#getting increasingly fond of it even though writing it without planning at all scares me

[thelordofgifs]

A Slightly Scary Thing is occurring tomorrow morning so I'm coping with the stress by going to bed rambling about the fairest stars! (the Beren and Luthien steal 2 Silmarils AU I've been slowly posting on tumblr - now with a title and also a tiny meme I thought was funny)

I'm still not very sure how everything is going to pan out (Fingon keeps refusing to show up even though I want him to), but one realisation I have worked out is what exactly the Maedhros and Maglor storyline is doing - specifically, its Themes and Concepts, which I'm rather pleased with having figured out. When I introduced M&M into the AU in the first place, I realised it was SO important that they're still reckoning with Maedhros' time in Angband, the fact that Maedhros went to the parley in the first place and the fact that Maglor left him there. With the addition of their brothers' actions in Nargothrond, this makes M&M much more wary of the Oath and its consequences than Celegorm and Curufin canonically were.

But what I realised fully today I'd hit upon was that the specific trauma that binds the pair together is about leaving each other, and that's been driving them both in parts 1, 2 and 3 without my noticing! When Maglor is drifting on the edge of death, Maedhros tells him, over and over, "stay with me", and later at the critical moment he calls him back with the words "come back to me". Then as Maglor's recovering he tells Maedhros, "I dreamed you left me, or else I you," a line I'm extremely pleased with because in fact both are true. Maedhros left Maglor when he went to the Angband, and Maglor left him when he didn't rescue him (NOT that he was at all wrong to do that as I've previously argued!!).

Pretty much immediately after Maglor says that, of course, Maedhros leaves him to go on a wolf-hunting death quest, even though he says he doesn't want to do so. They never want to leave each other, you see. They keep doing it anyway.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Faith, Trust and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Title:  Faith, Trust and a Little Bit of Pixie Dust

Summary: It’s cold in the cellar, but then if it isn’t cold it’d defeat the whole purpose of a cellar. This coldness had been fine at first, but the longer Logan and his little brother Virgil stay, the more it worsens. Logan just hopes his mother’s temper wears off soon or else the cold could get fatal. 

The last thing Logan expects is for his father, who he hasn’t seen in years, to show up through golden portal (a magic portal, which should be impossible!) to save the day as if he hadn’t abandoned them to this fate by leaving all those years ago.

Pairings: Brotherly Analogical, Parental Loceit

Word-Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Magic, Child Abuse, Physical & Emotional Abuse, Unhealthy Romantic Relationship, Hypothermia, Alcohol, Death Mention, Morally Grey Janus, Crying, Angst With a Happy Ending

This fic was at times both frustrating and fun to write. I have no plans to continue this fic, but you can ask me questions regarding the ‘verse and I’ll answer them. Janus has good intentions in this fic he’s just bad at expressing them and we’re also seeing this from Logan’s pov.

--

It was cold in the cellar. Then again, it would be rather alarming were it the opposite case. Cellars were historically used to store perishable items such as vegetables and meats in a time before refrigerators existed. Still prolonged exposure to such an absence of heat wasn’t good for any human being. Not without proper clothing or heating methods. Something both Logan and his young brother unfortunately lacked. 

At first with just a t-shirt and jeans it’d been fine. A bit chilly but fine. What Logan hadn’t accounted for was a cold front to settle in unexpectedly. Within an hour, it dropped by forty degrees. His little brother Virgil wasn’t fond of physical touch. Yet the young child clung to Logan for warmth. It wasn’t enough. His skinny frame still trembled, his lips turning blue. Logan himself felt the effects of his body trying uselessly to warm the cold environment around them. Still his bit his lips from shivering, desperate to attempt staying strong for Virgil.

“I-I-I’m s-s-scared.” Virgil cried, digging his head into Logan’s shirt.

I...I know.” Logan said, stroking his brother’s hair gently, “Things are...things will be alright.”

Logan had repeated this statement many times already to Virgil. Each time he grew less sure of it. However, he knew he had to remain strong for his brother’s sake. Ever since his brother was a baby, Logan had to grow up faster. Much faster than even before. Sometimes he resented this fact, but never for long. It was simply the way things were.

“C-c-c-can you tell me a story?” Virgil asked, and of course Logan obliged. For he knew the unspoken words in that request: I’m still scared. Can you make it less scary? 

A story, for both the listener and teller, would be a beneficial distraction. Even though Logan was not a good storyteller. Once he did a short story assignment in middle school and received a C. His heart metaphorically sank at the sight of it and he dreaded going home that day. Virgil always seemed to appreciate his stories. Although praise from a kindergartener wasn’t worth much in the literary world.

Through frozen lips, he told a meandering story to his little brother. Sometimes his brother would ask questions or offer suggestions, abruptly changing the direction of the story. Logan himself barely remembered what it was about. It was as if someone else spoke through him as his mind drifted to other ideas.

It’d been dark for a long, long while. Usually his mother would’ve unlocked the door by now. She’d insist he’d make dinner while complaining of a terrible headache.

 It was an unending cycle. His mother would do her best to stay sober and function as an adult for a few weeks. Then her mood would increasingly sour, little things piling up into an avalanche. It was hard to tell at times what would be the trigger. The one thing that made her slam open the alcohol cabinet and drown a whole bottle of vodka. 

She wasn’t a nice person when drunk; hence the whole being-locked-in-the-cellar. Eventually after a few days of heavy drinking, his mother would come to her senses. She’d lock the alcohol cabinet and claim she’d never drink again. A lie nobody believed but herself.

Perhaps the lie was done in good intentions. His mother always insisted she cared for her children, in ways their father never could. 

“He’s a snake, Logan,” She hissed once, banging her beer heavily onto a coaster, “A dirty, no-good deceiving snake.”

Logan said nothing. He had only a few memories of the man. Once, when Logan was nine years old, he showed up on their doorstep. He held a bouquet of roses for Mother and a much belated birthday present for Logan. It’d been one of the happiest he’d seen Mother. He stayed with them for a few days. He listened to Logan, complimenting him on his extensive knowledge about dinosaurs. The three of them went to a carnival together. For a fleeting moment, Logan had what the others kids at his school had; a family. 

Then it ended with tears, arguing, door slams. Mother yanking him by the arm and leaving everything behind. Nine months later, Virgil was born. His father wasn’t there. Nor did he ever show his face again. A bitter, festering part of Logan despised him for that.

Mother acted like she cared at times. She’d purchase Virgil and Logan expensive gifts. Things she couldn’t afford without a credit card. She treated them to ice cream and insisted on giving them hugs. She never understood that Virgil found tactical touch without permission distressing. She’d brush it off, making remarks he simply needed to get used to it. 

At times Logan allowed himself to pretend these niceties would last. He pretended his mother was a flawed human being who mostly did good by her children. He pretended the slapping and hair-pulling didn’t exist, that the cellar was just a cellar and not a place to fear. It was hard to pretend these things were true, when the reality became increasingly harder to ignore.

Virgil fell asleep in the midst of this. Logan hadn’t realized this at first. His tired mind plunged on, continuing the nonsensical story.

“Then Batsy the Bat escaped the Witch’s dungeon. He flew as fast he could, to warn his friends...ah. Virgil what do you think their names should be?” Logan squinted, the dim light making it hard to see if his brother’s eyes were closed or not, “Virgil?”

His brother slumped against him, his breaths long and labored. Logan frowned, shaking his shoulder, “Virgil?!”

Virgil made a grumbling noise, “What?”

“You need to stay awake. You--you can’t fall asleep right now.”

“I’m tireeeed,” Virgil complained.

“I--I know, but please. It--it isn’t good to sleep right now.”

“Why?”

Logan’s throat constricted, “Be--because well. I haven’t finished the story yet.”

It was a lie. The truth was that sleeping could be a dangerous thing for a hypothermia victim. Sleeping could lead to death. He couldn’t tell his brother that. He refused to let Virgil experience more fright than he already had in his short life.

“Okaaay.” Virgil said.

Logan continued with the story, pulling all his concentration into it. Yet it wasn’t enough to keep Virgil awake. He kept drifting off, unable to keep his eyes open. At one point his brother down crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He sobbed, repeating the words over and over.

“It’s alright, you’re okay, everything is gonna be--gonna be,” Logan stammered, struggling to force the word out, “okay.”

It was then that Logan knew they couldn’t remain in the cellar any longer. He’d have to overcome his one true fear for the sake of their safety and survival. What he feared even more than his mother, was losing Virgil. Logan was smart. He knew the odds of a kindergartener and a high school sophomore staying together in the foster system was slim.

He had been selfish to allow his mother to continue tormenting Virgil. It was wrong. Now both him and his brother were paying for it.

Logan could fix this. He just had to pull out his phone and call emergency services. He had to call and resist his foolish fears of his mother and separation from his brother. With one arm still tucked around his brother, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. A battered, beaten thing he’d purchased with his first paycheck. His mother was completely unaware of its existence. 

He pressed the power button on as he gathered up the courage to call. Except the screen remained completely blank. He pressed it again, this time harder, hoping it’d been a fluke. It wasn’t. Again and again, he kept pressing the button, irrationally hoping for a different result. 

“No,” Logan swallowed heavily, “no, no, no this cannot be happening--” “Logey?” Virgil hiccuped, his big glassy eyes staring up as his older brother with concern.

“It’s okay, Virgil,” Logan murmured, “It’s okay, It’ll be okay--”

He couldn’t say the words any longer. Not when a sob wracked his throat, his vision turning hazy with tears. He couldn’t be strong any longer. He was weak. His heart beat faster, the chasm in his stomach deepening. His little brother said something, but he couldn’t hear it. All he heard was his mind mocking his failure. Shrill and scorching like his mother.

StUpID DiD yOU ThINK ThAT wAS GOING TO WORK?

You and your little brother are going to die and it’s all yOUR FAuLt

UsEleSS

Not EVEn YoUR OwN FATHER WAntED YOU--

“Hello? Whoever is contacting me at this hour better not have a good reason.”

Logan’s thoughts jolted to a halt. What? He glanced down at his phone, but it was still battered and dead. Virgil looked just as confused and lost as he felt. He hid his face in Logan’s shirt, whimpering softly.

“Who...are you?” Logan croaked, doing a poor disguise of covering up his breakdown moments before.

“I think that is perhaps a question I should be asking you.” The strange voice replied. It was definitely emanating from the phone, but how Logan had no clue. It made no logical sense.

“I--I don’t know.”

“You don’t know your name?”

“No! I mean of course I know my name! I mean, you can’t be real--I must be hallucinating.”

“Oh?” The voice responded with a touch of some unidentifiable emotion, “this must be your first time then.”

“First time what?” Logan snapped, a headache starting to take form. He regretted raising his voice when Virgil let out a cry. He murmured a soft apology to him, attempting to ignore how cold his brother felt.

“Is there someone else with you?” 

“No,” Logan said, before hesitating, “I mean perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“You still haven’t responded to my question from before.”

“Let me broker a deal then. I’ll answer your question, if you tell me who you and your companion are.”

“Okay,” Logan shakes his head, wanting to laugh hysterically. What in Newton’s three laws of gravity was going on? Surely, he died. He died and this was some last minutes of brain activity occurring. Scientists after all, know very little what happens in one’s last moments of life. Nothing could quite prepare him for the answer the voice gave him, however.

“Well then, to quote a popular misguided piece of media, ‘you’re a wizard, Harry!’” The voice said, the verbal jazz hands evident in the voice’s dripping, dry wit. Something about it was painfully familiar.

“What.”

“You asked, I answered,” The voice chuckled, “now it’s your turn.”

