#clearly those acts set a bad precedent

[tanglepelt]

Dc x dp idea 123

Danny is haunting the watchtower. No regrets. He was just so fed up with the lack of action.

Seriously they had a whole bs site claiming they were pro meta and basic rights. Like it had links on where to “report” breaches. All utter bs.

Nothing about the anti ecto acts. He personally called in and reported it many times. And nothing happened. As the king. He had a duty to his ppl. Now he didn’t want to hurt anyone or declare war.

But he will absolutely in the middle of their meeting change the screens of the computer to the site to report breaches. Mayhaps add bloody green text seemingly dripping in all cap LIARS and maybe YOU IgNORED US.

Was it a tad much to leave a stabbed article about the anti ecto acts in the middle of the meeting room ozzing ectoplasm. Or maybe the whispering in the ears of anyone who slept here.

He certainly didn’t think so.

So now the screens occasionally flickered the failed experiments of the GIW. Sure no one’s been killed yet. But the justice league didn’t know that. Danny is great at breaking them out.

[ivymarquis]

Character Study: Stitch

Pairing| König x Stitch* Rating| T Content/Warnings| Angst, mentions of PTSD, allusions to The Bad Thing(tm) that happened to Stitch, needles, stitches, the author is not an NP nor in the military and thus some wild inaccuracies.

*Stitch is one of those OCs with no physical descriptors because it's impossible to tell a story with an actual plot without some sort of character development so she can easily be read as a reader insert :)

My contribution to @glitterypirateduck's 141 Challenge! Stitch will eventually be making an appearance alongside Honey- this is just a lil interaction between her and König to get the creative juices going!

141 Challenge:

König

Thunderstorm | Forced proximity | How did this happen? | Trust me

It’s hard to miss the way that blood is steadily trickling in rivulets down König’s neck, much akin to the rain running down the glass of the windows outside.

Given he wears a makeshift sniper hood and covers any other potential exposed skin- it’s only obvious because his shirt is torn to hell so the blood is actually visible.

She sits nervously, debating with herself for a moment. The man is a myth made flesh, his reputation preceding him by a landslide. But surely he’d be reasonable to someone who means to do right by him?

Every rumor she’s ever heard bounces in her head as she approaches, her sense of duty rises above all else. The operator did his job, and now it’s time for her to do hers. Fair’s fair.

“You’re bleeding,” she starts bluntly. “Do you need help?” Any sort of head wound can bleed fairly heavily- it might be something he’d prefer to deal with alone, or it might be the sort of thing that she needs to intervene. Does he even realize he’s bleeding? Or is he still coming down from the firefight and numb to everything?

His attention switches to her and she can’t help but stiffen ever so slightly. Those pale eyes are intense when she’s his soul focus.

“It is nothing. They can stitch it when we get back to base.” Typical. Some of these men could have their arm hanging half severed and would act like it’s no big deal.

“They don’t call me ‘Stitch’ for nothing,” she half jokes, “We don’t know when they’ll actually be able to get us back. I can take a look at it if you’d like? The sooner you’re stitched up the better you’ll heal- less chance of scarring.”

He snorts at the wrong part of her words- the idea of lessening scarring is funny to him. 

“I do not think that will help much,” there’s a bitter bemusement to his tone that she’s not privy to- until he takes off his mask.

Oh. Her immediate attention is on the laceration that’s bleeding across his cheekbone, but as she takes stock of the situation she starts to realize why he found humor in her words.

His face is covered in scars. Some thick, some thin; his nose clearly has been broken and poorly set a time or two. Extensive doesn’t begin to cover it- across one eyebrow where he likely almost lost an eye, across the bridge of his nose- down his jawbone and neck disappearing down the collar of his shirt. The part that is torn revealing another that goes across his collar bone.

There’s a lot of information to process at one time- the injury, the scarring, and of course she’s used to having a base full of soldiers for whom it is a big deal to see their face. Likely very few know what the Austrian operator looks like under his hood, and Stitch is probably one of a privileged few.

Injury first.

“How did this happen?” she asks; a standard question to be asked by a health care worker.

He’s silent for a moment as she’s opening her kit and pulling out the needed supplies. 

Stitch is admittedly nervous, eyes flicking between the soldier looming beside her- how is he so massive, even when sitting down?- and the raging storm outside. The power is flickering every so often and she just hopes she can finish before it goes out entirely. The pair of them are separated from the rest of the group and waiting for further orders as directed.

The vibes are a little spooky, if she’s being honest with herself. But then she’s also just unsettled by everything that has happened in the past 48 hours.

Stitch is not a soldier. She isn’t even a field medic for crying out loud. She’s a civilian NP, and one trying to navigate a situation that’s a bit off putting for her given her history.

The silence stretches a beat too long, and it’s just as the thought Okay, I guess I’ll go fuck myself, then flicks across her mind that he answers. “There was an enemy soldier who thought he caught me off guard. He was fast. I was faster.” 

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that. The wound is from a knife then, given the context and the nature of the injury. “Oh,” she starts lamely, not entirely sure what to say given König just told her he killed a man. What does one even say to that? Good job?

She’s not oblivious. They do what they need to do to come home. Death and violence follow the soldiers everywhere they go, and Stitch and those like her can only hope to piece together the ones who make it back in one piece. “I need to clean this first. The antiseptic might sting.”

It’s his turn to watch her silently, the consent implied as he holds still and lets her work flushing and cleaning the wound.

“I have lidocaine if you want it,” she offers while getting ready to actually stitch the wound. 

“That is not necessary,” he rebuffs, continuing to sit still in the chair. 

The lights flicker, the sound of the rain pounding harder as the storm worsens outside. Thank goodness they’d managed to get to the safehouse- it would be absolutely miserable to be caught out in the havoc outside. Guaranteed pneumonia.

While her exposure to the soldier in question is limited- always on the fringes and knowing of him but the interactions themselves being surface level, that dynamic is completely upended by the sudden proximity of being in the safehouse together.

But then, she’s always a little gun shy when in grabbing distance after what happened to her. Even though she’s the one with the weapon on her hand as she prepares the needle.

It must be obvious, the way she’s cautious in handling him. It’s not him- it’s not even the man who had put his hands on her. It’s the inability to discern the danger because the perpetrator himself didn’t know he was going to do it until he did it. It’s the inability for her to read who is safe and she is working with her therapist on it but God maybe she’s not making as much progress as she thought.

She just wants to do her job.

It doesn’t help that the specific soldier in front of her has quite the track record. He’s the battering ram sent in when someone needs something handled without the red tape of an official, enlisted soldier who has reports to fill afterwards. The PMCs have their uses, after all.

She decides it will be easier if she stands- and if the way that places their heights also assuage some of her anxiety, then that’s her own business.

“Take a breath for me,” she instructs, waiting to see his ribcage expand before lining up the needle. “Exhale,” she tells him, beginning the first stitch as he does.

They continue on, pausing as the lights flicker- if this is how she gets her first needlestick injury she’s going to throw a fit.

Normally she’s a chatterbox, especially when nervous, although the conversations with König have been so cut and dry it’s stayed her tongue a bit.

Idly she wonders if her own reputation precedes her- gossip travels like wildfire and God knows she’d given everyone something to talk about. König has been exceptionally cautious of every move he’s made in the safehouse, watching her and gauging her reactions. She doesn’t know him well enough to know if that’s just how he is- ever conscious of being the bull in the china shop- or if it’s for her benefit.

No one can promise that what happened before won’t happen again. She’s pleased that her hand is steady though as she works.

Those eyes, no longer framed by the sniper hood, follow her as she moves. Trust me, they implore her.

For tonight at least she has no other choice.

[yandere-fics]

How would your OCs from The City react to their darling acting jealous/possessive of them?

(Rudie is excluded because what are you jealous of? A corpse? Also so sorry to whoever requested this but I got a bit nsfw on Sawyer's because I couldn't help it.)

♡ How They React To Their Darling Getting Jealous ♡

♡ Miriel is unlikely to notice that your jealous, while she is delusional and will think of everything as a sign of your love for her, she would likely just think you dislike the person in question mostly because she doesn't understand why you would get jealous in the first place since her devotion to you and only you is pretty clear. Plus she doesn't really notice people taking an interest in her since in her mind people are mostly only interested in their mates so why would anyone besides her mate be interested in her. This logic doesn't apply when it comes to people being close to you but she's ditzy like that. ♡

♡ Really it's hardly a surprise when people try to flirt with her at the office without knowing she has a mate, mostly because she's incredibly cold and untalkative at work since she only came to this stupid job so she could stay in the city and find her soulmate so most people in the office no very little about her except for her being a very beautiful elf. Luckily for you however, Miriel is a very uhm... submissive elf and you can use that to your advantage to get people to fuck off. ♡

"B-babe, n-not that I don't a-appreciate this but don't you think this is a bit m-much? I-I can't handle much more~" She whined pathetically as you sat on her lap and left hickies all over her neck. You knew she wouldn't try to cover them up and while you felt too embarrassed to publicly confront those who were flirting with her, this would likely be enough to deter most of them. Plus Miriel looked cute when she was on the verge of tears like this.

"I'm almost done, I have to make sure no one else thinks they can have you." You grumble and you could swear that Miriel almost came on the spot hearing you be jealous like this. If only they knew how weak Miriel was for you, then the flirting would only get worse, luckily this sight was only for your eyes.

♡ Kassien seems like the type to enjoy your jealousy which is incorrect for the most part. She has no desire to cause a misunderstanding between her and her mate and while she can be mean, she's always very direct with everything, even carefully explaining why she is acting the way that she does. She would most likely have to hurt or even kill whoever was causing you to feel jealous because she just can't have them creating a rift in her relationship. She does somewhat enjoy knowing you care about her enough to feel jealous but as someone who is naturally extremely jealous, more so than any of the other city yans, she knows how bad the jealously feels and she would hope that you'd also do anything to put an end to her having to feel jealous though obviously she doesn't expect you to kill people. ♡

♡ Kassien just wants the misunderstanding to resolve quickly and she'll even let you see how badly she butchered the person in question so you can fully be aware of how loyal she is to only you. Now please show her that same loyalty back and never speak to anyone again since now you know how bad it feels, okay? She might have to punish you if you won't put her mind at ease. ♡

Honestly what were you thinking being jealous when your girlfriend was already itching for a chance to kill anyone and now she had the perfect excuse. You couldn't really bring yourself to feel bad for the person though considering they had made the conscious choice to flirt with a demon who was clearly mated. Kassien made it clear in every conversation she ever had that she was devoted solely to you and would not stand for anything less from you as well.

This certainly did set a scary precedent for your relationship though since now she knew you cared and she'd expect much more from you in the future. At first she thought you were sweet and needed to be protected from seeing her violent acts but now she can see that you're just as jealous as her, isn't that right sweetness? So you should have no qualms about her eliminating every single problem standing in your way, why you'd probably even thank her once she showed you everything she's done for you both. She just doesn't understand why you aren't thrilled to see the head of the person who flirted with her.

♡ She is delighted, you've made her more happy than she ever thought was capable of feeling in her immortality. Her reason to live truly does surprise her with new joy every day and even if you were to never show her affection again for your eternity together, she would likely be able to have all the joy she needs purely off of remembering how you punched the person who tried to flirt with her. She was planning on getting rid of them anyways because they disturbed your date but she supposed she could let them live, mostly just because she forgot to remember their face since she was too entranced by your face at the time. ♡

♡ Or not, there are always security cameras so she could look through them later and remove the person but she'd also like to keep the footage of you punching that person because how could she not want to rewatch it over and over and over again. In the process she remembers that she has to kill the guy but that can be done once she's not basking in the glory of your jealousy. ♡

It happened too quickly for her to properly realize what was going on. Of course had she realized she would have turned the guy down but before she could even process what the guy had said to her, you'd flung out of your seat and hit him square in the jaw. You tossed some money on the table quickly, though normally she would have liked to pay she didn't argue with you, and grabbed her hand to leave the restaurant at once. It wasn't an uncommon sight in the city but what was uncommon was seeing it happen when you both were humans and not supernaturals, still no one bothered to say anything.

"Come on, Nora, we're leaving." She felt like her soul would finally leave her body when you dragged her along so roughly. All her hard work in being your perfect girlfriend had come to this. She didn't know what she'd done to get things to be this perfect but whatever it was she would need to keep it up.

♡ Sawyer doesn't get you being jealous. You're literally the only one who could ever hope to be close to her. No one but you even actually knows her name, only her mate is capable of remembering what her name is so what's making you so fussy? Yes she is kind of degrading you and your feelings a bit for this and while on one hand she gets that this means you must really love her, on the other hand there are just better ways to express your love for her than this. This makes no sense. At least that's what she thought until you started to throw yourself onto her any time anyone entered her office. Twirling her tie in your hand and pulling her in for a kiss if anyone even came to bring paperwork. ♡

♡ No one at work is bold enough to flirt with her but that doesn't mean people aren't eying her up meaning if you want people to stop thinking about her like some kind of candy, you'd have to let them know how into you she is. Maybe you're embarrassing her a little bit but she really could care less when she's this close to heat and her sweet mate is practically begging for it. ♡

You should have chosen a better place for this but then again you were the one who came onto her and what better way to make sure people were aware she was off limits then to have people walk in on you two actively fucking. No one would be able to look her in the eye again, much less look at her at all if they knew how she had you bent over her desk, desperate to knot you, to sink her teeth into your throat, gods anything, it's your fault that her heat started while you were both at work.

"Beloved, hnnngh, fuck take it." The door opened and slammed so quick that you thought you hallucinated it and you would have smirked if she hadn't chosen that exact moment to pop her knot inside with a growl, her nails digging into the meat of your hips.

[katiedido2]

Scayo Snippet

This is from a longer, untitled story I'm working on. I hope you like it.

--------

Rebecca noticed that Kayo & Scott had been staring at each other increasingly since she had broken up with Captain Rigby. They were clearly in love with each other but afraid of something, be it that their feelings are unrequited or a relationship might complicate things between them, to act on their feelings. 

First, Rebecca approached Scott. She hadn’t encountered so much tap dancing since she had seen a revival of Jelly’s Last Jam in New York a few years ago. Scott insisted that Kayo could never think of him as anything other than a brother. If he said something, it would only make things awkward between them, and they wouldn’t be as effective a team. 

Then, she sidled into a conversation with Kayo about it. Her sister-in-law blushed and stammered that Rebecca had no idea what she was talking about; anyway, Scott didn’t care about her that way. And she absolutely couldn’t say anything about her feelings because it would make things awkward between them. 

Those idiots, Rebecca thought as she rolled her eyes. If I leave them to their own devices, they’ll still be pining for each other when they’re old and grey. 

... ... ... ... ...

A few days after her conversations, Rebecca pulled John aside and asked him to help her with a special project. She explained what she wanted to do and why. He was a little dubious about interfering with their personal lives, but after Rebecca invoked the name Jane Carpenter, he agreed to help. They discussed the best way to set her plan in motion but were at an impasse until Eos offered two suggestions. The humans looked at each other. Eos’ suggestions just might work. 

... ... ... ... ...

With Gordon in the UK, Virgil was out with Alan in Two on a rescue. Scott, Rebecca, Jeff and Kayo were hanging out in the lounge, waiting for updates in case they required additional assistance. 

A beep preceded John's hologram into the room. “International Rescue, we have a situation.”

Scott sat up. “What is it, John?”

“We've got a situation that requires Thunderbird Three, but there’s no way Alan will be able to return in time.”

“Is it anything you can handle?”

“No, Scott. It’s too big a situation for my exo-suit. We need you to head out in Thunderbird Three right now.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve piloted Three on my own.”

“Then Kayo can go with you. But I’m serious, Scott. You’ve got to move right now.”

“Okay, Thunderbird Five. We’re on our way.” 

Scott and Kayo sat in the gear-up seats for Three and descended into the tunnel. Just before the chairs separated, they came to an abrupt halt. Scott tapped his comms, calling for help but did not receive a reply. Puzzled, Kayo tapped hers with the same result. 

“Well, this won’t help anyone. What?” Scott looked up as the lights in the tunnel dimmed slightly. 

“What is going on?” Kayo tugged at the shoulder restraints.

Scott frowned. “I don’t know.”

The opening strains of Tell Him, by The Exciters began playing. 

I know something about love

You've gotta want it bad

“Something very weird is going on, Scott.”

“Tell me about it.”

If you want him to be

The very part of you

Makes you want to breathe

Here's the thing to do

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this.” Scott attempted to get out of the seat, but the shoulder restraints wouldn't budge. 

Tell him that you're always gonna love him.

Kayo attempted to lift her restraints. “I’m stuck too." She raised her voice. "Help!”

Scott joined her. “Help!” They listened for a reply. Nothing. “Where could everyone have gone?”

“I don’t know.” Kayo listened to the lyrics for a few moments...

... about love,

you gotta show it and

Make him see the moon up above

Go out and get him

If you want him to be

Always by your side

If you want him to

Only think of you

...and rolled her eyes. Rebecca.

Tell him that you're never

Gonna leave him

Tell him that you're always

Gonna love him

Why would she do this? Unless she knew how Scott felt…

Tell him, tell him, tell him, 

 Her heart skipped a beat. 

