincible as he thought. You weren't some fearless, perpetually angry girl who finished every fight she started. You were human, you were vulnerable. And this revelation made him feel better, as much as he hated to say it. Because he had always felt incredibly inferior to you. He felt inferior when he saw you speaking to your other friends at the park or the library. He felt inferior when he saw your family,  two brothers and a father (all of which seemed to speak in grunts and were constantly shoving food into their mouths whenever Spencer saw them). No matter how cave-man-like your family was, they were there. They were present. They weren't grabbing your shoulders, screaming about aliens, or the government, or tiny microscopic societies that he couldn't see- something Diana did often. He felt inferior when you stood up for yourself, or for him, when you weren't afraid to tell people to shut up, or ask for help, which was something he could never quite bring himself to do.

And this, these tears, these insecurities, brought you down to his level, gave you a fall from grace that was just enough to make him brave, even if it was for a split second, to grab your shoulder, and pull you into his embrace. His hug was bony. He smelled like cheap laundry detergent, lemon shampoo, and a bit of sweat. He had begun growing, just the tiniest bit, that year and it was enough to put you both at the same height. Two ten year olds standing in front of that allegedly haunted house, a scrawny little boy with a brain far too big for his own good and a girl who had been previously crying but was now just standing there, stunned, unsure of what to do in Spencer's embrace.

"What are you doing?" And for once you weren't loud. You weren't loud, or obnoxious, or confident. Your voice was tiny, small, and confused, because Spencer didn't like touching, and neither did you, really. You didn't hug each other. You gave each other high-fives, or fist bumps, or small nudges to the other in greetings or farewells, but never hugs.

Spencer didn't move, keeping his stance the same, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, his cheek to your shoulder. "Why am I your friend? Why are you mine? Everyone in town thinks I'm weird, and they tease you just for being my friend. Why put up with that? Why be friends with the kid who has to make multiple trips to the library each week and gets upset when he has to return them? Why be friends with the kid who can't even act like a kid. I get along better with adults, and those are the ones who don't talk about me behind my back. Why are you friends with me? Because I'll tell you why I'm friends with you. Because you ask me to explain things to you a million times, because you care so much about what I'm saying that you want to understand it too, even if its boring or complicated. You listen when I talk about nerdy things, and you ask my mom how she's doing- you aren't afraid of her like every other kid in your grade."

Your tears had stopped now, and you weren't entirely sure if it was due to the shock of Spencer hugging you or the shock of Spencer practically yelling as he let go of you, grabbing you by the shoulders and looking you in the eye.

"You're my best friend, and I'm sorry I said this was stupid. I would much rather do a million stupid things with you than be a genius alone."

He was a little breathless at the end of it, eyes still glued onto your face for some kind of sign that you weren't still sad, or angry. But it was blank, and suddenly his mind was rewinding through everything he said. Did he say something wrong? And just as he was going to apologize profusely for hugging you, you were pulling him into your own embrace. You were strong, his body hitting yours with a thud. You smelled like mechanical oil, probably from your dad's garage, and a hint of vanilla. Your hair, collected into a pony tail, though baby hairs clung to your forehead in a pool of sweat, brushed his nose and tickled his nostrils. You squeezed him when you hugged him and he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around you in reassurance. He had never had a friend apart from you, never had a person to tell about his day, about his dreams, about the weird thing he read that day. He had you, and he didn't now what life would be like without you, but the thought scared him. It terrified him to think about a future without you in it, and so he clung to you tighter.

"Let's go home. Nothin' special about this house, anyways." You pulled away, elbowing him lightly in the ribs, the tiniest of smiles on your face and he beamed, because he did that. He made you smile.

"Eh, I thought it was pretty cool." Spencer said with a shrug, walking back to the bike.

-

QUANTICO, January 2012

The plane ride back from the case was bumpy, turbulence instantly shaking the large aircraft, causing it to be physically impossible for the team to sleep on the way home- well, unless you were Rossi. You could swear that David Rossi could sleep through just about everything. After grabbing his usual drink from the jet bar, the old man had chosen his usual window seat, only a couple rows back from where you sat with JJ, Derek, and Emily, snoring peacefully within twenty minutes.

You groaned in envy, tilting your head back to rest on the cushion as you did so. The blonde to your left chuckled at your dramatics, having gotten used to your behavior by now, Derek and Emily in tow. The three were the trio you had found yourself most acquainted with on the team, well, them and Penelope. You had a soft spot in your heart for the quirky technical analyst, the woman all but forcing herself into your life by digging through your personal files and inviting herself over for breakfast before long cases. How strange it had been to open the door to your apartment and find Penelope and Derek on the other side.

"Good morning!"

Your hair was sticking up in about twenty different directions, something the two agents found rather astounding, but chose not to comment on. At the office you were...put-together, to say the least. You were professional, a military woman through and through. You showed up to work early, your paperwork was always done, your shirts were always ironed, your laces were always tied. Penelope would argue that she never saw you blink- something that had made Derek laugh and JJ roll her eyes at, but Emily secretly agreed, because, man, did you?

At this point you had only been working for the BAU for a week or so, and still, they knew nothing about you. And so, here she was, gift-basket in hand while Derek carried along three steaming hot lattes that you could smell even from this distance.

Your eyebrows knitted together, head tilting in a manner that was scarily akin to their boy wonder- another thing they chose not to comment on. After that first day, the introduction between the two that had gone very strangely and the obvious avoidance on both of their parts, the team had chosen to skirt around the Reid boy and the Y/L/N girl. Things like that had a way of working themselves out. Besides, it hadn't affected their work and so personal matters were to remain...well, personal.

"Uh, good morning?" You stepped aside, allowing the two agents to enter your apartment. It was a one-bedroom, close to work so the commute wasn't too bad, and extremely empty. Penelope could've guessed it would be that way before entering. Your desk was the same way, only a picture of what she assumed was your dad and your brothers and you in your uniform to adorn your small space. Furniture, a lonely sofa, beige and boring, and a coffee table severely lacking anything other than a newspaper that Derek could see was three days old. The crossword section was flipped open, only three words filled out. Strewn across the floor were boxes, emptied out, mostly, but the few that remained full were labeled 'BOOKS' and 'SUMMER ClOTHES". The latter gave the two agents a headache, the very action of attempting to envision you in anything other than your usual jeans, leather jacket, and boots too difficult for their brains to process.

Your apartment was pristine, another thing that was predictable. It smelled of coffee, and as the three agents ventured further into the apartment, it was apparent as to the source of the smell; a half-empty pot sitting on the marble countertops.

"I'm sorry there isn't breakfast, if I would've known you were coming over I would've made...cereal."

Derek's eyebrows scrunched at the food choice and you let out an awkward chuckle.

"I can't cook. I'm horrible, like, burn down the house horrible." Your hand grabbed the coffee he was extending, giving a grateful nod as you looked to Penelope.

"Sorry for the short notice-"

"No notice, actually." You corrected with a smirk, eyes looking over the rim of the coffee lid as you took a sip.

"Right- no notice. I just, I figured if I gave you notice it would give you a chance to say no, and that's fine! if you want us to leave or anything we can, but we really need more women in the office and you seem like some badass, aviator wearing, leather jacket having, military chick and I really feel like we cold be good friends! I always text back, and I, for one, am I a good cook, so I can help you with that...oh, and I am amazing at remembering birthdays! I brought a gift basket too! I wasn't sure if you liked chocolate, or cheese, or fruit, this has all three-"

"Give her a second, babygirl." The Morgan shook his head, throwing a look to you. It was kind, an understanding look that meant he understood just how overwhelming his blonde counterpart could be but but also pleaded for understanding. Understanding of how Penelope was, of how good of a friend she could be.

But he didn't need to do that.

He didn't need to ask you to understand, or to be patient, or to give someone a chance  He didn't need to because she reminded you all too much of a scrawny little kid with his nose in a book, a mouth far too smart for his own good, and a lack of any defense system.

The paper cup landed onto the countertop gently as you placed it down, arms crossing over themselves.  Your arms were a bit chilled, nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts worn to bed, and a lazy smile quirked at the corner of your lips at the strange, kind, lovely blonde before you.

"I like cheese and chocolate and fruit."  Penelope visibly relaxed at the comment. "Stay, I'm in need of some good friends."

"I'm tired." You mumbled grumpily, chin coming to rest on your hand.

JJ snorted, digging further into the small bag of chips she had managed to snag from the vending machine at the airport before the jet had taken off. "You could sleep."

With a click of your tongue, you smiled sarcastically, nodding your head. "Good idea, I didn't think about that." As another snore reached your ears, you tossed a glare back to the sleeping Rossi, rolling your eyes. "Jesus, does he have to rub it in?" You snapped.

Emily tucked a curl behind her ear, cracking a grin. "You can sleep when you get home, the flight's only three hours out."

"No, because when I get home I have to shower first, the plane makes me feel gross." Your shoulders gave way to a shiver that made Derek laugh. "Should I sleep or should I shower? I could sleep in the shower- but I'm also hungry."

A light tap on your forearm alerted you to the chip bag being shoved onto you, an offering by the Jareau woman. Perhaps if you hadn't known her for as long as you had- which, admittedly still wasn't that long, but you digressed- you would have taken one. Yes, JJ was offering, but JJ and her chips was not a love you came between and if you took one now she would tell you that you owed her a chip bag when you next passed a vending machine and the woman, small and kind as she was, was not as forgiving when it came to being owed chips.

With a tired wave of your hand you stood, stretching your arms for a moment, fingertips grazing the jet ceiling, before turning on your heel. "I'm gonna go find some peanuts or something."

You made your way to the back of the jet, toward the coffee machine station and bar set up. Cabinets above and below the both of them had you suspecting that there was a secret stash of peanuts- or, perhaps, a five-course meal that no one else knew about. Day-dreaming of a roasted turkey and baked Mac and cheese you hardly noticed a person exit the bathroom as you searched the cabinets. At the exact moment they had, the jet hit a spot of turbulence.

Your body, too tired to react quickly enough, lurched backward, directly into the body behind you.

Spencer yelped quietly, reacting on instinct and grabbing your body. The momentum of your body in addition to the swing of the jet had him stumbling into the wall, his hands securely around your waist, body pressed tightly against yours.

His touch wasn't foreign, perhaps that was why you stilled the way you did. As if you were frozen in an instant, neither of you moved as the plane shook for a moment, righting itself almost immediately and leaving the two of you staring, eyes entranced in one another.

For you, it was his touch. His touch that made you still, his touch that made you forget the search for food, the whines of exhaustion, the impatience to go home. His touch, one you knew quite well as a child, one you associated with friendship, childhood, and safety. One you associated with trust, and companionship. One that was returned to you in an instant, a feeling that you forgot after all these years- no, not forgot. You hadn't forgotten his touch, or, at least, your body hadn't. No, your body remembered Spencer Reid quite well. Your body remembered climbing into Spencer Reid's window, your hands calloused and hardened from the long climb to the top of the tree beside it. Your body remembered biking around town with him, thighs and calves burning as you pushed yourself harder, the amount of books he had loaded onto your bike because his couldn't fit all of them on his own weighing you down. Your body remembered bloodied knuckles, busted lips, or black eyes, all of them your victory trophies because you were hotheaded, impulsive, and protective when the other children had something to say about him.

And he stilled because of your scent. As strange as it sounded, it hadn't changed after all these years. Unlike you, his mind hadn't tricked him into forgetting it. He didn't think it was possible for him to ever forget it. Mechanical oil and a hint of vanilla. It enveloped him like a warm blanket, a large tidal wave of the familiar scent hanging in the air, threatening to overtake him until the wave broke and it pulled him under with it. The scent consumed him, filling his nostrils, overtaking his senses and for a moment it was too much. It was too much for his brain to process because one moment he was walking out of the bathroom and the next you were in his arms and he was catching you.

You didn't know what to say. What was there to say? You missed him. You saw him at work everyday, you passed by him when you dropped off paperwork to Hotchner, you nodded at him in passing, and you stumbled into him when the jet hit an air pocket. How could you miss him if you did all of that, every single day?

But Spencer Reid was a person to be missed. Spencer Reid was a person you thought about. You thought about him every day, every hour, every minute, because how could you not? How could you just pretend you didn't know him? The boy who read you Sherlock Holmes on hot summer days, or slow danced with you in your father's basement? The boy who gave you pinky promises and made wishes on stars, and taught you the constellations. A boy you had known was extraordinary from the beginning and had turned out to be just that? A boy who was no longer a boy anymore, because the world didn't take well to boys with exceptional minds and sick mothers, the world turned boys like that into men, men who were different, even if just a little bit. That little bit was enough to let all the fears flood back in, the fears of the ordinary, the fears of not being enough. The fears that were solidified in your not-so-welcome welcoming.

The memory coursed through your veins, activating them as if it had been a shot of adrenaline.

Clearing your throat, you moved, standing up properly, pushing yourself out of his embrace and crossing your arms. "Thanks. Turbulence caught me off guard there."

For a moment he had you, just you and him and then you had turned to sand in his hands and once again he was losing you. Your expression had hardened. In another lifetime he had been the one to soften you, a person who had been able to break down those walls you worked so hard to build, but now he was the one locked out.

"What we really need to worry about are microbursts - a sudden downburst of air associated with thunderstorms - but small craft like this one, if we hit one of those at the wrong altitude..." He was rambling at this moment, rambling so badly he wished he could stop but he couldn't. His hands mimicked an explosion, his voice coming out much smaller, more reluctant. "Get pulverized."

Spencer Reid didn't like being vulnerable. And that's what he was around you, vulnerable. And being vulnerable did things to him, made him say things and do things that make him embarrassed, or ashamed, or even feel guilty. Just as he started to simultaneously feel all three of these things, you did something he hadn't quite expected.

You laughed.

"Jeez, Sherlock, ever so morbid, aren't you?" It was a soft chuckle, a tiny little snort, short-lived and gone in an instant, but it was enough to make Spencer grin.

His lips parted to respond. What he was going to say, he didn't know- something, anything- but, he never got to find out.

The pilot bell dinged over the speaker system.

"Passengers, this is your Pilot speaking. There are rough windstorms ahead, I'm receiving advisement to land immediately, please buckle your seatbelts, this will be a rough landing."

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[knives-out20]

The Impact Of The Intergalactic - David Bowie Opinion Essay - by Beck S.

This is an essay I wrote about the span of David Bowie's career. I wrote it for a summer school course I took last year (August 2021) for a course called History of Rock & Roll.

My teacher gave nice feedback after he marked it, talking about how it was an "Excellent paper. It charts Bowie's progress throughout his career well, and includes significant detail. I could really feel the passion you have about him throughout. In fact, there is *too much* detail! The paper was supposed to be 3 pages max, double-spaced. Still, this is a good problem to have; better too much than too little."

So...enjoy!!

From his early works like Hunky Dory, to Black Tie White Noise in the 1990’s and stretching over to Blackstar as his final album, David Bowie has rarely had a bad album or song- in my opinion. His career has had ups and downs, his musical creations ranging in the way he would pitch his voice and what instruments he would use, the people he would produce with, and the wild things he would say. Charting David Bowie’s development over time is in fact an interesting journey.

Early on in his dreamy career, Bowie would have done nearly anything- or in fact, anyone- to grow in the music world. Hopping from band to band (like The Velvet Underground), producer to producer, doing whatever he could do to get ‘in’ in the industry. His early albums weren’t taken very highly in their times- especially with the ‘man-dress’ he wore on the British release of his The Man Who Sold The World album. Although, this dress was only the start of the androgynous appearance he would soon be known for, over the course of his 5-decade-spanning career.

The 1970’s were strange, to say the least. He married Angela Bowie at the start of the decade, then welcomed their son Duncan Zowie Haywood Jones a year later. Bowie went on to be hopped up on cocaine. David donned the look of one of his famous personas, The Thin White Duke. The same persona with slicked-back ginger hair, a white button-up under a black waistcoat and paired with black dress pants. The same Duke who called Adolf Hitler one of the first ‘rock stars’ and gave off a lot of faschist energy. He said many statements he’d later apologize for and grow as a better man from, which is good- it’s better than standing by then, or even backing himself up and supporting them. David Bowie called that period the darkest days of his life, and blamed the crazy statements on his horrid addiction and deteriorating mental state. The late 1970’s were more favorable, seeing as it gave the world what was dubbed the Berlin Trilogy alongside Brian Eno and David’s personal friend, Iggy Pop. Made up of three of his albums: Low and Heroes (both in 1977) and Lodger (1978). He moved from Los Angeles to Switzerland, then to Berlin as a further decision to escape his addiction (the reason he moved away from LA in the first place). It was in Berlin, of course, where he wrote his famous song Heroes, about two lovers, one from East Berlin and one from West.