“My--my name is Logan,” He said, blinking rapidly, “and my little brother..ahhh...oh! Vi-Virgil is here with me.”

“Logan, that’s your name? You’re sure?”

Logan frowned at that. Of course he was sure. Or was he? It was getting rather harder to focus. Or to breathe even. The crisp cold air hurt his lungs. Virgil slumped heavily against him, complete dead weight in his unconsciousness. Oh. That was bad. He knew that was bad. 

“Logan?!” The voice yelled. Hmm, it sounded like they’ve been yelling at him for awhile now. He should acknowledge them. He nodded before pausing. Wait. He needed to respond verbally.

“Y-yes?” 

“Finally. You seem like you’re doing absolutely fantastic,” The voice told him. 

“Do I?” Logan asked, “I do not think I’m doing ‘fantastic’.”

“Where are you?”

Logan rattled off the address. Then he very casually added, “We’re locked in the cellar.”

“WHAT?!”

“It’s-s-s-s a punishment,” Logan shivered, his eyelids drooping against his will, “it’sssokay.”

“Yes, because all parenting books recommend disciplining your children by locking them in a cellar.” Maybe it was just Logan, but he got the impression the voice was being sarcastic. 

“I need to cut the invocation call. I’ll be there soon.”

“Wh--how-hy?” Logan said, trying to speak three words at once. The voice didn’t respond. He tried shaking his battered phone as if that would do anything. It did not do anything.

The air frizzled in front of Logan. A golden spark appeared, expanding until it was one big golden shimmery oval. Logan stared at it, blinking rapidly. This was absurd. He most definitely had to be hallucinating. The golden oval ripples as a black fedora emerged from it, followed by a face and then a whole body.

“F--father?” Logan managed.

The man before him was older and dressed in strange clothing. Slivers of silver hair poked out from his hat, nestled among the chestnut hair. An unfamiliar gruesome scar ran alongside the left side of his face. But he recognized those hazel eyes anywhere. He stared at them at the mirror every morning.

He didn’t respond to Logan. He took a few steps before collapsing beside the huddled forms of Logan and Virgil. His gloved hands reached out, but he did not touch them. His mouth opened, but no sound came out of him. Then his gloves covered his face as he inhaled deeply. He removed them from his face, his expression carefully blank.

“I’m here.” He told Logan, extending a hand towards him, “and I won’t leave you or your brother this time.”

Logan stared at the yellow gloved hand before sluggishly panning his gaze up at his father. He didn’t know if he could trust him, let alone if he could trust that this was reality. But god, he wanted it to be real. 

So cradling Virgil close to his chest with one arm, he took hold of his father’s hand. And then, with a bright flash of light, the cellar was empty.

-

Logan felt warm. A drizzling, dribbling, dripping like maple syrup down a fresh stack of buttermilk pancakes type of warmth. He should be alarmed by this for some reason, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be. Instead he made a contented noise, shifting closer to it. Someone chuckled, running a calloused hand through his hair. Logan stilled at the touch, the warmth evaporating from his veins. He waited for the fingers to grow taunt around a tuft of hair. For the harsh cacophony of his mother’s voice to rain down on him like hail. Nothing.

“Are you asleep, Little Tesla?” 

The air in his lungs evaporated. Only one person had called him that and it certainly wasn’t his mother. As much as she expected him to receive good grades, she hadn’t been one to nurture his interests in 20th century scientists.

“Father?” Logan whispered.

“I’m here, I didn’t leave, just like I said I would.”

He opened his eyes to find his father was indeed there. Sitting on a wooden chair with sunken eyes as if he’d been awake for hours. Logan laid on a bed with silky sheets and an impossibly warm comforter. He had just barely enough to cover him--most of the blankets had been stolen by another small figure. Virgil. His little baby brother was with him, asleep and curled up in a small ball.

“Wha--” Logan started to say, until everything hit him. The cellar. The strange bodiless voice. The gleaming gold portal. Father. Darkness.

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not at all a lot to take in, but you have magic. And you found me again, just like I’d hope you would.”

“Found you?” Logan asked, a hardness to his tone, “Assuming this isn’t a hallucination, you left me with h-her, you never came back and suddenly because I possess magic, I’m what? Worth something?”

“Yes, no!” His father cried out with a frustrated growl, “Listen, Logan. My relationship with your mother was extremely healthy, as I’m sure you can agree. Not unhealthy in the slightest. When it ended, your mother left a lovely parting gift.”

Here, he rubs a hand against the facial scar almost absent-mindedly, “I wanted to find you, I searched everywhere, but your mother is smart and covers her tracks well. I’m...sorry I couldn’t find you or your brother sooner. You’re important to me, magic or no magic.”

“How can I trust you?” Logan asked, “How can I trust that you’re not anything like her?”

He expected his father to be upset by the accusation, but instead he just smirked.

“You’re good to be suspicious. It’s a good trait, don’t ever lose it,” He said, adjusting his gloves, “I can tell you, that I will not harm you or your brother. I can say I will teach you magic, if you desire. I can let you know that I will let you walk out the door with your brother, and you won’t ever have to see me or your mother again. But you have no true way of trusting a man that has, from what you know, abandoned you completely until just now. 

“You have two options. Either accept you cannot completely trust what I say is true and proceed with caution, or you can leave with your brother, find a way to support the two of you. You’re smart, Logan. I trust you could figure it out.”

Logan swallowed. He was indeed smart--or knowledgeable enough to know there was little choice in the matter. He was just fifteen. He can’t support Virgil and him--not legally anyway. It’d be difficult to cover it up. Child Protection Services would be on them in a matter of weeks, if not days. 

Good case scenario, they stayed together in the foster system. Bad case scenario, they ended up separated. Worst case scenario? They ended up back at their mother’s, because they don’t believe either of Logan’s or Virgil’s claims and the cycle continues without end.

So, his father. He was the only option, and he knew it. As much bitterness as Logan held for the man, there’s also yearning in equal spades. He used to spend nights crying for him with his mother yelling at him to shut up. Sometimes she’d beat him for it, telling him his father was never coming back. Then he’d snap back that she was wrong and he’d prove Logan right by coming back. Until little by little, he stopped. 

He couldn’t trust his father, the man even admitted it. He just had to hope it’d be better, even though apparently the man believed in magic. Logan was doing his best at the moment to deny it existed. It couldn’t exist, last night had to be a fluke of some sort and even if it wasn’t, it was too much for him to focus on at the moment. 

“As long as I have your word that you won’t intentionally hurt Virgil and I, we will stay with you.” Logan says, before offering his hand towards his father.

Father took a look at the extended hand, eyes softening, before clasping it, “You have my word, Logan, that I will not harm you or Virgil as long as you remain in my care.”

They shook on it. Logan let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and then--and then, his vision blurred. A sob and then another erupted until he clenched his teeth, holding the rest back. For the second time within twenty-four hours he had shown weakness. First to his brother and now, now to his father who above all he should show no signs to. But like that creative writing assignment in the 8th grade, he completely failed.

Somehow halfway the handshake got turned into an embrace. His father hugged him, a calloused hand softly carding through his hair once more. 

“Shh, Logan, you’ve been so strong, stronger than most. You won’t have to be strong alone any longer. Let it all out.”

Logan didn’t know what to think of his father’s words. It wasn’t like a set of logical propositions or a step-by-step formula for science. He couldn’t know for certain if they were genuine. But in this moment, he was but a little boy with his father back. So he dug his head into his father’s chest and finally cried. His father, in turn, did not berate or beat him for it. Instead, he held onto his son as he whispered reassurances all the while.

[quickspinner]

Plausible Deniability

Written for the LBSC sprint fic challenge. If you’d like to join in follow @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers for more information!

Challenge rules:

Pick a prompt and write for that prompt in up to three 15 minute sprints. No writing outside the sprints until you have completed all three! After the 3 sprints are complete, you have 24 hours to edit (which can include some new writing to smooth transitions, etc). After those 24 hours, post what you’ve got! More information on the challenge here!

Prompt: “I love you.” “Tell me that when you’re sober.”

Soooooo technically this is a fail as far as the challenge is concerned, because I only got the bare bones of it down during the allotted sprints and then I nearly doubled the length in “editing.” But, a failed challenge still means a completed fic, so yay for that. 

“She’s trouble in a tank top pretty little time bomb, blowing up, take you down,” Luka sang loudly, causing heads to turn towards them on the street. Marinette hushed him, and he obligingly dropped to a hum. 

Marinette gritted her teeth, adjusted Luka’s arm over her shoulders, and reminded herself that she had signed up for this. Had, in fact, assured Luka over and over that she didn’t mind and that he deserved to relax and celebrate, and just drink your shots, already, Luka I’ll make sure you get home safe. All of Luka’s friends were ecstatic for him and everyone wanted to buy him a drink, so Marinette had stood her self-appointed duty, making sure he had enough water and pacing things out so that when he staggered out of the bar at the end of the night, leaning heavily on her, he was still moving mostly under his own power, though he was certainly feeling no pain. 

Drunk Luka was chatty, though, and all the thoughts that normally stayed in his head seemed to just pour out of his mouth at random (along with, apparently, every song he’d ever heard or written).

“Snakebite heart, and a bubblegum smile,” he sang, fortunately at a more reasonable volume this time. 

“You’re so ridiculous,” Marinette grumbled, but there was fondness in it. 

“You’re the best,” he giggled. “I love you.” 

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Tell me that when you’re sober.”

“I did,” Luka snorted, and then laughed his drunk laugh again. “You avoided me for weeks.”

Marinette winced and bit her lip. She hadn’t been thinking about it when she said it. It was a reflexive response at this point, something she said to all her babbling drunk friends when she saw them home at the end of the night (Nino in particular was an ‘I love you, man!’ kind of drunk). She was used to this role, though it was the first time she’d done it for Luka. It hadn’t occurred to her until just then that her usual quip might hit a little differently with him. 

“Ma’nette.” Luka leaned on her more heavily and nuzzled at her temple—sort of. Really he more just bonked their heads together. “S’okay. Don’t get all moody. S’funny.” 

“It’s not funny,” Marinette sighed. 

“Everything’s funny,” Luka grinned, and then started laughing again. Marinette just shook her head, and settled his arm a little more comfortably over her shoulders. “Sides. I’m drunk. I can say whatever I want and we can just laugh it off in the morning. You don't even have to run away this time.” He leaned his head on hers, which tilted the rest of his body towards her, and she staggered slightly under his weight. “You’re so beautiful. Just...all the time. Fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?”

Marinette blushed hotly. “You’re drunk,” she muttered. 

“Yep,” he grinned, and then added, “Drunk but not a liar.” He kissed the top of her head before straightening. Sort of. He took some of his weight off her, at least.

Luka sighed dreamily. “S’been years since then, right? An’ the first time was years before that.” He laughed. “God, I was such a dramatic little shit. Clear as a music note, sincere as a melody. You must have thought I was so stupid.”

“I thought it was beautiful,” Marinette replied quietly. 

Luka’s arm tightened around her shoulder, pulling her against his side in a hug. “Aw, you’re so sweet. You’ve always been great that way. You get me, even when I’m dumb.” 

“Yeah,” Marinette smiled, bumping him with her hip. “But come on, Luka, you got over all that a long time ago.”

Luka started to laugh so hard he nearly toppled over, and Marinette had to plant her feet and put all her weight into keeping him upright. When she did get him back onto his feet he was wiping away tears. 

“I am drunk as hell,” he chuckled, pulling his arm away.

“You really are,” Marinette agreed with a sigh.

