#i feel like i was raised culturally... i guess blank? so I picked up my own beliefs over time??

[defiant-firefly]

(I've had my chatty medicines so you get a post about this)

There is something distinctly and uniquely alienating and bizarre about hearing people say 'Easter Sunday is the most religious day of the year'. Like, when was this?? If it's so religious and so so so important, how come no one thought to tell me it was religious until like four or five years ago?

Yeah it's kinda funny but I'm also sat there every time like "what the fuck are you talking about". The assumption I was raised Christian and am Christian via culture is really funny though cause like. Bro I have no fucking clue what any of this stuff is about.

My parents never taught me the majority of this shit. Anyone else assumed I already knew about it. This Easter talk I've been hearing about a weird amount more than normal is all new to me and making me think of all this shit lmao

[suhnshinehaos]

treacherous : act two, part fourteen

...a spin-off to crush culture ! synopsis : after a couple of instances of accidental matching clothing, yangyang finds himself in a dating rumor with possibly the most famous person on campus : yn, the bassist of an up and coming band. yangyang doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. unfortunately yn, who has also built up a reputation for being cold as winter, does. pairing : liu yangyang x gn!reader genre/s : university au, student council + band au, fluff, angst, humor

act one, part fourteen : fight or flight wc : 1.6k

previous  ➤  act two, part thirteen next  ➤  act two, part fifteen treacherous  ➤  masterlist 

your room is quiet, uncharacteristically so. at this time of the day, music would often fall on your ears. sometimes, it’s from your own playing. most of the time it’s from the bluetooth speaker that sat atop your desk, a soft melody accompanying you as you worked on whatever assignment you needed to accomplish for the day.

but a blank document stares back at you. your final semester has barely even started and you already feel like you were behind on work. your gaze flickers back and forth between your phone and your laptop. even on his busiest days, yangyang usually found the time to check in on you.

a sigh escapes your lips, picking your phone up as you contemplate on sending him a text message. truth be told, you already felt a bit apprehensive reaching out to him in the past few days only to receive no reply. you knew it was out of character for yourself, but you had gotten used to having yangyang around.

your text messages stare back at you, almost mocking in the lack of a response from the other end of the line. you shut your phone and place it back on the desk, closing your laptop immediately after; there was no way you’d get any work done, not with your current state of mind.

“what could i have done wrong?” you rub your temples, brows knitted together as you looked back on the past couple of weeks. as far as you knew, the two of you were okay. yangyang even insisted that you take a picture with him at the company party photobooth.

you pull out the drawer of your study table to find that very same photostrip. the corner of your mouth twitches upwards. yangayang pinches your cheek, the widest grin plastered on his face. you cover the entirety of his face with your hand, sending a smirk towards the camera. the two of you smile towards the camera, he has an arm draped on your shoulders and you hold a peace sign behind his tilted head.

what happened? you think to yourself, shutting the drawer. this isn’t like him, that much you knew.  

a quiet knock interrupts your train of thought, swivelling your chair towards the door. it’s not like you had to guess who it was anyways.

“what?”

the lack of emotion in your voice makes dejun raise a brow, “i’m guessing he hasn’t replied to any of your texts?”

“nope,” you groan, throwing your head back.

“why don’t you just call him?” dejun leans on the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “what do you have to lose?”

“my pride.” you answer without an ounce of hesitation, though you’re sure that you had already lost some of it in your initial text messages. part of it felt pathetic, sending him all those texts to not get even a single response. you knew he was busy with council, and you were busy with the band. the two of you no longer shared a class either.

however, when you saw him make a hard left turn when you were coming down the halls, it became all too clear that he was intentionally avoiding you. the slight pang in your chest is undeniable.

dejun rolls his eyes, “what’s all that pride for when you have no contact with the person you like?”

an even louder groan leaves your lips. though it felt great to finally get it off your chest, you had been subject to an endless amount of teasing from your friends.

“did you come into my room to bother me?” you mutter, throwing a crumpled up post-it note right at him.