Tell him right now

Could she be brave and reach for happiness? Kayo stopped thinking and listened to the lyrics again.

Ever since the world began, it's been that way for man

And women were created

To make love their destiny

Then why should true love be 

so complicated, oh yeah? 

Oh

Kayo could do this. She wanted this. She tested her shoulder restraints and found she was able to lift them.

I know something about love

You gotta take his hand

Show him what the world is made of

One kiss will prove it

If you want him to be

Always by your side

Take his hand tonight

Swallow your foolish pride

Tell him that you're never gonna leave him

Compelled by the lyrics, Kayo took a deep breath, reached for Scott's hand, and leaned over and kissed him. She pulled back to gauge his reaction. Scott frowned and grabbed her arm. 

“Kayo, what are you doing?!”

Kayo blanched. “Scott, I'm sorry-”

“I certainly hope so.” He grinned. “There’s no way we can kiss properly with you over there.” Testing his shoulder restraints, Scott found they lifted easily. Leaning over, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her onto his lap. “This is much better.” He kissed her. “Isn't it?” He smiled that smile that always made her knees weak.

Kayo smiled shyly. “Yes, it certainly is.” They kissed again

Tell him, tell him, tell him, 

Tell him right now.

Kayo pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “I love you, Scott.”

Beaming, he caressed her cheek. “I love you, Kayo.”

The sweet strains of violins filled the tunnel, and At Last - one of Eos’ contributions - began to play. The new couple chuckled and resumed kissing.

Back in the lounge, Rebecca and John smiled and gave each other a long-distance high-five. 

Jeff eyed them suspiciously from his desk. “What have you two done?”

... ... ... ...

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Character Snippets Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @primroseprime2019! :D

Rules: pick an OC and post a snippet from their viewpoint. I decided to do this for all the main characters in The Unfortunate Moth:

Yo-han:

He had to knock repeatedly before Dr. Latimer finally opened the door. The doctor was still in his pyjamas and looked half-asleep. He groaned when he saw Yo-han.

"Not another murder, please," he said in-between yawning.

"No. I have a few questions to ask, if you don't mind."

"You couldn't come back later?" Latimer grumbled, but he let Yo-han in anyway.

"In the first place, I know you and the victim stayed in the same hotel in Hong Kong. I know you had some sort of argument with her. What was this argument about?"

The doctor stared at him. "...Are you by any chance a mind-reader?"

Yo-han stopped himself from audibly scoffing, but only just. "Certainly not. I have a brain, knowledge of human nature, and access to a telegraph machine. Your explanation, please."

Phil:

Rachael was planning something unpleasant for someone. Phil had seen the symptoms before. Unusual abstraction, frowning and tapping her fingers against her lips, not noticing when she was spoken to, maintaining a stony silence; they were all unpleasantly familiar. Phil immediately began reviewing her recent behaviour to see what might have set Rachael off. Her normal yelling was bad enough. But this sort of behaviour always preceded a particularly nasty outburst. The sort of outburst that lasted for days and could sometimes become physically violent. (Mostly to Rachael herself; during these explosions she would slap her own face and accuse the target of her wrath of driving her to do this. At these times Phil honestly believed her aunt belonged in a padded cell.)

Phil spotted the symptoms as soon as she walked into the dining room. What could have happened to cause this in a few minutes? She didn't know, but she immediately switched from trying to provoke Rachael to being as conciliatory as possible. She'd planned to read her magazine during dinner. Instead she kept her handbag firmly closed and greeted Rachael more politely than she had at any time since they left home.

Rachael stayed silent all through dinner. It played havoc with Phil's nerves. She kept her head down, then worried that was making her aunt even angrier. She pretended to be absorbed in her meal, but when her knife scraped against the plate she tensed and waited for an explosion that didn't come. She tried to act naturally but felt like a puppet operated by a trainee puppeteer. Every minute she expected Rachael to accuse her of something. Phil almost wished her aunt would just so she would finally know what was wrong.

Leo:

Leo scowled at the line. Out of morbid curiosity he'd sat down to reread the play, and somehow it was worse than he remembered. Who on God's green earth called their wife 'beloved angel' — spelt 'beloved angle', because Philpott clearly hadn't paid attention in English class — in this day and age?

Once more he considered substituting one of his own plays for this one. True, he'd never actually published the scripts he wrote or tried to have them performed. The only people he'd shown them to were a few of his co-stars, who hadn't been exactly enthusiastic in their praise. But that didn't matter. He knew he was no Shakespeare, but he also knew he was a better playwright than Philpott.

Máté:

The best Maté could say for Mrs. Patton-Langdale was that she spared him the worst of her temper. He knew this was out of pragmatism rather than any regard for him — secretaries who were fluent in German, Hungarian, Romanian, and who could also muddle by in Russian and French weren't exactly a dime a dozen. If she treated him half as badly as she treated Miss Ophelia, he would hand in his notice at once and she would have the trouble of finding a new secretary and professional translators for each of those languages.

Unfortunately for Miss Ophelia, she wasn't a paid employee and couldn't threaten to resign. She was an easy target. And Mrs. Patton-Langdale, like all bullies, chose easy targets.

When he first began working for Mrs. Patton-Langdale, Máté had tried to stand up for Miss Ophelia. He had quickly learnt this was useless. Worse than useless, because it made Mrs. Patton-Langdale suspect there was something between him and Miss Ophelia when nothing could be further from the truth.

Rachael:

Rachael had held onto this letter for the last week. She was sure Király didn't know it existed, and she hadn't let Ophelia see it either. She simply didn't know what to do about it. The most likely explanation was that Octavia had come to sponge money off Rachael. When that hadn't worked she realised it was useless going to Ophelia, who had no money of her own, and instead appealed to Király. The reference to herself as "the old hag" incensed her. As soon as she got home she'd see her lawyer and have Octavia completely disinherited.

But who or what was J? Rachael had tried various conjectures. A mutual friend of Octavia and Király, a place, a stage play, a license plate, even the initial of a rival company. None of them were convincing. Finally she hit on the idea of blackmail. J referenced some event or person Király wanted to remain unknown, Octavia had found out somehow, and she was using it to demand money.

As for Heather Glenn — or possibly that was really Heather Glem, or even Heather Glew; Octavia's handwriting was a mess — she must be one of Octavia's actress friends. Why she was mentioned in the letter was yet another mystery.

Tagging @oh-no-another-idea, @silvertalonwritblr, @winterandwords, @frogqueenofmirkwood, @words-after-midnight, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D

[marvel-mistress-padawan]

There was a mas shooting in Maine (my state) this past week. The shooter was a military veteran and firearms instructor who ended his own life after the shooting. By all accounts, the shooter had mental health issues and had spent some time in a mental hospital this past summer but was released after two weeks of treatment.

All of my local social media is full of comments about how the shooter was evil and people are glad he is dead. There is also the sentiment that people don’t see mental illness as a cause for this, the evil shooter should have just made different choices.

Of course I agree that this was a horrible act and am saddened for all those lives lost and injured people but my experience with mental illness still leaves me with a different outlook. Not only did I spend several years working in a mental health group home, my youngest brother is schizophrenic. However, my youngest brother has refused all treatment and does not believe he has any illness at all. There have been multiple incidents where we have had to call police over his erratic and dangerous behavior. He would do things like set fires outside in a barrel in the middle of the night, sleep in his car in subzero weather because he was afraid of his bedroom, refuse to eat for days on end because his food told him it was angry with him, and the latest he has slept in the woods for four days and refused to come inside, refused the food we offered him because it was “not on the menu.” My brother is the sort of person who needs mental health treatment before something bad happens and the police can do nothing, we can do nothing, unless he makes a direct threat to harm someone or harm himself. My brother knows this and is too smart to ever speak any threats aloud. And yet in the days preceding his move to sleep in the woods he was crawling around everywhere like a monkey because “it helps me think more clearly.”

As the sister of a mentally ill person, I want to see him get help. I keep offering food, reminding him that he doesn’t have to sleep in the woods, suggesting seeing a doctor. But there is nothing else we or anyone can do basically until it is too late. I feel bad for the family of the shooter who probably wanted him to get more help and was stuck in the same place I am.

[muchadoaboutnot]

First interaction, let's go!

"How much will you give me if I tell ya?"

"I've got... A hundred on me."

"Deal."

It's simple. If you see a guy acting suspiciously at three in the morning, especially in Gotham, you leave them alone. Unless of course you yourself can be considered up to no good. Which, she really isn't, Mina is actually doing her job. Somewhat.

Said woman pulls out a crumpled hundred dollar bill, passing it to the rough-looking individual before her. Already she knows he profiled her, sized her up, most likely thinking to mug her for all she has. Except she knows well enough to flash her concealable, the shoulder holster snuggled against her body and underneath her beat-up jacket. It's enough to stave him off. Clearly, he just wants to keep things simple in what he's doing, nothing more, as he takes the money and tosses her an illuminated green question mark object.

"Won't your boss be mad?"

"He's not my boss, just some guy that paid me to set this up right over there. But who cares, I got paid from you AND that guy now. See ya."

Mina watches him walk off, leaving her alone in the stillness of the autumn night, or early morning however you wanted to look at it. And when she knows she's alone and safe for the time being, she looks down at the object in her hand. It's mechanical in nature, however, the neon part of the question mark illuminates beautifully in the darkness. It's well crafted. And It's a trophy. One that belongs to The Riddler. Something she should not be messing around with, yet out of sheer coincidence she had happened upon the man setting up a trophy for The Riddler.

"Gotcha."

Mina was only a private investigator, she didn't work for the GCPD, and didn't take things on other than missing people's and cheating cases. Those sorts of things. Nothing like this. Nothing that ever had to do with the hardcore villains out there, or bad guys, or weirdos. Whatever you wanted to call them. But curiosity and just the thought of interrupting whatever plan that man had for this trophy was too good to pass up. Either way, she flicked the switch on the trophy, turning the light off, before gripping it and walking forwards towards what looked like a half-set-up puzzle.

The area the man had pointed out where he was supposed to set it up was in a secluded corner. Off the side of the bridge and close to the sewer lines here in the park, the area she was originally there to look for clues on her case. Missing person. Apparent suicide the GCPD had left it unsolved, her clients however were adamant about knowing what happened to their family member.

Mina's reputation preceded her, she was known to find people even after a case had been closed for years. Something she felt pride in. And this was another one she'd like to solve, however, at the prospect of playing games with a certain man of puzzles... She decided danger wouldn't be all that bad. Maybe something was wrong with the connections in her brain, or maybe she felt as long as he never knew who it was. She could do as she pleased, right?

A buzz nearby had alerted her to a tossed-off flip phone, something the man from earlier had thrown away. Leaving the half-set-up puzzle, her boots crunched a few fallen leaves in the grass as she left the sidewalk to pick up the device. It was the type of flip phone you bought at a corner store, or the free ones government officials would give to low-income persons. Upon opening the phone a series of text messages notification were blaring up at her from an unnamed number. [Text: 3:12 AM] Did you place it? [Text: 3:12 AM] ? [Text: 3:12 AM] ??? [Text: 3:12 AM] ?

[Text: 3:13 AM] I'm waiting.

[Text: 3:15 AM] If you think you can steal from me you'll soon find out what happens.

[Text: 3:16 AM] Therefore activate the puzzle already! The texts were laughable to her, all they did was show her the man behind them; The Riddler, was a huge child. Impatient. Spoiled.

But... She made quick work of texting back.

[Outgoing Text: 3:18 AM] No.

[Text: 3:18 AM] No what? No, you didn't set up the simple puzzle with my simple instructions? No? What is no?

[Outgoing Text: 3:19 AM] No. I didn't set it up.

[Text: 3:19 AM] Is this some sort of sick joke? Set. It. Up. I paid you for a reason because I thought you could follow a set of instructions a five-year-old could understand. But as it seems I was incorrect.

Snorting, the woman flipped the phone closed and looked around the area. In a stroke of genius, or really, just an idea to be difficult. Mina picked up a pine cone from the ground, turning on her heels she headed back to the half-laid challenge. Setting down the pine cone in the middle of the sorta dangerous-looking mechanism, before using her booted toe to gently push on one side of it to set it. It sprung up around the pinecone and activated the actual puzzle a few feet away. One that Batman was supposed to solve no doubt. And she only knew that from snooping on the GCPD and their radio comms.

Immediately the burner phone buzzed in her hand.

[Text: 3:25 AM] Good. It shows online. I don't need you any longer, toss the phone and I'll remember you. Incompetent. Not someone who can attend to a simple task.

Holding up the phone, Mina snapped a picture of the pinecone where the trophy should have been. Sending it to the unknown number who was obviously The Riddler.

[Text: 3:26 AM] No! [Text: 3:26 AM] No! [Text: 3:26 AM] No! [Text: 3:26 AM] No! What did you do!? Why did you do that!? What kind of moron does this?? Do you know who I am? I will find you!

[Outgoing Text: 3:26 AM] lol

Flipping the phone closed again, she felt the heavy buzz of it in rapid-fire successions. He was texting back a storm but she could care less. Instead, she walked over to the side of the bridge and threw the phone into the dark water below. She did however give a good look over the Riddler trophy in her hand, turning it around, now she knew she'd have to open it up to make sure there wasn't any sort of signal device inside of it. Because she was defiantly going to keep it. A nice knick-knack for her shelves at.

Now, however, as much as she'd like to look around for her own clues on her own case. Mina knew she'd have to flee for now since obviously puzzle man was down a trophy and would have to replace it.

Walking off, Mina had no idea what she had started.

[gre7n]

The Middle Way

*WRITTEN FOR CLASS*

"the Episcopal Church follows the Via Media, or Middle Way, between Roman Catholicism and other Protestant Churches. Do you think this is a good thing, and what implications for current members does it have for current members of the Episcopal Church?"

When one describes themself as walking The Middle Way, it usually implies that there are two or more different options that clearly do not work in extremes; and more specifically, there is an attempt to bridge the gap of those worlds and create something brand new that satisfies both sides. The main concept of middle paths is the inherent recognition that not only are there bad options to a conflict, but the real solution will be through genuine creation of new possibilities and peace treaties. This is all without more than a few discernable differences between choice. Otherwise, the obvious choice would take precedence over any other theory. Thus, the detail-oriented must articulate that which they see as evil in a way that resonates with all and spurs understanding. Not just in personal or professional, but all settings.

As beautiful as a path that is, the sheer difficulty in assertion can not be overstated. Before a social problem is truly solved, someone will say they have the solution when they don’t. The consequence of this mass to mass convincing is countless words and breaths spoken out that die in social hells and purgatories of action. With no true solutions yet perceived, how could most tell the difference between bad and bad, or even worse, mediocre and mediocre? With an idea that cannot resonate with love inside the heart? And remember, the real differences have been subtle and difficult to grasp this whole time. A penny flat on the path with explosive potential.

The deceptive part of this concept lies in the fact that every idea is said to have at least some truth. When the Episcopal Church claims they are walking the middle path, it is in the context of “Roman Catholicism” and “Protestant Churches”, and for this claim they seem to succeed. Slightly more liberal outlooks on social convention inside of the clergy members and who can participate. Great! Those things need to be addressed. But it can be easy to miss that the entire church sit on the side of Christianity in a world of hundreds of thousands of stories produced by countries, cities, and even specific individuals through art and life that paints their pictures of truth outside of the single narrative of christianity. This overall charade is the sole fact describing why we are handedly destroying relationships and people's ability to even learn personal truths of the power of christ. Actively, this is counter productive to the goal of spreading the word and love. Keeping the institutions who strive for good separated from each other is almost an admittance of defeat. An inability to find a solution that unites, only divides. And if one chooses to join the church then usually it means a forfeit of all personal understanding in exchange for living out the word, even if a lot of the word may be genuinely good and true. Without personal understanding, it will become misinterpreted quickly and confusion will set in. That being said, it is possible to join a church and worship, even with this understanding. If the solution is accepting other’s way of being, then you can partake in the rituals and acts, not just in respect, but in exploration of new ideas and truths. A step further, it can be said that assuming one is not engaging with religion through their self understanding is futile without their first-hand account. However, the core concepts of truth will likely be understood intrinsically, such as “do not kill”.

As far as a changing church goes, the Episcopalians go a long way in undergoing this process successfully when accounting for social change. That being said, the Episcopalian voice is not the main player in the world, thus there is a flaw in execution of presentation of the ideas. In today's age of technological advancement, the process of change and implementations of new ideas must stand the test of time. Not just in years down the line, but of the seconds between new advancements and what they meant to the greater society. Otherwise we will find ourselves out classed through our own inaction. But if the idea of the middle way was advanced collectively as described here, it could be possible to shift their perspectives radically towards ( for example) eastern philosophies on the world and how it affects the populations in meaningful ways. Especially as The Middle Way is almost bar-for-bar, a quote from the Buddha, centuries passed to now.

[astaroth1357]

Hello I really love your writing. I’m glad that you decided to open requests for a bit. I have a personal headcanon that the boys are a lot nicer to MC then they are to everyone else. Could you do a headcanon of the boys being out with MC and they are talking with MC happily. Then a lesser demon sees them with MC and says that the seven brothers have gone weak and they aren’t scared of them anymore. Thank you again!!! 😖 (Also the way you write Levi is great)

Aww thank you!! Levi's kind of my favorite character (if that hasn't become painfully obvious) so I try to write him well, you know? This one was a little hard for me to write because I just have a hard time imagining Asmo and Beel as something intimidating to the masses, but I tried my best! I hope you like it!