Speaking of Berlin, David Bowie performed near the west of the Berlin Wall in 1987; he played so loud that crowds gathered on the east to listen. At this time, Bowie had no idea he would be the beginning of the city’s soon-coming unifying. After his death in 2016, the German government thanked him for bringing the wall down and unifying a divided Germany.

Music isn’t all he is known for, though it is a majority. He also starred in movies from time to time. Being the titular man in The Man Who Fell To Earth in 1976, Jareth the moody goblin king in Jim Henson’s 1986 Labyrinth film (what is most likely his most famous role), Monte the barman in the 1991 movie The Linguini Incident, cameoing as himself in Zoolander (2001), Nikola Tesla in the 2006 movie The Prestige, and even Lord Royal Highness in Spongebob Squarepants’ Atlantis Squarepantis in 2007, among a few others. David Bowie dabbled in the art of acting, and was not that bad at it. He was good enough to gain a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, too. Sometimes it bends my mind that my first introduction to my all-time favourite musician was in a Spongebob Squarepants movie, back before I knew who he was, but David Bowie was never one to shy away from foreshadowing. At least one song from many of his albums would hint at the direction he’d go in for his next release. For example, his track Queen Bitch on Hunky Dory foreshadowed his soon-coming Ziggy Stardust. And the Diamond Dogs track 1984 actually hinted at the Philadelphian soul of Young Americans, which is a more famous song of his, which he went on to perform on The Cher Show with its host.

The 1990’s were certainly an experimental time for David Bowie. But to my knowledge, I think the 1990’s was a time for everyone. He married supermodel Iman some days after performing at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert, and released the album I named earlier, Black Tie White Noise. It is known to have had a prominent use of electronic instruments, as was his other 1990’s album, Earthling. The early 1990’s greeted David’s first real band since the Spiders From Mars, dubbed Tin Machine. They recorded three guitar-driven albums which received mixed reviews from the masses, but Bowie looks back at this period- as do I- with a certain fondness; “a glorious disaster” he called it, when talking to journalist Mick Brown. Tin Machine is a period I don’t listen to often, compared to his solo stuff, but I don’t press the skip button when it comes on.

Alas, the starman’s career drew to a close as the 2000s rolled in. David Bowie greeted the 2000’s with the birth of his and Iman’s daughter, the beautiful Alexandria Zahra Jones. After suffering a- strange, as it were- heart attack symptoms mid-song during a concert in 2004, he took a hiatus from his career. I say strange because given what I know, he was trying his best to stay healthy at the time. According to my special Rolling Stone edition magazine about David Bowie (released at the start of this year), he was on tour and performing in a really hot arena. But Bowie was sober, and had quit smoking. He was taking medication to lower his cholesterol, and worked out with a trainer. Bowie looked great, and yet he felt a pain in his shoulder and chest, along with a shortness for breath. A bodyguard rushed onstage to usher Bowie off of it, cutting the concert short. He only performed live once or twice after that point, but was set on never going live ever again. And he kept his word on that, unfortunately but also fortunately. Unfortunately, because David Bowie live would have been quite the experience- I wouldn’t know, personally. But fortunately, because I do not believe anyone needs a repeat of the 2004 Reality scare.

I am actually not too fond of speaking of his final years. Nobody really likes to speak of the last years of their idols’ life before their death, so it’s no surprise. Blackstar was David Bowie’s 25th and final album, recorded entirely in secret in New York alongside his long-time producer, Tony Visconti. The album's central theme lyrically is mortality, and seeing as Bowie was undergoing chemotherapy for his cancer at the time, I see it as his way of coping with his incoming death. His producer Tony Visconti called him a ‘canny bastard’, when he realized Bowie was essentially writing a farewell album. Every song on the album is what is considered a swan song, a swan song in question being a phrase for a final gesture of some sort before retirement or death. In this case, death. Over the course of recording the album, David Bowie’s chemotherapy had actually been working and he had an eerie optimism while recording. But by the time they shot the two music videos Blackstar and Lazarus, where he showed off the definite passage of time and cruelty of chemotherapy through sparse and gray hair with sagging skin, he knew his condition was terminal and that this would be a battle he would lose. Blackstar wasn’t the first album to have been made by a musician succumbing to a fatal illness, but in my opinion it is in fact the most beautiful. It’s jazzy, and elegant, showing how at peace he had become with dying.

Blackstar the album was released on January 8th, 2016. Also known as David Bowie’s 69th birthday. Two days later, David Bowie died at his Lafayette Street home on January 10th after living with liver cancer for up to 18 months. Beforehand, he had let it be known he did not want a funeral nor a burial, but rather that his body be cremated and the ashes to be scattered in Bali by his loved ones. His wish was received, and planet Earth was very much bluer and quieter without his colour and wonderful noise.

As I said earlier on, David Bowie’s career came with ups and downs. His mysteriously close relationship with Mick Jagger, his cross with famous underage groupie Lori Maddox, the births of his two talented children, his faschist bender in the 70’s, and final bang of Blackstar in his final year on earth. Through the highs and lows, his career and his music meant a lot to the quote-unquote misfits and freaks of the world, myself included. David Bowie turned and faced the strange, shouted “you’re not alone!” To those who felt the loneliest, he surely spent his career helping those who needed to be themselves, feel more freer and braver in doing so, no matter what they may be when they are themselves. He never went boring, he never went stale, he sang what he wanted and dressed how he pleased, and kept to his word on how much more to life there is when you’re just that; yourself. A year after David Bowie’s untimely passing, his son Duncan Jones accepted an award for British album of the year that was won by Blackstar at the 37th annual Brit Awards. When he accepted it, he made a speech about his father that I will leave here, and never forget. Seeing as it perfectly encapsulates David Bowie’ legacy, and the true meaning of his extraordinary career.

“I lost my dad last year, but I also became a dad. And, uhm, I was spending a lot of time- after getting over the shock- of trying to work out what would I want my son to know about his granddad? And I think it would be the same thing that most of my dad's fans have taken over the last 50 years. That he’s always been there supporting people who think they’re a little bit weird or a little bit strange, a little bit different, and he’s always been there for them. So...this award is for all the kooks, and all the people who make the kooks. Thanks, Brits, and thanks to his fans.” - Duncan Z. H. Jones (February 22 2017, at The O2 Arena in London.)

[astraeagreengrass]

illicit affairs [the woods 2/4]

No one ever tells you that picking up the pieces takes longer than shattering them

Word Count: 3.657

Warnings: heavy angst, mentions of death and death-related themes, descriptions of a memorial service.

A/N: Thank you to every one that sent me some love on exile! I'm truly grateful for your comments and I hope you like what's coming up on this story. Special thanks to the always wonderful @xbuchananbarnes​ for helping me out with this. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway​ ♡

and you know damn well for you, i would ruin myself a million little times

Working for Nick Fury sometimes made you sick to your stomach.

"That's very old school of you," you said, taking a sip from your coffee. The styrofoam cup was hot to the point of almost burning your fingertips, but having something on your hands kept you from twisting them nervously.

Nick raised an eyebrow - the one you could see, at least - and drank from his own cup.

"Your father always said I had a flair for the dramatic."

"Humph," you muttered as Nick rolled down the steel door of the storage unit. "Do you think he would believe your conspiracy theory?"

He shrugged, black leather duster coat swooshing in the wind.

"Your father was a soldier and a spy," he stated. "One of the best, I must say. He believed in his orders as long as he could question them. So yes, I think he would engage my conspiracy theory, as you put it."

You refrained from comment. That was Nick's way: mention your father enough times to instigate your grief, just enough to loosen your morals. The shame was on you for allowing him - even if his suspicion of an undercover plot inside S.H.I.E.L.D. fascinated your curiosity.

“Can I ask what made you start questioning your own Agency?” you mumbled under your breath as you and Nick made your way to his SUV. The sun was slowly dragging it’s hues across the inky sky, the stars fading as the golden light came to be.

“When Stark hacked the Helicarier’s systems there were some… Inconsistencies,” Nick replied. “Which naturally spiked my curiosity.”

“Naturally,” you smirked.

“I suppose I don’t have to tell you that this is not an official assignment, Agent Y/L/N,” he said.

“No, sir,” you shook your head.

“Good,” he pressed a button and the car doors unlocked. “Besides, I’m sure Captain Rogers’ presence in Washington will… Stimulate the inconsistencies we’re looking for.”

“Shit,” you cursed. “That was today?”

Nick tapped the clock on the car’s navigation panel.

“He’ll be at headquarters at nine. I expect you to be there.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you said. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

Nick nodded.

“How is your grandmother?” he asked. “Is the treatment working?”

“She’s doing a round of chemo every forty days,” you clicked the seat belt tip in the buckle. “She’s stable, but, you know, it’s cancer. I visit her every weekend, though.”

“Are you sure you can’t convince her to move to the city?”

“Nope,” you shook your head. “She’s never gonna leave the woods, Nick. Can you even imagine my grandmother living in D.C.?”

A discreet smile played in the corner of your boss’ lips.

“I couldn’t imagine you living in D.C., yet here you are.”

You didn’t reply, choosing to sip your coffee instead. Nick turned the radio on as he drove off the storage lot and a playlist of Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits was your soundtrack on the journey back to the city. Daylight was high in the sky when the SUV reached the Triskelion, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s colossal headquarters sitting right in the middle of the Potomac.

It was just past seven, but already the premises were bustling with people. You supposed that’s what happens when a superhero starts his first day on the job - people show up early, wearing their best clothes and flawless makeup.

“What the hell,” Nick muttered. “This is an Intelligence Agency, not a fashion show.”

You stifled a laugh.

“You can’t complain about motivation in the workplace now, boss.”

Nick shot you a dirty look.

“My office. Nine A.M. Don’t be late.”

You mock saluted him then went on to find some breakfast.

Natasha Romanoff’s memorial service was held on a balmy December morning, at a Christian Orthodox church in Brooklyn.

All the time you’ve known her, Natasha had never mentioned religion and you were positive that she would’ve cracked two or three jokes about the priest’s monotonous speaking if she were there. Only she wasn’t, and all she left behind was a handful of grieving acquaintances.

There was no body to keep vigil over or bury. In between the thousand of unsaid words between you and Steve, the subject of Natasha’s death lingered. He tried to explain, as he did to so many other things, and maybe you would’ve understood if you just tried to be better at listening - tried harder to make sense of the incredible mess reality had become. Apparently it’s not easy to retrieve a corpse when the person actually died on an alien planet almost ten years ago.

Natasha’s beautiful face smiled at you from a portrait sitting at the altar. Her hair was longer, cascading down her shoulders in fiery red waves that curled into blonde ends. The shadow of a smile on the corner of her lips couldn’t elude the sadness lingering in her eyes. Even so, she hadn’t aged a day since the last time you saw her, in a time so distant it felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else’s existence instead of your own.

Remembering 2016 felt like being dunked in ice water. Like the time you jumped into the frozen pond in the woods and opened your eyes underneath the stream, catching the twisted, milky sunlight. Looking back at that life - so peaceful despite all the trouble that surrounded it - was equally as numbing.

It was announced to the general public that the woman known as Black Widow bravely sacrificed her life during what was now being called the Battle of the Earth. Yet, when Steve called two days earlier saying that there would be a private service for Natasha's family members, you wept - not so much because a service meant that she was well and truly gone, but because she thought you were her family.

You met her at S.H.I.E.L.D., of course. Even before you crumbled to dust, you’d constantly wonder how different things would’ve been if you’d never let stupid Jimmy Rodriguéz’s words get to you. If you’d just ignored his taunts instead of hacking S.H.I.E.L.D’s database just to prove him you were smart enough to do it, maybe then an old friend your father never bothered to mention wouldn’t have come to your house in the middle of the night, saying that if you could bypass government-patented digital security, then you should move to D.C. and work for him. You would’ve never left the woods, never traded it for the tangled webs of secrets and deceptions a job as an intelligence programmer proved to be.

Perhaps then you wouldn’t be here, sharing a pew with Steve Rogers - the only man you’d ever loved and probably ever would. Perhaps you would’ve met someone else: a nice, normal, maybe even a tad boring guy, but you wouldn’t care because you wouldn’t be very interesting either - just a nice, normal, maybe even a tad boring girl. And the two of you would be ordinary, kissing goodbye in the morning and hello in the evenings, with the ever present assurance that this was how things were meant to be. Not the tragic tale of love and loss you shared with Steve.

You didn't wait for him to walk you out of the church when the service was over, yet your plan to flee without an awkward farewell misfired at the sight of Nick Fury by the door. He looked exactly like he always did - black leather eyepatch, black leather duster coat, seemingly plucked from your thoughts.

"Y/N," he greeted you, evidently surprised although only someone who's spent as much time around him as you had would catch it in the tone of his voice. "How are you?"

"Good," you replied, way too quickly. "Fine."

Nick nodded, then turned to the blonde woman next to him.

"Carol, this is Agent Y/N Y/L/N," he introduced you. "Y/N, this is Captain Carol Danvers."

"Former agent," you corrected, shaking the hand Carol extended. She had a gentle, but strong grip. Noticing her gaze looking up, you turned around to find Steve approaching.

"Carol, Nick," he acknowledged them, then said to you: "You ready to go?"

You nodded, whispering a quiet "goodbye" before allowing Steve to lead you outside.

"Thanks," you muttered when you reached the open air. Even New York's polluted breeze was more refined than the stifling atmosphere inside the church and you inhaled deeply.

"No problem," he smiled. "I was hoping we could talk. You know, if you had the time."

You had all the time in the world, or so it seemed these days. Almost two months had dragged by since you woke up on the floor of your apartment and every minute seemed to make up for the years you missed. You weren’t working or even living in the old building in Bushwick anymore - Cal and Daniel, the father and son duo that first aided you, were. You were just going through the motions.

No one tells you that picking up the pieces takes longer than shattering them. No one bothers saying that when they break, they scatter, and compiling whatever’s left is a perverted scavenger hunt.

“There’s a coffee shop over there,” Steve pointed to a row of storefront across the church parking lot when you hesitated to give him an answer.

You shook your head, trying to scare off the white noise that always seemed to pester you.

“Sure,” you said, wondering if in your alternate life you’d know how to say no to Steve Rogers.

“So, you've experienced this sort of thing before?” Nick said.

“You get used to it,” Steve replied, looking down at the gravestone. Carved on the marble were the words: Col. Nicholas J. Fury, The path of the righteous man. Ezekiel 25:17.

“We've been data-mining HYDRA's files,” Nick continued. “Looks like a lot of rats didn't go down with the ship. I'm headed to Europe tonight, wanted to ask if you'd come.”

Steve shook his head.

“There's something I gotta do first.”

“How about you, Wilson?” Nick turned to Sam. “Could use a man with your abilities.”

“I'm more of a soldier than a spy,” he replied, resolute.

“Alright then,” Nick sighed and you thought he was honestly disappointed. He shook Steve and Sam’s hand and said: “Anybody asks for me, tell them they can find me right here.”

He turned to walk away but halted when he saw you approach. It was the first - and only - time you saw him wearing anything other than the black duster coat and you were surprised to find him affable, rather than alien.

He pointed to the file in your hands.

“How many favors did you have to call in order to get that?”

“A few,” you smiled. “Turns out I still have some friends in Kiev.”

Nick snickered, a whisper of a laugh so discreet that it faded almost instantly in the breeze.

“And you’re sure you’ll pull on that thread? With Hydra out in the open and Congress breathing down your neck?”

His real question was implicit: was your relationship with Steve Rogers worth the trouble?

“I’m sure,” you said, clutching the thick manila folder that contained information on the Winter Soldier.

Beyond the dark disguise of his sunglasses, you caught Nick’s gaze - and you were sad that things ended this way.

“Be safe, Y/N,” he offered.

Nick Fury was out of the graveyard and your life before you could wish him the same.

"I'm sorry I didn't call for a while," Steve apologized as soon as the young waitress left your table with your orders scribbled on a notepad. "I had to leave town for a few days."

You nodded, picking a napkin from it's holder in the center of the tiny corner table where you and Steve sat.

"It's okay," you said. "I know you have stuff to do."

He was still, after all, Steve Rogers. You never tricked yourself into believing you were his priority, instead accepted in your heart that you would always be second to The Avengers, Peggy Carter, Bucky Barnes and whatever else Steve set his eye on and it was fine. You'd be the second place as long as you could be something.