“actually, i came here to ask what you wanted to eat for dinner,” dejun chuckles, watching tiny yellow paper ball land by his feet, “just call him, yn. you’re not going to get anywhere trying to guess.”

“what if he doesn’t answer?”

“try again. when have you ever been the type to give up?”

“i gave up on sicheng, didn’t i?” you laugh, albeit bitterly. “is this what he felt when i cut him off?”

“you did it for a reason,” dejun speaks after a quiet sigh, “i don’t know what’s going on with yangyang, but he must have one too. and you’re never going to know unless you fight to find out.”

~

it’s been half an hour since the sun began its descent on the horizon, a yawn escapes yangyang as he locked the door to the council room. it was rare that he’d be the last one out, but he did ask renjun to give him an extra amount of work — which really just meant taking the work that renjun was supposed to do for himself. his friend did deserve the time off.

yangyang walks ncit’s streets in complete silence, his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his coat. he looks around at everyone else that walked the same streets, couples holding hands or friends that laughed together as they made their way to the nearest restaurant.

a dark blue sky hung above him as a headache creeped its way to his temples, yangyang attempts to blink it back to very little avail. times like this, he wishes he could hear your voice. it always made him feel better even on the longest of days.

but that was no longer an option for him.

his heart now clenches at the thought of you, an unwelcome change from its usual skipped beats. regret builds from the tips of his fingers to the pit of his stomach as he stops to look up at the sky. there is no moon to greet him.

a ringing phone interrupts the silence he was barely enjoying. perhaps it was the headache, maybe it was the exhaustion from the past few days, or an overwhelming mixture of both that made him forget to check the caller id.

“yangyang. why are you avoiding me?”

your voice fills his ears, and he could tell you’re trying your hardest not to let the annoyance slip through your words. he bites back the chuckle that formed on the tip of his tongue, you were never really one for small talk. always down to business. always straight to the point.

he feels his mouth dry up, all the words in his vocabulary get caught in the back of his throat. you don’t follow up on your question, no doubt waiting for him to explain himself. his feet are glued to the ground beneath them as his free hand clenches into a fist, fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. he wants to tell you, but he can’t.

yangyang reviews his choices : he tells you, and your manager finds out that he did, the band loses a label. he tells you, but you choose him and leave the label. the band might resent you, and you might end up resenting him. he tells you, and you don’t choose him. his heart breaks either way.

so he lets you know the one truth that he can afford to tell.

“i’m sorry, yn.”

it comes out in a breathy exhale, and though you’re not in front of him, yangyang still brings his gaze to his feet.

“what are you sorry for? i don’t understand…” your voice comes out more confused than angry or frustrated.

“i can’t do this anymore.”

“is it something that i did?”

“no, you didn’t do anything. i’m just tired of it all.”

the silence on the other end of the line is heavy, practically deafening. yangyang grips his phone tighter, preparing himself for the onslaught of enraged screams and insults that might be headed his way. he knows he deserves it for what he’s doing.

but it doesn’t come.

instead he hears your voice, low and quiet, but nonetheless sincere.

“but i like you, yangyang.”

his chest clenches when he hears your voice crack at his name, knuckles close to turning white. there is a word for what he feels for you. something a little stronger than the one you had just used. yangyang feels the tears that threatened to prick at the corners of his eyes, so he shuts them close. his lips press into a thin line, for fear that the very word might escape him.

“i’m sorry. please don’t contact me anymore.”

yangyang ends the call without another word and places his phone in his pocket. he wants to scream, but he bites his tongue. a single drop of rain falls on the top of his head, but he couldn’t care less even as more started to come down. his entire body feels numb and his feet begin to move on their own, but not towards the direction of his apartment.

he raises his fist to make three sharp knocks, wrapping his arms around himself for some semblance of warmth.

the door opens to reveal a very surprised renjun, who doesn’t even bother hiding the shock that’s plastered on his features. eyes wide, lips parted, brows raised as he blinked back at the sight on his doorstep. when it all sinks in, he couldn’t help but raise his voice, “what the fuck? did you just walk in the rain? what were you thinking? were you even thinking?”

yangyang doesn’t speak a single word, taking a couple steps towards renjun and resting his forehead on his friend’s shoulder. the tension in his body disappears, letting himself feel every ounce of pain as he screws his eyes shut.