Lesser Demons Think the Brothers have "Gone Soft…"

Lucifer

If anybody had something to lose by acting sweet on a lowly human, it was Lucifer. His entire image was built on the back of power and intimidation, so really who didn't see this coming?

He knew there were whispers… Mostly in the RAD hallways. Students would see him with the MC and gossip amongst themselves… 

"Did you see them together again in the courtyard?"

"How did some random human even score a pact with him??"

"And I used to seriously look up to him, too…"

He'd always silence their chitchat with a well placed glare, but this was a symptom of something more… troubling. A decay of his social image if you will.

Perhaps it speaks to how well and truly enamored he was with the MC that this proud creature didn't just dump them the second he started looking bad, but still… a part of him really couldn't stand for this...

So maybe it was a blessing in disguise when he finally got an excuse to establish his superiority yet again!

He and the MC were walking the halls of RAD after school hours and they had just made an amusing joke at the expense of of his brothers. Unfortunately, Lucifer collided into a lesser demon student while he was laughing…

On most occasions, he would have expected someone of such station to pay him deference then offer an apology - they had just ran into Lucifer after all - but the student just scoffed at him!

Lesser Demon: "Oi! Watch where you're going, Lucifer! Or were you too busy sucking up to that human to notice?"

This… was maybe not the best response to have (if the "Oh shit" look on the MC's face was any indication) but for as annoyed as Lucifer was, he was also somewhat delighted.

Finally, he had the perfect messenger for just how cruel he could still be!

Lucifer: "MC, feel free to go home without me for now and tell my brothers to save my dinner for later…" *starts pulling out his favorite rope with a cold, but pleased, smile on his face* "I have a feeling I'll be home late tonight..."

The MC left him and his unfortunate victim to their fate and Lucifer later came home in the night with his uniform in a bad need of cleaning...

A new body decorated the RAD entrance hall the next morning - swinging from the ceiling and making an awful mess on the floor - but still alive enough give a very important message to the rest of the students:

"Lucifer hasn't changed a bit…"

Mammon

So, not even lesser demons see Mammon as some kind of high-ranking badass… 

Just to be clear, he is, but it’s hard for him to come off that way when he's begging for his next Grimm... Then enter MC into the picture and he somehow lost even MORE cred.

"There goes poor Mammon… Did you hear he got tricked into a pact?"

"Just look at him nipping at the human's heels! How pathetic is that??"

"Well that's Mammon for you… What a shit excuse for a demon."

Like Lucifer, Mammon wasn’t immune to the whispers, but unlike his brother he was able to push them mostly out of his mind. People look down on him? Yeah, what else is new?

To be honest, he didn’t really feel the need to prove anything to a bunch of lesser demon losers… But insulting his MC takes things a step too far.

He and the MC were out at the Devil's Coast, "enjoying" some of the haunted house attractions and generally having a good time…ish. 

Any time they managed to make it out of one, the MC would have to peel Mammon off their back and hold him to assure him they were back to safety (a process he seemed to like enough to repeat the horror that precedes it).

It was during one of these calm down sessions that the two were accosted by a couple of snickering lesser demons, clearly looking for a fight…

Lesser Demon 1: "Hey look! There's the 'Great' Mammon and his little master!"

Lesser Demon 2: "Guess the master fits the demon… Of course someone like Mammon couldn't even score a pact with Solomon and gets stuck with the weakling!"

Lesser Demon 1: "Well how's the babysitting going, Mams? I bet you can't wait for them to kill over, can ya?"

Lesser Demon 2: "Careful! With his luck, they'll probably get eaten by the end of next week! Haha!!"

Now… an important thing to know about Mammon is that you can fling all the mud and stones you'd like at him… but never at his MC. That's just asking for a bruising...

Mammon: *smiling like usual, but his eyes are practically burning with rage...* "Yo, MC… I'm gettin' a little hungry. Can ya go find us a snack over there? I'll meet ya in a bit…"

MC: "Mammon, are you-?"

Mammon: "Don’t worry 'bout me, babe." *takes his glasses off and flashes a fanged grin* "This is'a piece of cake."

And indeed, it wasn't difficult at all. No matter how fast those demons ran, they could never out speed Mammon and he was looking to give more than a warning…

The MC didn't know what he did while they were waiting in line, but they heard the sounds of pleading go silent before Mammon turned back up with a nice bruise on his cheek. Oh, how they fretted and dotted on him…

Meanwhile, the haunted houses just earned themselves a couple new mannequins!… when rigor sets in anyway.

Leviathan 

Levi has a… mixed reputation in the Devildom to start with. People who only know him for his titles usually expect him to be some kind of sea-hardened badass. Those who meet him are… well let's say less than impressed.

This isn't anything new to Levi. It does take a blow to his confidence sometimes but even still most people aren't dumb enough to say something to his face… most people.

Unfortunately, "most people" have been getting bolder after seeing him with MC - because Demon Lord forbid Leviathan actually look happy for a change…

He and the MC were out and about for once. There was a raffle for exclusive merch at Anidaemon and he brought them along to boost his chances. They were grinning and chatting about anime but well…

The human couldn’t hear this, but he could - sensitive demon ears and all that. There were a couple guys who were tailing him… heckling him just loud enough that he was CERTAIN they knew he could hear them...

Lesser Demon 1: "Is that seriously Leviathan hanging out with a human? Isn’t he an Admiral??"

Lesser Demon 2: "Ha! The whole family's turned into simps, are you that surprised?"

Lesser Demon 1: "Wonder what the human's giving them that's got them all brainwashed…"

Lesser Demon 2: "Well... I've got an idea." 😏

If there were ever a reason for bile to fill his throat, it was now. He might be a shut-in, but those guys were the real creeps…

To be honest, Levi isn't one for public confrontation. Even with how gross and disrespectful those demons were being, he would have let it slide if they had just left it at that… but no…

He and the MC were browsing the ani-music racks in the store when those idiots popped up again. They hovered a while until they MC suddenly left his side to go find a store clerk.

When he saw the other demons move their direction, he naturally put himself between them and the would-be harassers. It was a little telling that despite his ticked off expression, the demons just laughed in his face!

Lesser Demon 2: "Hey look, the puppy's come out to protect its owner! How cute!"

Lesser Demon 1: "I can't believe you're that predictable, Levi… Do you really think we'd be scared of you?"

Well. That settled it.

When the MC came back, they found that Levi had moved from the music racks to the merch tables near the bathrooms. They didn't think anything of it… but...

One body was paralyzed by his venom and stuffed head first in a toilet while the other getting strangled by his tail just underneath the tablecloth… Meanwhile, Levi was cheerfully rambling about the raffle like nothing was happening at all.

Maybe they should have been a little more scared of the shut-in...

Satan

This may actually be a case where the rumors have a point… The MC has made Satan "soft."

Well, if "soft" means actually in control of himself, anyway. 

Satan would probably call their effect on him both a blessing and a curse. Though he loved finally having a handle on his inner rage, it flew in the face of a lot of his public image… and people were starting to notice….

"Do you think there's something off about Satan…?"

"I saw the human step on his toes earlier and he didn't even flinch…! The old Satan would have torn them apart!!"

"He's gotten way too nice all of sudden… Wrath shouldn't be nice."

Was it a little frustrating? Certainly. Especially for someone as image conscious as him. But for as calm as he was now, Satan wasn’t any less cruel and he'd be more than happy to remind others of that fact….

His chance came when he and the MC were together having just left the local art gallery. The two were exchanging a healthy dialogue about a curious sculpture they saw on display when a latte suddenly went soaring through the air and ended up all over Satan's sweater… The culprit was plain to see, being the only other demon on the road that night.

Whether the act was intentional or not, the correct course of action would have been to apologize immediately and beg for mercy forgiveness… but all the demon did was laugh in his face…

Maybe he thought that since Satan had mellowed out and his human was right beside him that he'd be lenient… Oh no. Not gonna happen.

Satan's fist slammed into the guy's mouth with the force of a jetliner and knocked him over two benches before his back bent over a lamppost… To say it was a KO move would be an understatement.

He probably could have done a whole lot worse to the guy while he was down, but you know… the MC being there and "self-control" and what not…

The demon survived (barely) and only had to spend a few months in the hospital, if anything he got off light.

Not a soul would gloss over Satan's temper again and really he preferred it that way.

Asmodeus 

Well, to be fair not a lot of people thought that Asmo was tough to start with… but that's also his intention.

"Scary" is the opposite of "cute" and he prefers to be "cute" at all times! 😊

Buuut that doesn’t mean this scorpion is without a stinger. He CAN be quite brutal when he wants to be, you just have to push him that far and trashing his looks is a good way to start.

Asmo was out with the MC getting his hair done for the week at his favorite salon. They weren't the only people there that day, obviously. There were other customers - one being a lesser demon classmate of theirs - though neither he nor the MC thought much of him at the time...

Well… It was supposed to be a prank. Probably something the guy intended to use for social media clout. While the staff was too busy to notice, he snuck by and replaced Asmo's preferred conditioner with pink hair dye…

Asmo. Was. Furious. And honestly, the dude could have gotten away with it if he hadn't been laughing and recording the whole thing!

When Asmo's ire naturally fell onto him, he hardly looked fazed!

Lesser Demon: "Ah, please! You won't do shit to me with the human still around! You don't want to look any uglier to them do ya?"

Asmo: *freezes, but still furiously eyeing every sharp instrument within arm’s reach* "MC? Darling?"

MC: "Got it..."

Perhaps the prankster should have kept his mouth shut, because suddenly the MC needed to take a looong bathroom break…

They didn't come back out until they heard the sounds of screeching and broken glass finally die down and then they stepped back into a warzone… Broken mirrors and items seemingly flung everywhere in a fit of rage! The guy (and his phone) now nowhere to be seen…

The salon comped Asmo for the botched hair job and touch up… and then billed Lucifer for the property damage (which he got an earful about later). On the bright side though, Asmo actually looks pretty great with pink hair! Silver-linings. 🙂

Beelzebub 

… The concept of Beel "going soft" is almost an oxymoron. He IS soft, but his personality was never what made him intimidating to start with.

Behind all his kindness, Beel packs more firepower than at least 4 for his siblings combined and most people remember that fact. Hell, the guy looks like he could lift a semi and he probably would if he ever tried. 

However, that doesn’t save him from being underestimated completely... Especially when an upstart or two thinks he's too nice to actually start a fight...

He and the MC were coming back from the grocery store with the usual armfuls of sacks when the MC accidentally walked into a lesser demon on the street. Since their arms were full, several items spilled out from the bags and onto the ground…

The MC was quick to apologize to the demon and try to get down to clean the mess, but the asshole just kept walking… and Beel really didn't like that.

Beel: "Hey! Aren't you going to say, 'Sorry?'"

The lesser demon hardly looked over his shoulder to respond.

Lesser Demon: "Why should I? That's your human. Take care of them yourself."

Well it didn't take long for some of Beel's bags to hit the floor so he could lift the demon up by the back of the neck properly. When he turned the guy to face him, he made sure to bring his face reeaal close so he could hear him growl...

Beel: "Apologize. Or I'll eat you."

And like that, the asshole's mood went from "Do it yourself," to "Yessir Mr. Beelzebub, sir!" right quick!

The MC didn't have to carry a single bag another step and Beel got to keep his free hand so he could link it with theirs!... all while Beel kept mushing their new pack-mule forward like a sled dog back to the House. Thanks, Beel! 😊

Belphegor 

Kind of similar to Asmo, Belphie prefers to come off as unassuming on most days. But don't let his, "I'm a harmless sleepy boy" shtick fool you. He will cut a bitch if he's so motivated...

Thankfully for the world, he's generally not motivated. But that can be changed under the right circumstances...

Belphie and the MC were on yet another date to the botanical gardens. It's a peaceful place, though the MC can never go alone because of the frankly concerning amount of flesh-eating plants… Pretty, but also deadly, you know?

The two of them were walking to another rest spot when Belphie heard whispering from a demon behind them, seemingly on his phone…

Lesser Demon: “Yeah, I can see them right now…”

Lesser Demon: “I know right? It's so lame that these guys are in charge of us… They can't even say no to a dumb human!”

Lesser Demon: “What do you mean keep my voice down? Dude, it's fine! This is Belphegor we're talking about, the hell is he going to do if he hears me?”

… Huh.

The answer to the man's question was a simple one. Flash into his demon form for just a moment and whip out his tail... It only took a quick swipe to make him trip and fall right into the foliage. The man-eating… carnivorous… hungry… foliage….

Belphie was back to normal by the time the jerk let out his first scream and the MC almost stopped to see what had happened.

MC: "What the-oh my God!! Should we help-??”

Belphie: *puts his hands on their shoulders to keep them moving, not even glancing back* “Someone else will take care of it. Let's see the roses.”

Even when the desperate cries for help became distant, it took all Belphie had to stifle a smile…

Sometimes, you've got to love irony. 🤷‍♀️😏

[infinitecrime]

Just a quick statement in case anyone was wondering where I have been/will be. I've been taking, and will continue to take, a short Tumblr break until the SCU (Sebastian Cancellation Universe) wears itself out and goes on hiatus. I deleted Tumblr off my phone a few days ago and realised immediately that all this vicious, misinformed discourse pretty much solely exists on here and twitter, and if I want to avoid it, I can simply remove myself from the space.

I'm certainly not going to be gone forever - the head Canceller has made it quite clear that her sole intention was to "bully Sebastian off the internet", and presumably his fans too, while using POC and social issues as pawns/collateral damage. To quit the fandom feels like letting them win, but taking a break feels necessary at this point.

I like to listen to others who have different perspectives and value their opinions - but at the end of the day, I form my own and do my own research. And so far, I have seen absolutely nothing to change my opinion that Sebastian is a kind and well meaning man who sometimes doesn't think through every conceivable perspective before his does something - in other words, a flawed human. I'm not going to call for the end of a man's career and/or life, or withdraw my support of him, because 4 years ago he (accidentally, for all we know) liked a video of a man being called out for rapping the N-word and being told to censor himself, or because he smiled weird next to a statue while playing a Buddhist character. We can criticise him for his own actions, but these are willfully disingenuous interpretations specifically designed to harm not just him, but also POC fans who look up to him. I won't let myself be lied to, gaslighted, or dragged into a herd mentality. A disturbing number of people are not actually angry at him, but are simply scared of being harassed if they dare to question what they're being told or form their own opinions, so join the herd. The pursuit of the moral highground is addictive but futile, and you lose it as soon as you stoop to bullying, abuse, harassment, stalking and running dedicated, deranged hate accounts.

I'm not going to cancel him for a handful of bad jokes or mistakes made years ago that have been profusely apologised for and learnt from, either, and I'm not going to cancel him because of the years old actions of people he is associated with that he had nothing to do with. This isn't fair, proportional or helpful, at all. It's not activism, and it's not social justice - in fact, the constant malicious attempts to cancel him are only making it harder for him to see legitimate criticism or respond without setting a precedent that death threats will get his attention and a grovelling apology for things he didn't say and views he doesn't hold.

If your whole life was on tape and available to comb through with the worst intentions, and you weren't hiding behind anonymous accounts, I could construct equally terrible narratives from every bad joke, misspoken word, ill thought out comment, accidental like, dubious friend, mistake, genuinely hurtful moment or show of ignorance that you have ever made, but apologised for, grew from and forgot about instantly. You have that right: but you don't grant it to him, because he isn't truly a human being to you. So many of the blatantly and demonstrably false accusations I have been seeing would have been dispelled through the most basic level of fact checking and critical thinking, but through herd mentality and what I can only describe as moral bloodlust, they've gained serious, dangerous traction.

For someone who was raised in a deeply insular, conservative, traditional, orthodox environment, he has done a genuinely excellent job of freeing himself from that cycle of ignorance and using his platform in a positive way, as well as responding when he genuinely has misstepped. He will likely never be on the same level of educated/woke as a ~25 year old American who was literally raised knee deep in social justice twitter discourse, because he didn't have that privilege, but we are all on a journey and progress is not linear or with a clearly defined end.

The ironic thing is: the current state of the fandom is a direct result of how nice and willing to listen and learn Seb has been! The level to which he used to engage with fans and respond to criticism and feedback has created an expectation that he will ask how high whenever he is told to jump, and if he doesn't respond to every little thing, this means he doesn't care or hates us. His willingness to own up to mistakes, apologise and grow publically has created the strange idea that if he's not doing something publically, it's not happening, as if he only exists while we can see him, like social media peekaboo. His openness and willingness to act on criticism of those in his social and professional circles has led to the belief that we can demand he cut anyone we dislike out of his life immediately instead of helping and supporting them in making amends and learning, if only we can dig up some old dirt on them. It's entitled, parasocial nonsense. This is a total stranger who owes us nothing, is not actually accountable to us, does not have to ever respond to us or meet our demands, and has a complex and private inner life that we ultimately know nothing about.