He faced her, one hand curling behind her head. Marinette started slightly, out of surprise rather than fear, as he leaned toward her, his eyes unnaturally bright and liquor heavy on his breath. “I’m so drunk can tell you that I never got over you. That I’m still stupid in love with you and nobody ever makes me feel the way you do. You’re one in a million, Marinette. There’ll never be another girl as fascinating and brilliant and creative as you. I knew you were special from the second we met.” He grinned, one thumb gliding over her lower lip a little more roughly than he probably meant to. “And your lips make me think like a pervert. Also your ass is really cute.” He doubled over, giggling, his hands falling away from her as he started walking again. “You ever think about my ass?” he asked, rhetorically it seemed as without waiting for a reply, he tipped his head back and looked up at the sky. “Ugh, fuckin’ city lights. I miss the stars on the boat.” He started singing again, but casually, as if to himself, instead of belting it to the sky. “She’s outta control, so beautiful. I’ve been waiting so long, but she’ll never know…”

Marinette suddenly felt like she was reeling as much as Luka. She felt hot and cold all at once. She’d had no—

Well. That wasn’t true. She had had an idea that he still felt that way, but she didn’t trust her own judgement, not after years and years of reading into things and making mountains out of molehills, and their friendship was so perfect, so precious, she hadn’t wanted to make things weird. But all this time...oh, Luka...

Luka’s lopsided path was taking him a little close to the street, so Marinette jogged a bit to catch up with his long legs, and slipped back under his arm. 

“There you are,” he sighed happily, leaning on her again. “I’m so glad you came back.” 

“Don’t I always?” she said, a little breathless from the revelation.

“Eventually,” he agreed. “Thank fuck for that. Don’t know what I’d do if I scared you off for good.” 

Marinette sighed, and put her arm around his waist. “Come on. Let’s just get you home.”

If she was quiet on the metro, he didn’t seem to notice, filling the silence with idle chatter and random drunken observations that earned them some amused glances from their fellow subway patrons. Marinette didn’t really pay attention, except to push him away when he buried his nose in the crook of her neck and murmured about how good she smelled. Not that she minded, exactly, but she was still processing his drunken declarations and it was hard to think properly with her really attractive friend-and-maybe-more snuggling up on her. Luka had always craved touch (although not usually like that) and it didn’t really rattle her anymore, she just...really needed to think, and it was hard to do that when she was really kind of feeling like— 

“Our stop,” Luka muttered, and it embarrassed her that he was the one to notice. The fact that she was more distracted than he was drunk should have been disturbing. Luka sighed as she helped him get up, and leaned on her a little more heavily. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Tired.”

“I bet,” Marinette said, squeezing his waist lightly. “We’re almost there.” His chatter subsided into slightly off-key humming on the way up to his apartment, and she could see that now that the hilarity was fading, Luka was struggling to stay awake. He couldn’t even manage to stick on one song, humming in increasingly broken snippets. 

“All right,” she said, when they finally made it into his apartment. “Bed for you.”

“Bed sounds nice,” Luka agreed, as Marinette opened the door to his bedroom.

“I think you can make it from here,” Marinette said, slipping out from under his arm.

“Thanks, Nette,” he said, smiling down at her, and as she looked up at him her heartbeat quickened. She felt the flush in her cheeks, and looked away quickly, unconsciously licking her lips, before her eyes darted back to his again. 

Unfortunately for her, even drunk off his ass, he could read her like a book. 

“Are you gonna kiss me, Marinette?” Luka asked, leaning over her with one elbow on the doorway. “Cause I’m not opposed but like, I had plans for your birthday and they’ll be ruined if you’re avoiding me, so if you do you gotta cap your running away at three...no...wait, how many weeks?” He blinked, looking confused. “What day is it?”

Marinette swallowed hard, flooded with shame, her eyes stinging. Luka’s gaze snapped back to her, losing some of that vague expression. 

“Aw, Mari, don’t cry,” he sighed, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. ‘M so sorry. I’m such an idiot, you were never supposed to cry because of me.” He sighed, letting his forehead fall to rest against hers. “Sober me is gonna kick my own ass tomorrow for making you cry.” 

Marinette closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. She’d never wanted to kiss him so badly, but it would be wrong while he was like this, and he’d trusted her to get him home safely. Luka would never take advantage of her this way and she wouldn’t do it to him, either. 

Instead she leaned up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Luka relaxed into the hug, folding his arms around her and squeezing so tight it made her gasp. He moved to bury his face in her shoulder. “Love you,” he sighed. 

“Luka,” she whispered, and he grunted. “Tell me all that when you’re sober, okay? All the stuff you said to me tonight. Tell me again when you’re sober. Tomorrow, okay?” He grunted again, though she really wasn’t sure if he was hearing her.

She gently pushed him back, and then took his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead tenderly. “Now go to bed. I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.” 

She knew he was already half asleep, because he didn’t protest her sleeping on the couch. He let her nudge him around, and took the three steps to his bed, and collapsed onto it. 

Marinette sighed, and followed him for just a moment to pull his shoes off and cover him with a blanket. He was snoring before she even closed his door. 

***

You know just what to say Shit that scares me

He noticed the music first, before he was even fully awake. 

I should just walk away but I can’t move my feet The more that I know you the more that I want to 

He knew that song. 

He knew a lot of songs, really, but more importantly, he knew that voice. 

Something inside me’s changed I was so much younger yesterday

The piping voice fell into place right about when he woke up enough to remember the night before. Luka groaned and pulled his covers over his head, wishing he could just curl up and die. He really did want to go back in time and kick drunk Luka’s ass. What had he been thinking, getting that drunk and letting Marinette bring him home alone?

He was thinking that she’d put him in a taxi and send him off, naturally. Because he’d already been a couple drinks in, which was why he’d been hesitating over having more to begin with, and when Marinette had told him to enjoy himself and she’d make sure he got home safe, his logic brain had ceded control to his wishful thinking brain, or something. Because he’d just sold three songs to one of the biggest artists in the country and his name was going to be on the album sleeve and the check had been more money than he’d ever seen in his life and when everyone told him he deserved to celebrate, he kinda wanted to believe them. In his right mind he would have known that Marinette would never just shove him into a cab. Dumbass, he chided himself. 

Even beneath the blanket, he could smell food, his stomach equal parts queasy and interested, and Luka knew he couldn’t hide here forever. He had to man up and face the music. Literally, apparently. 

Luka sat up slowly, pushing his blanket off, and then opted for honorable procrastination in the form of dragging himself into his bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. If he was going to have to grovel and find a way to pretend he hadn’t meant all those things his dumb drunk ass said last night, he at least wanted the small dignity of smelling decent. He owed Marinette big time after this. It was probably thanks to her pushing water and food on him all night that he didn’t feel worse than he did. He paused on the way to swallow the pills and down the glass of water Marinette had left on his nightstand. It didn’t help his stomach but his head didn’t hurt as much by the time he was out of the shower. 

Luka debated putting on real clothes but opted for sweatpants and an ancient t-shirt. It wasn’t like Marinette hadn’t seen him looking worse. 

Finally he took a deep breath and made his way out to the living room. He could see Marinette in his little kitchen, the counter piled with food and ingredients. Luka winced; she must have gotten up earlier and gone shopping. There was no way he had this much, or this kind, of food on hand. 

Her phone was on the counter, the music—his music—blaring through the bluetooth speakers he’d long ago given her access to.  

“I didn’t know that I was starving till I tasted you,” she sang, bobbing slightly as she transferred food to the plates she had ready. “Don’t need no butterflies when you give me the whole damn zoo…” 

Luka couldn’t help a smile. He’d covered and recorded the song for her birthday, teasingly telling her he that couldn’t stand to listen to the original anymore, but that was a lie. Luka had wide-ranging music taste and could appreciate even things he wouldn’t necessarily seek out on his own. Mostly, he just wanted to sing it for her. He’d recognized her singing it when he woke up; either she had it on repeat or her playlist had cycled in the time it took him to get cleaned up.

“By the way, by the way, you do things to my boooodEEEEK!” Marinette gasped and dropped the plate she was holding. Luka watched calmly as the shatter-resistant dish (that he’d bought on purpose because a surprising number of people he loved had a tendency to break things) cracked into several large shards. “Damn it, Luka,” she sighed, looking at the mess. “You startled me.” 

“Sorry. I’ll get it,” he said quickly, moving to pick up the pieces. His head reeled when he bent over though, sending him to his knees, and Marinette shoved him back as she crouched down instead. 

“No, I got it,” she murmured, not looking him in the eye, and Luka bit the inside of his cheek, feeling a flush of shame. He pulled his hands back and leaned back, intending to sit on his heels but falling back on his ass instead. Folding his legs under him like he meant to do that, he raked both hands through his hair and sighed. 

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, as Marinette cleaned up the mess. “About last night. So, so sorry, Marinette, I was petty, and mean, and I said a bunch of really unnecessary things, and I swear I don’t—”

“Stop,” Marinette ordered, dumping the broken plate in the trash, along with the remains of the omelet that had been on it. Luka winced and shut his mouth and his eyes, rubbing his forehead with one hand.

Small, warm hands pushed his away and slender but strong fingers began massaging his temples and forehead. He leaned into her touch with a little moan. 

“How do you feel?” Marinette asked gently. 

Luka gave a lopsided smile, eyes still closed. “Like I don’t deserve this. It sure feels good though.” 

Marinette sighed, her breath wafting over his face. “Can you eat?” 

“A Marinette hangover special?” Luka’s grin widened. “Definitely. If there’s any left.” 

“There is,” Marinette told him, amusement in her voice. “I always make plenty. Sorry about the dish though.” Her fingers slid down to gently cup his face. Luka opened his eyes, to find he was looking into hers. Her beautiful, stunning eyes that still took his breath even after all these years. They looked red-rimmed and tired, though, and a stab of guilt went through him. 

Needle and the thread, gotta get you outta my head, get you outta my head  

Luka cringed at his own voice coming from the speakers. “Did you have to keep that one?” he asked plaintively. “I made you a better one.” 

“I know,” Marinette giggled. “But I like this one. It’s the first one you made for me.” 

“The quality is shit,” Luka grunted. He’d recorded it on his phone on the boat, on his acoustic back when they were teenagers. The boat hull gave it a weird hollow sound, and in a couple of places he’d gotten too loud and blown out the mic so that it sounded all staticy, and the p’s popped awfully, and he didn’t even know how she could stand to listen to that song because the whole reason he’d made her the cover was because she was playing the song nonstop as she mourned her breakup with—and he’d wanted to do something, anything to help— 

Marinette’s lips pressed to the wrinkle in his forehead, snapping him out of his thoughts. “It has sentimental value. Go sit at the table, I’ll bring out the food.”

Luka got up off the floor, swaying only slightly, and dragged himself to his small table. Marinette brought him a loaded plate, bacon piled beside the spinach omelet, sliced banana arranged on the other side. Luka avoided the bacon for the moment, going after the banana first, and then nibbling cautiously at the omelet. Marinette slid a plate of avocado toast and sliced french bread drizzled with honey over to him, and he ate a slice of each obediently. 

“Why is this so good when I feel so crappy?” he muttered.

"Science,” Marinette informed him, and he cracked a smile. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” Luka said after a moment. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but…well. You didn’t have to.” 

Marinette glanced up at him and then seemed to consider her words for a moment. “I guess I was hoping...maybe you had some things to tell me this morning.” 

His fork froze halfway to his mouth as he stared at her, remembering the way she’d held him last night. What’s she’d said in his ear as he nearly dozed off on her. 

Tell me that again when you’re sober .

She held his gaze, taking a deliberately dainty bite of honey-drizzled bread, her tongue darting out to lick a stray drop off her lip. Luka swallowed, wondering wildly if she would taste like honey if he kissed her.