"I went back to return the stones," he added. "Bruce managed to repair the quantum tunnel, so Sam and I volunteered to go back and put them in place."

Back. As in the past.

"Okay," you repeated, because your recent conversations with Steve constantly left you lost for words, with all the information about time travel and elemental crystals from outer space. "Did everything go alright?"

"Yeah," he clasped his hands in front of him, and his colossal frame made the wooden chair he sat in look even smaller. "I saw Peggy."

You looked up from your staring match with the napkin, astounded.

"Really?" your tone was clipped and Steve noticed. Throughout your relationship, Steve's former flame was the unmentionable, the firing pin in the granade. Even if you had accepted the silver medal, it didn't mean it wasn't agonizingly painful to know you'd never shine bright in Steve's eyes like Peggy's gold standards.

"In 1970, at Camp Lehigh," he rubbed his forehead. "She didn't see me, of course, but I saw her. There were a bunch of pictures on her desk - her kids, her husband, one of myself before the serum..."

"Why are you telling me this?" you interrupted him, napkin now balled up in your fist.

"I don't know," Steve shrugged. There was a light pink blush crawling up his neck. "Shit, I don't know why I thought this would be a good way to start what I need to say to you, but… I guess seeing Peggy live her life made me realize how much of mine has been wasted."

You scoffed.

"How could you possibly have wasted your life, Steve? You're Captain America! You've saved the world more than once."

"When it comes to you I've wasted it," he whispered. "And I'm no longer Captain America."

"What?" you gasped, purposely ignoring the initial part of his sentence.

"I passed the shield on to Sam," he announced. "He'll do a good job."

"Why?" you breathed out.

"It was time," Steve said, plainly as if you were discussing the weather and not the one thing that defined who he was for over a century. "The guy that wanted a fight so badly he became a military experiment isn't here anymore. He's changed, the world has changed. That shield is too heavy for me now."

You shook your head, stunned.

"I can't believe this."

Steve started speaking, but stopped when the waitress arrived with your drinks: cappuccino for you, espresso for him. She took an unnecessarily long time pointing out the sugar and sweetner were, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder, telling him with a giggle to call her if he needed anything. Your coffee suddenly looked unsavory.

"The world needs Captain America," he continued after she was out of your hearing range. "But Captain America doesn’t necessarily needs to be Steve Rogers.”

“I think Sam will do a marvelous job, Steve. I just don’t understand where this decision came from. Is this because of what happened with Thonos?”

“Thanos,” he corrected you. “And no. This has been looming on my mind since before him.”

“Since when?” you questioned. “Because before Thanos you were out in the world being a wanted man. Please don’t tell me this urge for normalcy came to you while you were hiding like a coward.”

Steve sighed.

“Look, I know you’re angry at me and you have every right to be...”

“I know I have every right to be,” you cut him off. “I gave you everything and you left me stranded. Do you have any idea how hard that was? My boyfriend of three years became a criminal and he didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye before he fled.”

You slammed your fist on the table, rattling the china. The foam of your drink sloshed, a tiny bubbly dot spilling from the cup to the platter.

Lately, every single one of your conversations with Steve seemed to end in a fight and you were to blame. As much as you tried to move on, either your biological clock wasn't adjusted yet or your heart couldn't let go of the night he appeared on your doorstep after being absent for so long. It might've been five years in history for him, but for you it was a mere sixty days ago. You couldn't match this caring, attentive Steve to the bearded man in the shadows, indifferent and unconcerned, so you lashed at him. You nitpicked his every word and quibbled over the smallest things and he always took it silently, enraging you even further.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I shouldn't have said that. It has nothing to do with the subject."

"It has everything to do with the subject, Y/N," Steve exclaimed, hands flat on the wood, like he was going to reach for yours but gave up at the last moment. "I was so busy trying to make the world a better place that I didn't realize I was ignoring mine until I lost it. Until I lost you."

You rubbed your eyes.

"You can't blame your job for your mistakes, Steve. Or mine, for that matter."

"What were your mistakes, Y/N?" he asked. "You could've fled after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., but you stayed because I asked you to. You could've started a different job, but you took the position with the Avengers because I asked you to..."

"I loved you," you interrupted. "I did all of it because I loved you. And even though sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd said no, I don't regret it."

There's something about the air when the truth is laid bare. It shifts just slightly, as though nature itself can feel the weight of the words spoken, so it moves the atoms around to make space for verity. And in the essence of the world, it is immortalized.

"Do you love me still?" Steve murmured.

"You know I do," you smiled softly. "But I am so broken."

Crushed. Turned to dust long before the Mad Titan snapped his fingers. In the mad race to start over, you were so distant from the finishing line.

You were wrong: your recent conversations with Steve didn't end in arguments, they ended with you crying and him consoling you. This time his chair nearly collapsed as he rose, reaching you in just one step. At first he towered over you, arms hanging without touching your body, but when your sobs intensified he kneeled by your side, taking the crumpled napkin from your hands to dry your tears.

"Shhh," he soothed.

"I'm so sorry, Steve," you said, but it came out jumbled and watery from your tears. “I’m sorry.”

Noticing that the few other patrons and the flirty waitress were starting to look, Steve threw a fifty dollar bill on the table and pulled you up, wrapping his arms around your body as he led you outside.  

Night was beginning to fall over Brooklyn. Sunsets in the city were all about spotting a few twinkling stars amid the smog, before the lights from the skyscrapers scrammed them away. One would argue that the sky in the woods, a dark blue tapestry with hundreds of twinkling dots, was far prettier, but you always thought it was fascinating to see the cosmos shining in the orange firmament.

The city had its own magic. It used to buzz in your veins when you first moved here, staring out this same sky from a window at the top deck of the Avengers Towers. If only you could feel it again.

“Do you feel better?” Steve whispered into your hair when your breathing began to even out.

You nodded, cleaning your tears with the sleeves of your sweater.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“Yeah,” you croaked. “I need to finish packing.”

“Packing?” he frowned.

“I got a call from my grandparents lawyer when you were gone,” you explained. “Turns out I still have ownership over the house in the woods, so I’m planning to move back home before Christmas break.”

Steve’s arms fell and he stepped away from you. The absence of his touch made you shiver.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “Another family lives in my apartment now and I can’t stay with my cousin forever, so…”

“You could stay with me,” he intervened. “You don't have to leave."

"I need to start over, Steve."

"But what about me?" he pleaded.

Steve Rogers never pleaded. He was stubborn and tenacious, the worst person to get in a fight with. You'd learned to cave because he never did, and it was better to swallow your pride than staying days without speaking to your headstrong boyfriend when his job put him in danger constantly. For three years you told yourself that it didn't matter that Steve didn't love you fully - you loved him enough for the two of you. Only enough wasn't acceptable anymore.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I love you, Steve," you said. "But just like you're not the guy from the 1940s anymore, I'm no longer the hacker from S.H.I.E.L.D. either."

Steve cupped your face, touching your forehead with his.

"Don't leave me," he begged. "I can't live without you."

You kissed his palm.

"We've made a mess," you replied. "Just let me try and fix it."

You owe me that, you didn't say, but Steve knew. In the misty twilight, he only hoped you could forgive him.

[fynslife]

Post-War Storm Epilogue: Reunion **spoilers for RQ4**

                                                   1 year later

The wind is chill on my skin as I step onto the runway at the edge of Archeon. It’s been a year since I was last in Norta, a year since I said goodbye to Cal. So much has changed since then.

I’ve come alone this time, leaving Farley with Clara and Kilorn with Cameron, even Davidson stayed behind in Montfort - all aware that this is a trip I need to take alone. My family are safe and happy, and as much as it pains me to leave them again I’ve known for some time that my path would lead me back here. At least this time around it’s by choice, and not as part of a cruel game.

Over the past year I’ve explored the world to the farthest reaches and back,  always keeping one eye on my former home, on Norta. The first broadcast we watched together; my family, Davidson, the Red Command and even Evangaline, huddled around to see the first glimpses of the new country. In the weeks following the battle the High Houses started to return. Silvers and reds were shown to be mixing, working together to build the new world with a fledgling government drawn from both bloods. Cal was elected temporarily as the first Premier of Norta amidst the fall-out, as the country sought to find a new equilibrium. Seeing his face, clear of pain but worn from rebuilding was a smart to my slowly healing wounds.

The next broadcast I saw came six months later. Away from Ascendant, away from my family, I watched as Cal was sworn in officially as Premier. A king no longer, but still a leader in his blood. The footage panned to Cal’s government, a collection of reds, silvers and new-bloods alike, all committed to upholding a better future. I didn’t watch the full broadcast, unwilling to see the marks of resistance still brewing amongst bitter silvers. I have to remind myself that for once, the good outweighs the bad, and with Cal at the head of government it will stay that way. Progress has been slow, but as Davidson would say, inches for miles.

I snap out of my memories, caught off guard by the light rain that has started to fall. My Montfort escorts lead the way to my transport and I find myself once again on my way to Whitefire.

***

The palace remains much the same; the marble polished and clean, free from the gore of a battle long since passed. The throne room however has been repurposed for government - the colours of House Calore have been removed, as have those of Marandus and Jacos. Much like in Ascendant, the colours that now line the walls are those of silver and red, interspersed in equal measure. A physical reminder of the unification of the bloods.

It’s here that I find him.

My breath catches as I watch him from the doorway. Cal seems much unchanged; his broad shoulders cloaked in a simple dark jacket with trousers to match, tucked into military grade boots. His hair is longer than I last saw it, long enough to start curling around his ears as it falls forward. I put a hand to my red earring, the one Cal gifted to me a lifetime ago, as the full weight of missing him crashes into me and I find it hard to breathe. In response my lightning crackles to life in my palm, and Cal’s head snaps up at the sound.

His gaze finds me immediately, smoldering bronze in surprise and trepidation. Cal straightens, seemingly searching for the right thing to say and coming up with nothing. “Hi”, I say quietly, never averting my gaze. A startled chuckle bursts from him, “Hi” he says in return.

I suddenly feel awkward. What if he didn’t wait for me? What if this year apart has changed everything? Cal steps forward as I make to step back, reading the questions in my eyes before I can voice them. “Mare”, his voice is soft and pleading, serving as a balm to my nerves. My lighting crackles once more as the heat in the room slowly rises, and I step towards him. With that one step it’s as if a spell has lifted and we rush towards eachother, desperate to close the space between us.

Cal pulls me into his embrace, his body warm and as strong as I remember. My arms lock around his neck as he lifts me, holding me so tightly it feels as though we could become one from sheer determination alone. I draw back to look at him, tracing his cheekbones with one hand before settling it along his jaw, cupping his ear softly. Cal shudders beneath me, the raw emotion roiling in his eyes as he studies my face as if memorizing it, likely checking for any new scars, ever the soldier. Cal clears his throat as he sets me back down, although doesn’t release the circle of his arms, keeping me close, safe within his cocoon of warmth.

“I’ve missed you.” Cal chokes out. “Everyday, I’ve missed you. Every storm I’ve hoped to see a streak of purple. Everywhere I turn I think I see you.” Cal’s breathing is heavy as his eyes bore into mine, afraid to look away even for a moment. “Is this real? Are you really here?” Cal swallows audibly, waiting for me to speak with bated breath.

I try to sound nonchalant and fail spectacularly, my voice wobbling when I reply, “It’s real. I’m here.” Cal’s body trembles against mine, his growing smile threatening to crack my heart wide open as I continue, my voice betraying me once more, “I’m never saying farewell to you again” I whisper, tears leaking from the corner of my eyes, tracking quickly down my cheeks. The temperature in the room spikes, my body curled in delicious heat as Cal burns. He leans towards me, tentatively kissing away the tears running down my cheeks one at a time, his lips feather light on my damp skin, before drawing back to look at me once more.

“Are you going to kiss me properly or have I got to do everything myself?” I tease half-seriously. Cal’s deep laugh shakes through my body, through my soul, stitching together all my broken pieces, filling my heart with such happiness I feel as though it might burst. “There’s my Mare” Cal chuckles, sobered once more by the sight of my smile, before drawing me flush against him and closing his mouth over mine.

***

The wounds still exist. The betrayals and deceits lie between us as they always have, but they are no longer obstacles. The path that brought us here was treacherous, fraught with sorrow and death, but it has forged us into the people we have become, and are still becoming. My physical brand remains, as real as the emotional scars left behind by Maven in both of us, but the time spent apart has allowed us to grieve and find peace in our own way.

Nothing stands between us anymore. With hearts slowly mending we have only hope for a new world and a better life for all bloods. Our choice is simple and made without hesitation; on this day, and every day from now, we will choose eachother.

-----------

Phew, I hope you guys like this! This is my first attempt at writing any sort of fic, let along posting it. I finished War Storm yesterday and couldn’t bear the way it ended, so wanted to continue the epilogue with this. I needed to see Mare and Cal reunited, ok!

Anyway, I’d love to hear any thoughts on this! Is this how you saw things ending up? I need someone to fangirl with, pls and thanks.

[strykingback]

Ok... Gotta say my Farewell to Vol 8. So If you dont like  what Im about to say best click off now or ignore it.

Ok so you decided to click on it,  Alrighty brace yourself 

This entire Arc was just fucking horrendous. No joke, this entire arc was just garbage entirely, no joke. The way how they made Ironwood into a cartoon villain making him into some albeist joke of people who are diagnosed with ADHD, PTSD, Actual Amputees’, etc. This was meant to be A FUCKING WAR ARC!!!

Which means I expected these few things from this Arc even though I was not watching it.

- Plenty of Character Deaths ranging from Main, Secondary, and Tertiary Characters.

- Stakes at An All New High. 

- Characters being forced to make tough decisions or risks that fail or pay off.

- Uneasy Alliances being forged.

- Tensions between Team RWBY, Ironwoods Group, and Salems. 

-SALEM TEARING ATLAS AND MANTLE A NEW ONE. 

- THE VILLIANS ACTUALLY FUCKING WIN THIS VOLUME. 

Instead We Got: 

-Ruby’s Group BEING INSIDE THE FUCKING HOUSE LIKE IN VOLUME 5 BARELY DOING FUCK ALL!!!

- Ironwood being “villainized” even further instead of turning him into a morally-grey villain. 

- Team RWBY “winning” through plot armor and bad writing like the Mary Sues they are. 

- Bumbleby Ship-Baiting... AGAIN. (Seriously. . . fuck off) (No hate to anyone who ships BB but at this point it was seriously getting annoying and tiring)

- Salem Just Getting Merked... NOT ONCE FOLKS. BUT TWICE!!!

- The Hound Getting Merked.....

Seriously no joke, this was such a bullshit, deadbeat volume. No joke it makes me so frustrated to see that this entire Volume was fucked up to no end. Yangs and Rubys argument did not feel like an actual fucking argument. 

What I expect from an argument was four things.

- Calling them Out On Their Actions. 

- Person A and B Debating About their Actions/Decisions which said argument intensifies. 

- Person A or B Starts a fight after saying something that pisses one of them off

-  Fight Between A and B, Totally Optional to have a bystander such as C or D end the Fight. 

Instead we get....a simple Argument that barely intensifies and only has Yang calling Ruby out on her abilities being a leader of a team. We should have Ruby also calling out Yang for sharing the information to Robyn and her “Happy Huntresses.” Which should’ve escalated to the point where Ruby says.  “Well that Gung-Ho Attitude is what caused you to lose your Arm!!” 

or Yang saying: 

“Well If you didn’t decide to...Oh I dont know have our faces pasted on EVERY VIRTUAL BOARD IN ATLAS FOR YOUR SHIT DECISIONS!” 

Not to mention to have Blake ,Weiss, and the Rest of ORNJ just look in awe or shock.... at seeing them argue to the point where they start fighting SERIOUSLY THATS WHAT A FUCKING ARGUMENT IS MEANT TO FEEL LIKE IN A WAR ARC!!!!

Moving on from that... anyways Cinders Past was just so so so SO LAZY.....

No joke her past was so boring it was to the point where I found it just uninteresting at all. Yet that brings up a good point hat I said once and I will say again. “How Come the FNDM praises Women that get beaten and show love to them rather than Men who also get abused like Adam whose EYE WAS BRANDED and MERCURY WHOSE LEGS WERE BROKEN BY THE FEMUR NO LESS.”

No joke for her it was just... a shock collar and she was berated verbally.....You know this actually makes Ellie from Last of Us Part 2 Look Better than Cinders. (Yeah I went there!)