“renjunie… what’s going on? who’s at the door?”

he hears a familiar voice call out from the living room, no doubt cc!yn’s. though he feels guilty for ruining their night, yangyang knew he needed his friends.

renjun sighs, placing a hand on yangyang’s back. his voice is softer, much more cautious, “come inside. you must be freezing.”

from reese, with love <3 i am so sorry i promise to make it up to gy3 and gy3 nation..... just not in this act >_< final part of act two next, then i’ll be taking a little break :) thank you sm for reading! as always, i’d really love to know what you think! hope you’re all doing well and taking care of yourselves :))

[reinerispretty]

rotations. (zuko x f!reader) pt19

hello hello hello! i hope you guys liked that last chapter :) thank you so much for reading and i hope you have a great day!! pls share if you can :)

pt1

pt18

pt20

(Y/N) hugged each and every one of her friends as tightly as she could. What they had all been preparing for over the past year had finally been achieved. There was still more work to do, but it made her heart swell knowing that they had each brought fantastic change into the world. 

The sun shined through the tall windows, rousing (Y/N) from her slumber. She groaned and turned over in her bed, throwing her arm over her eyes. A knock came from outside of her door. 

“Miss (Y/N)!” One of the servants called. 

“Five more minutes,” (Y/N) grumbled, sinking further into the comfortable sheets and pillows. After sleeping on the ground for almost a whole year, she found it nearly impossible to get out of her bed in the mornings. 

“You instructed me last night that if you said five more minutes, I shouldn’t back down. Today is Prince Zuko’s coronation day.” 

(Y/N) eyes popped open and she sat up quickly, sliding out of bed. She threw on her robe and stumbled over to the wardrobe. “I’m getting ready now, I’ll be out in a bit! Is the prince up yet?” 

“No, Miss.” 

“Fantastic! I’ll wake him up today, alright?” 

“Yes, Miss.” She heard the servant’s footsteps travel down the hall. (Y/N) flung open her wardrobe to pick out the outfit she had chosen for this day. It was a traditional formal Fire Nation outfit: a maroon colored dress with dark, pointed shoulder pads. She dressed and tied her hair back in a topknot, letting the rest flow down her back. Her arm bandages only barely peeked through the sleeves of her dress. 

She exited her room and walked down the hall. It had been a few days since her fight with Azula and it was surprising how different everything already was. The last time (Y/N) was in the Fire Nation Royal Palace, she was a young girl. She had been in Zuko’s room, begging him not to partake in his first Agni Kai. Back then, the walls had been filled with anger and secrets. Now, as she walked through the halls of the palace, everything felt oddly new. It was like the end of the war had changed the entire atmosphere. 

Since her return to the Fire Nation, (Y/N) had taken on the role of being Zuko’s chief advisor. After the defeat of Ozai and Azula, both she and Zuko weren’t quite sure who in the Fire Nation they could really trust. So, (Y/N) had decided to take matters into her own hands. She had been to the palace frequently enough over the past few years to be able to pretend that her presence required respect. When Zuko had too much on his plate, she was there to make the decisions that reflected his and the nation’s best interests. It made her happy to know that she was making a positive change, especially when her best friend was at her side. 

She walked all the way across the palace, to the Fire Lord’s chambers. She knocked loudly against the door and waited for any sounds. When she heard nothing, (Y/N) pulled open the heavy wooden doors and found Zuko still fast asleep. 

“Up and at em! It’s coronation day!” She shouted, taking a pillow from underneath his head and hitting him with it. Zuko groaned in protest, flipping over on his stomach to hide his face. 

“I don’t think this is the way to treat a Fire Lord,” he grumbled into his sheets. (Y/N) began pulling at his legs. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t be Fire Lord until later today.” She pulled again, letting out a grunt before giving up. “You ask me to stay in the Fire Nation with you to help you bring back peace and now you won’t even listen to me when I try to do it!” 