I feel immensely sorry for the fans, especially POC, who have been wrongly led to believe that Seb hates or is discriminatory towards them on the basis of lies, hyperbole and some serious reaching. I feel deeply sorry for Seb's friends and family, who have been subject to an enormous amount of abuse and harassment (much of which has been racist, sexist, bodyshaming, xenophobic and cruel in nature - all in the name of social justice?) merely for being friends with him, and who recently had to see #RIPSebastianStan trending. Mostly, I feel immensely sorry for Sebastian, who has not been allowed the same basic rights everyone else in the world gets: the right to learn and grow, the right to forgiveness and freedom from harassment, and the right to be judged on things that *you* actually *did* rather than fictional narratives.

I cannot imagine the mental toll thousands of people calling for your death must take. I cannot imagine how it feels to have hate accounts dedicated to abusing you and critiquing your every move, and that of everyone you love. I cannot imagine the impact of obsessive doxxing, stalking and harassment. I cannot imagine all of this happening when you have been quite open about your mental health issues and serious struggles. There are truly only so many messages telling you to kill yourself that you can take, and I just hope he has people in his corner to remind him who he truly is and what he truly stands for.

[ibijau]

forbidden romance gets a pt2! / on AO3

“It won't work,” Lan Xichen said with great gentleness, clearly worried about hurting Nie Huaisang's feelings.

They'd decided to meet again in that same clearing, after a few secret letters exchanged. Nie Huaisang would have preferred to only talk that way, because he trusted himself to make a person fall in love through poetry more than through his actual personality, but things had been getting... difficult at home.

So there they were again, alone in this isolated little spot of wilderness, hidden among the many shadows of a moonless night. Lan Xichen, this time, was wearing dark blue to better disappear into the night, or perhaps as a small act of rebellion against his sect. Nie Huaisang too wore dark colours, his robes those of a servant. He didn't enjoy the feeling of that rougher fabric, but there had been no choice.

Things were difficult at home.

So difficult that Nie Huaisang had taken the risk of telling Lan Xichen why he'd first tried to contact someone from Gusu Lan, all those weeks ago.

“Music can't heal him then?” Nie Huaisang asked.

“It can,” Lan Xichen corrected. “The issue is that your brother will not allow it.”

“Not if it's you, that's certain,” Nie Huaisang agreed.

He might have said that with a touch more bitterness than he should have. Lan Xichen ever so slightly flinched at the attack, though at least he didn't try to defend himself. Maybe he was feeling guilty over what had happened.

Good.

It was his fault.

“Maybe if it's your uncle who comes play for him?” Nie Huaisang suggested. “Da-ge trusts him.”

“From what you said, I don't think your brother trusts anyone anymore,” Lan Xichen replied. “I cannot blame him for it.”

“He trusts his family,” Nie Huaisang claimed with a confidence that he was far from feeling.

He'd always known that his brother trusted him. They fought and argued and disagreed and bickered, but at the end of the day they trusted each other.

They used to trust each other.

Now Nie Mingjue saw enemies everywhere, and Nie Huaisang had been forbidden to leave the Unclean Realm. For his own safety, his brother had said. And maybe he'd meant it, or maybe he'd held suspicions of some sorts. One of his brothers had just tried to kill him after all, and there were many precedents in history concerning half-brothers scheming against one another for power. Not that Nie Huaisang had ever care for power much, but he couldn't be sure Nie Mingjue remembered that.

“Da-ge has always held his sect dearer than any other leader of a great sect,” Lan Xichen agreed with a fond smile. “And perhaps... Huaisang, are there any musically inclined people among your brother's disciples?”

“No. Some of my cousins play, but very poorly. I think out of everyone in the Unclean Realm, I'm the most talented musician, and that tell you everything you need to know.”

“It does,” Lan Xichen said with a tender expression that made Nie Huaisang feel they probably meant very different things.

“I'm a very poor at it,” Nie Huaisang insisted, opening a fan to hide behind.

“I've heard you say the same thing about painting,” Lan Xichen replied. “And about poetry. I've also heard you say countless time that you never get your way with anything, only to get everyone to do exactly as you like. I think you're not always the best judge of your own abilities, Huaisang.”

That was a very low blow, especially when Lan Xichen had the guts of smiling. A real smile, that was, not the empty expression he usually had when talking to people, and which made him look like a doll, pretty and sweet but ultimately dull.

“I didn't take you for a sweet talker, er-ge,” Nie Huaisang said.

“I don't take myself for one either. I haven't said anything I don't mean,” Lan Xichen insisted, before reaching out to take Nie Huaisang's hand in his.

Nie Huaisang's other hand tightened on his fan, his face burning in spite of the cold of night. Which wouldn't do at all. He was the one supposed to be seducing Lan Xichen into actually helping!

“Er-ge, I'm very glad you think so well of me, but I simply cannot...”

“Do you play the guqin?” Lan Xichen asked, and it was so rare for him to interrupt anyone that Nie Huaisang could only silently nod.

He felt a pang of regret when Lan Xichen let go of his hand. He was only missing the warmth, he told himself. Then he saw Lan Xichen produce a guqin from a qiankun pouch, and regret was soon replaced by panic.

“You're not serious,” Nie Huaisang gasped, watching as Lan Xichen carefully set the instrument on the smoothest patch of ground to be found in the clearing.

“I am very serious,” Lan Xichen replied after sitting down, making a gesture to invite Nie Huaisang to do the same. “You've said this place is isolated, and I need to hear you play to find out if you might be taught Cleansing.”

Nie Huaisang shivered at the name of that song, and glared at the guqin.

“Isn't that song a Lan secret?”

“I have previously obtained permission to teach it to an outsider to help with da-ge's poor health,” Lan Xichen said. “I believe I am still within the perimeter of what was granted to me.”

It surprised Nie Huaisang that Lan Xichen could twist the truth like that. In other circumstances, he might have been impressed. At the moment though, he was little inclined to think well of Lan Xichen.

“Considering what happened last time, I'm surprised you're sticking to that plan,” Nie Huaisang said, only to regret it when pain flashed on the other man's face.

“It would be different this time,” Lan Xichen replied, lowering his gaze, though he could not hide the slight trembling in his voice. “I know I misjudged A-Yao. Your brother was right, and I was wrong. But when it comes to you, da-ge and I have always been of a same mind. If I cannot trust you to save him, there isn't a person in the world I can trust.”

That might have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said about Nie Huaisang.

It might also be the most overestimated he'd ever been in his life. Because while he would very gladly do almost anything to save his brother, as long as if didn't involved getting dirty, or physical effort, or indeed efforts of any sort at all... well, the fact still remained that Nie Huaisang had no cultivation to speak of, no friends to rely on, and no useful skill of any sorts.

And yet knowing all this, Nie Huaisang still found himself sitting down on the dirt next to that damn guqin. He closed his fan, stretched his fingers, and tried to recall one of the few melodies he'd ever bothered to learn before he'd decided that music was too much work. It had been so long, though, and instead his mind provided him with the only piece of music that had been on his mind in recent weeks.

It took a dozen notes at most for Lan Xichen to realise what Nie Huaisang had chosen to play. He stiffened and went pale, but did not order Nie Huaisang to stop. On the contrary he listened attentively through the whole piece, though at one point Nie Huaisang must have made some great mistake because Lan Xichen frowned and couldn't refrain a grimace of distaste. It only lasted a short while though, after which his expression turned more neutral again until Nie Huaisang was done playing.

“As I've said, I have very little skill,” Nie Huaisang said, putting his hands on his knees. “You'll need another...”

“I assume you've never seen the score of Cleansing?” Lan Xichen asked.

“No. San-ge was always worried about me dirtying it. It made me real mad, too! I'm only a little clumsy!”

“So you just played it by ear?” Lan Xichen insisted. “I don't recall that I ever played it in your presence though.”

Nie Huaisang shook his head.

“I spied on them,” he confessed. “San-ge didn't want for me to hear him play it because he said it might have a bad effect on me, seeing as I didn't need it. But I was curious. And bored. And I don't like being told what to do.”

To his disappointment, Lan Xichen didn't smile at that little joke, and only grew more serious.

“And you played it exactly as he did?”

“As close to it as I can do with my skill. Do you... do think that was the wrong version of the song?”

“A whole passage is different,” Lan Xichen confirmed. “It's... Huaisang, are you well?”

Nie Huaisang shook his head. He felt like screaming, and he felt like crying.

That time he'd spied on Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue to hear Cleansing had been the very first time Jin Guangyao played the song alone for their brother. If Cleansing had already been altered back then, it meant...

Somehow, Nie Huaisang had convinced himself that the attempt on his brother's life had just been that one bad healing session. Nie Huaisang had been so fond of Jin Guangyao before this whole business, he hadn't wanted to imagine the other man could be cruel. Ruthless, yes, but he was a Jin after all so it was to be expected, and every sect engaged in a little murder here and there. But this hadn't just been murder. It had been torture. A healing song modified until it became painful to whoever heard it, until it drove them to madness, to no longer knowing friend from foe.

Suddenly, Nie Huaisang found himself a little more willing to believe some rumours he'd heard, about Jin Guangyao having served Wen Ruohan as the chief inventor of his torture playground. He'd always dismissed it as impossible, since Jin Guangyao was so sweet and soft spoken. But it took a certain kind of mind to do what Jin Guangyao had done to Nie Mingjue.

“I'm going to kill him,” Nie Huaisang hissed.

“I don't think da-ge would want for you to become a murderer,” Lan Xichen replied, ever practical and sensible.

He would have been right, once. Nie Mingjue wanted for his little brother to be stronger so he could protect himself, he'd never aimed to turn Nie Huaisang into a killer.

Now, though, nobody really knew what Nie Mingjue wanted, himself least of all.

“We'll see in time how to ensure those who harmed da-ge pay for what they've done,” Lan Xichen promised, leaning toward Nie Huaisang to put one hand on his shoulder. It felt comforting, more than it had any right to do. “For now, let's focus on healing da-ge,” Lan Xichen continued. “I was right to suspect you're a better musician than you said. I think you really can do this, with a little work. I'm going to leave that guqin with you so you can practice, and next time we meet I'll bring you the score for Cleansing so you may learn to play the true song. That will leave us only with the problem of how to get da-ge to listen to it but... I'm sure you'll find something. You've always been so good at getting him to do what you want.”

That was asking too much, Nie Huaisang thought. He was only himself. Even if he learned the score, his cultivation was too low, his brother's patience too thin. It would surely go very wrong, the way everything kept going wrong lately.

If it had been anyone else telling him he could save his brother, Nie Huaisang would have laughed to their face, or suspected them of manipulation. But Lan Xichen was the sort of person who would say nothing to avoid saying something he didn't believe in, or else he would quietly change the subject, or ask for another person's opinion, or...

Lan Xichen, as far as Nie Huaisang knew, just didn't lie.

Meaning he had to really think Nie Huaisang could do this. That he could master the guqin in just a few weeks, and also master a song that Lan Xichen himself has often described as particularly complex.

It was ridiculous, and Nie Huaisang was too realistic to have any faith in himself, but...

But perhaps it would be enough that Lan Xichen believed in him.

It made him want to make an effort to try, at least.

[parvuls]

fic: kintsugi

summary: The day after brunch at Jerry's, Jack and Shitty have a raw, much-needed conversation over the phone. Some issues need to be addressed before they can head down the road to patching things up.

word count: 6k

tags: year 3, post-comic 3.12, phone calls, friendship, canon compliant, apologies, introspection

notes: based on the prompt ‘providence + family’ by @atlasthemayor.

read on ao3

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Jack’s stomach churns strangely when he sees Shitty’s name flash on his caller ID.

It’s a disconcerting feeling, a slight jolt and twinge in his gut, both reminiscent of when anxiety coils low inside him and distinctive in some way. It makes Jack frown and set his heated dinner aside on the coffee table with the hand not holding the buzzing phone. He’s not sure he ever had this foreign reaction to Shitty calling him before, so after a brief moment of puzzlement he decides to write it off as a side effect of the exhaustion weighing him down.

The phone vibrates once more in his palm before Jack slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call. “Hey, man,” he greets, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can pick his food up again. Shitty won’t mind the sound of his chewing, probably. “Staying up late to study?”

It’s coming up to half past eleven on Saturday night. Jack dragged himself through the front door and into the dark apartment at around ten forty-five, his muscles sore and his body beat from over twenty minutes of ice time. He dumped his gear bag in the entryway next to his shoes and headed straight into the kitchen without flicking any of the lights on, shoved one of his frozen meal plan boxes of grilled chicken and brown rice into the microwave without pausing.

The yellow glow of the microwave was the sole source of light in the room as Jack strapped an ice pack to his shoulder, still aching from Ericsson’s high-stick, stuck Bitty’s handwritten PB&J note on the fridge, and waited. The only thing he really wanted to do was fall face-first into his bed, text Bitty that he was home, maybe break down the game over the phone if Bitty wasn’t too busy -- but his regimen had taken precedence. He knew he needed to put in some calories and take care of his pain if he wanted to get up for his six a.m. run. By the time his phone started ringing, Jack was mechanically chewing on his food in the living room. His couch was more comfortable than a dining chair, plush upholstery engulfing his tired limbs, and it only distantly occurred to him that there was something sad about eating dinner alone in the dark.

Shitty’s call, when it came, was unexpected.

“Hate to tell you this, but eleven thirty is not late," Shitty replies, the familiar timbre of his voice tinny due to cell reception. It's an effect Jack is closely acquainted with after months of daily phone calls with Bitty, so he knows that's not all there is to it when he notices something else amiss about Shitty’s voice; like the rhythm of his speech is slightly off. He registers it as abnormal, but before he can figure out if he wants to ask about it Shitty carries on talking. “How’s everything going for ya?”

“Okay,” Jack answers plainly, piling rice onto his fork. He doesn't have the energy to think of anything more gripping than the truth. “Eating post-game dinner.”

Shitty pauses on the other side of the line, makes the creases in Jack’s forehead deepen. Something feels weird, but Jack doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it if nothing is really wrong. Sometimes people act in ways that confuse him for any number of reasons, and he’s not always good at telling them apart.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw,” Shitty says, clearing his throat quietly. “The Red Wings. Great game, brah. Your shoulder doin’ okay?”

Jack’s mouth slows down his chewing on instinct, and he swallows the rice with difficulty. Shitty never just tells Jack great game. Shitty talks about hockey like he’s the narrator in a porn film, with an enthusiasm unmatched by anyone Jack has ever met. Shitty once sang Jack’s praises for half an hour after a game against UND in which Samwell lost 2-0. That, combined with his tone -- something isn’t quite right, Jack thinks. He's more confident in that observation now, but his brain feels slower than usual and he’s too tired to connect any dots.

“Euh, yeah. I’ll be alright. Really have to shake it off and make sure I’m all there on Monday night, eh? We’ve had a good streak, but it’s always about how we play the next game. We’re getting better as a group.”

Jack’s tongue slips into hockey speak naturally before he can do anything to stop it, but instead of chirp him, Shitty makes a vague, throaty noise and doesn’t comment. “Yeah, I get what you mean. You and Mashkov really seem to hit it off out there, heh. Uh, listen -- I know you had to drive back for your practice, but. We didn’t really get the chance to talk much yesterday, and I guess…” Shitty pauses again, and Jack lowers the box to rest against his knee, apprehensive. “Well. D’ya have a moment? Because I’d really fuckin’ like to apologize for some shit.”

Jack’s hand clenches convulsively around his fork, a piece of chicken breast sliding off the tines and falling back into the box with a dull noise.

The early morning and then noon hours of Friday were an emotional blur. From the anxiety spike when Jack stepped off the plane to the car ride on the flooded highway; from the sleep-deprived, tearful conversation in Bitty's narrow bed to the cathartic brunch at Jerry’s with their friends. Jack drove straight home after his nap and stepped out of the car back in Providence to find his phone overflowing with chirping text messages. The chirps haven’t really died down over the weekend, but Jack doesn’t mind them, and he doesn’t think Bitty does either; it feels good to have a subject that’s been burdening them both treated lightheartedly. Trusting their friends with this secret isn't as heavy on Jack's shoulder as he feared it might be.

Shitty is the only one who hasn’t written much in the group chat. He and Jack talked briefly on the lawn outside the Haus after the six of them had returned from brunch, and then they resorted to roughhousing when the mood got too somber. Jack hoped that it’d be enough to put everything behind them, but if he pushes himself to think it through, a part of him has known that this conversation was coming. It wasn’t like Shitty to let things go so easily.

Jack's glad that Shitty can't see his face right now, because he can feel himself grimacing. He hopes his brief silence hasn’t been too revealing. “Shits -- it’s cool, yeah? We’re cool.”

“I don’t think we are, actually,” Shitty argues. His voice is growing strained. “You don’t have to talk, even --”

“C’mon, man, there’s really not much to say. Everything is good now --”

“Jack,” Shitty cuts him off, and the tone of his voice shuts Jack right up. Shitty can get wrapped up in things, can lose himself in long tirades about rights and wrongs and justice, but this tone sounds different than it has through the hundreds of rants Jack has been witness to. Shitty sounds dead serious. Jack blinks, and realizes: this isn’t Shitty being his normal self. He’s genuinely torn up about this. “Just -- will ya let me…? Please.”

“I…” Jack starts, but he doesn’t really know what he wants to say. He’s never been skilled at these kinds of conversations, and the odd feeling he got when he saw Shitty’s name on his screen squeezes even tighter than before, making him feel slightly nauseated.