Like if you want to do Twisted Cinderella with some RWBY Vibes.... heres how you do it. 

- Have Cinder be in Awe at the Sight of a Huntsman or Huntress fighting which inspires her to be a Huntress when Reeves finally tells her she can be one. 

- Show that Reeves does care about her and when he falls ill and dies Cinder is berated even more by the twins and the proprietor where she was enslaved. 

- What Finally causes her to snap and kill everyone was when she finds out her “sisters” burned her Academy Approval letter on their mothers order causing her to kill and murder which she is later on arrested and then bailed out by Watts who leads her to Salem. 

Seriously DO IT FUCKING RIGHT ESPECIALLY  WHEN IT COMES TO CINDER WHOSE PAST WAS IN SHADOWS FOR 8 WHOLE FUCKING YEARS.

8 YEARS AND YOU DROP IT LIKE A RAW PIECE LAMB CHOP!!!

Finally SALEM. Oh God how did they fuck up with Salem?! I will admit there was some moments that spooked me. However it was not enough to make me feel nervous for the characters as a whole. 

Like for example I expected her to wipe the floor with Atlas’ forces and just seriously showing destruction and chaos arriving. Instead last season it looked like she was JUST APPROACHING THE CITY. 

Which would have been a “Race Against The Clock/War” Volume since Salem would have begun her destruction of Atlas and even forcing her way into Atlas.... and then suddenly Hazel performs a Heel-Face-Turn that suddenly screams BS because seriously he should’ve had some sort of a better redemption that felt built up, then she gets  BURNED THEN NUKED BY OZPINS MAGICAL CANE OF SUPERPOWERED BULLSHIT. Which Held enough magic to unleash it....which could have been used during the BATTLE OF BEACON. However, I wont complain about it why?

Cause, I think the major reason is because If he were to use it in there he would be revealing Beacon’s Relic Vault as well to Cinder which she can use to open it and take the Relic of Choice. Which I believe was a pragmatic choice because you also have to think of the people who are still trying to escape or evacuating at the moment. 

Now the ultimate disrespectful thing the CRWBY did for their “Design a Grimm” contest was the Sulfur Fish. 

THIS DESIGN WAS SICK, AND THE ABILITIES WAS JUST JAW DROPPINGLY COOL!

However what does CRWBY do instead of giving a Full Scene where we see its Forms or attacking other soldiers/people. 

It gets... *Drumroll*

A Cameo sequence...thats it. A Cameo....Wow CRWBY you are shit. Just absolutely shit at writing and even giving the winner of the Design-A-Grimm Contest Winner an actual shot...while you overwork your animators giving Anxiety Disorders or PTSD. Great Show. 

 TL;DR: RWBY Volume 8 was one of the most boring, shittiest, and a snoozefest of a volume with such bad writing that it makes even watching The Last of Us Part II look good! 

If you are planning on dropping RWBY let me offer you an Alternative. 

Say hello to Meta Runner! A series that I find to be a favorite of mine and one that is actually better than RWBY’s garbage ass bullshit writing. 

To give you a brief synopsis, This series follows Tari a girl who wakes up in Silica City without any memory of what has happened except some brief flashbacks. To which TasCorp the antagonistic corporation seeks to use her for entertainment, while there is a mystery element about a famous gamer gone missing... and its up to Tari and the help of a Resistance force to find out this mystery. 

This series is done by Glitch Studios which many do know them as...drumroll please!  *drumroll*

The Youtubers SMG4! Who is well known for doing GMOD Shitposts! 

Its actually quite relieving to see a series that these two brothers actually want to share with us! They dont want to do it for money or for anything just for the sake of a good story! 

AND THATS WHAT I LIKE!

Oh did I forget to mention that Meta Runner is backed by:  Epic Games

Crunchyroll 

AMD Lastly.... and hold onto your butts...

THE AUSTRALIAN GOVERNMENT!!!

You know you hit it big WHEN THE GOVERNMENT BACKS YOUR SERIES!!! Come On you cant help but smile at that! So far the Third Season is being worked on at the moment but no release date at the moment so it could be sometime this year or next year. 

So if you have any plans on watching that I highly recommend giving it a watch. Anyways 

Fuck RWBY Volume 8. Fuck the Canon. Fuck Everything about RWBY!

[hawkbucks]

16. the one where anything written on your skin appears on your soulmate's skin as well. I just imagine MIT tony falling asleep and rhodey drawing a dick on his face which also appears on Bucky aka the winter soldier one of the most deadly Assassins

This really got away from me. Somewhat angsty? Idk hgjfkdls I go from talking about a dick on Bucky’s face to… well, a certain date. It sorta ends happy.

The Asset stares blankly at the concrete wall in front of him, shoulders stiff and knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the steel slab they have the audacity to call a bed. He breathes in and out, in and out, long, deep lungfuls of air. The taste of ice still lingers on his tongue, and there’s a chill in his bones that aches.

His Handler circles around him, hands clasped behind their back as they relay the details of his mission. “Do you understand?” they ask, snappish, barely glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes. He isn’t important enough for direct eye contact; he’s learned that a long time ago.

Before he can respond, his Handler does a double-take, looking at him with widening eyes. “What,” they start, “in the fuck is that.”

He makes no noise as they hoist him up and drag him in front of a stained mirror, their clipped fingernails digging into the flesh of his right bicep. Right in the middle of his forehead is a rather… phallic looking symbol drawn in black marker. Still dazed, he looks confusedly at his Handler, unsure if this is some sort of test.

An irritated growl rips itself from his Handler’s throat before he finds himself being shoved back into his cryostasis chamber. Before he slips back into the darkness, he picks up bits and pieces of harshly spoken Russian. Something to do with a “soulmate”? Whatever it is, he’s sure that he won’t be woken up again until that problem is solved.

Thankfully, the next time he’s up to bat, there are no phallic symbols drawn anywhere on his body. In fact, nothing appears on his skin the entire time his Handler gives him information on another mission. He’s noticed, though, that the once-clean concrete wall is now stained with mottled red, greens, and blacks. The light in the back right of the room–which flickered the last time he was here–now seems to have been ripped out, if the copper wires dangling from its previously occupied hole in the ceiling is any indication.

He can’t help but to wonder if they remember what happened last time. Or maybe they do, and they’re just desperate. It’s not like he’s going to ask; that’s a quick way for him to get disciplined for speaking out of turn.  

A manila folder is pressed into his hands. He understands what he has to do.

He sits on a rather uncomfortable plastic chair behind the counter in a convenience store. The actual cashier is conked out in the backroom, their name tag currently decorating the front of his shirt. A cheesy pop song blares from the radio sitting on a black table behind him, of which the audio quality is not the greatest.

There’s really nothing to be done as he waits for his target to come in, besides reading a battered pile of magazines sitting in a cardboard box by his feet. The top one doesn’t even seem socially acceptable to be read in public. He absentmindedly drums his fingers on the surface of the counter along with the beat of the song, reading the far away labels of Doritos bags and Red Bull cans. Out of all the places for his target to frequent…

As he studies a mole on the heel of his palm, blocky–yet elegant–writing starts to form across its surface.

Call Jan – need help for lab tmrw

His brows knit together, and he clenches and unclenches his fist, watching as the words roll and crinkle on his skin. If he sees what they write on their skin, could they see what he writes on his? Curiosity bubbles up in him like a volcano waiting to explode.

Biting his bottom lip, he reaches for a ballpoint pen sitting on the edge of the counter. He presses the cool tip against his wrist and writes. Hello. His letters are lopsided and decidedly ugly compared to the other’s, but at least it’s legible. He hopes.

Holy shit, is hastily scribbled below his greeting. All these years, and now you answer?

Yes. Sorry.

You should be! I’ve been sending you messages ever since I knew what a soulmate was, but you never wrote back! I just assumed I didn’t have one.

Something like guilt stirs at the bottom of his stomach, but his attention is drawn to that word: Soulmate?

For the next few minutes, no new words appear. He’s on the verge of giving up and scrubbing away the pen ink on his wrist before he gets a reply. You aren’t joking.

Why would I be?

I don’t know. To screw with me or something? Have you been living under a rock?

Kinda. That’s close enough to the truth.

Yeah, you must have been if you haven’t replied to my messages for the past 9 years. What’s your name?

He frowns. It changes. One day he’s Nicholai and the other he’s David. He’s been called Matthieu and he’s been called Sebastian. He doesn’t have a true, solid name. Then, one pops in his head. One that feels vaguely familiar, comforting in a way that he can’t put a finger on. James.

Cool. My best friend is named James, too. My name is Anthony, but you can call me Tony.

Hello, Tony.

Hi, James! A small smiley face appears next to the exclamation point.

The bell above the door rings, bringing him back to reality. He snaps his head up, recognizing his target’s face from the dossier. I have to go now, Tony, but I’ll talk to you soon.

He doesn’t get to see Tony’s reply before he throws the pen with devastating accuracy.

By the time he was finished dispatching his target, Tony’s messages have all disappeared. He feels a twinge of disappointment in his chest when he realizes that he never got to see what Tony said after he bid him farewell, and only God knows how long it’ll be before he’s taken back out.

He scrubs any and all traces of the ink off of his arm, not wanting his Handler to demand an explanation should they see even a faint mark. If he were to mention this soulmate of his… well, he has no doubt that what they would put him through would make him wish he never even picked up that pen.

Throwing the pen into the cardboard box from earlier, he makes his way out of the store with no more than a passing glance at the now bloodied floor.

The walls are stainless steel now, not concrete, and the lights are all a harsh white that wash the room in its fluorescence. His Handler is different–younger and crueler in the way the corners of their mouth turn up.

Instead of a folder, he’s handed some black device, molded perfectly to fit in his ear. They motion at him to put it on. With shaky hands, he does.

A voice booms in his ear, much too loud for how sensitive his senses are, but he manages to keep his face schooled. He grits his teeth, jaw clenching. His Handler looks him straight in the eye. “You keep this on you at all times, do you understand?” He realizes right then that it’s their voice that he’s hearing.

He nods stiffly, glaring up at them.  

They grin, looking almost wolf-like. “Good.”

He stops by a convenience store like the one before to buy himself a couple of granola bars and energy drinks. If this mission is going to go the way he thinks it’s going to go, he’s going to be camping at that place for a while, and what his Handler packed for him can barely be considered food.

His Handler also doesn’t seem to keep that close of an eye on their wallet.

“I know you took some money,” they say, although they don’t sound that annoyed.

He rolls his eyes, picking up a small bag of chips. He can’t exactly reply, not without a microphone. As he walks to the checkout, a pack of pens catches his eye.

Without hesitation, adds it to his basket.

Hello, Tony, he writes over his pulsepoint, sitting in a tree next to a craggly, old street. Underneath him lies a motorcycle, covered up by the bushes. The night sky above him is a gradient of hazy blues and blacks, with the only light being provided by the flashlight he has pinned to the front of his vest.

Asshole, is all he gets back. You and I have a very different definition of “soon.”

I’m sorry.

It’s been 2 years, James. He sucks in a breath. 2 years? He’s sure that he’s been out for longer than that before, but when put it in the perspective of someone who doesn’t know who he is… Where have you been?

My job is very demanding. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.  

What are you? The President of some foreign country?

No.

A spy? An assassin? A soldier?

I can’t tell you.

Great, that means you’re some sort of super secret government spy. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Can you at least tell me how old you are? I didn’t get to ask you that last time.

Using the bottom of the pen, he scratches at his temple. His age? Like his name, it fluctuates, but he settles on a number that feels right. 26.

Oh. You’re only 5 years older than me. Thank god, I thought you were like… 45.

5 years. So, Tony’s 21? I’m not.

Yeah, I know that now… so, how are you?

I’m bored. Waiting.

For what?

It’s for my job.

…Okay. I’m kind of waiting, too.

For what?

My parents. They’re out somewhere, and I wanted to surprise them.

We can talk. It’ll be less boring.

Tony draws another smiley face. Okay!

From their chat, he learns that Tony is wicked smart. He attended M.I.T, made a functioning robot, and obtained 2 master’s degrees before he was even able to drink. His best friend is in the Air Force, and he has this butler he loves like a father. He likes shrimp carbonara and refuses to touch green beans unless they’re shoved down his throat. Tony, he concludes, is utterly fascinating, and he makes that clear in all the sentences he writes back.

What about you? Tony writes after going on a paragraph-long rant about some movie series called Star Wars. (They both had to wait for some messages to disappear lest they start taking off their pants for more writing space.)

What do you mean?

Do you like Star Wars?

I’ve never watched it.

Tony’s next response takes up a good chunk of his arm: BLASPHEMY!

Can you give me your number? We need to arrange a meetup, and it gets exhausting to write.

His hand freezes. Number? I don’t have one.

A few seconds pass. Then: You can’t be serious, James.

I’m being serious.

Yeah. You’re the same guy who didn’t know what a soulmate was. I believe you.

Thank you.

You know what you can do? I’ll give you an address. You in New York?

Yes.

Good. What’s your last name?

God, he really wishes Tony would stop asking these kinds of questions. He settles on the first one that pops in his head. Barnes.

Okay. Go here–an address is scribbled across the crook of his elbow–say your name is James Barnes, and ask for Tony.

Tony what?

Tony Stark.

He drops his pen. Stark. There’s no way. Except that his Handler gave him all of the information on his target, including the fact that they have a son named Anthony, but he preferred to be called Tony. Anthony’s birth date matches up with his Tony’s age. Anthony went to M.I.T, too. Anthony reported having made contact with his soulmate 2 years ago, having previously thought he had none.

In the distance, he hears the purring of a car’s engine.

He switches off his flashlight and jumps down.

James, are you there? appears on his right palm as he smashes Howard Stark’s face in. You didn’t even say bye. Kinda rude.

He finds himself scrubbing away all evidence of conversation on his arm again, this time using boiling hot water and going until his skin is pink and raw.

Back in the base, his Handler grabs at his forearm, gripping him so tightly that the skin around their hand turns a pale white. “We know you’ve been writing to someone,” they whisper, low and dangerous. “Stop. Now.”

He nods.

My parents are dead, is scribbled over the middle of his right forearm. The glass in front of him fogs up with ice. If you’re there, I really need to talk to someone right now.

James?

Where are you?

I thought we were going to watch Star Wars together. I’ve asked, and no one’s said that you’ve visited, and I told everyone that you pretty much get priority. There are only two James Barnes that I know of: you and Captain America’s old war buddy. Were you named after him?

I liked talking to you. You can’t just pull another 2 years on me. First time I didn’t mind that much, because we didn’t really know each other, and I didn’t want to seem clingy, but I really like you, James.

It gets hard to ignore. There’s a tugging sensation in his gut every time he allows one of Tony’s messages to go unanswered. He manages to shake off the tail he has on his next mission. They must’ve assigned a more inexperienced person. Who knew they were accepting amateurs these days?

He swipes a pen from an office supply store. Hello, Tony.

You. It’s amazing how such a short word can hold so much bitterness.

I’m sorry.

What the fuck is up with you?

Has it been that long? Sure, the world seems far more technologically advanced than it did when he talked to Tony a 2nd time, but he figures it can’t be more than 8, 10 years.

It’s been 30 fucking years, James. Oh.

…I’m really sorry.

Don’t be. But he feels like he should be. Listen, I can’t write that much right now. I’m on my way to Afghanistan for a demonstration. We can try again later. Bye.

Bye. I’m sorry, again.

Sure.

TONY STARK: MISSING?

Three months later, and, for some reason, he’s still out in the field. Something his Handler–another new one–said about another target having cropped up during the tail end of his original mission.

Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the news.

Quickly, he dips into a store along the street and asks to use their bathroom. He fishes the very same pen he took from the supply store out of his jacket pocket. I have. Are you okay?

I’ve been better.

As long as–he’s cut off by Tony’s writing overlapping his own. Where are you?

In a bathroom, which is inside a store.

Smartass. Where’s the store? Give me the address.

Why?

I’m coming to see you. Right now.

What if I’m on the other side of the country?

I have a private jet… of sorts.

But by the time you arrive, I won’t be in that store anymore.

Just give me the goddamn address.

So he does. Meet me inside.

As he rifles through a rack of leather jackets that cost an obscene amount of money, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He whirls around quickly, eyes flaring, before he comes face to face with the most expensive-looking man he’s ever seen. They don’t seem the type to be working with his, er, employers, and with that sling around their arm, he doubts they could do much damage to him. So, he relaxes. Just a little.