“How is waking me up early bringing back peace?” 

“It brings peace of mind to me knowing that you won’t sleep through your coronation.” She placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t have all day but I’ll cancel whatever I have to do in order to get you out of bed. Would you like me to sing you a song?” 

Zuko sat up quickly, holding his arms up in defense. “That won’t be necessary! You can leave now!” (Y/N) grinned and walked to the door. 

“Happy coronation day, Fire Lord Zuko,” She said softly. He returned her smile and with that, (Y/N) left to ready the palace for their guests.

Her first stop was the kitchens to ensure that they were preparing enough food for everyone they would be hosting. Representatives from each of the four nations would be coming to celebrate Zuko’s coronation and it was absolutely crucial to both Zuko and (Y/N) that unity be at the forefront of everything they do. So she had invited chefs from the nations to recreate some of their most popular foods. She was sad that she could not invite anyone from the Air Nomads, but she was assured by her chefs that they would try her best to make the culture’s most traditional foods. 

(Y/N) passed by the pots in the kitchens and gagged as she smelled the sea prunes steaming. She absolutely hated them, but she knew they were a Water Tribe delicacy. She just hoped that no one would offer any to her. 

After she stopped by the kitchens, she walked the servants through the timeline of the nights’ events. They would begin with Zuko’s coronation, then the courtyard would quickly be turned into an outside dining area so that everyone could mingle and enjoy themselves. Afterward, she and her friends would have a private celebration with Zuko to celebrate him and his accomplishments. 

“Are you doing my job for me?” (Y/N) paused as she laid out the courtyard blueprints for one of the servants. She turned around and smiled when she saw Zuko, fully dressed in his royal garments. He had pulled his hair back into a topknot that (Y/N) considered to be the cutest thing ever. 

“Someone has to do it while you’re sleeping the day away.” She dismissed the servants, leaning against the table of the meeting room. “What’ve you been up to?” 

“Some council meetings with leaders of the other nations.” Zuko sighed, leaning beside her. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.” 

“We do. But we’ll do it together.” She leaned on Zuko’s shoulder and closed her eyes as he leaned his cheek against the top of her head. Much more had changed than just their place of residence. (Y/N) realized that while she had fought Azula so furiously because of what she had done to Zuko, there was also a deeper reason of why she was so angered. As she watched Zuko lying on the ground, practically dying, she realized that everyone had been right. The feelings that she felt for Zuko surpassed friendship. She loved him and she had loved him for a very long time. 

It was unfortunate that it had taken her until he was mortally injured to realize it, but better late than never, she supposed. 

She was scared to tell him though, which baffled her. She had fought for her life on multiple occasions, survived prison, and defeated one of the most powerful benders in the entire Fire Nation...but she still couldn’t tell her best friend that she was in love with him. 

“Wanna come out to the courtyard with me?” Zuko stood. “Everyone should be arriving soon.” (Y/N) nodded and followed him through the palace and to the steps of the main courtyard. Just as they walked outside, Appa landed in the middle of the courtyard with Aang, Sokka, Katara, Toph, and Momo in tow. (Y/N) and Zuko wore bright smiles on their faces as they waved to their friends. The last time she had seen any of them was the day of the comet. While that had only been a few days ago, this was the most time she had spent apart from her friends in a very long time. She ran to the courtyard to greet them as they stepped off of Appa, with Zuko trailing behind. 

(Y/N) hugged each and every one of her friends as tightly as she could. What they had all been preparing for over the past year had finally been achieved. There was still more work to do, but it made her heart swell knowing that they had each brought fantastic change into the world. 

“You look so different,” Sokka exclaimed, admiring her traditional Fire Nation robes. (Y/N) beamed up at him. 

“I used to dress like this all the time before I ran off with you hooligans. Do you guys want a tour? I can’t wait to show you where Zuko and I grew up!” 

“Maybe a little later,” Zuko cut in. “Aang and I have an important meeting to get to.” He gave her an apologetic look. 