“It’s -- I --. Jack, what I said in front of everyone during the home opening kegster… and all the other times I... That was some fucked up shit. I fucked up real bad, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jack tries again, but this time the words feel so wrong in his mouth that he has difficulty shaping his tongue around them. It tastes like an outright lie, although he wasn’t aware he was even lying at all.

Jack hadn’t recognized the churning in his gut until now, but Shitty’s steadfast apology intensifies the feeling and dredges up what Jack has clearly failed to notice. He wants to tell Shitty that there’s no need to apologize, but apparently that’s just not true; it’s only now that he realizes the sharp response he had to Shitty’s call is bitterness. Jack’s feelings actually were hurt by Shitty. Maybe he should be startled by discovering wounded feelings he wasn’t cognizant of for over a month, but if this past summer has taught Jack anything, it’s that sometimes he manages to overlook the most substantial of things.

“-- and it’s not enough to be chill about it now,” Jack blinks out of his thoughts and tunes back into Shitty’s distressed train of words, coming chopped and fast through the ear speaker. “I should’ve -- before, too, I should’ve created a safe enough fuckin’ environment --”

“You were always talking to us about creating safe environments, Shitty,” Jack interrupts him. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, and he puts his fork in the box and the box back on the coffee table to free his hands. He’s still making sense of his own mental state, and he knows that whatever is going to come stumbling out of his mouth will be barely coherent at best. “It’s not -- it was just that -- you’re always saying it’s important, and then, câlice… It was hard enough, hiding, and then with you as well --.”

Everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty. Jack remembers how in sophomore year Shitty marched into the Haus, ecstatic about the five different people who had come out to him that same week, babbling about how great it was and how different Samwell was to Andover. He mentioned sexuality labels Jack had never even heard of, had accepted so effortlessly those borderline strangers who had trusted him with their identities. Shitty has always been the most open-minded person Jack knows, the one to talk endlessly about the inherent toxicity of heteronormativity and to lecture the team about never labeling others without their consent.

Jack’s not always good at pinpointing the root of his own feelings, but the moment he thinks of that thrilled look on Shitty’s face almost three years before, he knows, like a lightbulb going off, why he was hurt. Because it seemed like everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty -- except Jack. Like Jack wasn’t queer enough to warrant the same respectful treatment. Like he wasn’t really allowed to be queer at all. Jack had never felt particularly close to his sexuality, but when even Shitty assumed so assuredly that he couldn’t be anything but straight, it stung. He just hasn’t registered it until now.

There’s a split second of tense silence, and then Shitty says, “I didn’t even know you were having a hard time, brah,” the pace of his speech slowed down.

Jack’s eyebrows draw together. His right hand, absentmindedly, pinches the fabric of his suit pants and rubs the smooth texture between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t -- what does that mean? It’s not like you asked.”

Shitty’s breath comes out in a harsh exhale, crackles in Jack’s ears. Jack can hear springs squeaking and sheets ruffling, the sounds of Shitty dropping heavily onto his bed. “Brah. How was I supposed to ask? You never pick up the damn phone anymore. Shit, man, I know fuck all about your life lately."

The fabric of Jack’s pants stretches in the tight grip of his fingers as he blinks, takes in Shitty’s accusation, and realizes he’s right all in the space of two and a half seconds. He can recall a few missed calls that he never got around to returning, but it didn’t seem so important at the time. He was, and still is, in the midst of his first NHL season, trying so hard not to get so lost in hockey and his own worries that he drowns in it and forgets to be a good boyfriend to Bitty.

It never occurred to him that he was investing so much effort into being a good boyfriend to Bitty that he wound up forgetting to be a good friend to everyone else. He knew Shitty and he weren’t talking as often, that things between them haven’t been great lately, but the truth is he had so many other things to worry about that he let it drift to the margins of his mind.

Jack lets go of his pants, rubs his palm down his thigh to smooth the creases away. His momentary bout of anger deserts him with the release of a slow, purposeful exhale. "You’re right. I’m sorry."

"No, no, shit,” Shitty says immediately, switching back from resigned to guilt-ridden in the matter of nanoseconds. “Don’t -- damn it, don’t apologize, oh shit, I’m victim blaming aren’t I, I totally didn’t mean to put this on you --"

"Shitty --"

There’s the sound of bed springs creaking again and then loud footsteps hitting a floor, which Jack assumes are the background sounds of Shitty rushing up from his bed to pace the length of his room. He’s seen Shitty do it across his small room in the Haus countless times, and it feels strange now, having it happen forty miles away. "It’s just, you know, I tried and you didn’t pick up and I get it, fuck do I get it, remember how in freshman year you forgot to talk to anyone for like a week during the preseason stress?"

Jack cracks a tiny, shaky smile that he knows won’t make it into his voice. His first few months at Samwell were a horrible time, fraught with loneliness and frequent panic attacks, too absorbed in thoughts of the path he was supposed to take to function in the path he ended up taking. His therapist helped with that, later, but before that there was Shitty. Determined to be Jack’s friend for no good reason at all. "Yeah. And you broke into my dorm room to make sure I wasn’t dead."

"So it wasn’t like I was offended you didn’t pick up or some bull,” Shitty hurries to finish, “I know you, I get it --"

But that’s wrong, Jack thinks, frowning deeply. Surely, Shitty must know that. "Shitty."

"What? No, seriously. It’s not the first time it happened, and with the pressure of playing in the league and all, I totally get it -- it’s just --"

"You’re allowed to be offended, Shits." Jack says quietly. His hand reaches up to curl around the phone and tug it away from the crook of his shoulder, but his muscles remain tense even when his shoulder drops down. His other hand is still fisted on top of his thigh and the purple shadows cast by the faint stars outside the windows heighten the grooves of his veins. "I know I -- I know it can get difficult -- with me --"

"No," Shitty interrupts, sounding even more emotional than before, a penitent snowball that keeps on rolling down the hill. Shitty’s capable of rolling on forever, if he thinks something is truly wrong. "No no no, Jack, I didn’t mean --"

"Shut up, Shitty." Jack says firmly. He preserves, reminding himself forcefully that the sentiment he wants to establish is too important to be derailed by Shitty’s atonement. His hands have begun to shake slightly, but he needs to get it out. "I know I’m worthy of love and friendship and all the crap you were about to say. I’m just saying --. You’re allowed to be hurt even if it isn’t new behavior. Just because I -- my anxiety -- y’know. If it hurts you, you’re allowed to be hurt."

The other side of the line goes quiet for a long moment, not even the sound of breathing coming through. Jack closes his eyes, counts to ten, tells himself that it’s Shitty and that the two of them are going to figure it out. Fighting with Shitty has always been mentally hard on Jack, has always felt like shaking the only foundation Jack had to stand on. It didn’t happen often, but Jack tries to remind himself that whenever it did they always came out intact on the other side. Arguing was a healthy way to understand your needs and the needs of the other person, his therapist told him.

When Shitty speaks, he sounds awed. "Christ on a cracker, man. That was fuckin’ wise. That Bits’ influence on you?"

Jack pauses to consider it seriously, taking time to recompose his brain. Being with Bitty -- it has taught him so much, about his own feelings and others' and how to put them into words, the importance of open communication. He told Shitty that the previous day after Jerry's -- feelings could easily not occur to him, even if he felt them very strongly. He coexisted with them without acknowledging their existence a lot of the time, and this phone call is only one example of it. Being with Bitty, having to be aware and give name and give value to his own feelings to make things work between them, has changed the way he interacted with his emotions. Made him understand himself better. He’s not at all sure he would’ve been capable of articulating himself in a conversation like this if not for the progress Bitty and he have made together.

But being aware of his worth as a person, and learning that his disorder didn’t define him but shouldn’t be brushed aside either, that wasn’t Bitty. “No, Shits. That’s your influence on me.”

This silence is even longer than the one before it, and then it’s broken by muffled sniffles on the other side. Jack's heart leaps, panic building in his chest -- but then Shitty says, throat choked up, “I thought -- fuck, Jack, this is gonna sound so motherfucking stupid. But I thought you didn’t, y’know. Need me anymore. I know this is on me too, I’m barely keeping my head above water here and the whole -- fuckin’ Harvard situation, it’s not… but each day we didn't talk and I saw your game scores, or I would see those Falcs vids… it looks like you have this spankin’ fuckin’ brand new life that I know shit about. And you’ve got Mashkov, and St. Martin, and…”

Jack can’t find adequate words for a long moment, and once he opens his mouth he’s surprised to hear his voice is thick, surprised to feel hot tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “Shitty. Tater is great. And Marty is great, and -- Thirdy, and all of them. But.”

None of them are you, he wants to say, but that sounds too dumb to utter out loud. That’s not how Shitty and he talk to each other, or at least, it’s not how Jack talks to Shitty. Shitty is good at phrasing his feelings in ways Jack can handle, but Jack can’t ever make the right words come out of his mouth.

There’s another pause, his mind blanking, and then he says, “Tater didn’t make me sign a friendship contract.”

Shitty snorts, but it isn’t a happy sound. “Jacko --”

“No. Shits --. Tater didn’t make the effort to be my friend even when I was doing everything I could to push him away. He didn’t drag my ass to the Haus my freshman year after I hadn't talked to anyone but faculty in two weeks. He didn’t argue with Bergey until we were banked together on every roadie and was heartbroken when no one spread rumors about us hooking up.”

That shot goes wide. “Oh fuckity fuck, Jack, I’m a fucking dickhead --”

“Bordel de merde, Shitty, will you fucking listen?” Jack rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose, feels his skin crease between his brows. “Tater didn’t make me go to Gender in Warfare in Early 20th Century America because he knew it’d end up one of my favorite classes, or learnt my story about the fire extinguisher and the football team by heart, or -- or have been defending me behind my back since the first week he knew me. Tater’s great. I’m -- you know, uh, thankful, for having people on the Falcs. I didn’t think it could be -- after the guys at Samwell, no team would ever be the same.”

“Yeah,” Shitty says, sadly, in the tone of someone who knows exactly what Jack means.

Jack’s throat bobs when he swallows, chest aching. “And they’re great. But Tater -- or Marty, or any of them -- they’re not...”

None of them are you, Jack wants Shitty to hear, gripping his pants in his hand again to balance himself. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that would make Shitty hear him. None of them could ever be you.

There’s once again silence between them, only interrupted by Shitty’s quiet sniffles and the erratic beating of Jack’s heart. His phone is too warm on his ear, clammy from sweat smearing over the screen, but he can’t bring himself to put Shitty on speaker. It feels like they’re too far apart to have this conversation already, like Shitty should be sitting here on the couch next to Jack in flimsy underwear like he was every time they needed to talk like this over the past four years.

After a long moment, Shitty makes an ambiguous rasping noise and admits, “I was jealous.”

Jack winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Yeah, I mean, apology accepted, whatever, just. I was jealous they got to be there for you every day, really be there in the moments I used to live through with you that I now know zilch about. I was used to that being me.” He then adds, much more grimly, “Except apparently I sucked ass at being there for you at all when it counted.”

Jack sighs. They veered off topic to talk about something Jack considers more important, but now they were back to that and he knows in the pit of his stomach that they, both of them, won’t be able to move on until they talk this through. This is a conversation they need to have, even if it would be easier for Jack to not have it at all. “Shitty. I need to tell you something.”

The thing about Shitty is that he has faults like the rest of them, but Jack has always known that he’d drop anything if Jack needed him. He knows because it goes unconditionally both ways. Shitty’s voice goes immediately even and he wastes no time before saying, “I'm listening.”

Jack swallows. It feels -- heavy, on his breastbones. It didn’t before, it didn’t at Jerry's. He doesn’t remember this weight from years ago, when he first talked about it with his parents, and then -- later, too much later -- with his therapist. His chest was so laden with other concerns then that there was no room for anything more, and this burden was only ever an afterthought. At Jerry's he was thinking of Bitty, of Bitty’s happiness and Jack's own happiness with him, and the necessity of the action for their joint happiness. It didn’t leave any space for this weight.

Now he can feel the weight. It’s stupid. Shitty already knows, and besides, it’s Shitty. Jack knows Shitty so well that he can practically predict the exact words he will use, and even if he couldn’t, he knows Shitty would never turn him away. Yet his chest feels tight, like he’s holding in all of his air, and his fingers are again shaking against his thigh. “Shitty, I'm dating Bittle.”

Shitty makes a baffled sound, clearly not expecting this choice of confession. “I -- yeah, dude, I know.”

“I’m dating Bittle,” Jack reiterates determinedly, eager to get it over with. “He’s a guy.”

Shitty goes quiet for a moment, and then he says, voice low, “Okay.”

Jack wasn’t sure he was going to say it, but now that they’re here, this is something he wants Shitty to know. “He’s not the first guy I’ve been with.”

Shitty’s sharp intake of breath at this is audible even over the phone, but other than that he doesn’t react outwardly. Jack's shaking hand lifts up to rub over his chest while he waits for Shitty to say something, and Shitty doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

That’s almost exactly the reaction Jack expected to hear, but for some reason he doesn’t feel settled. “It never came up before.”

“That’s okay, buddy,” Shitty reassures him. Jack’s not sure what Shitty is thinking, if he’s thinking anything at all. This probably isn’t as big a deal to him as it feels like to Jack.

Jack frowns down at the shadows of his socked feet in the dark, thinks it over, and then corrects, “No, actually -- no. It never came up with anyone else. But I did think of telling you. More than once. You were the only one… but I had reasons not to. Or, I thought I did.”

“That’s still cool, brah,” Shitty hurries to interrupt. “You don’t have to --”

“No, because,” Jack sighs, trails off midsentence. He doesn’t want Shitty to make this easy for him, to allow Jack to take the exit he’s being offered. He knows they could stop the discussion right there and Shitty would never say a thing, but he doesn’t want this to hang over their friendship for the rest of time, and he knows that it could if he doesn’t force himself to dig deeper. “Because when you assumed that if I had someone it must’ve been a girlfriend, it hurt. I didn’t realize before -- I thought I was upset because Bitty was hurt, and I hurt him even more with my reaction, and it mattered more at the time. But it hurt. And that’s not entirely fair to you, because you had no reason to think otherwise. Because I didn’t tell you.”

There’s more rustling in the background, and Shitty talks over him before the last word is out of his mouth. “Jack, no, you’re under no obligation to disclose your identity to anyone and it doesn’t give them any right to assume -- I assumed and it was so fucking wrong --”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, because it was. He’s not trying to argue that it wasn’t. Shitty was wrong, but that’s not the point Jack is trying to make.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Shitty sounds contrite, and Jack can almost imagine the look on his face now. The small wrinkle in his forehead, the downward slope of his mustache, the sharp angle of his jaw. Shitty always looks older when he feels guilty about something. “So fuckin’ sorry.”

“That’s okay, man. Eh. Well, it's not, but it's forgiven.” And it is, Jack knows. He’s already forgiven Shitty, would have to try so hard not to forgive Shitty. They’ve hurt each other in the past and they’ll most likely hurt each other again in the future, but it’s never done intentionally. Shitty’s friendship is worth all of this crap and always has.

“I guess I just... “ Shitty lowers his voice, and Jack has to press the phone harder into his ear to hear him. “Fuck, I don’t want to excuse my actions, this does not in any way justify the shit I said. But I guess, in my mind, even though I know you should never assume about anyone, I did think that because it’s you… that you’d tell me. If there was ever anything to tell.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says this time. He’s not sure Shitty knows this, but this is what he was trying to get to before. What Shitty is saying is reasonable even if it isn’t ideal.

“Fuck no. What the fucking fuck are you apologizing for, you idiot --”

“I’m not apologizing for not telling you, Shits,” Jack stops him before it becomes another rant. He’s growing tired of using so many words at once, feeling the toll of the unexpected emotional turmoil he’s dragging his overworked body through. “I know what you said was wrong, and I know I didn’t have to tell you. I’m saying I’m sorry if you were hurt by it. And I'm apologizing if it made you feel like I didn't trust you, or. Or some shit.”

Another pause follows Jack’s words, and he has to stifle the urge to collapse sideways into the couch and shove his face into a cushion until everything goes away. This conversation, as necessary as it is, doesn’t come naturally to either of them. They’ve been talking about their feelings for too long now and it’s starting to get awkward and overwhelming.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t super touched by your previous comment,” Shitty says, suddenly. “Because stereotypical masculinity is complete bullshit and I’m not ashamed to admit I teared the fuck up. But Jack -- Bitty has done some serious work on you. Or, like, you know, healthy relationships and all, you two worked on yourselves with each other to be better and all that, but. Man, I don’t think that’s a distinction you would’ve made six months ago.”

Jack considers it. The idea of someone’s hurt being valid even if the reason for it didn’t make sense probably isn’t a concept he would’ve been able to grasp, or at least would not have paid much thought to. Looking back, he was probably hurt dozens of times by little comments in the Haus, or things he heard around campus, or moments of feeling left out by his team; but when the reason for his hurt wasn’t completely logical it was harder for him to allow himself that pain. He would usually distract himself from it, instead. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“But can I just say again -- I'm so fucking sorry for being a heteronormative jackass. I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for hurting Bits, I’m sorry for --”

Esti de câlice de tabarnak. Jack drops his face into his palm and sighs over the string of Shitty’s rapidly escalating apologies. Jack is fully aware that Shitty is just going to apologize until they’re both old and gray if Jack doesn’t stop him. “Shitty, can you knock it?”