“M-maybe I do,” he mumbled, and then took a too large bite of omelet. He stared at his plate as he chewed, not even tasting it as his body went cold and then hot and a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him that he didn’t think had anything to do with the hangover. He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. 

He glanced up to see Marinette still watching him. 

“Well,” she said, blushing and looking down at her own plate with a self-deprecating smile that he found much too adorable. “I promise if you do, I won’t run away this time.” 

There was a beat of silence as he stared at her and she stared at her plate, and then he mumbled, “Good to know,” and took another bite, trying not to smile too broadly while inside he was screaming like a teenage girl. 

Fiction Master Post

Music:

[cat-brodsky]

The Secret History: Abridged (part 2)

Fair use disclaimer: The following text is intended as a parody and literary commentary of the published book “The Secret History” by Donna Tartt. Some direct quotations from the book, constituting a very low percentage of the original, have been integrated in the parodic text where appropriate. The author of this text neither profits nor intends to profit from it.

Dramatis personae

The farmer, brutally murdered by four rich kids on a drug trip

Richard Papen, the narrator, a slightly less starry-eyed youth slowly growing addicted to drugs

Julian Morrow, a Greek professor who doesn’t actually care about his students

Bunny Corcoran, killed on Easter, lying at the bottom of a ravine covered by snow

The Toffs minus one:

Henry Winter, increasingly exasperated as the Greek class spirals into self-destruction

Francis Abernathy, gay, neurotic, and slowly descending into alcoholism

Charles Macaulay, a full-blown drunken abuser

Camilla Macaulay, the token girl

Judy Poovey, the only character in the book with both brains and heart

The Corcorans, Bunny’s large family, grieving and “grieving” the loss of their son

Georges “I told you so” Laforgue

Cloke Rayburn, the friendly neighborhood drug dealer

William Hundy, the friendly neighborhood bigot

the greek chorus (played by a person in a floral bedsheet toga with two sockpuppets)

The Fans, seated in the front row of the audience

    Chapter 6, in which it snows on Easter

Richard: Just for the record, I don’t consider myself an evil person. What we did was terrible, but you know, none of us were exactly bad!

Richard: Anyway, that’s totally unfair. I thought murdering Bunny would be easy, but for some reason now I’m having nightmares and everybody is on edge and we’re scared the cops are onto us!

Judy: Want some Demerol?

Richard: Sure, nothing could go wrong with thaaa- oh wow I’m hiiigh.

Francis: ohgodI’m so damn nervous - oh, hi, Richard. Wanna f-

Charles: And I’m three sheets to the wind. Soused. Pished. Drunk.

Francis: Gimme some.

the greek chorus: and that’s gonna be a theme for the rest of the book

    The Toffs (minus one): We need to act normal. How do we act like normal people. We could say we were watching some of that new-fangled cinematography whilst the murder, I mean the accident, happened. Do we call the cops? Wait, uh, not yet...

Julian: My student has been absent for more than three classes in a row, should I be concerned? Haha, just kidding.

Cloke: Man, I don’t like this. You know Bunny’s always broke, but he’s been flush with cash lately. And he’s always wanted in on my... pharmaceutical business. You think he ran afoul of some real bad guys and got himself killed?

Henry: Oh, he just might have.

Cloke: Damn. Let’s go search his room before calling the cops.

Charles: He had a cut-out of the newspaper with the farmer murder! Oh well, good thing I managed to swipe it.

    The cops: He’s been missing for a week and nobody informed us? What’s wrong with you people?

Judy: Richard, have you heard about Bunny? I’m sure he’s alright, but... If you want to talk, or need anything, I’m here.

    The search for Bunny: begins

The reporters: present

William Hundy: Daymn right I saw ‘im! He was in a back seat of a white car, with some arab type folks. Now I ain’t saying they was terrorists, but you know them daymn arabs-

Henry: Who’d have thought people are going to make things up? And who’d have thought giving him money would look suspicious?

Francis (drunk): I’ve had to spend time with the Corcorans. How utterly terrible. One of the damn children running around ruined my favorite scarf. And they didn’t even notice - what’s more important, their dead son or my scarf? By the way, Richard, I am definitely not attracted to you.

Julian: One of my own students - missing? I would be sorry for his parents if they weren’t so... low-brow. But he's such a sweet boy, so silly; I'm really very fond of him. If anything should have happened to him I don't know if I could bear it. Goodness me, this is altogether so very exciting, so dramatic!

Henry, stars in his eyes: There’s divinity in the midst of us.

    The FBI agent: We found drug paraphernalia in Bunny’s room.

Mrs. Corcoran: How dare you!

Cloke: I want a lawyer.

Camilla: Did you know Henry had us kill a piglet after that accident with the farmer? Blood can only be washed off with blood, he said.

Richard: Haha, that’s so Henry.

the greek chorus: and then the body is finally found

    Chapter 7, in which everyone takes drugs

Everyone in Hampden college: mourns in a sufficiently dramatic way

Julian, writing a letter: Dear Richard, this is all too hard for me. I fear I have a case of the vapours and thus, I shall not return to Hampden until after the funeral. Who cares about the classes you’re taking with me, amirite?

The Toffs: stay with the Corcorans in preparing for Bunny’s funeral

Mr. Corcoran: my son... oh god my son is dead ...you boys want a brewsky?

Mrs. Corcoran: And those flower arrangements we were sent are atrocious. Simply shameful.

Francis: What do you mean we have to sleep in the basement? That’s just wretched.

Richard: This funeral is so inconvenient. I don’t know how I’m gonna get through this. And the food they serve us is terrible.

Henry: And the garden is so ugly.

Camilla: I can’t take it. Let’s steal some drugs from the Corcorans.

Cloke: Lemme show you where the missus keeps the good stuff.

Francis and Henry (drunk): Gimme some.

Charles, Cloke et al: get stoned the morning of the burial

Richard: Bunny’s grave is just terrible to look at. Oh, I cannot even.

    the greek chorus: farmer who?

    Chapter 8, in which it all goes to hell

Julian: Henry is such a sensitive young man. I fear this is hard on him. And Edmund and him were so very close. But why did he have to read such a... modern poem at the wake? I would have suggested something from Phaedo.

Richard: Time for more drugs

Charles: Time for more whiskey

Francis: Time for a shopping trip!

Francis was always generous with his clothes. He gave Charles and me his old suits by the armload. I still wear a lot of those suits: Sulka, Aquascutum, Gieves & Hawkes.

the greek chorus: no comment

    Henry: is gardening

Francis: gets diagnosed with an anxiety disorder

Charles: crashes his car driving drunk

Charles: makes out with Camilla in full view of Richard

Francis: Yep, they're doing it. Haven’t you noticed? Him and I slept together once or twice too, big deal. Hell, Richard, if you drank as much as he did, we would have screwed too.

Richard: ...Jesus. And I’m stuck with these people until I graduate.

    Charles: falls asleep outside while drunk

Richard: Well, he has a fever of 103 Fahrenheit, which, going by my premed education means uh... Judy, what do we do?

Judy: Go to the hospital, of course! Wait, take my car. I’ll give you the keys.

Julian: So young Charles is in the hospital? Dearie me, you all must be grieving for Edmund. Though, is death really so terrible a thing? It seems terrible to you, because you are young, but who is to say he is not better off now than you are?

    Francis: Oh, and I think Camilla and Henry have been sleeping together. And she moved out of Charles’ place. I think they had an argument.

Richard: Well, I’m not taking sides, but this is a really bad time. You should go see him.

Camilla: ...Charles was physically abusing me. I’m afraid of him. And I can’t stay at Francis’ place, because he’d fold like a wet tissue.

Richard: So is that it? You're protecting your own interests?

the greek chorus: DID YOU JUST-

Richard: What if Charles goes to the cops?

Camilla: He’d never do that. And Henry is looking out for him.

Richard: Sure, that’s why Henry’s been sending him whiskey.

    Richard: Time for more drugs. I’m on soooo many drugs. Did... did Henry plan it all out? He... he totally planned it out.

Henry: is gardening

Henry: For my entire life, I’ve been dead inside... but everything changed the night I killed that man.

the greek chorus: finally someone remembers the farmer

Henry: You don’t care much about other people, do you, Richard?

    Julian: A most terrible thing has happened. A letter, purportedly from the late Edmund, has been delivered to my office - filled with profanity and wild accusations and references to some... murder. A forgery, of course. It saddens me greatly that someone would do that. I wonder who...

The Toffs: oh no

Julian: Why, by Jove, this is the letterhead of the hotel where Edmund and Henry stayed on winter break!

Henry: ...I can explain. You see, during that bacchanal you sanctioned, we went a little wild and wound up recreating The Bacchae - it wouldn’t be authentic without a little killing, right? It was just an accident, we didn’t want to bother you. But then Edmund found out, and he, well... overreacted. He was having some personal problems, you know, family problems... Professor, you said it yourself - we must do what is necessary! Really, it was a mercy killing.

Julian:

Julian: ...why, that's terribly interesting. Anyway, I have just been urgently called away from the university. Istran royal family, you understand.

Henry: But-

Richard: But-

Julian: Gotta leave now, toodaloo!

Henry and Richard: ...son of a-

    Richard: You know, in hindsight, Julian is kind of a huge prick. I even wrote down that his inability to see anything in true light was his most attractive quality. Turns out he used his students to boost his ego like some sorta cult leader.

Richard: And you know what’s messed up? I still admire him.

Dean of Studies: Cozy place Julian’s got here, doesn’t he? Well, now that he’s done a bunk - three weeks before final exams - I regret to inform you that you guys will have to switch your majors or something. I doubt the school will keep teaching Greek.

Dean of Studies: After all, there was so little interest in the subject that Julian only had six students, right?

The Toffs: ...SON OF A-

    Francis: Charles has gone off the deep end. We’ve gotta take him out to the country, let him keep drinking there.

Charles: Henry’s trying to kill me.

Henry: Am not.

Charles: Are too!

Henry: We need to get him into rehab or something-

Charles: walks in with a gun

Henry: Never mind.

Charles starts shooting; Henry wrestles the gun from him.

Richard: Oh no. I’ve been shot.

Henry: I’m so done with y’all. Why do y’all have to be so incompetent? Can’t a man commit a murder in peace? And worse, Julian has up and fled! I loved him! I believed him! Duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice my ass! I’m outta here.

Henry shoots himself.

the greek chorus: he lived like a Roman and died like a Roman - from lead poisoning.

Camilla, Charles, and Francis exit stage left

Richard: ...Uh, I’ve been shot? Hello? Anyone?

The Hippie enters stage right. Together with the greek chorus, they start carrying Richard off-stage.

The Hippie: It’s all a metaphor, man. Henry has a limp, from the car accident, right? Well, he’s Satan and he’s here to ruin lives. Julian gets off scot-free, but it doesn’t matter cause his soul is damned, man! That Donna chick is Catholic, right? That’s why Bunny was going on about sin and forgiveness - cause he knew what up and he has a chance in purgatory, man, but the others are Pagans so they don’t. Deep, man.

the greek chorus: man, you’re high like a kite.

    The Epilogue, in which nobody is happy

Richard: Yeah, well... Everyone except me dropped out. Turns out that our group was only really held together by Julian’s cult-like teaching and Henry’s blind devotion. And that once we couldn’t pretend to be better than everybody else, we stopped wanting to see each other. Or it might have been the two murders, who knows.

    Francis, in the hospital after a suicide attempt: So, my grandfather found me with Kim, a nice young lawyer, balls deep in me, and threatened to disinherit me-

Richard: That old homophobe!