“Oh, right,” (Y/N) said, but the excitement didn’t fall from her face. “Very important Fire Lord and Avatar stuff.” She turned back to Sokka, Katara, and Toph. “How about you all come with me to the kitchens? You can taste the food we’ve been preparing and let me know if it’s good enough to serve.” 

“Sounds great!” Toph cheered. “I’m starving. Someone ate all the seal jerky on the way here.” 

All three girls looked at Sokka, who shrugged. “I’m a growing man!” 

(Y/N) led them into the palace. They marveled at the ornate architecture on the inside, and at the portraits of past Fire Lords. Katara halted the group to look at the blank space on the wall of Fire Lords. “What happened here?” 

“We took down the portraits of Sozin, Azulon, and Ozai,” (Y/N) explained. 

“Why?” Toph asked. 

“Zuko and I agreed that we didn’t want our nation to forget its history, no matter how horrible it is. But we also didn’t want to honor those three when all they’ve done was cause pain and suffering.” She pursed her lips as she stared at the empty space. “I’m working on hiring a painter for Zuko, but he’s always so busy.” 

“Are you like Zuko’s assistant now?” Sokka questioned. (Y/N) shrugged. 

“I do the things he doesn’t necessarily have time for, so I guess. Really I just consider myself his friend.” 

“His friend?” Katara asked, smirking and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, Katara, his friend,” (Y/N) said, but the two best friends exchanged a knowing smile that told Katara everything she needed to know. (Y/N) turned quickly on her heel to lead them down to the kitchens. They ate to their hearts content and only barely left the kitchens in time to make the coronation. 

Katara and Sokka stood at the front of the Water Tribe guests with their father. Toph stood at the front of the Earth Kingdom guests with Haru, the Mechanist, and other friends from they had met. (Y/N) stood at the front of the Fire Nation guests, exchanging smiles and greetings with the nobles who were willing to hear Zuko out. 

If she squinted, she could see Zuko standing inside the palace. He looked hesitant, as if he were scared, and (Y/N) cursed herself for not being up there with him. She could have coached him through this or cheered him on. He paced back and forth as he waited to be called out by the Fire Sages. (Y/N) felt herself smile at how nervous he was. Zuko was confident, but never cocky, and it was one of the things she loved most about him. 

Right before it was time for Zuko to walk out, (Y/N) watched as Mai walked up to him. The two exchanged a kiss, resulting in the biggest smile being put on Zuko’s face.

(Y/N) looked over at Katara, whose wide eyes and open mouth let her know that she was just as shocked. But she had no time to react. She swallowed her feelings deep into the pit of her stomach and cheered like everyone else did as Zuko walked out to be crowned Fire Lord. 

---

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[happyandticklish]

Sensitive Connections - Part One

Notes: Based off a conversation I had with @tickles-tea and some others about the intermingling of voodoo magic into the drrr universe, and thus this was born. It ended up a tad longer than I expected, as I got vaguely carried away with exposition. 

Summary: Shinra comes into possession of an exciting new artifact that he’s eager to show his friend.

Shinra was practically vibrating with excitement when he met Izaya at the door, quickly flinging it open before sprinting back to the earlier room without so much as a word of greeting to the other. Izaya blinked, hand still raised where it had previously rested against the door in the imitation of a knock.

“Hello to you too,” he said, narrowing his eyes with vague irritation. “And such a warm welcome…”

Shinra popped his head back into the hall, seeming surprised that Izaya had not already followed him. “You got my call, then?”

“If by call, you mean the voicemail I received in the middle of the night calling me over here for some ‘strange new phenomenon you discovered, urgent’, then yes, I received it,” Izaya said, hanging his coat by the door and kicking off his shoes. “This couldn’t have waited till morning?”

Shinra wrinkled his eyebrows, giving his friend a strange look. “Well, I mean, it could have. I honestly didn’t think you would come right away. I didn’t imagine you would be this invested.”

Izaya bristled at the implication, but before he could say anything in argument, Shinra had moved back to the living room. Izaya sighed, following after him reluctantly.