Shitty hesitates, but the flood of his words stops. “I miss you,” is what he says eventually.

Jack drops his hand down, leans his weight on his elbows and blinks at the dark room. Shitty used to tell him that all of the time. When they were apart on school breaks; when they were separated on roadies; when Jack had two lectures and a senior workshop on Wednesday nights and Shitty wouldn’t see him for several consecutive hours. Shitty’s affection was always abundant and inescapable, and Jack didn't know it was something he was lacking until he finally hears it. “I miss you, too, man.”

Shitty lets the gravity of it, the seriousness in Jack's voice settle between them, the earnestness he wouldn’t usually hand over easily when they were back at school. And then he says, “It’s hard as fuck, man. It’s hard to admit that it’s hard, too. It’s hard to see Lards’ pics from kegsters I can’t attend anymore, and it’s hard to find friends in this pretentious shithole full of pretensions dicks, and -- Harvard is fucking hard, Jack. And I hate being away from you guys, but I don’t wanna bring you down with my sad. You assholes are my goddamn family, there’s nothing that’s ever gonna replace that. It sucks knowing that I'm stuck here. I miss you so much it drives me fuckin’ insane.”

Jack knows, instantly and wholeheartedly, what Shitty is talking about. He’s living his dream and he loves the Falcs and he’s sincerely grateful for all of it even on his worst days. But sometimes stepping off the ice after a grueling practice and getting pictures of Bitty, laughing with Holster and Ransom on the ice at Faber -- it aches somewhere deep inside him. Sometimes he lies awake in foreign hotel rooms in foreign cities, and while most nights he longs for nothing more than Bitty’s presence, others he closes his eyes and wishes Shitty was there to crawl into his bed again. Sometimes he puts on his jersey before games and imagines the blue and yellow are red and white. His team from Samwell is his family, too, and sometimes missing them feels like missing an amputated limb.

“I wish we got to see each other more,” Jack squeezes out. His windpipe feels strangled, and for a moment he thinks that if he blinks too hard tears might well up again. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so tired his body is shutting down, or because he’s been holding on to more emotions than he previously thought. “I didn’t know --. I feel the same way, Shitty, but I didn’t know you felt like that. I’m sorry we didn’t really talk much lately.”

It wasn’t something Jack was consciously aware of, but he more or less assumed that if Shitty was ever struggling he would just reach out for help. Shitty was always the better one of the two of them at communicating his feelings, at saying when he needed something or was going through a rough time. It never occurred to Jack to reach out and ask because he always figured that Shitty would come to him first. It's a startling realization. He really isn’t as good a friend as Shitty deserves.

“‘S not your fault,” Shitty objects, even though in some ways it really is. But Shitty means it, Jack knows, despite the lingering hints of anxiety. Shitty wouldn’t say it if he didn’t honestly believe it wasn’t Jack’s fault.

“Maybe, but you should make time for the things that matter to you, right? I’ll try to be better about that. I wanna be there for you, too.”

Shitty sighs, and the tails of it turn into a breathy, weary laugh. “Fuck, Jacko, this is a fuckin’ sobfest. Shit, man. Yeah. I’ll try, too. We could Skype, even. You know I miss that mug of yours.”

Jack finally pulls the phone away from his ear, wipes the sweat tracks away and switches the call to speakerphone. His calendar app is full of cute little reminders Bitty leaves anonymously, like 06:30 work hard and have fun! or 11:11 someone is thinking of you. He’s developed a habit of checking his calendar often these past six months, counting down the days until he gets to see Bitty next. He’s sure it won’t be easy, especially with the progression of the Falconers’ season, but from now on he’ll have to make every effort to fit more people into his schedule. Bitty makes him happy, but he’s not the only one who does.

Jack scrolls through the events logged into his upcoming week. He’s got a game on Monday and one at home on Wednesday, and then Thursday is American Thanksgiving. Bitty is throwing together a whole meal for the Samwell team. He told Jack that he’s under no obligation to come if practice time doesn’t allow it, but... “Are you going to Hausgiving on Thursday?”

Shitty curses loudly. “Fuck, I fuckin’ wish, but I don’t know if that’s smart. I’ve got this fuckin’ test coming up. But I promised Lar-- uh --”

Jack smirks, even if it’s only to himself in an empty apartment. Lardo texted him after Jerry’s to let him know that the two of them will exchange deets privately like civilized bros, but Shitty still seems to be under the illusion that he’s fooling someone. Like his heart-eyes haven’t been obvious from space -- and Jack is painfully aware that if he noticed, that really says something. “Lardo, eh? Not getting out of that one.”

He can almost see Shitty’s answering furious blush from all those miles away. “Fuck you, Zimmermann, don’t make this about me. What I was sayin’ is, I wanna be there super freakin’ bad -- we all know I will gladly sell my right leg for Bitty’s cooking --”

“And for Lardo’s company,” Jack chirps, incredibly satisfied with this turn of conversation.

“I will fuck you right up, don’t you think I won’t!” Shitty threatens emptily, even though Jack takes him down every single time. “Seriously. Your bro becomes a pro athlete and suddenly he thinks he’s a goddamn comedian. Anyway. For Bitty’s cooking, I will make an effort. You got team stuff?”

“No,” Jack says with finality, swiping his calendar closed. He always feels better when things are put into action. “I think I’m going.”

“For Bitty?” Shitty asks, most likely trying to chirp Jack back.

“Well. Yes,” Jack says, perfectly honest. He’s not in any way ashamed of how much he wants to be near Bitty all of the time. He doesn’t think he can remember ever being less ashamed of anything in his life. “But also for you. Think you can meet me there?”

Shitty’s quiet. And then he says, “For my best friend? I’ll meet you halfway across the universe, Jackabelle.”

After the two of them hang up the call, Jack doesn’t move, his eyes fixed blindly in the direction of the windows across the room. His food is growing cold on the coffee table, but Jack thinks that at this point he might genuinely be too tired to eat. Whatever little energy he had left after the game was spent on this conversation with Shitty. He doesn’t regret it; they needed to say all of those things. Jack needed to hear all of those things, both so he could forgive Shitty for something he didn’t know he was holding onto, and so he could work on being a more considerate friend.

The game plan is solid, though, Jack decides. Thanksgiving dinner at the Haus will bring the opportunity to be completely honest with his friends after months of hiding a big aspect of his life from them. And it’d be fun, too. Ransom would put together actual charts for the seating arrangement, and Holster would draw everyone into a betting pool on the football game results, and Bitty would inevitably prepare insane amounts of food using the frogs as his sous chefs. He would probably insist that they’d hold hands around the table and say one thing each of them wants to give thanks for, as well.

Jack doesn’t mind American Thanksgiving, but he’s never really seen the point of that ritual. He’s known for a long time now what he's truly grateful for.

[zillennial97]

Friends to Lovers | Larry Fanfic Recs

Hiding Place by alivingfire | 365k | Explicit

Louis never wanted a soulmate, didn’t really care for the whole Bonding thing at all, really. Enter Harry Styles, who’s wanted to be Bonded for as long as he could remember. With one fateful meeting in an X Factor bathroom, Louis gets a dagger on his arm and the realization that just because Harry is his soulmate doesn’t mean it’s mutual.

From the X Factor house to Madison Square Garden, from the Fountain Studios stage to stadiums across the world, Louis has to learn to love without losing himself completely, because someday his best friend will Bond to someone and replace Louis as the center of his universe. Meanwhile, Harry begins to think that maybe fate doesn’t actually know what it’s doing after all, because his other half has clearly been right in front of him the whole time. All he has to do now is convince Louis to give them a chance.

Or, the canon compliant Harry and Louis love story from the very beginning, where the only difference is that the love between them is literally written on their skin, and there’s only so much they can hide.

And Then a Bit by infinitelymint | 158k | Explicit

“We’d like to give the fans what they want.” Magee states, placing his hand on the table in front of him and leaning forward. “We want to give them Larry Stylinson.”

Or, take a parallel universe where Louis and Harry were never together, mix in a two year hiatus and an impending comeback, pour in a dash of lost fans, two tablespoons of strong friendship and a Modest! employee with a good idea. Add a squeeze of pretending to be a couple, lots of kisses and a tattoo or two. Stir. Serve: the mother of all publicity stunts.

(aka Harry and Louis fake a relationship for publicity. Eventually it becomes a lot less fake and a lot more real.)

Wild Love by purpledaisy | 130k | Explicit

“Good,” Julia says, clearly pleased to have them both uncomfortable and unable to look at each other. “Now, I only have one more question before you can go. What are you planning to do when this experiment ruins your friendship?”

“We said we’d stay friends no matter what,” Harry says smoothly, his chin lifting in defense.

“That was our one thing going into it,” Louis agrees. “Stay friends no matter what.”

Julia raises a perfectly manicured brow, “That’s all fine and good. But I hope you realize your emotions aren’t going to realize this is an experiment in the end. If one of you falls for the other and finds out those feelings are not reciprocated, you’re not going to be able to laugh it off as a social experiment. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this, I’m just hoping you’ve considered all of the possible outcomes.”

- AU: Two best friends try to date each other for forty days. It's supposed to be fun until emotions make it complicated.

California Sold by isthatyoularry | 123k | Mature

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

Tired Tired Sea by MediaWhore | 113k | Mature

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

Like a Bullet in the Dark by Vurdoc | 99k | Explicit

Prince Harold Edward Styles Lancaster is second in line to the throne of Great Britain. He is also your average Uni student- or he tries to be, anyway.

With a promise from the press (and his father) that they'll leave him alone for four years, he sets out to be a student at Cambridge, when he meets his very normal, very working class, very handsome suite-mate, Louis Tomlinson.

Louis makes Harry feel more like a person than he ever has before, which might cause some issues later on- 'cause Harry has a secret that he's only told his sister Gemma about.

Little does he know though, that Louis has some secrets of his own.

A Will & Kate Au- with a twist.

Christmas-ing With You by dolce_piccante | 65k | Mature

Two writers from Loving Heart Television, the premiere network for holiday romance films, find that, sometimes, love is not only in their works of fiction.

Faking It by TheCellarDoor | 46k | Mature

A uni AU in which Louis has been Harry’s best friend since he offered him cubed fruit on the playground, and they spend more time cuddling in their dorm beds than they do apart, but it’s not like that. Or is it?

Aka Harry pretends to date his best friend to escape unwanted attention from a too insistent classmate and hopes it won’t blow up in his face. Featuring embarrassing dildo accidents, awkward boners, longing, first times, late night conversations, emotional discoveries and Niall as the exasperated friend with bad advice.

if the sun don't shine by falsegoodnight | 36k | Explicit

Louis finds himself struck frozen, fingers stuck in place where he’s flattened them against the cold railing. It takes every bit of his remaining strength to pull them away, sliding them under his shirt and pressing them to his stomach to leech some of the warmth. He hardly pays attention to the bite of the wind and air on his shivering body. He can only pay attention to the music.

The music that is undoubtedly new to Louis’ ears, yet listening to it is the most familiar thing Louis has ever experienced. An inexplicable rush of emotions flood his mind and body, rendering him speechless and hollow. It’s a call of loneliness. It rings of everything Louis’ been feeling.

And the pure yearning - the intense longing for something and someone - tears through straight to Louis’ heart. The desperation feels all too intimate, all too real. It makes Louis think of what he yearns for more than anything. It makes him think of his soulmate.

-

In a world where you meet your soulmates in dreams, Louis has spent the last three years going to bed hoping to finally meet his, only to end up disappointed time and time again. It all changes with a violin.

From the Start by allwaswell16 | 32k | Explicit

Louis has no idea that one act of kindness will cause his life to spiral out of control. But that's what happens when his new friend fake proposes to him and a video of it goes viral.

Barefoot in Blue Jeans by indiaalphawhiskey | 24k | Explicit

AU. Louis Tomlinson is trying desperately hard not to fall for his son’s au pair, but he can’t, for the life of him, remember why.

475. The hope that this fear is unfounded.

In Dreams by dolce_piccante | 23k | Mature

AU. When Harry moves to a new city, his new flat come with a number of sweet, anonymous gifts and surprises that brighten his days. Could it be a friendly ghost? Another friendly presence in his new building is his tattooed neighbor, Louis, who seems determined to put a smile back on his face.

You're Writing Verses About Me by Rearviewdreamer | 23k | Teen And Up Audiences

Everybody knows that Louis has never been one for serious boyfriends. His reputation around campus precedes him, which is why he doesn't think twice before proudly telling his mother about his new and completely fabricated relationship with his oddly quiet and completely

And I Will Hold On To You by darkmarkburning, staybeautiful | 23k | Mature

“I can’t believe my best friend is about to be Prime Minister of Canada,” Harry whispered in his ear, his arms tight around Louis’ shoulders. “Who decided it was a good idea to let some brash kid from Doncaster run a country?”

“I don’t know,” Louis laughed into his shoulder, “but if you promise not to tell them they’ve made a mistake I’ll give you a posh office.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Tomlinson.” Harry pulled away and smacked a kiss onto Louis’ cheek. “I’m proud of you, Lou, I can’t fucking believe it, but I’m proud of you.”

or Louis has just been elected Prime Minister of Canada and Harry is his best friend since childhood.

the way the storms blow by rbbsbb | 21k | Explicit

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

Autumn At My Window by TheCellarDoor | 20k | Mature

A canon-compliant AU, in which Harry and Louis are both in the band and have been sharing flats and hotel rooms for nearly five years, but never made the leap past 'friends who are too close for comfort'.

Featuring a lot of pining, Louis' addiction to Harry's scent, and a whole lot of sexual tension that might just snap loose when they decide to spend some time together all on their own.

The Sex Methods by Alice_Novelland | 19k | Explicit

Harry and Louis explore alternative methods aka sex methods to help each other out.

once bitten and twice shy by pinkcords | 19k | Mature

This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?”

Or, in a rush of bravery only senior year can bring, Harry confesses his feelings in a letter to his neighbor and best friend, Louis, only for the entire school to hear it and laugh him out of their small town in Wisconsin. Ten years later, Harry's a successful lawyer at Columbia Records, coming home for Christmas for the first time since he departed for college. He plans to work his way through the trip, eat his mom's cooking, and avoid everyone from his past for as long as possible. The only problem is best laid plans hardly ever go as intended.

Oblivious by Speechless | 19k | Explicit

"You say it's nothing serious after you've been obsessing over it for months," Liam observes, pausing their videogame. "But now you barely talk about it-" "You guys fucking ignore me whenever I try!" Louis shouts, bumping his shoulder against Liam's and hurting himself in the process. "You're postponing sex, when it's obvious that Luke's up for it at this point." Liam ignores him. "For some reason you've left Harry in the dark about it-" "What?!" Louis snaps, banging his controller against the coffee table. "I have not!" "And no matter how blatant it is, no matter how fucking ridiculous you both get when it comes to it-" "Shut your hole." Louis urges, pinching his thigh, as soon as Harry enters the room. "Shush."

* Where Louis gets a little crush on Luke and for some reason Harry starts acting weird *

searching for a sweet surrender (but this is not the end) by feelslikehxme | 18k | Teen And Up Audiences

Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, the two most loved coaches on The Voice UK known for their banter on the show and best friendship off. Louis’s determined to win and finally end Harry’s winning streak with Zayn Malik on his team, but Harry’s flirting and Liam Payne have different plans.

— Or an AU based off the Voice where Louis’s Adam, Harry’s Blake, Niall’s Shakira, Zayn and Liam have a cliche Romeo/Juliet love story and Louis’s too old for pathetic pining.

Can I bother you for a sex? by perfectdagger (sincerelyste) | 16k | Explicit

Reason #40 – Called/texted the wrong person, but he was into it anyway

“So, this isn’t really an invite for a sex, I see,” Louis spoke, not missing the chance. There was a teasing smile on his lips as he turned around to face Harry again after he had just closed the door.

Harry let out a laugh as he closed his eyes and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh for fuck's sake, Louis,” he looked back at Louis, “this will haunt me forever now, won’t it?”

Louis shrugged. “Not my fault some people manage to mistext and sext others at the same time.”

When Harry mistexts Louis, Louis realises that he wouldn't mind Harry bothering him with anything, especially not with sex.

You'll Be Home For Christmas by 2tiedships2 | 15k | Not Rated

“Honesty, Lou, just ask Harry for help.”

Louis remained silent as he continued to scowl at the Christmas calendar Niall had hung on their refrigerator.

“And be nice to my calendar filled with holiday cheer,” Niall instructed. “You’re going to burn a fucking hole in it from the way you’re glaring at the innocent thing. It’s not the calendar’s fault that your heat is starting so close to Christmas.”

You're The One That I Want by spacecakesandmilkshakes | 15k | Explicit

Harry had always been Louis' best friend and...well...his baby, until one day he realized that his baby was all grown up.

show you the stars in the daylight by bruisedhoney | 13k | Explicit

Louis laughed, the sound loud and borderline obnoxious. Harry winced. “Are you kidding, Haz? I wouldn’t even look twice at someone that couldn’t pick me up.”