Francis: Oh, no, that's cause Kim is Korean. Anyway uh this is my beard - my dear Pricsilla whom I'm gonna have to marry.

Richard: Or you could actually... work for a living.

Francis: That’s inconceivable. I mean, you work, but you are used to menial labor.

    Richard: So... what does Charles do these days?

Camilla: He drinks.

Richard: Good old Charles. Anyway, Camilla, will you marry me?

Camilla: Not a chance.

    Richard: Oh well. At least I got Henry’s brand new car out of this whole mess. That’s a net gain if you ask me.

    the greek chorus, narrating: “As a writer I’m giving the reader signs to help create the story with me. The reader is bringing his or her own memories, intelligence, preconceptions, prejudices, likes, dislikes. So the characters in your copy of the book are going to look and sound different than in mine. I have my own ideas, but once the book is out there it’s not really mine anymore, and my own idea isn’t any more valid than yours.” Donna Tartt, 2019.

The Fans rush onstage.

Fan 1: Henry did nothing wrong!

Fan 2: Who wants to have a bacchanal?

Fan 3: omg look at my character moodboards

Fan 4: What if we kissed over a copy of the secret history

Fan 5: dark acadamia(sic!) aesthetic

Fan 6: Donna Tartt died for our sins

    the greek chorus:

the greek chorus: FUUUUUUUUUUUU-

    Curtains.

[crystallized-shadow]

Rating: E Pairing: Madara/Tobirama/Izuna Word Count: 4515 Warnings: Tentacles, biting, blood, marking with tattoos, slightly possessive touches between siblings Summary: Hashirama warns Tobirama to stop messing with time and Tobirama doesn't listen.

Commission for @writhingbeneathyou Hope you like it!

Ko-Fi // Commission Info

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

The hiraishin was Tobirama’s greatest invention to date. He’d done the impossible and bent both time and space to his will, much to Hashirama’s concern. His foolish anija still believed in the stories about terrifying creatures that punished all those who sought to mess with things they shouldn’t. Tobirama saw those stories for what they were, silly tales meant to scare children into following the rules. Hashirama warned him never to try the hiraishin again, least he tempt those creatures. That had been met with an eye roll and a blatant lie that he’d stop “messing with the laws of nature.” As if. Now that Tobirama knew it was possible he needed to see what else he could do!

Tobirama’s first attempt at improving his hiraishin was his first of many disappointing failures. All he’d managed to do was get from one end of his lab to the other. Sure the whole trip had been smoother than his first trip, just remembering the first trip made his stomach clench painfully, but the process was still too sluggish and used far too much chakra for the jutsu to be practical. It had actually taken Tobirama longer to jump between seals if his calculations were correct and that was the opposite of what he was trying for. Resolving to look at the seals again after a few hours of sleep and his chakra doesn’t feel like so much of it is missing, Tobirama locks up and calls it a night. He fails to notice how unnaturally deep the shadows engulfing his new seal are.

The shadows slowly spread, twining around everything Tobirama has touched before condensing into a single, deceptively human shape. “How interesting…” A too sharp grin splits the shadows before they disperse altogether.

A shudder trails down Tobirama’s spine when the Senju returns to his lab a few days later; something felt off. Giving himself a shake, Tobirama allows himself a fond huff at the very Hashirama-like thought, before he strides purposefully into his lab. Missions and stupid clan politics had kept him away from his research for too long, he’d be damned if a stupid feeling kept him away a moment longer!

After his 10th failed attempt at making the hiraishin work again, Tobirama leans against his worktable with a frustrated sigh. It didn’t make any sense, the damn thing had been working before! Now it was like someone had burned all his careful research and sent him back to square -1! Not only that, but every failed attempt had the feeling of unease growing until finally Tobirama couldn’t ignore it any longer. It felt like someone was watching his every move and that thought had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. No good ever came out of a shinobi feeling watched. Being forced out of his lab by something as intangible as a feeling after repeated failures left Tobirama in an absolutely foul mood. Recognizing he’s not fit to be around others, and not wanting another lecture from Hashirama, Tobirama heads for his secret training spot. Perhaps blowing off some steam would clear his head of such silly thoughts.

Except it doesn’t; training only makes the feeling worse until Tobirama finds himself restlessly searching for the eyes he knows are watching him. For the first time since he was a small child, Tobirama feels like prey fleeing an impossibly large predator as he abandons his training to return to the safety of the clan compound.

“You seem tense Otouto,” Hashirama comments that night, leaning against the door frame as he watches Tobirama pace the length of the room.

“I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.” Tobirama grumbles, flopping down on his bed just to stop himself from pacing.

“You haven’t been tempting the higher powers again, have you?” Hashirama asks, his skeptical tone making Tobirama roll his eyes.

“Of course not Anija,” Tobirama huffs with just enough offense to make it believable, “I’ve stopped trying to advance our understanding of the world, just like you asked.”

“Don’t be so dramatic Tobira,” Hashirama sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like this conversation is giving him a headache. “I’m not saying you can’t keep researching things, just respect the laws of the natural world, and for sage’s sake stop messing with time!”

“You worry too much Anija,” Tobirama chides fondly.

“I don’t worry enough,” Hashirama states, the serious tone drawing Tobirama’s eyes to the elder Senju’s stern expression. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise,” Tobirama swears softly, but the words taste like a lie.

Tobirama manages to stay away from the hiraishin for the remainder of the week, just long enough for Hashirama to stop randomly “checking in” on him, before he’s drawn back to it like a month to the flame. The uneasy feeling hasn’t gone away, but it’s familiar enough that Tobirama can ignore it, writing it off as a lingering side-effect of his last mission. After double checking that Hashirama isn’t lurking nearby to bust him, Tobirama attempts his hiraishin once more. Yet again the jutsu fails to even flicker.

“How can I have gone backwards!?” Tobirama exclaims in frustration, examining the new seal once again. Finding every single line exactly where it should be, he slumps back against the wall, only to go rigid in shock when the wall moves.

“That would be my doing,” a voice suddenly purrs, only centimeters from his ear.

Tobirama reacts on instinct, lashing out at the unknown person, only his body doesn’t obey him; it remains completely still.

“Such an interesting mind you have,” the other continues, ignoring Tobirama’s panic as even his lungs fail to move, “few would ignore every warning ever placed before them.”

Tobirama wants to demand the creature release him, to know what he’s done, but nothing escapes his lips, still parted from his earlier gasp.

“Do you like it?” The sinful voice continues, something cold and wrong sliding over all his senses as the creature seems to envelop his whole body. “This is the time you so desperately wanted to control, how does it feel?”

It feels like drowning Tobirama thinks, unable to even struggle against the darkness pressing in on him from all sides. Just before he’s completely consumed, the world spins and Tobirama finds himself on his hands and knees, coughing and choking on air in his desperation to just breathe. There is a hand in his hair forcing his head back to stare up into blazing red eyes, eyes that remind him of all the blood he’s ever split.

“Dragging one moment out into an eternity,” the other continues as Tobirama slowly takes in sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and inky black hair that moves despite how still the air is. “How did it feel, my little human, to be graced with the tiniest fraction of my power?”

“Intoxicating,” Tobirama finds himself panting, gaze still locked on the beautiful face before him, “I want to feel it again.”

“I knew you would,” the man chuckles, the sound sending a burst of arousal right to Tobirama’s groin. Instead of pulling Tobirama closer, the other releases him and starts to fade away again.

“Wait!” Tobirama nearly begs, lunging forward and gripping the other’s pale wrist like a shackle, “you can’t leave now!”

“Oh?”

Tobirama finds himself frozen again, stuck once more in a never ending moment.

“I do not intend to let you play with my power any longer; if you continue along this path your life will be mine.”

Time returns to normal and Tobirama finds himself grasping nothing but shadows as the man before him dissolves away. “At least tell me your name!” Tobirama demands though it comes out needy and nearly a sob.

“Madara…” The name echoes through the lab and for the first time in a week Tobirama feels truly and utterly alone.

Tobirama’s first instinct is to say fuck it and immediately try his hiraishin again, just to spite the creature, but he ignores it. Only a fool would spit in the face of such a gift; Tobirama should be dead for what he’d done but the otherworldly being had decided to give him a second chance. He knew it was a second chance he would ignore, how could he resist such an alluring temptation, but it wouldn’t hurt him to wait another day. After all Hashirama would never let him hear the end of it if he died so soon.

Missions and border skirmishes keep Tobirama away from his lab for over a week and while frustrating, it does confirm his earlier thoughts, the shadow creature is no longer watching him. Instead of feeling relieved all the Senju feels is annoyed, how dare that bastard already write him off! When Tobirama finally makes it back to his sanctuary, after several increasingly graphic threats of violence against whoever dares disturb him, he weaves his newest seals into the wards already protecting the lab; now all he needed was Madara.

Activating his hiraishin without believing it will work, Tobirama is unprepared to find himself trapped in a vast expanse of nothingness. Unable to speak or move, he remains suspended there, darkness pressing in on him from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was like being frozen in his lab, but so much worse; despite his lungs refusing to work Tobirama doesn’t see suffocation ending this mockery of existence any time soon.

“Did you truly believe I stopped watching you?” A familiar echoes around him as something shifts in the corner of his eye. Tobirama tries to get a better look, but no matter what he does, nothing listens to him. “That I would not know you planned to trap me?”

Again Tobirama tries to speak to defend himself, but his vocal cords remain still.

“Very few have ever dared trap a being such as I,” Madara continues, brushing against every single one of Tobirama’s nerves at once, “and even fewer have lived to tell the tale. Tell me, why should I let you join those ranks?”

“I only wanted to talk to you," Tobirama explains, his words echoing around him even though his lips never move, “to learn all that I can from you without you running away.”

“You are not after my power?” Madara asks and Tobirama can sense the confusion vibrating through the darkness.

“Only your knowledge,” Tobirama promises, “I would rather create my own power than take yours.”

The darkness is completely still for what feels like an eternity before Tobirama suddenly finds himself thrown back into his reality, body slamming into the floor.

“Dammit!” The Senju growls, slamming his fist into the ground once he’s regained his senses, “I failed again!”

“Not quite.”

Tobirama’s head snaps up so fast he feels something creak in protest, though he hardly notices, too busy staring at the solid form before him. Madara looks the same, though his hair no longer moves like curling smoke, but what really draws Tobirama’s eyes is the fact that Madara’s entire body is visible this time. He drinks in the milky pale skin, his eyes following the lean muscles until they disappear behind a loose black yukata that Tobirama has to fight the urge to rip off.

“You came,” he mutters, slowly standing to face the creature, refusing to remain lower than him.

“Your life is mine, I have come to collect.”

“What?”

“Did I not warn you about using that jutsu again?” Madara asks and Tobirama’s blood runs cold. He knew it was a risk, but he thought he’d have more time with the creature.

“Fine,” Tobirama mumbles, throwing caution out the window since he’s going to die anyway, “take whatever you what but first give me what I want.”

“I do not need your permission to take what I want,” Madara reminds him with a chuckle, shifting to sit on the only clean worktable in the lab, “you are but an ant to me.”

Tobirama bites back a whimper at those words, unsure if he should feel threatened or aroused by such a threat. Madara is much too calm, sitting like a king in the middle of the seals supposedly keeping him trapped. “You are my prisoner,” Tobirama growls, hating that he loves the smirk that stretches across Madara’s face.

“Have you not noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“There are two of us,” a new voice snickers as a body presses against Tobirama’s back, two arms wrapping around him like a vice.

“Impossible!” Tobirama snaps, struggling to break free, “I should have sensed you!”

“Not when your chakra has been returned to a moment long since passed.”