“Are you James?” they ask. “Please be James. I’ve asked at least 4 other guys already and they’ve all looked at me weird.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s me. Tony.”

WOO, I ACTUALLY MADE THEM MEET AT THE END. I was actually going to end it right after Tony leaves for Afghanistan, but I decided to let them meet ‘cause y’all deserve that after the last fill.

Tony still doesn’t know James killed his parents. He doesn’t know James is the Winter Soldier. But I had to stop or else this really would’ve… turned into its own monster.

Thank you for reading!

[jimlingss]

The President’s Son [7]

Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

➜ Words: 2.9k

➜ Genres: 100% Fluff, Slice of Life, Bodyguard!AU

➜ Summary: Kim Taehyung is the President’s son, mischievous and playful, and infamous for being a troublemaker. When everyone’s given up, they call for you to be his personal guard. There’s no other choice when your dad’s assigned you to it and surprisingly Taehyung doesn’t mind either. Maybe because you happened to grow up with that brat.

You’re hungry.   It’s hard not to be when the food on the table is delectable, the many mouthwatering smells wafting to your nose like when the neighbors had a barbecue and when they weren’t looking, you leaned over your uncle’s patio to watch the sizzle of the grill. And you’re not the only one who’s salivating glands are in overdrive.   Jimin and Jungkook are visibly swayed as well — standing meters away, facing in different directions, and licking their lips discreetly while trying to maintain a professional demeanor. The other bodyguards glance at the table occasionally too, trying their best to keep watch and not be distracted by the food. You’re one of the better ones who can hide the desire of wanting to eat.   On the other hand, the only person in the room who doesn’t seem hungry in the least bit is Taehyung.   “And what do you do?” The man across from his asks without particularly caring about the answer.   “Nothing much.”   “He’s going to school right now,” his dad intercepts with a smooth grin.   “Oh, really now?” The woman he’s unfamiliar with perks up and Taehyung doesn’t understand why she would care or why she should even bother acting like she does. He doesn’t know her — she doesn’t know him. The entire dinner was a stupid formality anyways, to smile at, to make good relations. But of all their skills that they’ve developed, none of them can be honest. “What do you major in?”   Taehyung swirls his carbonara pasta with a fork and his stepmother answers for him, lipstick-stained lips curling in one corner politely. “He majors in political science.”   “Ooh, you’re going to work for the government? Or are you thinking about politics like your father?”   “Hopefully neither.”   There’s an awkward silence.    Then Taehyung’s father bursts out into laughter, easing the tension in the air. “My son’s always been a jokester. He’s still unsure what he wants to do, but whatever he does, he’ll make his own path towards it. Every man should develop a career for himself.”   “Very well said!” The other man chuckles.   Taehyung doesn’t even know what any of that bullshit means and he pouts harder, not bothering to even touch his lobster clam chowder on the side.    Dinner continues like that. More small talk is made and when the two guests excuse themselves separately to the restroom, it’s even more awkward. The small family unit doesn’t feel like a family whatsoever. It’s obvious Taehyung doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t speak to his step-mother considering he doesn’t like her and he doesn’t talk to his own father just to annoy him and get on the older man’s nerves.    You exchange glances with Jungkook. Usually standing by on the sidelines and keeping watch of the perimeter was boring, but Taehyung’s defiance was more than refreshing. And when the guests return and discussion moves on about another family, every bodyguard standing by is eavesdropping in on the juicy gossip.   You’re enjoying yourself more than the President’s son….so it’s disappointing when he shuffles his seat back, trying to dismiss himself with a small pout.   “If you’ll excuse me, I have an assignment to complete and I have class early tomorrow.” It’s an amazing feat that Taehyung still manages to be civil. You imagine he’s itching to just storm up and burst through the doors and run for the hills.   “Oh.” The woman puts down her wine glass and smiles kindly. “By all means, dear. Don’t let us hold you.”   But before the boy can stand, his father stops him with a quirked brow, forgetting about maintaining an image and curious about his son. “Do you really have class?”   “Honey.” Taehyung’s step-mother places a hand over her husband’s on the table, reminding him of where he is. He becomes silenced, sipping on his wine and she smiles at the younger. “Go ahead, Taehyung. School’s more important after all.”   Taehyung’s irked by the woman’s approval, having not asked for it, but he doesn’t say another word and looks towards you, digging his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go, Y/N.”   You glance at Jungkook, bidding him farewell with your eyes to which he nods to and you follow after Taehyung. The doors open and close behind you.   He stretches loudly, finally grinning now that he’s escaped. “God! That was so boring, I thought I was going to fall asleep.” Taehyung drags a hand over his face and his smile widens when he looks at you. “You were bored too, right, dumbo?”   “I don’t know,” you hum. “Hearing about the Jung’s situation was pretty interesting.”   “Psh. I’m more interesting.”   You make no comment.   “The food was nasty,” Taehyung continues, strolling casually down the corridor like he owns the place. “I hate caviar and truffle. Would rather have a juicy burger and some fries. Speaking of which, do you wanna go grab some?”   “I’m fine with anything.”   “Tch.” He clicks his tongue, corner of his eye flickering at you while a small smirk pulls on his face. “Can’t you have an opinion for once, dumbo?”   The two of you step outside and immediately, the brisk wind has his entire body seizing, shoulders tense as he shivers. “Would you like me to call the driver?”   “No.” He forces his body to relax. “I know that guy always tattles to my old man about where I am and what I’m doing. I’d rather walk. Only takes twenty minutes. If…..that’s okay with you and you’re not too cold.”   You keep your eyes pinned ahead, suspicious of the darkness. “I’m fine.”   Taehyung scoffs and pulls himself right next to you, sticking himself like gum to your side to keep you warm. “No one’s going to attack us. Stop worrying.”   “Be careful. The sidewalk’s slippery.”    “You should hold my hand if you’re that worried about me falling.” He mischievously adds, “But I think I might end up falling anyways — falling for you, that is.”   You ignore the boy, unaffected by his antics as your footsteps splatter in the puddles of rain. It’s a light drizzle that has dwindled away and while the night was peaceful and the ground smelled fresh, you couldn’t help thinking that your vision was far too limited in the night, lamp posts not doing enough, and the empty street made you wary.   Taehyung shudders dramatically, tensing again as a gust of wind smacks him across the face. “It’s cold, huh?” One glance at him and not a moment to waste, you’re shedding your suit blazer off. He stops when you do, not understanding what’s going on until you drape the fabric onto his shoulders, securing it. “Y-you don’t need to.”   “It’s fine.”   You walk off and the college boy is in awe, catching up after a delayed moment. He’s surrounded by your scent and it’s indeed warmer. “Aren’t you cold?”   “No.”   “You know….if you’re that worried about me, it would be warmer if you came closer. You can hold my hand. Or better yet, we can always share the jacket together. Come closer...”   You’re unamused. “I don’t think so.”   “Boo.” He sulks and stares at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re no fun.”   Still, the blonde grips onto your jacket tightly as the pair of you walk down the street, finally entering a busier area. You don’t know why he keeps looking at you like that, but you do well in ignoring him. He’s purposely flirtatious just to tease — not that much different from when he was a child and found fun in making you the victims of his many pranks. But just like back then, you won’t give into it.   “You’re really amazing, dumbo,” he muses after a minute, maybe to himself more than you. “I mean it.”   “Thanks...I guess.”   “I always knew you were hardcore and aloof, but the whole courageous and chivalrous thing really fits you well. You’re like….Prince Charming. I’m envious.”   Your neck cranes over to find him staring and when his irises meet yours, his smile softens, eyes twinkling with mirth and gratitude that you’re here. But your pupils end up straying off, onto the blinding headlights of an oncoming car.   Your mouth parts. You grab Taehyung’s wrist, fingers curling into his flesh. And with pure instinct and muscle memory operating your body, you pivot, shielding him.   The car zips past without stopping, tires burning into the pavement and through the enormous pool of water collected in the gutter. The rain water sprays up like a tsunami, raining down and you’re hit in the frigid tide. It shocks your body, hit with the cold temperature suddenly. But while your backside is completely drenched, you’ve shielded Taehyung well enough that he was splashed only a little.   “Oh my god.” Immediately, he holds your shoulders, pulling you away from him. Taehyung realizes he can see straight through your blouse and he glues his eyes to your face instead of looking down. “Are you okay?”   “Are you?” You look up at him, more concerned for his well-being.   “I...I’m fine.” But his bangs are dripping and his expression is glazed over in shock, amazement and bafflement. “Y-You’re soaking wet!”   “I’m okay.”   “How….how’d you do that?”   You blink. “Do what?”   Move so quickly — protect him without having to think — be so bold so quietly — do so much for so little.   Taehyung grabs your hand, not allowing you a chance to protest before he’s pulling you along. “Hurry. We’re going home. You need to change before you get sick.”   “I’m fine.” But you give into his will, allowing him to tug you along anyways.   “You’re dripping wet! Aren’t you cold?!”   “No.”   Taehyung sighs. “Stop acting like you’re fine when you’re not fine. I can see that you’re not fine. Who are you trying to fool?” The boy quickly pulls your hand in his, not caring for dodging puddles, letting the water splash on his pants since he’s wet anyways.   It takes ten grueling minutes before the two of you have made it to the apartment. The person behind the front desk jolts awake again, wide eyes staring, especially considering you look like you hopped into a pool with all your clothes on for fun. But no one is deterred, marching straight into the elevators to the twenty first floor.   Once inside, you stand at the doorway, not wanting to track mud into his living space. Taehyung, on the other hand, has his feet padding against the floorboard before he comes back and drapes a towel on the top of your head.    “Dry yourself off before you get sick, dumbo. I’ll get you a change of clothes, alright? Just stay there. Don’t go anywhere.”   You dry your hair while your clothes stick to your skin uncomfortably. But Taehyung quickly returns again with an oversized shirt and grey sweatpants. With a ‘thank you’, the towel is set down and you begin to unbutton your blouse.   Taehyung’s voice stops you.   “Woah, woah! What do you think you’re doing?”   “What?” Your eyes flick up. “I’m changing.”   The boy’s brows are lifted to his hairline, eyes skimming you from head to toe skeptically. “As much as I’m enjoying the view, Y/N, we’re not kids anymore. Get changed in the bathroom properly.”   His voice is oddly stern and it causes you to oblige, walking off into his bathroom. Behind you, Taehyung scoffs lightly, mumbling something about how hopeless you are.    You change quickly, welcoming the warmer fabric and gathering your own drenched clothes into a pile. Leaving the washroom, you follow the light into his bedroom. “I’ll return this to you tomorrow. I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”   “Um, excuse me?!” Taehyung turns around, top half naked and he holds his pajama shirt to his chest. “Can you please knock before you enter, woman?! Do you not know any proper etiquette when you’re in someone else’s home?!”   Your face is blank. The corner of his mouth draws upwards. Taehyung steals the opportunity to become coy, pouting as he begs in an overly breathy and sexual manner— “D-Don’t look.”   “I’m not.”   “I’m precious and pure.” His arms do a poor job in covering himself up. “Don’t deflower me, miss.”   “What...the hell are you talking about?”   He finally puts on his shirt, pulling his arms through his sleeve. Taehyung sulks that you don’t play along, but he’s not surprised either. “If you don’t want to leave my place in pajamas and walk around like that, you can feel free to stay for the night.”   “No, thanks.”   “Wow that was a quick decision. Not even going to consider it?”   “I’m sorry.” It’s an apology made out of the blue, changing topics suddenly and it has him staring at you harder. “—that I got wet and we couldn’t go eat your burgers.”   “You don’t have to apologize for getting wet.” His smile morphs into something sleazier and when you aren’t amused, he sighs and gets serious. “It’s fine, dumbo. What do you think delivery is for? We can order something and watch a movie. You better stay for the entire thing by the way. Stop ditching me halfway - it’s not fun to finish movies by myself.”   “You don’t have to order for me then. I’m fine.”   “Stop saying that,” he chides and brushes past you, walking into his quaint living room. “I know you’re hungry. Do you really think I’m going to let you leave starving? I can’t be protected if I let my protection become weakened, y’know.”   You follow after him. “How’d you know I was hungry?”   “I noticed you licking your lips at dinner earlier,” he hums and plops down on his couch, pulling out his phone to order. “Course I would notice. You shouldn’t do that by the way...lick your lips….it’s massively distracting.”   It’s strange. You know so many people who’d want to be in his shoes — a life of privilege and opportunity, who can meet whoever he wants, eat lavish dinners and fancy foods. But instead, Kim Taehyung chooses to go home, watch a mediocre movie, eat fast food, and spend time with his bodyguard.   Then again, you shouldn’t be caught off guard. Taehyung’s never been anything remotely ordinary. He’s eccentric and an oddball.   “Are you gonna stand there or are you gonna sit down, dumbo?”   You drop down on the other couch adjacent to the one he’s sitting on. Your hands are by your side and you turn towards the screen. “What are we watching?”   “I dunno. Maybe a romcom or a superhero movie.” He continues to scroll and your feet tap against each other. You look over at Taehyung, staring at him for a second too long.   “You’re a weirdo.”   “Me?!” His mouth drops open and he points to himself, surprised and offended. “Says you! Who even throws themselves in front of water splashes?! And isn’t the guy usually supposed to do that for the girl?!”   “Who says?”   “Every movie and romance drama out there.” He sighs and shakes his head. “No offense, if that were me, I would’ve used you as a shield for myself.”   “I know.” Your tone is curt and full of confidence — it’s exactly what he would do. You know him well enough. Taehyung would throw you to the wolves without a single problem if he had to. “At least if I threw myself out there, it was out of my own will.”   He grins at the realization that he’s gotten through to you. Even if it’s just for a second. Your answers are less short, expression no longer solely impassive. The distance has closed off and he savours it.   You get uncomfortable with the warmness he regards you with, the gentle smile, that stare, how soft around the edges he is with the low light coming from the entryway. “Are you going to make the order yet or are you going to let me die of starvation?”   “Sorry, Miss. Bodyguard.” He pouts and returns to scrolling through his phone. “I’ll order, I’ll order.”   The boy does and it arrives in ten short minutes. The pair of you settle down to watch a movie, getting comfortable in the silence. And you allow yourself, just for one night, to loosen up. While it might be irresponsible, unprofessional, certainly something your father wouldn’t be happy about, but relaxing a little in Taehyung’s presence won’t hurt.   It’ll just be for one second. A handful of minutes. An hour at most. You’ll let your guard down. And you’ll maintain the distance again when it’s over.

Back at the Blue House, the woman turns around from her seat at the vanity as the man enters the room, stretching his stiff limbs above his head and groaning. He loosens his tie and takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, exhausted from the long day.    She continues to pat cream onto her cheeks and glances at him through her mirror. “What’s that girl’s name again? I think I’ve forgotten.”   Taehyung’s father quirks his brow upwards. “Who?”   “That girl watching Taehyung. His bodyguard.”   “Oh, that’s Y/N.” He smiles, getting up and moving towards the closet. “They used to play together when they were kids. He’s always been fond of her. She’s actually ____’s daughter.”   Taehyung’s stepmother makes a sound of understanding, nodding her head and she smiles to herself. “I see. That makes sense. She must be very capable then.”   He sticks his head out of the closet. “Why do you ask?”   “No reason. Just curious,” she comments passingly, but her eyes tell a different story. They are sharp and perceptive, carrying a fearsome intuition that often predicts futures. Though they hold no malice, simply matching her gentle smile. “They just seem really close to one another.”

[cksmart-world]

The Completely Unnecessary News Analysis

By Christopher Smart

Dec. 17, 2019

MOSCOW MITCH and THE 'SEE-NO-EVIL' DEFENSE

& BEN McADAMS, GLADIATOR

So what if Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell is coordinating with the White House for President Trump's impeachment defense. Checks-and-Balances is only a theory, kinda like evolution. Another reason it's no big deal is that President Trump hardly did anything wrong. You can't impeach a president for one phone call. And the notion that there was a coordinated effort to coerce Ukraine President Zelensky into investigating Joe Biden and his son is only backed up by 17 witnesses. This is a sham witch hunt — just ask Fox & Friends or Sean Hannity. It's so clear-cut that McConnell and his Republican colleagues won't have to call any witnesses at all during the impeachment trial. What would witnesses say anyway? There was a quid pro quo. Americans don't care about no quid pro quo. And what if the president did say, hey Volodymyr, we've been very good to you, so hows about doing us a little favor and get the Bidens or we won't give you any military aid. The thing is, they got the military aid anyway (once the extortion leaked). And besides, as Mick Mulvaney, Trump's acting chief of staff, said, we do that shit all the time. Just because James Madison wrote that “The structure of the government must furnish the proper checks and balances between different departments,” doesn't mean Republicans give a damn — because, face it, they don't.