And, well. That was new information to Harry. It’s not like Louis had ever mentioned to him that he was his type in any way, shape, or form. Harry shifted closer into the space between Louis’s legs, even more intrigued than before. “Why not?” he asked curiously, all pink lips and big curls. Louis smiled.

“Tiny, innocent, little Harold. Need someone that can pick me up, don’t I? I like being tossed around a little. You know, pinned down and made to take it. Lifted up like I’m nothing,” Louis said it all with a confident smile, his sharp little teeth tugging at his bottom lip as he locked eyes with the jock across the kitchen. “Think he might come over here. Move over. I don’t want him to think we’re together.”

Or, the one where Louis has a type and at sixteen and scrawy, it's definitely not his best friend's little brother Harry...ten years later, he changes his mind.

when everybody wants you by nightwideopen | 11k | Mature

Harry nearly faints on the spot. He got the job. He’s going to be on Saturday Night Live.

Three of Harry's dreams come true, then one of them falls apart.

or

the SNL au that no one asked for

Shape of You by Only_angel_28 | 11k | Explicit

“Seriously?” Surely, Harry must be joking. Louis arches a skeptical brow and snaps the waistband of Harry’s joggers playfully. “What exactly do you have down there, Styles? I know you’ve got four nipples, d’ya have a couple extra bollocks as well or summat?”

“No!” Harry shrieks, his voice bordering on shrill. “No,” He repeats a little quieter, calmer, “I just—I’m, er, kinda…big, I guess.”

Louis rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. “That’s hardly a problem, curly.”

*Or Harry is insecure about a certain rather large part of his anatomy that is apparently intimidating to the point where it has actually scared off potential shags. When he ends up confessing this to his best friend and roommate, Louis takes it upon himself to prove that Harry’s size doesn't have to be a curse, and decides to help show him just how perfect he is.

Waiting by allwaswell16 for LadyLondonderry | 10k | Explicit

Louis Tomlinson was Harry’s omega, of this Harry had always been sure. Unfortunately for Harry, Louis seemed to think they were just best friends. The six weeks that Harry has to live with Louis were going to be rough.

You Give Me Fever (What A Lovely Way To Burn) by my_fandom_OTPs | 10k | Explicit

Louis walks in on Harry jerking off in the shower. What happens after is just… Impulsive and spontaneous.

the value of this moment lives in metaphor by clicheanna for hattalove | 10k | Teen And Up Audiences

Louis and Harry are best friends and absolutely nothing more. It’s a bit strange that, suddenly, everyone thinks they’re dating.

Or the one where they’re all teachers at a high school and students are more invested in their lives than normally expected.

trusting things beyond mistake by sarcasticfluentry | 9k | Explicit

"Is that even possible?" asks Harry.

All of them stare at him for several seconds, and then Louis says, "What, coming untouched?"

"Christ," Zayn mutters, throwing his hands up. “This fucking band, I swear.”

...or, Harry wants to see if he can come without touching his cock and ends up getting more than he bargained for.

And I Will Steady Your Hand by kiwikero | 9k | Explicit

All first year university students who had not yet presented were strongly advised to join the Fire Away meetings, a support group for so-called 'late bloomers.'

They were not, however, advised to fall in love with someone else at the meetings without knowing what they might eventually present as.

A Christmas Wish by Snowy38 | 8k | Mature

"So when are you going to tell him?"

Louis pursed his lips at his sister, his Skype video call relaying his thoughts on that subject perfectly.

"Next question," he mused.

Lottie rolled her eyes.

"It's your birthday in four days, Louis."

"What difference does that make?" He scoffed.

She shrugged.

"You can get drunk and confess how you feel and take it back afterwards if he doesn't feel the same."

That might work if Louis wasn't in love with Harry. But Lottie didn't know that and she didn't need to find out.

"Thanks Lots," he said anyway.

"Seriously Lou what's stopping you?"

Louis sighed.

"Fear mostly."

Under that Damn Mistletoe by hickeystyles | 7k | Mature

Louis' heart froze when he looked over and saw Liam whispering in Harry’s ear and nodding towards the mistletoe. Louis’ eyes widened comically before he dove out of sight so Harry couldn’t see him standing under the mistletoe like an idiot, or worse, like he was part of Liam’s plan to have Harry kiss him.

Or a Christmas Party AU where Louis is in love with his best friend Harry and everyone else is trying to force the two of them under the mistletoe together

We Could Be A Dream by Bearandleonardwrite | 7k | Explicit

“So, I’ve never seen you at one of these parties before,” Harry says as he hands Louis his drink. “Who’re you here for?”

Well, shit. Louis was definitely not expecting that. He sips on his drink to give him a few moments to think of an answer and then, “Oh, y’know. I’m dating the host’s brother. What about you?” He’s quite pleased with himself. Great answer. He takes another drink as a reward.

Harry grins at him, eyes bright, and shrugs. “Gemma’s my sister.” Louis hums around the rim of his cup waiting for him to elaborate. “She’s the host,” he tacks on, smug smile on his face. Louis chokes on his drink and tries his best to glare at Harry while he coughs. Harry rubs at his back until he can breathe properly again, which is actually really not that helpful. “Didn’t realize we were dating, Lou. I’m flattered.”

(Basically; Louis meets Harry at a party that he wasn't invited to. He ends up asking Harry to tutor him so he can keep seeing him. Featuring a bit of pining and a tea party.)

Mission Fucking Impossible by orphan_account | 7k | Mature

“Are you and Louis fucking?”

Harry nearly spits out his drink as he tries to communicate a "what the ever living fuck" to Niall with his eyes.

Niall takes another casual sip of his beer “Not like I’m the only one thinking it mate, I’m just the only one saying it out loud.”

- Harry is in love with Louis, and he is almost positive Louis is in love with him too. Naturally, Harry deals with this by trying to get Louis horny and hope for the best.

Things don't exactly work out how he plans.

One day to believe in you by mediaville | 7k | Explicit

A mysterious force compels Louis to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Even when it's really inconvenient.

Harry blinks and has the nerve to look surprised. "You think about me when you get off?"

"Yes," Louis says. He wonders how hard he'd need to punch himself in the face to knock himself out.

"Often?"

"Yes, Christ, Harry," Louis groans. "Probably eight times a week for going on six years now. On average, you know. More when we were touring, less when I've been visiting family. Anything else you'd like to know?"

Fake It Till We Make It by whileatwiltshire | 7k | General Audiences

#33- Keeping up with the Neighbors

“We can fake it.”

What?

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No I did not. Say it again.”

“I said” Harry started slowly, “We can fake having sex to teach them a lesson.”

It was clear to say that Louis's mouth went a little dry at the suggestion.

Or ,

Their neighbours were a bit too loud during their bedroom activities and Harry comes up with the worst plan to shut them up. Louis agrees anyways.

Web Me Harder by iwillpaintasongforlou | 6k | Explicit

Louis Tomlinson, otherwise known as London's masked hero Spiderman, finds himself crashing through the window of Harry Styles one night after a particularly nasty fight with a villain. Luckily Harry is a nursing student with a soft spot for caped crusaders who's more than happy to tend to all of Louis' wounds, no matter how many times he swings by.

candy in your mouth (i know you love me) by embodied | 6k | Explicit

“You’re wrong,” Harry says, jaw clenched tight. “Because if all I wanted was a fuck, I’ve got at least three willing parties a phone call and a five minute drive away. What I want is you. I want us, I want it to be normal again -”

“What the fuck is normal?” Louis yells, much too loudly, and has to pause to consciously lower his voice before he speaks again. “Because a year ago, normal was eating too much takeaway and watching B-movies on Netflix in your room, and then normal was me choking on your cock at half past two in the morning, and I don’t know about you, but as of the past few weeks, normal is not seeing or talking to you at all, because I’ve all but admitted that I’m fucking crazy for you and you don’t know what to say to that.” Louis’ chest heaves, his breath coming out short. He hears his own throat stick when he swallows, and his voice is decidedly weaker when he asks, “So which one is it, Harry?”

AU. Things have shifted since last Christmas.

Running Through a Cloud of Steam by allwaswell16 | 5k | Mature

As Harry’s long anticipated twenty-first birthday approaches, he anxiously awaits the moment when he finally meets his soulmate. He’s not even sure he believes in soulmates, but at the very least, he hopes to prove to his best friend that nothing can come between their friendship--not even a soulmate.

You Can't Blame Me For Tryin' by lululawrence | 5k | Mature

Reason # 38 - Because He Is From One of the Countries You Haven't Had Sex With a Person From Yet.

Louis had been accepted into the study abroad program through his uni back home and therefore got to spend a year in rural Minnesota, of all places, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was still a pretty cool experience, even if it was far different from what he had been expecting. And besides, if he’d been sent to literally any other university, he’d never have met Harry.

If It's Meant To Be (It'll Be, It'll Be) by lululawrence | 4k | Not Rated

“So, anyway. I’m done here and on my way to the airport. I think I’m expected to be there in the morning, around ten. I’ll let you know when I’m getting close.”

“Sounds good.” Harry pulled back from the window and threw himself onto one of the beds. Once he got comfortable, he steeled himself and then went for it. “It’s been too long this time, Lou,” he finally whispered. He watched as Louis bit his lip and nodded slowly.

“I know,” Louis agreed, just as quiet in return. “We have to swear to never go this long without seeing each other again. Two months is just...unacceptable. I’m gonna go now, but I’ll see you soon. ‘Kay?”

“Yeah. See you. Be safe,” Harry said, far too fondly for his best friend. He couldn’t help it though. It was how he always had been and probably always would be.

They hung up and Harry threw his arm over his face.

“I am so in love with him,” he whined to himself. “Fuck.”

Satisfaction by iwillpaintasongforlou | 2k | Teen And Up Audiences

Louis and Harry have known each other since before they could remember and been in love with one another for about as long, even though both steadfastly refuse to admit it. When Louis starts dating other people, it is only to help himself move on and not at all to make Harry jealous. And the sulking sort of anger Harry feels when he watches Louis kiss other people is completely irrelevant anyways.

[angrylizardjacket]

it's in the blood // this is tradition

Summary: Children inherit all sorts of traits from their parents. Not all these traits are good.

"My reputation preceded me before I was born."

[ charlotte & lola au ]

A/N: 2292 words. Halsey's new album killed me on the spot. i talk a lot about the next gen being mirrors of their parents, but i'd like to go into detail about that not necessarily being a positive. @misscharlottelee this made me feel things. i love these kids.

Warnings: overdose mention, addiction discussion, mentions of drug abuse.

Penelope Dingley-Lee

Tommy can count the amount of times he'd seen Razzle truly angry on one hand, and here and now he can see it again, written all over his neice's face. He'd thought she would look like Charlie when she's angry, and occasionally she does, the way her lip curls derisively, dismissively, that's very reminiscent of his cousin, but here and now, her blue eyes are hazy, cloudy, and her lips twist with an irate arrogance that is worryingly familiar.

Angry and high and wearing clothes that don't quite match, in this moment she's exactly her father's daughter.

She's been in the papers again. Her tits have been in magazines again. Tommy bites down on his instinctual desire to repremand her; she'd call him a hypocrite, call him an old man, tell him to keep his opinions to himself while she could still buy his sex tape out of a shady car boot down the street.

Charlie was like that too, on occasion, wit too quick for him to keep up with. When she got into a mood like this, Tommy didn't have to worry so much; usually Razzle would egg her on, but knew when to pull her back.

"It's my god given, motherfucking right to go feral -" he'd heard Charlie back in the eighties holler at three in the morning, high on amphetamines and waving a gossip rag above her head. Razzle would be on the sofa, equally fucked up, but gazing at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

"Lola gets photographed at least once a month stark naked along the strip like it's a sport, why is my Playboy shoot a national crisis?! My tits are fantastic!"

"They are, my love," Razzle nods seriously, and Tommy pulls his pillow from beneath his head, trying to either block out their voices through the thin walls, or maybe smother himself. The girl beside him, the groupie whose name he doesn't know, asks blearily why there's so much yelling. Tommy doesn't answer.

A week later, Tommy is the one to bail out Charlie and Razzle for public indecency, and they're both beaming from ear to ear.

Here in the present, Penny is draped out on the sofa, laughing low and pleased as she watches TV.

"TMZ blurred out my tits," she snorts, "cowards."

"Penny..." he can't help the faintly disappointed notes in his voice when he says her name.

"Thomas, I've read The Dirt," Penny fires back venemously. Hypocrite he hears in her tone, you have no power over me.

There's something hollow in her eyes in the photos he sees of her in the papers. She wears her father's inflluence and her heart on her crushed velvet sleeve, on the arm of a shallow, pretty, band boy who plays badly and loudly. But she laughs louder, though tthe sound is low and unconvincing if anyone bothered to listen hard enough, and Tommy wonders if he has enough dark hair dye left for when that boy breaks her heart.

Jupiter Lee

Tommy is proud to watch Jupiter on stage, but he is afraid.

Their anger is something he remembers from Lola, the way they cling to the past with vitriol echoes their mother, but on stage, they drink up the attention, get high off the love the audience gives, and he sees himself in those moments.

A child of addicts, Jupiter had drawn lines in the sand for themselves that they refused to cross; no alcohol, no drugs, and they'd stayed loyal to that. But highs come in all forms; they simply picked a different kind of poison without realising.

On stage, halfway between the gutter and a god complex, Tommy knows the smile they wear all too well.

Rebellion from Jupiter didn't shock the world like it did when it was Penny's name in the papers. Jupiter's trajectory was spot on in the eyes of the public, but rebellion wouldn't be the thing that broke them.

Once, so long ago that it's a miracle the memory survived, Tommy remembers asking Lola what she would be doing if she wasn't with the band. Lola gave him an easy, bleary smile, laughing sweetly when she told him that one way or another, she'd be here. In the moment it overwhelms him with love. In hindsight it breaks his heart.

"Come on, I think this is inevitable," Jupiter smiles on television as an interviewer asks them the same question; if they weren't making music what they'd be doing, "as if I'd do anything other than this."

'Don't you know where I come from?' is left unspoken, but Tommy still hears it.

He tries to picture himself in a life without the world at his feet the way he has now. No image comes to mind. Nothing else makes sense. Even if he wanted to do something else, wanted to grow up to be something else, he couldn't even begin to picture it for himself, tragedy and all.

They play their parts. They let history repeat itself. Jupiter makes mistakes Tommy and Lola had already learned from. Penny plays Jupiter's conciousness until the role grates on her nerves, diving head first into chaos, taking Jupiter with her with little convincing.

Tommy remembers this too.

When the world looks at Penny and Jupiter, they like to remember how Lola was seen as a bad influence on Charlotte, but forget that Tommy would have followed Charlotte in to Hell without hesitation.

Leo "Seo" Sixx

Lola has google alerts set up for her son, Seo, because he disappears for months without warning. Tommy asks how he is, and Lola looks to her phone with a tight smile, telling him that he's competeing in a skateboarding competition in Prague. She learned that from Twitter.

Seo comes and goes without warning, and talks to his siblings more than his parents. He loves them, but he hasn't allowed himself to stop for years. He doesn't know how. Then again, neither did Lola or Nikki.

"Jupiter thinks a lot about legacy, don't they?" He's in Tommy's kitchen, eating a poptart, when Tommy returns home one friday evening. He's waiting for Penny and Jupiter to finish getting ready, the three of them going out.

"Do your parents know you're in town?" Tommy asks with faint amusement, though there's a twinge of guilt in his gut when Leo considers that he should probably let them know. Says he forgot. Tommy's not sure if he believes him; like his parents before him, he tends to leave a lot unsaid. It's part of his charm, the world seems to think, but Tommy knows all to well how deliberate of an act it can be.

"Jup's got all this stuff in their head about legacy and who they should be," he continues his earlier thought, "which I guess makes sense, they tie a lot of themselves up in their identity," he shrugs, then, "I don't know Leo."

Tommy's not sure if he's talking about the grandfather he's named after, or himself.

"You've given this a lot of thought," Tommy says quietly, humouring him.

"I think a lot," Seo responds, "I've been thinking about going back on my meds, its weird being off of them." Of course this concerns Tommy, who knows objectively that Seo isn't his kid, but he's close enough that Tommy feels like he's allowed to be concerned. "I'm worried a doctor's note isn't going to be enough to let me compete at the Olympics on speed," falls too casually from Seo's lips, alarming Tommy in an instant. Though it must clearly show on his face, as Seo breaks out into an apologetic grin, "dextroamphetamine, for my ADHD. I've been trying to wean off it for the Olympics, it's been hard -" but his next words, said so blithe, so casual, have Tommy's heart stopping in his chest as he's thrown back thirty years, "I've been on them since I was like eleven years old; it was great, I could think, like the right amount, but now I... I think everything. I feel everything. Its a lot." He shrugs, like he didn't just become an echo of his father.

Seo's parents both died twice from overdoses, and now their son feels like he can't function without amphetamines.

Objectively Tommy knows that they work for Seo, that he's not abusing them he simply uses them to help him function, but the irony is not lost on him. It's a lot to unpack. He doesn't think to ask about the Olympics; it slips his mind until he sees Seo and a silver medal on his Twitter feed.