Tobirama realizes for the first time that he can barely feel his chakra anymore; he hadn’t felt this weak since he was an infant!

“What shall we do with him Aniki?” The new being questions, releasing a stunned Tobirama, who just collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, to go to Madara’s side.

“Whatever we want,” Madara decides, his eyes shamelessly raking over Tobirama’s form, “he belongs to us.”

“I don’t understand,” Tobirama mutters, feeling hollow without his chakra, “how?”

“I am all the moments that are and could be,” Madara states with an easy grin, “Izuna is all the moments that have gone by.”

“You have disrespected my aniki,” Izuna continues, his equally red eyes gleaming, “and no one is allowed to do that. We will have to punish you now.”

Tobirama’s not sure if it’s because of the shock of losing his chakra or his desperation to stay alive, but his mind goes straight to gutter at those words. He might not be the most sexual person out there but both brothers were definitely worth lusting over. Izuna is leaner than his brother with the same otherworldly eyes and inky black hair, though his is tamed in a ponytail, and the same damn yukata. “How can two supposed gods not afford a different tailor?” The snark in Tobirama’s tone has both creatures smirking, seconds before the thin black material fades to familiar shadowy wisps.

“First things first,” Madara chides, “we are not gods, that is what you humans call us.”

“We are closer to what you call demons,” Izuna grins wolfishly, revealing pointed teeth that Tobirama could only hope would end up buried in his skin.

“Fuck,” Tobirama whines, finally forcing his eyes away from the glorious expanse of pale flesh before him.

“What would you like to do with him, my dearest otouto?” Madara asks, pulling Izuna close and letting his fingers trail over a sharp hip bone and up a deceitfully delicate spine, causing an irrational, but plainly obvious, flare of jealousy in Tobirama.

“Send him back to the abyss between moments,” Izuna huffs, nuzzling his brother’s bared chest possessively, “that is what disrespectful cur like him deserve.”

“A weak human mind like his would break boringly fast,” Madara drawls, idly trailing his fingers through Izuna’s ponytail, “he could not even survive a heartbeat there last time.”

Tobirama forgets how to breath for a moment as he remembers the feel of the nothingness all around him; all that had been less than a second?! “Don’t!” Tobirama begs before he realizes he’s spoken, “don’t send me back there, please! Anything but that…”

“Aw, the little mortal does not like our home,” Izuna chuckles, his grin sadistic as a wave of his hand has shadowy tentacles twining around Tobirama’s limbs.

Tobirama struggles for all he’s worth, chakra be damned he wasn’t going back there! Just when he opens his mouth to scream at the two demons, another tendril shoves itself down his throat, tearing a startled moan from the Senju.

“How interesting…” Madara purrs as another tentacle strokes the human through his pants.

Tobirama realizes he’s hard the same instant the demons do and suddenly the tentacles retraining him lose their threatening edge.

“He is overdressed,” Izuna complains, a wave of his hand rewinding the Senju’s clothing to nothing more than threads.

“Much better,” Madara agrees, smirking at the squirming man, “what a delectable feast so graciously offered to us.”

“It has been so long since we had a human,” Izuna remarks, watching Tobirama’s face as he summons another tentacle to prod at the human’s entrance, “I hope we do not break him.”

“Maybe we should,” Madara purrs, his tentacle withdrawing from the human’s mouth to caress a pale cheek. “Would you like to be broken Tobirama?”

“Please,” Tobirama whimpers, practically mewling when the tentacle behind him slips inside just enough for him to feel the stretch. “Ah~!”

“Such pretty sounds,” Madara grins, his fangs glinting ominously in the lights and drawing another moan from the human.

“I wonder how many offerings he will give us,” Izuna snickers and Tobirama has half a second to question what that means before the tentacle around his cock strokes him firmly, sending him screaming toward his first orgasm.

“He has not earned that right,” Madara decides, a thinner tendril wrapping around the base of Tobirama’s cock, snatching the human’s release away from him at the last second.

“Nooo!” Tobirama whines, thrashing in a vain attempt to get the shadows off him.

“How cruel Aniki,” Izuna laughs, dark glee sparkling in his eyes as the tentacle in Tobirama’s ass thrusts a little deeper, “I love it!”

“I knew you would my darkest Otouto.”

Tobirama bites back a whimper, torn between thrusting forward into the tentacle still stroking him and back into the one spearing his ass. A second tentacle slips inside, tearing away any thoughts of resisting the two demonic beings before him. “Please!” Tobirama sobs, precum puddling under his drooping cock as both squirming tentacles spread his ass obscenely wide, “please I need-!”

“What could our pet possible need Aniki?” Izuna wonders, his tone innocent despite his dark smirk, “could we possibly be boring him?”

“We would not want that,” Madara agrees, a wave of his hand summoning more tentacles to play with the human.

“No,” Tobirama groans, back arching sinfully in his attempt to escape the two tentacles tugging at his nipples, “no I wanna...I-I need…”

“Poor human does not know what he needs,” Izuna chuckles as he wills another tentacle into existence and forces it between Tobirama’s pale lips.

“I wonder how deep he can take us,” Madara murmurs, his eyes wracking over the flushed and sweaty form before him as he presses both tentacles even deeper into the human.

Tobirama was in the best kind of hell, he was desperate to come in a way he’d never been before and sage above did he want to come. He’s distantly aware of Madara speaking, but he can’t focus enough to actually comprehend the words. Tobirama thrashes against the tentacles, his chest heaving as the two tentacles in his ass merge into one and press in so deep he swears it must be in his stomach by now. The world whites out for a second as new levels of pleasure and lust overwhelm Tobirama’s system. A brush of soft lips against his ear brings everything back into focus and Tobirama sobs in pained pleasure, his already painful arousal heightened further than he thought possible.

“Would you like to come Tobirama?” Madara’s words are barely more than a breath, but Tobirama nearly chokes himself on the tentacle still in his throat in his hast to nod. “What would you do to earn that right?”

“Anything,” Tobirama promises the second his mouth his free, feeling the smirk against his ear.

“Such a good pet,” Madara praises, one hand coiling around Tobirama’s neck as he effortlessly pulls the human to his feet, the tentacles dissolving away.

Tobirama barely has time to mourn their loss before his lips are claimed in a searing kiss the likes of which he’s never felt before. When an unnaturally warm hand grasps his length, it doesn’t even take a full two strokes before Tobirama’s release paints the demon’s stomach white, his scream swallowed by greedy lips.

“Delicious,” Madara purrs as he pulls back, his eyes glowing brighter as he stares at Tobirama’s shuddering form.

“M-Madara…” Tobirama whimpers, clinging to the demon as he tries to comprehend all the sensations fighting for his attention. “P-please...I want…”

“Hm? What do you want my pet?” Madara prompts, claws of one hand lightly digging into Tobirama’s scalp as he pets the human, while the other set draws pinpricks of blood on a pale hip.

“Want you...please…”

“How could I refuse such a gracious offering?” Madara chuckles, his hands moving to grip Tobirama’s thighs and pulling the human up until he can wrap his legs around the demon’s waist.

Tobirama barely has time to realize he’s moved before their are lips on his neck and Madara sheaths his burning length in his willing body, tearing a pleasured cry from him. The demon’s cock is long, inhumanly long, and Tobirama’s willing to bet at least as thick as his fist, but the tentacles have prepared him well and the stretch doesn’t bother him at all. Just when he thinks it can’t get any better, Madara moves.

“Madara!!” Tobirama wails, because sage fuck it all Madara’s cock is ridged and nothing should be allowed to feel this good!

“So many pretty noises,” Madara coos, nipping a trail up to Tobirama’s mouth so he can claim the human’s lips in another kiss, “I just might have to keep you.”

“P-please…” Tobirama groans, nails digging into the flesh of Madara’s back as the demon’s next thrust nails his prostate so thoroughly he see stars. Feeling another set of lips against his neck, Tobirama breaks the kiss to glance over his shoulder, finding other burning set of eyes there.

“You have not forgotten about me, right?” Izuna murmurs, pressing up against Tobirama’s back again, his lips brushing sweaty skin as he speaks.

“Want you too,” Tobirama moans, tilting his head to give Izuna more room.

“I like this one Aniki,” Izuna decides, peppering Tobirama’s shoulder with stinging kisses as Madara spreads the human’s legs wider and sinks in that much deeper.

Tobirama whines, his whole world narrowing down to the two sets of lips on his neck and the cock in his ass. He feels the chuckle against his neck more than he hears it and Tobirama swears he’s going to black out when both demons start to nibble at the base of his neck. That is until a second cock presses into him, spreading his ass wider than he ever thought it could go the same instant both Madara and Izuna bite down, hard. Tobirama’s scream is wordless and so loud it strains his privacy seals to the max. He instinctively clenches down on both cocks and that proves to be his downfall as the sinful ridges rub his sensitive insides and everything whites out.

“Did we break him?” Izuna questions, releasing the human’s neck and watching his head loll forward.

“We might have,” Madara chuckles, lapping at the wound he’s fangs created, getting a weak from whimper Tobirama. “Are you back with us pet?”

“Wha…?” Tobirama manages to moan before Izuna shifts and his thoughts scatter once more. “Too...much…”

“You have got to find your release twice, surely you will allow us the same joy,” Izuna mutters, sharp teeth tugging playfully at Tobirama’s ear, “right Tobirama?”

Tobirama bites back some strange combination of a sob and a keen when two sets of inhumanly warm hands grip his waist and slowly lift him up, letting him feel each ridge scrap against his too sensitive walls. Blunt nails gouge Madara’s back when he’s yanked back down and the demons stab his prostate with such precision Tobirama swears the nerve much be attached to the end of their cocks.

“Are you ready for the real fun pet?” Madara murmurs, gripping Tobirama’s chin so red eyes meets red eyes, one set hazy with pleasure and the other glowing with dark amusement. Those words flip a switch and suddenly both demons snap their hips forward, punching a scream out of Tobirama’s abused throat.

The demons quickly fall into a rhythm that never leaves him empty and Tobirama swears he’s died and entered the Pure Lands; that was the only explanation for how he could feel so good and still be so hard. Sage above if he wasn’t already dead then these demons were going to be the death of him. A particularly hard thrust into his prostate accompanied by more biting kisses has babbled pleas spilling from his lips like a waterfall and Tobirama has to bite down on Madara’s neck to stop the embarrassing gibberish.

“So good,” Madara praises, groaning in delight when he feels teeth in his neck; very few would dare bite a demon.

“He is perfect,” Izuna moans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he nears his end, “can we keep him Aniki?”

“Would you like that Tobirama?” Madara chuckles, thrusting deeply into the human, “to be our pet for the rest of time? To know nothing but this pleasure for the rest of your days?”

“Please-!” Tobirama sobs against bruised skin, “please!”

“Such a good boy,” Madara grins, a clawed hand tangling in Tobirama’s hair as he yanks the human’s head back, “you are ours Tobirama.”

“Your past,” Izuna mutters, pressing a biting kiss to one pale cheek.

“Your present,” Madara continues, nipping the other cheek and then his chin, before he claims the human’s lips in a searing kiss, “and your future.”

Tobirama’s chakra rushes back to him the second those words are growled against his lips and instantly he’s aware of the infernos of chakra around him, in him, caressing every single one of his nerves. Unable to process everything he’s suddenly feeling, Tobirama practically howls his release to the heavens before the world goes dark. He’s vaguely aware of something lava-hot dousing his insides, but he can’t even hazard a guess before he slips away.