ERA: DOA

Here we go again, troublemakers are pushing the Equal Rights Amendment that would make women equal with men under the law. This, of course, spells trouble. It's so bad, in fact, that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, formerly known as Mormons, has weighted in again, holding steady to its earlier position that the amendment would mess things up real bad on account of men are men and women are women. The ERA, as it is known, got a big push in the 1970s by them women's libbers who wanted to burn their bras and wear boxer shorts. But then as now, some of the strongest opponents of the ERA are women. Here are some of their arguments against it: If the ERA is ratified, women will have to use urinals. If the ERA is ratified, women will have to fly Black Hawk helicopters and fight in combat. If the ERA is ratified, girls will want basketball scholarships and forget all about Home Ec. If the ERA is ratified, men can wear pantyhose unapologetically. If the ERA is ratified, women will have to wear crewcuts and Mr. Mac suits. If the ERA is ratified, women will play hockey and knock each other's teeth out. If the ERA is ratified, women will have to operate heavy equipment and whistle at young men during their lunch break. And if the ERA is ratified, women will share the pants in the family. And that's why ERA is Dead On Arrival.

BEN McADAMS, GLADIATOR

The mild mannered man from Utah stepped out of the phone booth carrying stone tablets. Mr. McAdams had got religion and will vote to impeach the false prophet, Donald John Trump, for abuse of power and obstructing Congress. On return from a vision quest where he looked into the eye of the tiger and a campaign of nasty TV and newspaper ads, Ben emerged with his soul intact, despite threats to feed him to the lions if he didn't buckle under like the rest of the Utah delegation. It will rain frogs before Rob Bishop, Chris Stewart, John Curtis and Mike Lee understand their place in history — a portrait of fools giving succor to dark forces that would pitch democracy to the netherworld in exchange for shiny trinkets of gratification. The battles for the spirit of America are not at an end and the gladiator from Utah surely will face an onslaught of righteous infidels seeking to undo him. But whether he wins reelection or not, McAdams will remain a champion. Amen and pass the ammunition.

WHAT PRESIDENTS SAID

 LBJ: Doing what's right is easy. The problem is knowing what is right.

Trump: I'm never wrong.

  Lincoln: America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.

Trump: I'm the best president since Lincoln. Some say I'm greater than Lincoln.

  Reagan: We shall be the shining city on a hill.

Trump: I will order a total ban on Muslims.

  George H.W. Bush: Read my lips, no new taxes.

Trump: No one cares about my taxes except the evil Fake News media.

  JFK: Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.

Trump: Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what you can do for me.

  Bill Clinton: I didn't inhale.

Trump: Stormy who?.

  FDR: The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Trump: I'm going to scare the bejesus out of you.

Post Script: Throw another yule log on the fire and mix yourself an eggnog, 'cause that's it for another crazy week here at Smart Bomb, where the staff keeps track of Republican prevarications, so you don't have to. Yes, 'tis the season of impeachment and time to consider whether you ought to adjust your medication. But take heart, the end is not here. Just remember, Germany recovered from the Nazis; Rome is thriving today, despite the fall of the empire; and the Buffalo Bills made it to the NFL playoffs. (If that doesn't give you hope, what can?) As the year winds down, Salt Lake City Mayor Jackie Biskupsi is taking victory laps before she leaves office on Jan. 1. Jackie has accomplished a lot — if she does say so herself — but took a lot flak because she's a woman. What other reason could there possibly be? The staff here at Smart Bomb never says bad stuff at funerals and so we will bite our tongues and wish Jackie a fond farewell as she rides into the smog. We'd also like to bid adieu to Jackie's bodyguard, who will now return to regular duty at the Salt Lake Police Department after babysitting her through hundreds of boring meetings. Now there's something to celebrate.

 Well, Wilson, tell the band to put down the eggnog and take us out with a little something for the season of joy: It's coming on Christmas / They're cutting down trees / They're putting up reindeer / And singing songs of joy and peace / Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on... I wish I had a river so long / I would teach my feet to fly / I wish I had a river I could skate away on...

[kimnamjooonz]

London Calling - Chapter 1

Cambridge 

Okay, this is my second project. I started writing it in early 2017, one week after I heard about Seb for the first time (yeah, I know I was late). He stole my heart in fifteen minutes and I started writing stuff like this.  So... this is it. 

Songs that inspired this Chapter: 

Piece of my Heart - Janis Joplin

It’s My Life - Bon Jovi

And basically any Queen Song from the first Greatest Hits album.

Summary:

After getting bored of the academic life at the University of Cambridge, young Celine Cadwallader moves to London trying to find new challenges. Meanwhile, international movie star, Sebastian Stan keeps trying to expand his horizons. They will cross paths in a way either of them know.

Cambridge, England. March 2016

It was Celine's last night in Cambridge and her friends had decided to make a special farewell party to her. And that meant drinks, snacks, a bonfire and Charlie's crappy covers of Oasis songs. She had spent the last ten years in Cambridge, nine of them getting two doctorates and the one left working as part of the Faculty of History's Research Team. Life was decently good. She had her friends, a little flat and the perspective of maybe being successful in the field of History. She had two PhDs after all. Well, all of her friends had at least one. But Celine was ambitious and in the last months she had started to feel a bit stuck in Cambridge and had decided to expand her horizons. London seemed to be the best place for a historian. The only downside was that none of her friends were joining her in her adventure. ''I hope you don't end up working as a guide in the Tower of London'' commented Joel, one of Celine's closest friends. ''Explaining stuff to school children''. All of them laughed. It was widely known that Celine wasn't at all fond of kids. ''I already have a job'' she commented, while devouring a couple of Maltesers. ''I'm an assistant at the Spanish Embassy. Better than the school children''. ''And do you have a house?'' asked Amy, another of her friends. ''If you want to call it a house... I prefer to call it 'shoebox' ''. ''In every movie I saw the London adventure doesn't start this way'' added Alize, another member of the group. ''Because life is not a movie and I can't afford a house in Notting Hill or Covent Garden. I guess South London will be my Kensington. At least I can stay in a place with a roof. That's something''. Everyone was very used to Celine's dark sense of humour. ''Promise one thing'' said Charlie, who had stopped strumming his guitar. ''That if you fail in London you'll be back here with us.'' ''Thank you for your faith'' she said with sarcasm. ''But yes, I can promise if by March next year I haven't moved to a nicer place and made at least one friend and gotten a promotion, I'll be back''. ''And also a boyfriend'' added Joel. ''Shut up, idiot, that's out of the question.'' Celine's love life had been completely nonexistent with the exception of a boyfriend she had had nine years ago. They had lasted a week and had gone to only one date. Not that she cared. ''Do you even know where Danny is?'' asked Charlie, referring to Celine's old boyfriend. Honestly, Celine had no idea. She had even forgotten how he looked like. ''I know.'' said Joel, who knew everything about everybody. He was Cambridge's King of gossip. ''He graduated and now he's a doctor in County Durham. And he's married''. ''BORING'' shouted Celine and Charlie. ''Yeah, because is so much better to live in a room in South London'' debated Amy with sarcasm. ''And being a proud member of the Fellowship with no Rings, that you invented and has three members: Charlie, Joel and you''. ''At least is exciting'' Celine defended herself. ''It's London, baby. And my Fellowship is great''. After that the conversation shifted to some other topics like the government, the upcoming Glastonbury festival that they were not attending and the next nerd movies they were going to see. Celine wasn't included in the last topic as she was clueless about almost everything that was trendy. ''...I can't wait for Captain America: Civil War'' said Amy. ''Captain America vs Iron Man. That movie is going to destroy Batman v Superman''. ''Sebastian Stan!'' yelled Alize. ''I'm in whatever team he's in''. ''Team Cap, of course'' said Joel, rolling his eyes. As Celine didn't know any of these people she just stared at the fire. Thankfully the conversation switched to football. ''If Real Madrid gets to the Champion's League final, we'd go to London and see the match together. Like in 2014'' proposed Joel. Celine's eyes lit up. ''That was the most crazy and best day ever''. ''It's getting cold'' moaned Amy. ''I guess we should make Joel pay his bet and let's go inside and sing some karaoke'' said Charlie. Between them they were all the time betting and the loser had to have his or her underwear burnt in the next bonfire. Celine was glad that she had never lost one of these bets. ''Celine, if you want to do the honours...'' Joel threw his underwear at Celine's feet. ''You're leaving tomorrow. Damn, this is painful. I'm talking about the underwear. They're Calvin Klein''. Charlie laughed. ''Yeah, Calvin Klein that you bought on the street market''. ''It's what this humble Doctor in astrophysics can afford''. he sounded affected but he obviously wasn't. ''Celine, make sure your London boyfriend that you don't have yet wears real Calvin Kleins not this pitiful imitation'' Charlie remarked. Celine just rolled her eyes and grabbed a stick to throw Joel's underwear into the fire. There was no way she was going to touch it. ''This is for never growing up!'' yelled Celine, throwing the underwear into the fire. The other four cheered her.

Half an hour later they were far from tired and all them were into a karaoke competition. It was Celine's turn and she was 'singing' Janis Joplin's Piece of my heart with Joel who was singing the backing vocals. ''OH COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON AND TAKE IT, TAKE IT! TAKE ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART NOW, BABY OH OH BREAK IT! BREAK ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART, DARLING, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, HAVE A! HAVE ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART NOW BABY! YOU KNOW YOU GOT IT IF IT MAKES YOU FEEL GOOD!'' ''This may be the best musical duet since John Travolta and Olivia Newton John in Grease singing You're the one that I want.'' Charlie commented to Alize and Amy. ''They are going to leave me deaf'' complained Alize. ''It could be worse.'' said Amy. ''I'm not saying that Celine is the next Beyonce but she sings better than she cooks. Charles, I'm worried. I don't know how she's going to survive out there with such poor house skills. The woman has two doctorates but she can't feed herself properly''. ''Relax, Amy. She'll be okay. Celine's made of iron. Apart from that if the London adventure doesn't work out for her, she'll be back with us''. When Celine and Joel finished their song, it was Charlie and Amy's turn. ''I promised I was not going to drink but I don't think that a beer will do much damage'' she told Joel and Alize. ''You know what you're doing, Celine Elizabeth'' Joel smiled and handed her a beer. ''Remember you're leaving early tomorrow'' Alize warned her. A beer might not have been much to a normal person but for Celine it was like drinking a bottle of vodka. She had alcohol intolerance and a sip of a strong drink could leave her singing on the table with no shame. That was something that had happened many times before. They finished the night dancing to Charlie and Amy's horrendous karaoke version of Bon Jovi's It's My Life.

The next morning it was clear that Alize had been right and Celine shouldn't have drank. At nine am she was standing in the platform of the train station with the rest of the group, ready to leave to London. She looked terrible, pale and had to wear sunglasses to cover the bags under her eyes and a hood to cover her messy hair. ''Okay, I'll see you guys soon.'' the only thing she wanted was to be on her seat and sleep. The trip wasn't very long unfortunately. ''We're just 50 minutes away, it's not that you're leaving to... Manhattan'' said Charlie. ''Don't be a jackass'' warned her Amy. ''If you meet Tom Hiddleston by some chance, hook up with him and tell me all about it'' said Alize making Celine roll her eyes. ''Get a boyfriend!'' yelled Joel and she showed him the middle finger. ''Goodbye, idiots!'' shouted Celine. ''See you when I'm a millionaire!''

50 minutes later she was taking a taxi from King's Cross to South London. She had been in London many times before so she knew exactly where everything was. Pr almost everything. The neighbourhood where she was going to live wasn't exactly very nice but at least it wasn't a red zone. And it had a Greggs a block away. Brilliant. After paying the cab she went towards the building. It looked very similar to the Number 12 of Grimmauld Place in the Harry Potter series. Except from the magical stuff. In less than ten minutes Celine met the landlady (a lively Scottish woman with a thick accent) who guided her to her 'flat'. It looked more like a room with a bathroom with a bed and small table that had a kettle. At least it had a window. ''Darlin', the kettle and the mattress are brand new and they are yours to keep. When you move you can take them with you''. A free kettle and a mattress. Sweet. ''Thank you so much Mrs. Donaldson.'' ''Anytime, Doctor Cadwallader''. After she left her alone, Celine started tiding the place and placing her few belongings wherever she could. She had left more things in Cambridge with the hope that Joel would take good care of them for the moment. She made the bed, put her clothes under it, stored the bathroom with some essentials, placed her Macbook beside the kettle and stored some snacks and cookies in any place she could. Yeah, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't very different from the first dorm she had had at Cambridge. It was good for starters. She had been lying face down on the bed for quite a while when her phone rang. It was Joel who was texting her. 'Celine Elizabeth, if you fail in London your underwear is burnt in the next bonfire'.

The Cast:

Sophie Skelton from Outlander is more or less how I imagine  Celine. She looks strong and smart at the same time.

Ben Hardy aka Bo Rhap’s Roger Taylor as Joel

Alberto Rosende aka Simon in Shadowhunters ( I LOVE him) as Charlie:

Mandip Gill aka Yazmin (from the latest season of Doctor Who, that is awesome btw) as Amy.

And Freema Agyeman aka Martha Jones from Doctor Who (I loved Martha and Doctor 10 so much my heart hurts) as Alize.

I don’t know why I do stuff like this but  I love casting people.

And I’m just setting up the story so I won’t introduce Mr. Stan yet because it’ll make no sense. I’m sorry but you’ll have to wait a lil. 

P.S- If someone wants to be tagged, just ask me. 

Tag: @delicatecapnerd, because you askem me ;)

Just comment, like if you want and thanks for reading.

[tenjouu]

mulan-esque (3. mousse atlas // 1.36k) 

“And here I thought you genuinely enjoyed my company,” Mousse says with faint petulance. He lowers his teacup, and with it, his saddened gaze. “You were just after my position all this time.”

In the most literal sense. Ranks are hereditary in the Red Army. For a man to depart from his family tradition is practically unheard of. Mousse was born to be the Red Ace. You weren’t born to be in the army at all.

“Don’t say it like that, old friend,” you say placatingly. “I’ve never enjoyed your company.”

Mousse gives you a hurt look, but breaks character immediately after to chortle. “I’m sure that’s why you’ve hung around me this entire time. Too bad for you. I like you too much to give you this position.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you protest.

“Which part? Me liking you?”

“I’m qualified,” you say, ignoring his persistence.

He knows you are. That’s why he likes you. Because you’re one of the strongest people he’s ever seen—determined to serve your country and protect the people. You remind him so much of the old Red King. 

And you keep the greatest secret—a biological truth buried so deep that sometimes, he wonders if you ever think of yourself that way. You probably don’t know that he knows. You’ve worked so hard that he wouldn’t have known—if not for the night he finally got you to drink with him as a friend. 

But he supposes it doesn’t matter. He would’ve liked you for your charm and ambition regardless of gender.

And he really just likes you too much. He never held any genuine love for the army, but your firm ideals convince him that the country is in good hands, and that maybe, sometimes, the army is worth serving. But the title of Ace is far too red for someone so brilliant like you. You would be taking on centuries of bloodstains. No noble family is free from skeletons in their wardrobes.

You fight in the rawest, purest form, for the most upright reasons. Being Ace doesn’t suit you.

“It’s barely my decision to make,” Mousse confesses. “The most I can do is commend you to the stuffy old men on the council. And they’re already infuriated with me.”

Pretty true. Jonah threatened to flay Mousse next time he stepped foot in the barracks, which is exactly why he invited you to Blanc’s house, under the pretense of final farewells—but also, he just wanted to see you one last time before crossing the sea.

“And by extension, they’re infuriated with me,” you sigh in understanding. You’re far too intelligent for him to slip anything by you. “And the hearing would be a nightmare for your public image.”

For a number of reasons. 

It’s clear that through your five years of both riding and dying together that if he were to pass the position to you now, there would be questions asked. Favoritism. Old kings would honorarily knight their male lovers. That sort of thing.

It would make people wonder, especially since you present as male. Mousse doesn’t have too many problems with that. He knows old noblemen will be as close-minded as they are wont to be. He’s just not sure what would befall you in the barracks if the men came upon such gossip. He doesn’t want to find out. 

And Edgar has him convinced that there’s someone else equally eager to prove himself out there—a so-called protege of Edgar’s, so to speak. He has the same wildness in his swordsmanship as you.