Shinra stood triumphantly before the table in the center of the room, whereupon lied a simple doll. It appeared to be made of felt, almost like that of a stuffed animal, and was entirely featureless save two black buttons sowed where its eyes would be. Stitches crisscrossed its body, giving it a disjointed looking appearance. It sat utterly splayed out on the center of the table, its single occupant.

Izaya glanced between Shinra and the doll a couple times, attempting to decipher what he was looking at. “You called me here, in the middle of the night, for a… doll? A toy?”

“It’s not a toy,” Shinra countered, waving one hand at the notion. “This doll is actually one of the most powerful artifacts in this entire household.”

Izaya raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Shinra sighed, rolling his head back as he searched for a way to explain it. “How much do you know about the ancient art of witchcraft and the occult?”

Izaya had come across the concepts many times over the years, though he’d never devoted that much interest to them as he considered them the wild fantasies of fools. Admittedly, meeting Celty had certainly bought the ideas more validity, but each and every time he tried to look into it, he found himself unable to take the ideas seriously.

“Not much,” he admitted honestly, picking up the doll and examining it. It had a deceptively innocent appearance, that, knowing Shinra, was sure to be disproven soon. “Is this a talisman of some sort?”

“How do you know what a talisman is but not a voodoo doll?”

“Is that what this is?”

“Yep.” Shinra peered over Izaya’s shoulder, smiling affectionately down at the doll like a proud parent would. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Voodoo. That made sense. Izaya was vaguely familiar with the concept, mostly from pop culture and casual references of it over the years. Now that he was looking closer at the doll, he wasn’t sure how he had failed to pick up on it earlier. Leave it to Shinra to find something like this.

“And how exactly did you come into possession of it?” Izaya asked, glancing back at the other.

“Well, I’m not sure how much of that I could safely confess, but I can tell you that I received it from a good friend.”

“A good friend?” Izaya racked his brain, trying to think of the people Shinra was in association with. Celty, of course, and Shizuo, but he doubted the brute would have managed to acquire something like that. Celty maybe, but it was unlikely that she would care for such things. For some reason it irked him that there might be someone else Shinra was close friends with, close enough for a favor of this size.

“Of sorts,” Shinra agreed. He noticed the look in Izaya’s eyes, smirking suddenly. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” Izaya sniffed, tossing the doll back on the table. He whirled around, falling into onto the couch absently. “So how does this thing work exactly?”

An excited glimmer entered Shinra’s eyes, the likes of which Izaya had encountered many times over the years. It meant that the info broker would not be leaving the flat for quite some time. “I’m glad you asked. We’re still trying to work out the theory of it. Based off the myth, sensations placed upon the doll will be reciprocated on the owner, without any physical marks. For instance, if you pricked it with a pin, there would be no evidence on the owner of any kind of damage, but they would feel it as if it had poked them all the same.”

“The owner,” Izaya mused, leaning his head back. A vague hint of devilish interest entered his tone. “So are you the owner then? I think I would quite enjoy stabbing needles into you after all you’ve done to me.”

“Done to you?” Shinra scoffed incredulously, rolling his eyes at the other. “What have I ever done to you?”

“The time I was stabbed and you just—” Izaya started, but Shinra quickly cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Okay, okay, point taken! I guess you could say we’ve both done some pretty horrendous things to one another.” Shinra sighed, taking a seat besides him. “The answer is no, by the way, to your question. I considered it, in the beginning, but Celty quickly vetoed it. She insisted it would be too dangerous, especially considering we don’t know if there are any harmful effects of it yet.”

“So it’s blank right now?” Izaya confirmed, throwing a suspicious glance back over at the doll. Its empty face gazed back at him, devoid of sympathy. He felt an unmistakable shudder make its way down his spine.

Shinra nodded, oblivious to Izaya’s inner conflict. “It could just be considered a normal doll in its current state. You’d have to actually connect it to a person for it to activate into anything.”