When he comes to sometime later, it takes Tobirama a moment to remember what happened. He wants to write it off a vivid wet dream, except the inhuman amounts of cooled cum in and pooled around his aching body tells him it was very real. “They left me alive,” Tobirama mutters in disbelief, using the nearby worktable to support his shaky legs as he stands, hissing at the sharp pain that shoots up his spine when he so much as breathes, “mostly.”

It’s pure chance that he happens to pass the single mirror he’d put up to avoid leaving the lab looking too crazy. But when he does, Tobirama has to do a double take. He’d expected to be covered in bruises and bites, he could vividly remember those sinfully sharp teeth in his neck, instead though he finds line after line of red. He’s sure the designs mean something, but the language is lost on Tobirama; the only thing he knows is anywhere the demons had drawn blood is now marked with intricate red tattoos. Letting his eyes fall on the three marks on his face, one on either cheek and one on his chin, Tobirama can’t help but smirk. “Anija is going to love this.”

[desolate-rose]

Chapter 9 the outside world part one

So the last two years of agonising and fretting over the ramifications and consequences of my future knowledge, my replacement of the original zelda, the possibility of me dooming an entire world simply by being born, and the inevitability of fate. All of that, for nothing.

I can't implement an essential part of my plan, FOR FOUR YEARS. For the next four years the fate of AN ENTIRE WORLD rests on my tiny three year old shoulders, in making sure my mom survives. But it's fine. Im fine.

It's not like I can do anything about it either. I physically can't learn sealing magic until I'm seven- full stop. There is no way around that restriction. I had asked. Repeatedly. Even researching independently, with what little I could read of my ancestors' journals. Which was a thing apparently. Apparently it was tradition for royals, and nobles to write journals of their lives to help inform their descendants after their death. Neat! But a little awkward to be reading my grandmother's diary, also a lot useless. (apparently my mom had a habit of screaming at operatic volumes when she was a baby, like mother, like daughter!)

If there was one benefit to this information, I at least now have a rough idea of when my mom will die. Yay. (unless of course zelda's lessons were pushed back for some reason, so my info is relatively dubious. yay.)

So now the only facit of my plan I can focus on is making sure my mom stays alive, not like i wasn't going to do that any way but now its just ya know potently world ending. Without any backup plans. Again yay.

So my main mission (or should i call it a quest? I am in zelda after all!) is to keep my mom alive. No sweat.

-that doesn't mean i don't have other goals though! I want to learn everything I can about the culture, history, and MAGIC (ITS ACTUAL MAGIC PEOPLE) of Hyrule. I'm in a whole new world! I want to know everything.

Also magic is REAL! Who wouldn't be fascinated?

I was practically skipping toward the library with dottie at my heels, I had recently found a relatively simple cooking primer that touched upon the subject of the special effects certain ingredients could give. (i could actually almost read it without assistance! progress!) I hadn't got the chance to finish it last night because the adults had this stupid idea that i needed a bed time and that healthy little girls go to bed before eight.

Bha! I am-

….

I was a teenager. And if school taught me anything it was that your education was more important than your mental and physical health! Lives were on the line people! Who knows when i'm going to need this information!

But it was nowhere near bedtime now! And no one! No one was going to stop me from my research!

I stared in abject horror at the empty shelf.

My book! My research! MY ENTERTAINMENT!

Someone had taken my cooking primer and I was devastated. Normally i would move on and find something else to read but this had been the first book that talked about special ingredients that i could sorta understand! I NEEDED more interimentery books to read, they were either too simple or too complex. The middling books that pushed my boundaries without confounding me were Hard to find! At least ones that didn't speak down to the reader or bore me to death.

DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO FIND A PICTURE BOOK THAT ISN'T SOMETHING ALONG THE LINES OF "RED DOG RUN, BLUE SNAIL SLIME!?"

I stomped fuming over to the castle's resident librarian who was deeply engrossed in some thick tome or another, muttering dark curses under my breath and fervently praying it had just been shelved in the wrong section. Ignoring the increasingly worried maid servant trailing behind me.

Taking a deep breath i collected myself and tugged on the old man's long trailing sleeve "mister Tommison do you know where my book is?" I requested politely. I didn't want to alienate my book dealer.

He raised one elegant silver brow and peered down imperiously over his reading glasses. "And which book would that be my dear?" mr. Tommison was a tall, thin, well kept man whose stern intimidating visage could scare troublemakers and chatterboxes out of his library with a single long derisive stare. He was horribly overworked trying to catalog and organise our massive mess of a library and wasn't all that fond of children no matter how important they might be. (honestly the library was a MESS from centuries of collection, mislabeling, misshelving, and to be honestly hoarding every scrap of paper we could get our grubby hands on. we had far too many books for one man to keep track of properly, but he kept the few sections he had under control in meticulous order.) thankfully he had grown a soft spot for me after a few weeks of quite, polite company and careful treatment of his precious books. (at least the few that i could read.)

"Dalias cookbook for the common home, mister Tommison" i replied dutifully carefully enunciating the syllables. mister Tommison was not tolerant of ignorance.

He sniffed derisively "it was checked out by some stupid little squire, he had the gall to come here right after training and tracked mud absolutely every where." my heart sunk. The knight trainees were famous for playing rough with their things and dirtying the castle with mud and other such gunk.

Even I knew that and I really only talked to mister Tommison, granny, spots, mom and dad!

Who knew what sort of condition my poor book would be in when i got it back!

I needed to go talk to this squire about being careful with this book or at least waiting to ruin it until after i got the chance to read over it a few times!

"Thank you for telling me mister Tommison." "of course my dear" he nodded back at me before returning his hawk like gaze to his book. I turned around sharply and headed out of the library.

Now, off to the training grounds to find my book!

.

…

…..

"Dottie? Where are the training grounds" she muffled a snicker behind me. "This way my lady."

As it turns out the training grounds were on the edge of what would be considered the castle, almost as far away from the library as one could get while staying in the castle grounds.

And as i stood in the door way to the outside world i was starting to feel…

Trepidation.

The sun was hot, the field was loud, and I was standing at a distance in anxiety. It had been years since i had really been in a crowd, since i had really gone outside and interacted with anyone outside of my small circle of family and caretakers. In all honesty i was rather sheltered.

And this was scary.

It was loud, the clash of bodies, the screech of steel against steel, triumphant yells, angry shouts, and the bellow of commanders. Hylian ears are incredibly sensitive and this messy cacophony of violent noise was painful.

My instincts were screaming to hide. to cling to dottie and hide behind the one person I knew was safe. Everyone was so much bigger and stronger than i was. I was fragile, vulnerable, and uncertain. My toddler mind cried for the safety of Dotties skirts. To turn around and-

"I'm just saying it's weird!" a voice broke through my thoughts and drew my attention to two soldiers relaxing in the shade of the wall some distance from the door dottie and i were standing in.

"She's the princess mate, should you really be saying things like that?" a lackadaisical voice replied to the first unknown. "She's three! No three year old should be reading! I have a three year old sibling, she can barely string a complete sentence together! Let alone read! Its freaky mate, I'm telling you!"

I took an involuntary step back and dottie bristled.

"Shes got the blood of the goddess mate, their always doing strange things." the lazy soldier replied barely bothering to glance at his impassioned friend. "I don't hear about the queen being able to read at three. Her majesty's smart, not unnatural!"

Dottie started to move but i caught her skirt preventing her from moving any further

His friend laughed, "you're losing it mate- the future wisdom of Hyrule, too smart? Have you been adding the wrong mushrooms to your stew?" "jerk. You know i'm right! Its weird! What other three year old can read?"

"SOLDERS DOSE THIS LOOK LIKE A TEA PARTY TO YOU?!" the two men startled head swinging toward the approaching commander before freezing like deer in head lights.

"THIS ISN'T SOME SORT OF RELAXING GET AWAY SPOT! THIS IS A JOB- A DUTY! GET YOUR LILY WHITE BUTTS BACK ON THE FIELD AND GET TO WORK ON SOME PUSH UPS"

The first solder spoke up tentatively "how many sir?" "DID I ASK FOR QUESTIONS? YOUR GOING TO KEEP GOING UNTIL I SAY YOU CAN STOP. NOW DROP." "SIR YES SIR"

I turned my eyes to the fuming dottie, "Dottie lets go back inside." "But princess-" "can we just go back inside… please." dottie scooped me up into her arms. Normally i would fuss wanting the independence of being on my own two feet, but right now it just felt good to be held. "Ok. let's go back to your rooms princess. Its about time for your nap any way" she replied with forced cheer.

It wasn't anywhere near nap time but right now i just wanted to sleep.

Also on FanFiction.Net! https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13547505/9/

[skam-season4]

I Missed You

Read on AO3

Summary: Yousef returns from Turkey. Sana lets something slip, and so does Yousef.

Notes: I’ve been very nervous to do a Yousana fic without a co-writer, but I tried! I hope you like it, it’s cute and wholesome I think. I’ve been nervous to do it because Isak and Even, which I normally write, got an entire season and an epilogue dedicated to their story, while Yousef and Sana never even got an entire episode for them, so I don’t know their characters as well and I connect with Even more than another character so it’s easier for me to write stuff about him. So, I’m branching out, and I think I’m gonna continue writing some Yousana?!

Sunday, August 20, 2017 at 7:49 pm Yousef’s point of view Age 19

***

It’s the same basketball court they went to when they played basketball and talked about their faith and bared their souls and watched the sunset. It’s the same place where Yousef realized he loved her.

Yousef recognizes the fact the being in love with someone and loving someone are two different things. You can be both at the same time, but when you’re just in love and don’t really love the person, the differences are monumental. The difference is that when you’re in love, you think that the person is the only other person in the world for you, but when you love someone, you know that they’re the only one. When you’re in love, you say you’ll love the other person despite their differences, but when you love someone, you love them because of their differences.

Over all the years of knowing her, if Yousef had to pinpoint one moment when he realized that not only was he head - over - heels, hopelessly, desperately in love with Sana, but also that he loved her, that day would be it.

Yousef loves Sana because of their differences. One would think that it would be frustrating for Yousef to talk to Sana about faith. How could she be so naive as to believe there’s still a God?

Yousef doesn’t think like that, though. He actually admires Sana for still being religious. He lost faith so quickly when something went wrong, but despite Sana being through Hell and back again, she’s come out even stronger in her faith than anyone could have imagined. And that takes courage. Yousef loves her because she’s courageous. But he also loves her because sometimes, she’s not. Sometimes she’s vulnerable and needs comforting, and she’s learning how to ask for it. Over time, lots, and lots of time, she’s learned to open up. Whether it be to him, or her mom, or her brother, or her friends, it doesn’t matter, because she’s finally letting people see her as more than a stone - cold badass. She’s letting people see her as the caring friend she is, and as the vulnerable girl she still is at sometimes when things start to go down hill.

She’s learned not to shut people out right away, and Yousef is so glad he got to witness her journey. He’s watched her progress emotionally from a girl to a woman.

He snaps out of his lovesick gaze as he sees the tiny speck of black, a break in the purple horizon. Suddenly all thoughts of Sana is strong, Sana is beautiful, Sana is my literal sunshine dissipate and are replaced with SANA SANA SANA SANA. He’s so disgustingly in love that he almost shakes his head at himself as he chuckles under his breath, but if he did that, he’d miss the black dot growing larger with every increasingly fast step he takes.

She’s still barely visible from here, but he starts running regardless, yelling at the top of his winded lungs his exact thoughts: “SANA! SAAANAAA!”

The top of the black dot swivels towards him. He doesn’t have to be able to make out her face to tell that she’s smiling, dimples popping, skin glowing, and teeth showing.