“I thought I would ask,” you say with a shrug. “It was worth a shot.” You offer him a tired smile.

“I’ll offer you a onetime deal,” Mousse says. “Being Ace is boring. And you like political matters, for some godforsaken reason. Why not join me as a diplomat? There are other governing bodies in this world whose institutions are vastly different from Cradle’s. You could take inspiration from them and pass it on to the King. I’d adopt you as my protege. Just say the word.”

“No,” you reply, lips quirking up mischievously. “You’re already a protege yourself. I’m not demoting myself to the student of a student when I’ve already worked this hard.”

He knows it would be selfish to ask you to leave this place when you’ve given over everything—even the basis of your identity. You’re already doing well as one of the thirteen anyway.

“I thought I would ask,” he sighs, parroting your words back. “It was worth a shot.” He gets to his feet. It’s time for you both to get back.

“It would’ve hit true in another world,” you reply, standing too.

For a moment, he thinks it might be your wit telling him to keep dreaming. But when he registers the wistfulness in your tone, he blinks at you. Does that mean...?

“I wouldn’t wish to presume,” Mousse begins casually, keeping in step with you to the door.

“Don’t presume then,” you answer him, eyes glittering in amusement. You at last give him a warm grin. “I’ll miss you, old friend.”

“I really do like you, you know. It would be a shame for us to let this chemistry go to was—“ He leans in close, but you place your palm on his face and shove him away.

You truly have the strength of a man. It’s actually devastatingly attractive.

“You’re weird,” you say, but you’re still smiling at him from what he can see between your fingers so that’s one thing. “Always saying that you really like me, that you’d court me if I were a woman.”

You remove your hand from his face. He’s acutely aware that you’re taller than him. And when you pin him with your thoughtful gaze, he stays spellbound. He knows your hands are calloused like any soldier’s hands are. Sometimes, he wonders if you were meant to be a man after all—and wow, right now is not the time to be questioning his sexual orientation.

You give him a soft laugh. “That’s a good look,” you say.

“What look?” he asks.

“Your dazed expression,” you say. “Like the dimwitted look you get on your face when you’ve just woken up after napping irresponsibly.”

“Dimwitted,” he splutters, taken aback. And here he thought you’d finally realized that he was actually objectively and conventionally attractive. “You’re talking about someone’s face here, you know—!“

“If you come back as an accomplished diplomat, maybe I’ll be the one to court you,” you interrupt him. “You’re the shorter one, after all.”

Mousse groans, for lack of a better response. He doesn’t care who does the courting. He’s not averse to being courted, but he’s also not here to get teased by you. He wants to be the one doing the teasing here.

“You’d look good in a dress,” you continue, “though loathe I am to admit that I’ve thought about this at all.”

He gives you an annoyed huff. “Don’t underestimate me. I’d wear one for you,” he retorts. “I’ll become the best diplomat you’ve ever seen. You better keep your promise. Else may glory run sable through your treacherous veins!”

Surprised by his sudden vehemence—you blink at him. And then you give him a smile that he’s never seen before.

“Okay,” you tell him fondly. “When that day comes, I want to tell you something then.”

“You don’t have to wait. Feel free to say you’re in love with me any time.”

“No,” you deadpan. “Something more important than that, dormouse.”

“What could be more important than love?” he asks you earnestly. (And in his tone—he’s so serious about it that you wonder if he already knows. Mousse is the type to surpass boundaries and convention anyway.)

“Evidently to you it’s sleep,” you reply, and the moment’s over.

“First my face, now slandering my good character,” he says. “See if I want to be courted when I come back!”

“I’m confident,” you say simply, and with a strong arm slung around his shoulders, you pull him out the door.

[tarithenurse]

In Defense of Asgard (1/11)

Starring: Loki x fem/Inhuman reader. Warnings: language, violence, fluff now and then. Background: It’s been 20 years since the Thanos has been defeated. [Y/N] was a part of the group because of the skills she possesses as an Inhuman (sensing and manipulating living cells - a sideeffect being potential immortality). In the time leading up to the final battle, [Y/N] has formed an unlikely relationship with the only person completely opposite of her, but as the relationship developed, so has Loki. On a mission, they had met and swayed Adam Warlock (creation of the Sovereign) to join them. The Asgardians have found a new home planet, but their numbers are few (some Marvel comic canon involved here). Now they are married, even if [Y/N] has to spend an awful lot of time on Earth. A/N: Feedback appreciated!

[Reader’s PoV]

Old cities have an ability to simultaneously change and remain exactly the same. Walking through the capital in 2038 is not all that different from before [Y/N]’s life had turned upside down. Some of the facades have had a facelift, some of the shoddier buildings have been torn down and new ones taken their place, slightly taller and conforming to the architectural trends of this decade, carefully complimenting or clashing with the surroundings and affecting the balance of the entire street. Most people, particularly the businessmen and -women on lunch break, don’t seem to notice, of course. They are hurrying from point A to point B, only paying attention to what’s right in front of their feet, heads down to avoid any eye contact with the chuggers who’re trying to wrangle money for Greenpeace or Amnesty International.

Following a slower pace, [Y/N] makes it to the odd-shaped square housing a fountain adorned with storks. Despite the bleak weather, a bunch of teenagers have perched themselves around the edge, avoiding the areas where the spray of water blows towards. From here it’s possible to look over at the old castle that houses the government, but the last load of cruise-tourists is crowding around a street performer, who’s juggling torches. Maybe I should try juggling?

Lately, [Y/N]’s found herself getting bored with her usual activities. A sort of restlessness has invaded her life, and she knows why…enough time has passed that she will have to find another place to live than the lovely flat in New York, which she has been able to call her home the last 25 years, give or take.

“Princess.”

Heimdal’s voice doesn’t seem to have a place of origin, but [Y/N] looks around anyways…except she’s not seeing the city and its inhabitants and visitors, instead she’s looking through a rounded opening perched high in the mountains. Down below, a partially frozen river carries the viewers gaze towards the snow-covered plains and fields towards the capital of Asgard where a setting sun is reflecting off the windows and golden pillars.

“Heimdal.” It’s only a mutter, too low for those (whom she’s oblivious to) around her to hear.

The view swivels, and she faces the dark-skinned man with the impossible eyes. “My apologies, my lady. You are needed, but people are positioned too close to you to allow Bifrost to touch down.”

“I’ll see to it.”

The gentle man nods, and without further ado he returns her world back to normal.

Clouds are already gathering above, a clear sign that she has only a few seconds to create a safe space around her. Hurtling forward, into the juggler’s circle, [Y/N] doesn’t get further than to yell for people to stay back before the torrent of light and colour slams down around her, pulling the woman off the face of the Earth with such force that her guts must have been left behind. The purse slams against her hip. The wind whips around her, filling her ears with a painful roar. Never going to like this. Sure, it’s practical, because it’s a lot faster than travelling by spaceship, but it’s also nauseating.

…

[Y/N] slides off the back of the horse and hands over the reigns to the stable girl with a ‘thank you’. She’s cold from the ride through the wind and the snow, however that’s not her main concern. Heimdal hadn’t said much to explain why she’s back in Asgard without any notice, but it must be some sort of emergency, judging by the sombre look in his face. The first guard she meets explains that the king is in the council chambers with his advisors, so that’s where she hurries towards, glad that she’s indoors at least. Under normal circumstances, she’d have taken the trouble to dress for the weather at her destination, but that hadn’t been an option this time. Hurrying up the broad, winding staircase, she follows the largest corridor to where it ends at a large set of oak doors.

Again, she’s faced by a guard, but just like the other he recognizes her and allows her to enter without a word, and [Y/N] finds herself inside the council room, the long table laden with maps and rosters and several glittery holograms depicting golden vessels, smooth and deadly. Sovereign? Thor, Sif and Valkyrie are studying what must be the latest information and are startled by her sudden arrival. There’s something different abou –

“[Y/N]!” Thor’s serious frown is momentarily replaced by a delighted smile. “It is good to see you.”

As she greets them, she briefly explains how Heimdal had contacted her. “Where’s Loki? And is that the Sovereign?” [Y/N] nods towards the hologram.

Sif has already opened her mouth to answer, but [Y/N] turns to the door where Fandral and his two refound friends Hogun and Volstagg enter. The day the blond swordsman had been reunited with them, he’d cried, then he’d done anything in his power to help them through the long transition of recalling who they once were until, finally, the Warriors Three finally was a fact once more. They rarely went anywhere without each other, including a scouting mission they just had come back from…unfortunately it had not been enough to scout as they had been spotted by the enemy patrol. At least the casualties had been one-sided.

Listening carefully, [Y/N] gets confirmation that it is indeed the Sovereign, that are mounting a large-scale attack on either Xandar or Asgard as retaliation for the interference decades ago, that let them to lose Adam and their alliance with Thanos. Those gold-skinned bastards know how to hold a grudge.

“We are expecting Loki back this evening.” Valkyrie finally explains. “His familiarity with the Xandarian Nova Prima made him the optimal candidate to represent Asgard in the diplomatic meetings to secure a strong cooperation regardless of which planet is the first target.”

Nodding quietly, [Y/N] has to admit it makes sense even if she doesn’t like the idea that he isn’t here. “Adam?”

The possessor of the Soul Stone is always travelling in the hopes that he’ll find a way to neutralize the Infinity Stones for good. As it is now, the Aether was safely locked away deep in the vault of Valhalla.

Thor wrinkles his brow as if with a passion. “The distance is too great even for Heimdal to see him.”

A similar problem has shown its ugly face whenever the watcher has tried to glean information from the Sovereign, any meetings and communications take place under secured circumstances, blocking him from both seeing or hearing anything.

With time having been busy catching up to many of [Y/N]’s old teammates, it’s unlikely that any of them are capable of taking up arms in a space-battle, even if the United Nations panel did allow any enhanced individuals to take part. Vision and Parker might be able to, and maybe Stark assuming the suit would be able to compensate for his deteriorating vigour. T’Challa’s son might insist on taking his father’s place now that the mantle of the Black Panther has passed on, and perhaps Daisy could muster a team of Inhumans, but, [Y/N] has to remind herself, this is all speculations for now.

“What can I do?”

“That,” Sif says, “will depend on what Loki can tell us when he returns. You may be excused for now.”

Looking over at the queen, the Inhuman’s reminded of the foggy difference and discreetly scans the woman for anything that can explain it. Oh! “May I have a word with you in private, Sif?”

The request is granted, and the dark-haired sister-in-law walks side by side with [Y/N] until they are out of earshot of everyone. Coming to a halt by a potted palm tree, the casual conversation comes to a slow halt. Under the casual armour gown, a secret is brewing quietly, maybe even unknown to Sif too, and it’s itching in [Y/N]’s hand to find a place over the womb where the new life is growing.

“Congratulations are in order.” At least if it’s wanted.

For a moment Sif looks utterly confused, then her eyes widen and her hands fold over her abdomen. There’s joy (and a grain of terror) in the perfect face as she takes in the new knowledge.

“How long?” She’s a practical woman. “If Thor finds out before the war is over, then I doubt he will let me fight.”

“Probably not, no.” In fact, he might go as far as to ship her off in the complete opposite direction to protect his wife and unborn child. “It is very new…and very, very fragile still, so I urge you to take care.”

The prospect of motherhood appears no less of a challenge than any battle would, and Sif feels at home in the fray. Still, she allows her features to soften momentarily as she dreams of the possible future. Allowing her peace to become accustomed to the prospect, [Y/N] bids her farewell for now, and continues to Loki’s chambers.

…

A fire is roaring, serving as both the only source of heat and illumination in their quarters, and somehow failing at keeping [Y/N] warm. Technically it’s not a matter of temperature, but rather anxiety. A cold sense of dread has snuck up on the healer, making it impossible for her to find rest. I have no reason to fret. Having changed to the Asgardian outfit she uses for training or sparring (except the boots), she feels a bit more at ease as she pads over the soft carpets and cold stone floor in an endless circle, that leads past the fireplace, around the coffee table, past the chaise lounge and over to the tall glass panes forming a fragile barrier towards the snowy night. A faint image of a frowning woman stares back at [Y/N] each time she reaches this point. The reflection is enveloped in shadows, the flickering light only sporadically reaches the eyes that echo with a mix of orange and midnight. Get a grip. Her brain has other plans, but is temporarily amused by listing synonyms and translations for the mental order. Relax. Cool down. Unwind. Wait…A foot of snow is lying undisturbed on the balcony, and even though it’s powder, she still has to push hard to open the door leading out into the frosty air that makes her nose twitch and the small hairs stand on end.

Next moment, [Y/N]’s outside, naked feet sliding into the soft layer of white as she leaves a crack open to the now vacated living room. A few long steps, and then she’s standing at the railing, looking over the lower level of Valhalla and the capital, each surface covered under fluffy duvets that swallow up sounds and refracts the isolated light sources far below. None of the moons or stars are visible, as they are hidden beyond a thick cloud-layer that keeps releasing a steady fall of snowflakes.

For a while, [Y/N] amuses herself half-heartedly by poking patterns in the white cover on the railing, while her first her feet and later lower legs hurt and then go numb from the cold.

“My flower,” a familiar voice breaks the silence, “why are you out here?”

Turning clumsily on unfeeling limbs, she knows it’s simply the conjured image of Loki, but she can’t contain a happy squeak, because it means he must be home.

“I was restless, my dear.”

“My silly wife, get inside.” The image is smiling broadly, green eyes hinting at where inside. “I will be with you shortly.”

(I hope this made some good reading. Sorry about any spelling and/or grammatical errors....English isn’t my first language. Please feel free to comment or correct in any way you want!)

[xylianna]

A Day in the Life of Ignis Amicitia

Years after the return of the Light, Ignis and Gladio spend a relaxing day with their loved ones.

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13036296

@ignisfluff

Ignis Fluff Week Day 7 Theme:  Free Day

NSFW

I just hope this isn't too cheesy, but appropriately fluffy.  My first stab at writing something post-Altissia, let alone post-game, and I wasn't entirely prepared for the feels.

No beta, sorry for my mistakes!

Ignis Scientia Amicitia still preferred to rise before the sun.

Perhaps he could no longer drink in the majestic sight of the star cresting the horizon, the way the sky lightened into a pastel blend of oranges and pinks before fading into the clearest blue. But he could feel the warmth on his face, and that was enough to have him starting the day content.

He had so much to be thankful for, after all, that most days it was easy to avoid dwelling on his loss of vision.

Nearly fifteen years had passed since the Dawn had emerged from the never-ending night. Not a day of those years went by without thoughts of the true King, his dear friend and heart-brother, a truly noble man who had given his very life for his kingdom in fulfillment of prophecy. Most days, it was easy to focus on the good memories. Young Noctis playing in the Citadel’s gardens. Teenage Noct staying up too late playing video games, thick as thieves with young Prompto. And Noctis as he was at end: fully grown, regal, powerful.

And, most of all… loved.

While it had been hard for all of them to move on, the days turned into months, the seasons continued their cycle, and years began to pass. Slowly, they all began to build new lives in this Crystal-less world.

As strange as it had seemed at first to be back in Insomnia, to dwell within a Citadel that held no Lucis Caelums, now Ignis couldn’t image even considering living anywhere else.

He and Gladio may no longer have the same roles they were defined by in their youth - no King meant no Shield, no Royal Advisor - but they did what they could to help the others pick up the pieces of the Lucian government, to keep the people safe and protected. To be fair, it was a much easier task with the Empire eradicated, the daemons gone, but not all people were inherently good, and there were definite issues to sort out.

However, much of their time was given to their loved ones. Given to each other.

If nothing else, their fateful road trip all those years ago had taught the hard lesson that all things were, ultimately, fleeting - and you never knew when your number would be up.

Ignis was drawn out of his early morning musings when he felt the strong arms of his husband wrap around his waist. “Morning, Iggy.”

“Gladio,” he replied softly, tipping his head to brush lips softly against the other man’s jawline.

They stood that way, lovingly entwined, until the sun finished climbing over the hills to shed its radiant light over Insomnia.

Gladio checked his watch. “They should be here in an hour.” Ignis could hear the grin in his partner’s voice. “Though with how Prompto drives, maybe sooner.”

Ignis chuckled. “Cindy keeps him in check, most the time. But, we should complete our preparations now, just in case.”

The two worked in tandem, Gladio tidying away a bit of clutter while Ignis put the finishing touches on the brunch he had largely pre-made for their group.