Lola calls Tommy in tears. She's proud, but she wishes she'd known, wishes she'd been able to watch it live, or go over and support him in person.

No-one in Seo's life seems to fully know or understand his intentions or actions, no-one can predict his next move. He puts up a bright facade, but like his parents before him, he does not trust the world to know him.

They don't know where he goes in the few months after the Olympics, all they know is that he doesn't come home.

Cerie "CerieThree" Sixx

Since she'd turned sixteen, Tommy has never seen Cerie Sixx without a smile. That is a very deliberate choice that she's made.

She's made a choice to rise above the percieved grime of her origins. She's halfway across the country, smiling for a camera she can control, editing her image before she lets it out into the world. Cerie Three - even the name the world knows reflects this; she's picked apart the context she was born into, disecting it, deciding which was useful to show the world, disposing of the rest.

She speaks warmly to her family, from what Tommy can gather, but the people on the peripheries of their life seem more like associates in the coldest sense of the world. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes half the time when she sees Tommy, and she shakes his hand when her brothers will hug him. The internet is closer to her than he is.

Cerie looks the most like her mother of all her siblings; she's 21, the exact same age Lola was when she met Tommy, but half the time he can barely see the resemblence. Lola had let the world see a villain at that age; Cerie had learned from that, had rejected that, rejected the cold, hard humanity of her mother's fronting. Cerie wanted to be perfect. Cerie had to be perfect, hyper aware of her own image, like her siblings seem to be, but the way she'd so effectively shaped her public identity was kind of terrifying.

Perhaps this was what it was like for people who didn't know Lola, only allowed to know the image she put out into the world, or people who only knew Nikki for his stage presence.

But the more Tommy thinks about it, the more he remembers just how effectively Lola had wrapped the band around her little finger when she set her mind to it, how she talked her way around exectives despite being dressed like she'd woken up in the gutter and fucked up on any number of drugs. Lola understood people, and it seemed Cerie did too.

Cerie Sixx, twenty one, doesn't stop creating content, doesn't stop studying, and doesn't stop smiling. Two of those three things are inhereted traits, inhereted determination, and the third is a choice.

Cyrus Sixx

Though Cyrus had inhereted much of his parent's musical talent, the same way Jupiter had, Cyrus had also inhereted a love of the high life. Even so, he's so full of love, kissing his mother on both cheeks before he goes out to get shitfaced in the bars she was decades before he was even born.

He works hard, at his job, on his music, but his partying matches it just as well. He knows exactly how far he has to fall before he meets the depths his parents' had sunk to, and though he doesn't voice this, his arrogance comes across in his actions.

There'd always be someone to pull him away from swan diving to rock bottom. He takes that for granted, and keeps getting closer and closer.

The only one of Nikki and Lola's children who still lives at home, he's the only one like them in the way they'd feared.

"He's going to have more success than he will ever be able to comprehend," Nikki had told Tommy, the day after Cyrus had been admitted to hospital after staying up for four days while high and obsessing over a song he had been working on. Nikki had found him having a fit after having fallen from his desk chair. Now, sitting on Tommy's patio in the sunset, he looks tired, he looks afraid, "if he doesn't end up killing himself first."

A month ago, the fire department and the police had to pull him, kicking and screaming and bareass naked from a tree in the middle of town. His parents had bailed him out, had felt a familiar sting of guilt as they find themselves reminded of their own youthful exploits. They repremand him, of course, but they both know the only reason they stopped climbing trees was because there had been no-one to pick them up after.

Nikki sees himself in his sons mistakes, but he'd had to learn concequences the hard way.

Tommy loves his family and all it's strange branches, as well as their raucous youth, but his closest friends were some of the most volatile people he'd known, and somehow he'd forgotten that as time as taken people and memories from him.

But these children were made in their image.

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 48 & Chapter 49

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46 | Chapter 47

The Imperial guard who approaches him is very careful, almost reverent in his posture.

Lan XiChen is resting. He has been ordered to do so by uncle, who has done precious little resting himself, only stepping away from the guqin when his fingers are on the verge of bleeding.

Since Wei WuXian had been moved from the grand hall, not a moment has gone by without the sounds of Cleansing weaving throughout the Emperor’s chambers, a continuous exertion of spiritual energy that no single Lan cultivator could have maintained. But there are three of them, and although their skills and abilities differ, the Emperor is no longer in danger, his chest rising and falling smoothly with unlabored breaths of deep sleep.

WangJi has only abandoned the guqin when ordered to do so, and only so he may move closer to bed, settling down on the floor by Wei WuXian’s shoulder. The position does not look restful; WangJi’s tense figure is stiff with coiled worry, his eyes locked on the Emperor’s face, as if by sight alone he can infuse more color into his cheeks. XiChen can hear the soft murmur of Lady Jiang’s voice, and WangJi’s equally as soft response. Some steps away, the Rogue Prince stands motionless, his vigil silent.

“Young Master Lan,” the Imperial guard whispers, “forgive me for interrupting. General Nie is outside, requesting to speak with you. What would you like me to tell him?”

XiChen needs a few moments to formulate an appropriate response.

The Imperial guard waits patiently, deferentially even, comically folded in half so he can hear XiChen’s response. XiChen finds this entire situation beyond absurd.

The Young Master of the Lan Sect should not be asked if he wishes to speak to the General of the Emperor’s army. The Young Master of the Lan Sect can be issued an order by the lowest court official, and would have no choice but to obey. Yet, he thinks, if he were to tell this Imperial guard that the General must wait, or come back at a later time, the guard would jump to follow instruction.

The rest are no better. For hours now, they have tiptoed carefully around all three of the Lan Sect members, as if charged with protecting royalty. Most of them even hesitate to look at uncle directly, their eyes never quite managing to rise past uncle’s knees. Uncle’s performance during the Gifting Ceremony had been impressive to be sure, but the current level of veneration for a man who had been dismissed and spurned only a day ago, seems far beyond excessive.

XiChen had not spoken to Nie MingJue since issuing the misguided invitation. This is neither the time nor the occasion for the conversation they must have, not to mention that XiChen feels ill-prepared to have it even under the best of circumstances. But now, in the midst of their attempts to keep the Emperor breathing, in the midst of his brother’s obvious anguish, his uncle’s exhaustion, his own fatigue, XiChen cannot face the prospect of further heartache.

Still, he cannot have the guards turn the General of the Emperor’s army away, regardless of their willingness to do just that. He rises slowly, and the guard steps back, as if XiChen would scold him for standing too close.

Nie MingJue waits just outside the entrance, facing two dozen Imperial guards. He is wearing full armor, his hand resting on the pommel of his saber.

The General of the Emperor’s army looks as if he may need to fight his way past the Imperial guards in order to enter the Emperor’s chambers. This implies a great deal about the powers currently in charge, and most of these implications are alarming in nature.

Is the Emperor still the Emperor? 

XiChen does not know. No one else has come or gone. No inquiries have reached them, no orders, no edicts. There could be a bloody war outside the Jade Sword Palace, and none of those in the Imperial chambers would ever notice it being waged.

All these are legitimate concerns and worries, but XiChen cannot find the words to voice them. In the Nie battle armor, both chest and shoulder plate depicting the sneering Beast’s Head sigil, Nie MingJue is terrifying to behold. But the moment his eyes land on XiChen, his posture shifts, his face softens, the change clearly visible and devastating to see.

The hand on his forearm is careful as it draws him some distance away from the guards.

“XiChen,” MingJue says, “Are you well?”

It is a struggle to find his voice, but XiChen manages, “The Emperor is recovering well. It may be some hours yet until he wakes, and it will take many days for his strength to return. Uncle says he had fought back, attempting to expel the resentful energy on his own. This had saved his life, but it has also significantly depleted his--“

The hand tightens on his forearm, cutting his words in half.

“XiChen,” MingJue says again, “I asked if you are well.”

It is a basic rule of politeness, that the question once blatantly ignored, should not be repeated. But such rules have no effect on Nie MingJue.

XiChen is tired of suppressing the constant and unrelenting waves of anxiety. The calluses he had built up over the years cannot hold up to the punishing pace they had set to keep the Emperor breathing. His fingers hurt. His shoulders hurt. He has suffered greater discomforts in the past, and borne them with dignity. But now, he feels very small, and very tired, and he wishes that he could say these things to Nie MingJue, perhaps the only person who would not think less of him for hearing them.

He exhales, a shuddering breath that feels much too revealing, “I am well. I am only tired. Why are you here? Is the Emperor still in danger?”

Nie MingJue glances back at the Imperial guards and pulls XiChen a little further away, out of their hearing range.

“The Jiang Sect has taken charge of the Imperial guards,” he says, “Which was to be expected. The Jiang and the Nie have always stood together as brothers-in-arms in the defense of the Emperor. But there are... tensions. Multiple sects are calling for a war with the Wen. The High Councilor appears to be in agreement. Perhaps he sees such an action as a logical response to the attack on the Emperor. Or perhaps, he is resentful of the fact that HuaiSang is in possession of an edict naming him the guardian of the successor.”

The carefully concealed anxiety blooms in XiChen’s chest, leaving him breathless.

“Can the Council declare war? Without the Emperor’s approval?”

“No,” MingJue says, “but they may try and do so regardless. If I refuse to follow their orders, this will result in different war, right here in the palace halls. I do not want to lead the army against the Imperial guards. This must be prevented.”

“How-- what do you need? What can I do?”

“I need the Emperor,” Nie MingJue says bluntly, “The sects need to hear that the Emperor is well, and recovering quickly. They need to hear this from the Lan Sect Leader.”

They are far enough away where XiChen can no longer hear the sounds of the guqin, but he knows that the Cleansing has gone on uninterrupted.

He shakes his head, “My uncle-- the Emperor is not yet well enough to be left to the care of WangJi and myself. I will come in his place.”

Chapter 49

Nie HuaiSang has never sat on the dais alone.

He has wielded almost as much power as the Emperor himself. He has frequently sprawled on the Emperor’s seat, worn the Emperor’s clothes, used the Emperor’s seal. But he has never before felt so utterly alone.

His personal guard, the members of the Nie Sect charged with his protection, are lined up behind him. The High Councilor is to his left; to the right, the empty space where A-Jue should be is a constant source of anxiety and irritation. In front of him, the receiving hall is crowded with every Sect and clan leader in the Immortal Mountain City, only some of them trustworthy, and nearly all of them unpredictable. The seat underneath him feels akin to a death trap, waiting for an opportune moment to snap closed on his tender backside.

His hand tightens around the fan, then relaxes. Tightens, then relaxes.

With Wei Ying by his side, he could hide behind the fan. He could do anything, say anything, act in any way he pleases. With Wei Ying by his side, the obvious clusters of hostility in the hall would be an insignificant source of amusement.

His eyes meet Jiang Cheng’s, only for a moment, neither acknowledging the contact. In the back of the hall, three members of the Wen Sect stand under guard. Wen Qing is cool and collected, her head held high, her robes bright and striking next to the muted Nie greens. HuaiSang can see A-Lin making a conscious effort to emulate his sister, but being a nervous creature by nature, he is only managing to appear more rigid. Granny Wen is in possession of composure that HuaiSang very much envies at this moment. Their lives are on the line as much as his own, but one would never know it by looking at Granny Wen’s face.

The rest of the Wen Sect is in the Jade Sword Palace courtyard, under guard, and awaiting their fate. HuaiSang has managed to stall the calls for an immediate attack on QiShan, but only by insisting that the Emperor’s condition must take precedence. Still, with each moment that passes with A-Jue conspicuously absent, the tension in the hall seems to rise, the hostility and the resentment thickening.

HuaiSang would very much like to keep all of the secrets that must be kept, and not start a war today. He has an unpleasant feeling that he may not get to have both.

It is difficult to conceal a sigh of relief when A-Jue finally enters the hall. The Lan Sect Leader is absent, but Lan XiChen’s placid countenance is almost an improvement. It is no secret that Lan QiRen is generally disliked for his personality alone, the man’s icy facade only serving to agitate the existing resentment. Lan XiChen, infinitely serene in the face of animosity, patient and humble to a fault, may be precisely the type of calm presence that can soothe the waves of unrest in the hall.

There may be some question as to whose authority is higher in this instance. The Royal Companion, often perceived as the Imperial Consort, technically does not outrank the High Councilor. His status as the guardian of the successor only gives him power once the Emperor is no longer among the living. Still, Lan XiChen does not hesitate. His first bow and greeting is given to Nie HuaiSang. He turns to the High Councilor next, a perfect mirror image, the bow no less deep, the greeting no less courteous. But the hierarchy the Lan Sect recognizes has been made clear. This acknowledgment is significant, considering the current position of the Lan Sect, both as the saviors of the Emperor, and their future connection to the throne through marriage.

Nie HuaiSang greets Lan XiChen politely in turn, feeling as if his seat is now a little less likely to collapse under his anxious bottom.  

“Young Master Lan,” the High Councilor says, “the Council requires an update on the Emperor’s condition.”

“The Emperor is recovering well. His life is no longer in danger.”

The hall had hushed to hear the response, but now a low murmur rises, the word traveling among those placed furthest away from the dais.

“Are you quite certain?”

“I am certain,” Lan XiChen says, his voice unwavering, “The Emperor should wake soon, although he may still require days of rest to regain the spiritual energy he had lost.”

All of HuaiSang’s bones seem to turn liquid at once. It is by force of will alone that he manages to stay upright, instead of slumping against the throne in relief.

“The Royal Companion had summoned the Lan Sect Leader,” Jin GuangShan says carefully, only two steps below the High Councilor, “Is there a reason that the Young Master is here in his place?”

Lan XiChen smiles, but the smile does not reach his eyes, “The Jin Sect Leader is very observant. The Lan Sect is honored to be an object of the Jin Sect Leader’s concern. My uncle believes that the Emperor’s recovery must take precedence over other matters. Please forgive my humble presence in his place.”

Nie HuaiSang feels that he has been quite unjust to the Young Master of the Lan Sect in the past. He also believes that he could become quite fond of the man in the future. It has been somewhat... difficult to reconcile himself to A-Jue’s single-minded focus on Lan XiChen, a person who is still essentially a stranger. It is a common failing of siblings, to find their future in-laws unworthy despite all evidence to the contrary. But Nie HuaiSang is willing to admit his error.

“The Emperor’s health, of course, takes precedence,” the High Councilor says, “We are grateful to the Lan Sect for their assistance and dedication. As the Emperor is recovering swiftly, I believe all decisions may wait for his judgment.”

A louder murmur rises at his words, and Nie HuaiSang braces for the inevitable. 

Which comes, to no one’s surprise, in the form of Sect Leader Yao.

“Are we to simply allow the Wen Sect to go free? After such a betrayal? The Emperor himself had stated that their lives are to be forfeit if Wen RuoHan ever dared orchestrate another attack. Do you mean to act against the Emperor’s orders?”

This, of course, is all Wei Ying’s fault. Nie HuaiSang had offered to have Sect Leader Yao killed years ago. The man would have been infinitely more useful as dust and bones, than he is now, with his flapping mouth always sowing discord. 

“The Wen Sect will be placed in the dungeons to await the Emperor’s judgment,” Nie HuaiSang says coldly, “Only the Emperor may decide the means of executing traitors. These decisions have never been within the purview of the powers given to the Council.”

“The Royal Companion is correct,” Jin GuangShan’s voice raises the hair on the back of HuaiSang’s neck, “and yet, my own disciple was jailed by no other than the former First Prince’s servant. The Jin Sect has yet to receive an explanation for this action.”

“Your disciple was jailed by my orders,” A-Jue says dismissively, “and will wait for the Emperor’s judgment along with the Wen Sect.”

HuaiSang winces. He loves his brother, but diplomacy is not Nie MingJue’s strong suit.

“Sect Leader Jin,” HuaiSang says meekly, “Your disciple had displayed suspicious behavior in the wake of the attack on the Emperor. Perhaps he is innocent, but surely, you do not begrudge us an overabundance of caution. I can guarantee that your disciple will come to no harm until the Emperor himself has had a chance to address the matter.”

He knows that there is nothing that influences the High Councilor quite as much as a reasonable argument delivered in a reasonable tone. HuaiSang has always wondered why such a man would choose a life companion that is rarely ever capable of calm and reasonable argument. As he expected, Jiang FengMian is nodding even before HuaiSang has finished speaking, making it clear that between the two of them, Jin GuangShan will find his complaint neatly swept to the side. Familiar with the High Councilor’s tendencies to fold in the face of mildest possible pressure, Jin GuangShan appears unhappy, but offers no further complaints.

“Young Master Lan,” the High Councilor says, “the Council requests to be informed of any changes in the Emperor’s condition. Until then, I believe we have no further need of you.”

Lan XiChen bows, and is escorted out of the hall. HuaiSang fights a small stab of resentment that A-Jue escorts the man personally, when a dozen Nie Sect members would have done just as well. Maybe he no longer needs A-Jue’s support, now that the Emperor’s seat is no longer in peril, but he would have liked to have that support nonetheless.

“I believe that we may rest easily tonight, and meet again on the morrow,” Jiang FengMian says, “Is the Royal Companion in agreement?”

The Royal Companion is very much in agreement. He may have promised Jin GuangShan that his disciple will come to no harm, but HuaiSang has no qualms about breaking his word.