Hey, that rhymes, he thinks to himself as he picks up speed, and a car comes out of nowhere. Granted, he was running in the middle of the road and didn’t even notice it until he almost died, but there are more important things to be looking at.

Things like the girl whose hands just flew up to cover her mouth as she watches Yousef zoom across the busy street without a care for anything other than seeing her.

He runs to a stop just in front of her, bent over with his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. She’s laughing now, mouth open, head thrown back and eyes shining. This is the Sana that Yousef likes the most. The happy Sana.

“Here, I have water in my bag, hold on.” She says between giggles, and opens her bag and pulls out the half - full bottle of water. She hands it to him and he pops the lid off as he downs the entire thing in one go.

He smacks his lips as he finishes it, but then has a realization.

“Fuck. I’m going to have to pee so bad later.” Sana rolls her eyes and puts on an annoyed expression that wouldn’t fool anyone, seeing as how it’s about 100% fond instead of annoyed.

“Really? After two and a half months without seeing me the first thing I hear you say is, ‘Fuck, I’m going to have to pee later?’” She physically cannot keep up the act of being annoyed, so she seems to settle for exasperated instead. Yousef cringes at himself and puts his hands on his faces and he groans out an, “I’m sorry! I had a whole thing planned out in my head that I wanted to say to you, I was going to tell you how much I missed you and how much I love you, but it got messed up cause I guess I didn’t think it through quite well enough.”

“It’s okay,” she says through subsiding giggles. “Just come here you dork.” She reaches up towards his neck and pulls him down into a tight hug. He inhales her scent as he squeezes her middle tightly. He’d almost forgot just how much he’d missed this. Almost.

Then he realizes that holy shit, I just told her I loved her, and the panic sets in. He pulls away from the hug and spits out a shaky, “I’m so stupid, I just realized what I said and I totally didn’t mean to say it out loud right then. Well, I mean, I was going to tell you today but then it just kinda slipped out and I meant to say it in such a more meaningful way, but then I, I don’t know. But you don’t have to say it back if you don’t mean it, I’d totally understand if you didn’t feel that way right now because it hasn’t really been that long and I’ve been away and-” He gets cut off by her gently shushing him. Yousef relaxes immediately upon seeing her not run away. “Yousef, it’s okay. I…” she hesitates as he waits. “It’s just… It’s hard for me to say that, because if I open myself up to that, and I end up getting hurt-” And just like that, the roles are reversed as he cuts off her rambling this time.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. I get it, okay?” He offers her a reassuring smile as she lifts her gaze to meet his, and she begins to nod slowly, mirroring his smile.

“Okay.” The stare intensifies as they pass silent words between them. She loves him, but she’s just scared to say it. He knows she feels it though. He doesn’t mind her not wanting to say it, because there are other ways she expresses her love. The words are just words. Whenever they would get trapped in an intense staring contest like this over the years, Yousef would always get crazy butterflies in his stomach. In this particular instance, he does have them at first (they never really go away when you’re face to face with someone that stunningly beautiful), but the longer they stare, the more at ease he feels, the panic being replaced with a warm feeling that blooms in the center of his chest.

Sana breaks the stare first, and as she looks down, she seems to be having an internal debate with herself. She slowly lifts her stare back to Yousef with an expression on her face he can only describe as fuck it, and in one swift motion, she lifts up on her tiptoes, wraps her hands around Yousef’s neck, and pulls him down as she places a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek.

She lets go as he lifts a hand to touch the spot where she kissed him and strokes over his cheek fondly.

He looks back at her as she tries to hide her blush in an eyeroll (and fails).

“Come on. We have to get going or you’ll be late for your party,” she says matter - of - factly as she begins to walk away. His face lights up as she says this.

“Yes!” He exclaims with a fist in the air. “I am getting a party!” Sana stops in her tracks as she realizes what she just said. “Shit, I just spoiled it.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’ve known Elias long enough to know when he’s lying. Besides, he’s the one that brought it up in the first place.” “What do you mean?” Yousef pulls his phone out and shows her their messages from earlier.

“That dumb fuck. He’s never been able to keep quiet about a surprise with that loud mouth of his.”

Yousef laughs at this.

“It’s funny because it’s true.” He has flashbacks to their time at Bakka, and all the incidents with Elias ruining surprises.

Sana nods her head knowingly and says, “Should we go now?” Yousef nods his head and smiles in response. She returns the smile and takes his hand as they set off for the party.

Notes: cAn YoU teLL i THinK sANa iS BEauTIfUl? So, I have a draft of the kollektivet fucking around, so I could finish that, or I could write about the party that takes place after this, though I don’t know what would happen there, or I can write something totally different. Also the Elias thing... he might spoil surprises, but he doesn’t tell secrets (coming soon). Let me know what to do next!

[viralhottopics]

The love at the heart of our familys wartime secret

When Margaret Esiri and Andrew Evanss mother died, they read her diary and unravelled a lifelong mystery

In April 1939, Doreen Bates presented Bill Evans, the man she had been seeing for six years, with a sheet of paper. It listed, in two neat columns, the pros and cons of having a baby together.

What made the list unusual was that Bill was married to someone else, and would remain so, until his death in 1974.

Amazingly, Bill agreed to Doreens plea to start a family. And, after the birth of twins in October 1941, he spent every other weekend and summer holidays with Doreen and the children.

His wife, told of the twins existence when they were four months old, agreed to the arrangements, insistent that they should know their father. She and Bill had no children her choice and she never met the twins.

After Doreens death, aged 87 in 1994, Margaret Esiri and Andrew Evans discovered the list among their mothers many papers, which also included detailed diaries from 1931. Now the twins have edited and published the story in Diary of a Wartime Affair.

We didnt know our parents were unmarried until they told us when we were 10, recalls Margaret. Doreen always wore a wedding band and called herself Mrs Evans. We were told our father worked away.

Doreen Bates in 1934.

The weekends he came were the best, partly because we felt like a normal family, says Andrew. He slotted in immediately. We were conscious our situation was different, and I think staff at the school knew, but it never really got out.

Like many other wartime babies, Margaret and Andrew had been born outside of marriage, yet Doreens pregnancy had been, less typically, a meticulously planned one.

After meeting in 1930 when they began sharing an office at the Inland Revenue in Paddington, London, Doreen and Bill known as E in the diary struck up an instant rapport over long discussions about favourite books. By late 1933, their relationship had developed into a romantic and physical one.

Oh, I would give so much to have children, and the right to love him, Doreen wrote on 15 December 1934 after an illicit weekend with E in Winchester and a resulting pregnancy scare.

He, for his part, told her: I wish you wouldnt talk about babies. You have made me want them, too.

That E, however much in love with Doreen, would not leave his wife K in the diaries was never hidden. He was, I think, very fond of her, says Margaret, and he felt very guilty. He had a terribly strong sense of duty towards her.

In September 1935, Doreen wrote of her wish that E would tell his wife about their affair, despite believing such a move would end it. He would keep K, though he might suffer, I know.

Racked with guilt, E did eventually confess his infidelity, going on to tell Doreen by letter in November 1937 that their affair must end.

Bill Evans in 1934.

The hiatus lasted just two months. My love for him just leapt up out of the careful wrappings I had tried to smother it in all these weeks, she wrote on 22 January, after an impassioned meeting at Waterloo station.

The couple found ways to spend more time together snatched trysts in the office, lunchtime picnics, theatre trips, and a philosophy lecture course.

They also began a series of night walks around the countryside of the south-east. On 27 May 1934, Doreen wrote of meeting E on a night train from Charing Cross to hike the hills around Horsley. On top of Black Heath we rested and watched the moon sink We were rather cold but we were close and finally we slept for half an hour, she recorded. May my memory remain fresh and unblurred. Hers was, she noted, a gossamer happiness.

I must reconcile myself to having no children and not being Es wife, Doreen wrote in January 1935, going on to write in her diary, later that year, a stirring, but never-delivered speech to him. You think I should soon get over it catch another man, marry, have babies and live happily ever after. That is a convenient picture Well its not true.

With time though, her stance changed, and increasingly she considered the possibility of single motherhood. By November 1936, one week into a pregnancy scare, she had decided she would not seek a termination. I should manage This feeling of certainty and acceptance is quite independent of E, whatever he may say, or do, or not do.

Though keenly aware of the potential problems, by April 1937 her desire to have my baby, pure and simple and his baby something of him I should have the right to love and look after and help, was overwhelming.

Doreen began to take practical steps towards motherhood. She visited her doctor (who was, perhaps surprisingly, encouraging), arranged for her sister to care for the baby should she die and told her mother a deeply religious widow who also depended on her daughter financially that she was considering adoption.

It had to be him, says Margaret of the idea that Doreen could try to find another partner. She was deeply committed to Bill and remained so all her life, but she wanted to do this whether he stayed around or not.

She was determined to bring him round, she continues. She went on and on and I suppose there was an element of him giving in. His mother, adds Andrew, was too honest to have ever tricked Bill into a baby.

Doreen also accepted his initial insistence that his wife must know first. But the diary reveals her growing frustration at Ks fragile health and Es subsequent continual stalling. He found it very difficult to tell her, says Margaret. She had become very anorexic when he had told her about the affair and he was very worried it would happen again.

By the time he finally agreed to Doreens request to go ahead without Ks knowledge in 1940 believing that war would make the arrangement easier the announcement that she was to be transferred to Belfast appeared finally to dash her dreams.

Then on 7 March 1941, the day before her departure after a secluded hike in Surrey, one of the loveliest days we have ever had Doreen discovered she was pregnant.

Everything somehow just dovetailed into place, says Andrew. The timing was critical. Once she had gone it would have been impossible and she was getting older [aged 35], she felt time was running out.

Still unsure of Es continuing involvement, Doreen eventually returned to London in August, where she set about making arrangements for the birth. She found her employers to be surprisingly broadminded about what they deemed an unfortunate accident (the notion that it could have been a deliberate decision was apparently unimaginable). She was offered a long period of paid sick leave and a job to return to if she could avoid scandal.

She was lucky. It was wartime, the usual conventions could be stepped around a little and she was good at her job. They needed her, says Margaret.

For Doreens mother, Rosa though she did go on to develop a loving relationship with her grandchildren the news was harder to accept. The shock was great and she was quite prostrate all the evening, Doreen wrote in her diary. She was only allowed to visit after dark and the arrival of an ambulance to transport her, in labour, to the nursing home, horrified her mother.

Even after we were born, with E coming every other week, Rosa never reconciled herself to him, that he had put Doreen in that shameful situation, says Margaret.

It was a sense of shame Andrew and Margaret believe their mother never felt. She was uninterested in conventions of social behaviour and an ordinary, respectable life, says Andrew.

Bills commitment, of which Doreen could never have been sure, became apparent quickly. E is very thrilled more doting than I should have thought possible, her diary records of his first visit to see the twins.

He helped install Doreen, the children and a nanny in a house in London. Bill visited regularly, establishing the semi-formal arrangement when the family settled in Surrey after the war.

We called him Bill. She was more of a constant, but we were always clear that he was our father, says Margaret.

Involved as he was, Bill never told the rest of his family about his children. They met an aunt and several other family members for the first time only after their fathers death.

From time to time, as a young girl, Margaret received gifts of ballet shoes from K (a ballet teacher), but occasional meetings between K and Doreens sister never succeeded in establishing the rapprochement the aunt hoped for.

Watching the children play one weekend, Doreens diary recorded, E announced that having children was the supreme human experience. It was, says Margaret, a moment of vindication. It was what she had sought to tell him all along.

The Diary of a Wartime Affair by Doreen Bates is published by Viking, 16.99. To order a copy for 14.44, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call the Guardian Bookshop on 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of 1.99.

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