The first Saturday of each month, barring unavoidable conflict (which arose more often than any of them would like), their chosen family congregated for brunch, conversation, and just… togetherness.

Their group was a bit smaller, as a natural result of the years. Cid was no longer with them, and Cor the Immortal had failed to live up to his moniker two years ago. Aranea had sent word that she’d be absent this month, and Talcott would also be detained. In fact, many of their dear friends were unavailable on this bright, spring day.

But Prompto, Cindy, and their young daughter would be coming. And Iris would be there.

That was enough.

Ignis smiled as he worked, thinking of the young Argentum lass, a girl with hair as sunny as both her parents, he was told, with Prompto’s brilliant violet-blue eyes, and Cindy’s ready smile. Luciana was her name, and it was a name heavy with significance - the poor girl had so many namesakes, Ignis was relieved to know that with parents like hers, she’d never feel pressure to live up to the legends.

Noctis Lucis Caelum.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.

Gentiana.

Muttering to himself in irritation at growing maudlin, Ignis swiped away the moisture that had gathered at his scarred eyes. Almost immediately he felt Gladio’s large hand lay gently on his shoulder.

“You okay?” Gladio asked gruffly. Ignis wasn’t the only one who got emotional on their monthly gathering days.

“Quite,” he replied, slanting a smile towards his love, before returning his attention to his preparations.

Rapid knocking at their door that one might think was from young Luciana - if one didn’t realize Prompto’s boundless energy hadn’t dampened much over the years - announced the arrival of their guests.

“Hey, y’all,” Cindy’s voice rang out cheerfully. “Lucy, honey, don’t run!”

“Uncle Gladio! Uncle Iggy!” The child’s voice was sprightly and brought a smile to both of her honorary uncles’ faces.

Ignis could hear the sounds of Gladio picking up the girl and swinging her around, the child’s giggles filling the air.

“Hey, big guy!” Ignis marked Prompto’s progress into their home by the sound of his voice, his footsteps. Such had become second-nature to him over the past decades. “Ooh, what’s cookin’, Igs?” Ignis felt his friend punch his shoulder playfully, as he presumably leaned in to check out the spread Ignis had prepared.

“Help me take it all to the table,” Ignis requested. While he and Prompto carried out the food, Gladio oversaw Luciana’s efforts to set the table, and Cindy enjoyed getting off her feet for a change. Iris arrived just as they were finishing, and after she and Gladio exchanged body-crushing hugs in a playful test of strength, she’d greeted her brother-in-law and the rest with more reasonable gestures of affection.

Soon they were all gathered around the large table Ignis had insisted upon, the immense piece of furniture filling their dining room, leaving just enough room for the numerous chairs lining all sides.

Ignis felt his heart fill with love for these people.

Prompto, the gunslinger turned mechanic, after he had finally won over Cindy after a years-long effort to court the woman. While he still mourned his best friend’s death, as did they all, Prompto had found a new joy in his family, and did everything he could to ensure their happiness.

Cindy herself had become a close friend over the years, her never-ending cheer and optimism a saving grace at times when it seemed to hard for him to go on after his King’s sacrifice. They had all mourned with her at Cid’s passing.

Luciana, the child he spoiled in lieu of having any of his own. The girl gave them all hope for the future, just by fact of her existence.

Iris, his sister-in-law with whom he had long since dropped the “in-law”. She was distinguishing herself as Commander of the Crownsguard, and was quick to defend her unit to any foolish enough to wonder in her presence what use was there for a Crownsguard without a crown to guard. An Amicitia to the core, she was the embodiment of honor. She was also quite the prankster, engaged in a years-long contest of hilarity with her brother.

Gladio. Six, what could he say about Gladio? He was, unquestionably, the love of Ignis’s life. His rock, his strength, his joy, his light.

They were two halves of one whole, Gladiolus and himself. They had known each other for so long, had their lives tied together in so many irrevocable ways long before binding themselves in matrimony, that the wedding almost seemed an afterthought.

If Ignis had one goal for what was left of his life, it was to start every day waking up next to Gladio. And end each night in his arms.

May the Astrals grant them many long, peaceful years.

No one could deny they had earned it.

When the meal was finished and the dishes cleared away, the group adjourned to the gardens. Gladio had turned out to have a surprisingly green thumb, and the one-time Shield had planted and maintained this particular section himself over the years, describing it in such vivid detail Ignis had a clear picture of it’s beauty in his mind’s eye.

Prompto and Lucy ran around, darting between the trees in a chasing game, the father shrieking in delight almost as often as his daughter. Ignis sat beside Gladio, their clasped hands resting on the soft grass as they spoke with Iris and Cindy.

For many, this might seem incredibly pedestrian. Boring, even.

For Ignis, a day like this was perfection.

After several enjoyable hours, it was time for the Argentums to head back to Hammerhead. As Cindy was fond of saying, the cars at the garage weren’t gonna fix themselves. With fond farewells, they took their leave of the Scientia-Amicitia household. Iris didn’t linger long after their departure. Since she also dwelt in the Citadel, they saw each other on a nearly daily basis, and with her rank came a plethora of responsibility.

When it was just the two of them lingering in the afterglow of warm companionship, Ignis turned sightless eyes in the direction of his husband. “Let’s go home,” he suggested, thumb straying from their handclasp to caress Gladio’s wrist suggestively.

“You got it,” Gladio agreed, hauling Ignis to his feet as an unintentional byproduct of rising to his own.

While Ignis hardly needed the other man’s guidance to find their quarters, he wasn’t unamenable to the help. One thing years of living without sight had taught him was that it was refreshing, at times, to let down his guard, relax his hyper-vigilance, and let someone trusted ensure he made it where he was going without incident.

Sometimes it was nice for the caretaker to be taken care of.

Gladio had barely gotten the door closed before Ignis pounced. Using the hand still held in his own, he spun his lover around and pinned him to the door, pressing his body against him urgently, his lips claiming Gladio’s in an impatient, needy kiss.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Gladio managed to say when Ignis turned his attention to nibbling down one side of the larger man’s neck. “But what brought this on?”

Ignis faltered slightly in his rhythm, and eased off just enough to breath a nearly inaudible response. “I’m just… happy.”

It was the truth. Days like this left him almost overwhelmingly joyous.

There had been great loss. Great sacrifice. Debts that could never be repaid.

But, by the Six, he was alive, Gladio was alive, and he knew their lost friends would rejoice in their living.

So he’d live, damn it.

He’d seize every day like it was his last, make the most of every moment, live life to it’s fullest with no regrets.

And right here, right now, there was nothing he wanted more than to make love to his husband until sleep claimed them both.

Ignis’s hands went to Gladio’s belt, undoing the clasp with practiced ease, reaching one slender hand within the other man’s pants to find him already half-hard. As Ignis stroked the smooth heat of Gladio’s cock, he felt it grow beneath his fingers, and a familiar smirk curled his lips where they worked over Gladio’s collarbone.

“Iggy,” Gladio moaned, one hand bracing against the wall for support, the other reaching to pull Ignis up for a rough kiss, more teeth and tongues than lips, as their mouths fought for dominance.

“Gladiolus,” Ignis’s impeccably accented voice purred his husband’s name as he continued to pump his hand over the other man’s length.

“Gods, Ignis…” Gladio’s head fell back to thud against the hardwood of the door. He moved one hand to tangle in Ignis’s hair, lushly soft beneath his calloused fingers, free from styling products today.

Right here. Right now.

Ignis released his hold on Gladio long enough to remove his pants, a pleased sound escaping from between his lips when he heard the rustling sounds of Gladio doing the same with his own.

“Prepare yourself for me, love,” Ignis instructed.

Gladio was quick to comply, Ignis inferred from his husband’s moans. He had intimate familiarity with the sounds Gladiolus made when fingering his own ass.

They were almost as delicious as those he made when Ignis did the job for him.

Ignis stroked a hand over his own shaft, though he hardly needed the touch - he was achingly hard, and he could tell he wouldn’t last long. But, Ignis couldn’t resist teasing himself just a bit, listening enraptured to the heaviness of Gladio’s breath, the way he’d gasp when he added another finger, the lewd moan that escaped Gladio after long moments, the throaty sound letting Ignis know his lover was ready for him.

“Turn around,” Ignis said, and he reached out a hand to stroke the smooth planes of Gladio’s back. Taking his cock in hand, Ignis brushed the head teasingly along Gladio’s asscrack, leaning forward to lick and kiss the side of his neck, making his way from shoulder to ear. “Are you ready, my love?”

“Oh, gods, yes…” Gladio said. “Now, Iggy. Now.”

Ignis penetrated him in one smooth motion, and they simultaneously called out each other’s names. After giving Gladio a moment to adjust to the sensation of being so completely filled, Ignis began to move. Slim hips rocked at a bruising pace as he continued to press kisses against the other man’s neck, occasionally punctuating the loving touches with sharp bites.

“Mine,” Ignis growled, though he feared his voice was breathier than anticipated. He was already so painfully close.

“Yeah,” Gladio agreed, reaching to fist his hand in Ignis’s now sweat-damp hair. “Mine.”

“Oh, fuck…” The pleasurable pain of fingers tight against his scalp pushed Ignis over the edge, and he came hard, his husband’s name on his lips. “Gladio!”

“That’s right,” Gladio said, voice low. “Don’t stop. Take me there with you, Iggy.” Gladio let go of Ignis’s hair and gripped his own cock, pumping in rhythm with Ignis’s thrusts. He pushed his hips back against Ignis, fucking himself on his lover’s cock as Ignis was lost in the aftermath of his orgasm. “Oh, fuck yeah…Ignis!” Gladio flattened the hand not wrapped around himself against the door for balance as he reached his peak, groaning loudly as he watched his orgasm splatter against the floor.

Ignis focused on his breathing, coming back to himself slowly, heart still pounding. He leaned against Gladio, and could feel how soaked their shirts were with sweat. After pulling out, he bonelessly slid to sit on the floor, smiling lazily when he felt Gladio sit beside him. When a though occurred to him, he laughed, the sound sharp and bright in the silence of the room.

Without Gladio even needing to ask, he explained, “Did we even think to lock that door?”

Gladio’s voice joined his in laughter then, and Ignis felt it was the perfect end to a wonderful day, sitting pressed to his husband’s side, both of them covered in the sweaty aftermath of amazingly passionate sex, lost in joyful laughter.

Just another wonderful day in the life of Ignis Amicitia.

[adigeon]

this won’t be done for fuckin ages and im [now] allergic to posting shit to ao3 that isn’t finished so have the last half of the first chapter of a postcanon cardassia fic told from julian’s Sullen Cardassian Ward’s POV (she’s high esper (yes i know cardassians aren’t supposed to be high esper and don’t care (she’s about 13 when this starts))) and 25% of the plot is that she hates elim garak with her life. 400% unedited. anyways:

He looked plain and delicate, as all Humans did to her eye. No protective ridges anywhere, not even at his neck. Unlike other Humans she had seen, he had grown his hair out as Cardassian men often did, though it wasn’t very dark. He was dressed modestly, with a high collar, but also as if it was summer: light colors and loosely-fitting fabrics.

But Nasesk cared little how he *looked*. There were more important things to investigate. Without moving in the shadows, she pushed out with that other sense. There was nothing that alarmed her, although like all non-Cardassians, she couldn’t read him easily. Reading him was like peering through scuffed-up glass that you could only see blurry shapes through. She waited, and the feeling sharpened a little. The Human was so tired that his feelings seemed to run together. He was sad in the continuous, uninteresting way that most adults on Cardassia II were.

Kattor came back with a glass bottle, and they exchanged the boring niceties that adults always did. Yes, he was tired from his travels; thank you for the drink; yes, things do seem to finally be getting better. Nasesk grew bored of it all quite quickly and wished she had chosen a better hiding spot. Here she was trapped until the doctor got up to go sleep, and they were talking about politics.

Finally the doctor excused himself. Kattor offered to walk him to the medical offices, and he said it would be fine, he could find them, and they exchanged their stiffly-nodded farewells.

Nasesk waited for the doctor’s footfalls to fade from hearing, then counted to thirty in her head. That was the one thing every Cardassian child in the orphanage knew. Humans could hear even better than hunting hounds. After thirty, she slipped out from behind the cupboard.

“What did you think?” Kattor asked, not looking at her. He sounded nervous.

She squinted at Kattor. He was always doing that, not looking at her when he asked her questions. As if she didn’t know he was just trying to get her to talk more. When he finally gave up and looked at her, she shrugged. “Okay,” she said.

Pure relief in Kattor’s read. “Good,” he said. “I don’t know that we could get rid of him easily. Being Human and all.”

Yeah, right, thought Nasesk. You just liked him, and you were worried I would tell you he was no good. She climbed into the chair that the Human doctor had been sitting in and rested her chin in her hands, staring at Kattor.

He was fiddling with the lid on the bottle of kanar. It was the thin, sour pink sort that the orphanage had been brewing as long as Nasesk could remember. The older children used to sneak flasks-full of it out of the kitchens, daring each other to drink it. Nasesk thought it was vile, though she kept trying it every time she could guilt one of the adults into giving her a sip. It seemed like the sort of thing that one day she would wake up liking, once she was an adult.

But Kattor was too preoccupied to be baited. He poured himself a little more of it and drank it slowly. “Maybe he’ll apprentice you,” he said. Nasesk didn’t need to read him to know he didn’t think it likely; it was all there in his tone of voice.

It had been three months since Nasesk aged out of the school-programs that war orphans were eligible for. Three months of doing any work that Kattor and the others would let her do, three months of being bored to the point of madness. Kattor had petitioned for a governmental exception to be filed, but whenever she asked, he said that he still hadn’t heard back. His read was always so guilty when she asked that she guessed it had been rejected and he just didn’t want to say so.

Without more school, there was no sort of job Cardassia would let her do that wouldn’t leave her just as poor and bored as she was as an orphan. Kattor and the others weren’t shy about telling her it was stupid and that she deserved better, but it didn’t matter. It was the way things were. Nasesk didn’t bother getting angry about it anymore. It would be like getting angry that her parents were dead. No way she felt would change anything, so there was no use feeling any way about it.

Her only other options were an apprenticeship or an adoption. But there were few skilled workers on Cardassia II, even fewer willing to take a [low-caste] apprentice, and fewer families with latinum or bread to spare enough for another mouth. Those who would adopt already had: the youngest of children orphaned by the most recent war. Not a child Nasesk’s age, whose parents had died on Bajor.

Nasesk swung her legs under the table and watched Kattor drink. Humans were notorious do-gooders, and all the books talked about how easy they were to trick. But those were books authorized for orphans by the government, which also talked about how great Cardassia was all the time, and no one on Cardassia II bothered to believe that anymore. So maybe they weren’t easy to trick.

“Name?” said Nasesk.

Kattor tried to say it once, though the word tripped on his tongue. He shook his head. “Federation Standard,” he said, wry. “I’ll never get used to it. Dr. Bashir.”

“Federation?”

Kattor tilted his head. “The name?”

Nasesk flattened her brow-ridges in exasperation.

“Oh, you mean is he Federation.” She nodded. “No, he’s here through the Bajoran relief services. Not really sure what the story is there. He’s obviously not Bajoran.”

She couldn’t decide if that complicated things or not. Bajorans weren’t easy to trick, and most of them didn’t like Cardassians, even the ones who came to help with the famines and plagues and things.

Maybe he secretly was Bajoran, and he’d had surgery to make himself look like a Human so that he could trick everyone. The thought made her smile. She laid her head on the table and watched Kattor drink a little more until he finally got tired of her staring and made her go to bed.

Lying in the dark, surrounded by sleeping children younger than her, Nasesk did what she always did before she slept. She closed her eyes, and she reached out as far as she could with that other sense. First it was the other children who she felt, tangled up in the flickering feelings of dreams. Anxiety, happiness, fright, irritation — all of it translucent and fleeting. Her reads of dreams never had that much substance unless there were nightmares, and even those tended to vanish as soon as someone woke. And then, as she reached further, a read she thought was Kattor. He had the same tangled mix of hope and nervousness as she’d left him with. Some of the other orphanage-workers, also asleep, and two who surely weren’t that she rolled her eyes at.

And there at the edges, the Human. It had to be him; she could always tell if a read was Cardassian or not. Cardassian reads were clearer, brighter, easier to feel out. The same smooth-featured sadness as before, with little flecks of something stronger in it. Hanging over it all like a storm, something else determined and proud. Was the exhausiton she felt the Humans or hers? It was late, and now her eyes felt heavy. She slipped into sleep, wondering about him. How long would this one stay?