Izaya couldn’t tear his gaze away from the doll. There was something captivating about the concept that held his curiosity like a moth to a flame. He wanted—no, needed—to know more about it. Even as he grew more invested in the subject, however, he felt strangely reluctant to let the other in on his interest.

“Say you were to attach it to a person,” Izaya said slowly, trying to force as much nonchalance into his tone as possible as he spoke. “How would one go about that process?”

For the next half hour Shinra spoke excitedly, laying out details and charts and theorems before the other, entirely unaware of how closely Izaya was listening. Eventually, Shinra had to excuse himself to go grab something from his lab for demonstration. He bounded down the stairs, leaving Izaya utterly alone in the apartment.

He couldn’t explain what called him to do it. Only that before he knew what was happening, Izaya had snatched the doll from the table, racing over to the door where his coat remained hanging. He quickly pulled it on, shoving the doll inside its folds and out of eyesight. He was just shoving on his shoes when Shinra returned, holding a small object in his hands with wires sticking out of. Heaven only knew what it was meant to be, and Izaya certainly didn’t have time to find out.

Shinra tilted his head in confusion when he saw him, frowning. “Izaya? Where are you going?”

“I just figured it was getting late, you know,” Izaya explained breezily, quickly brushing the issue aside as he tugged on his final shoe. “I have quite the busy life, you know; wouldn’t want to disappoint any of the many people waiting for me.”

“You mean your online friends?” Shinra asked wryly as Izaya opened the door, waltzing merrily out of it.

“Try not to be jealous, my dear Shinra—it doesn’t look good on you.”

Shinra shook his head as the door closed on him, smiling indulgently.

 The clock ticked slowly on the wall. Three in the morning. Izaya spun slowly around in his desk chair, hands steepled under his chin. He glanced back at the doll. Two emotionless buttons stared back at him. He spun himself around once more, kicking off on his desk. The room whirled around as his thoughts did the same.

The drive home had held a strange energy to it, a mixture of excitement, nerves, and growing interest in the doll shoved inside his jacket. For once he was silenced, a blessing that the taxi driver escorting him was highly grateful for.

The walk to the door had been silent as well, a calm, practiced walk that spoke nothing of the ancient mythos hidden on his person. With every step up the stairs of his apartment, he could feel its weight. It was only once he finally set it upon his desk and was faced with the blank doll once more, a harmless toy, nothing more, that he began to feel maybe he was overreacting over the whole situation.

He pressed his foot to his desk, catching himself on his final spin. “I suppose there would be no harm in trying,” he mused at last to the empty room; Namie had taken the evening off for some unnamed activity she refused to reveal, so he had the place to himself for the night. “After all, the worst that can happen is I discover it truly is a simple doll after all and this whole evening has been a waste of my time.”

Reaching up, he pinched a stand of hair between his fingers, tugging firmly. He winced at the momentary pain, rubbing his scalp.

Shinra had explained the process of connecting the doll to an owner thoroughly, at Izaya’s bored request. There were a couple different methods one could try, but the simplest one would be to connect a piece of the chosen owner to the doll in one fashion or another. Izaya wrapped the hair carefully about the doll’s arm so as not to break it, tying it into a gentle but resolute knot.

Feeling a tad silly about the whole situation, he pressed his thumb to the doll’s forehead, tracing down to its chest and finally stomach, reciting as he did so, “I name you—Izaya Orihara.”

Afterwards, he removed his thumb, placing the doll once more on the table, and waited. For a while, nothing happened. No strike of lightning or crash of thunder, no cupboards rattling with sinister intent. Outside he could hear cars honking and racing past each other as people shrieked in joyous conversation. Nothing out of the ordinary for the bustling city. His body felt entirely his own, the only things he could feel being the leather of his chair and the slight stinging of his head from earlier.

Izaya sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised,” he said wryly, reaching out for the doll. “After all, what did I expect coming to Shinra for—”

He sentence broke off halfway in shock. Where his fingers had brushed against the doll, Izaya had felt a bolt of mirrored sensation run up his arm, sending pleasant shudders down his back. He jerked back with a start, narrowing his eyes. His fingers were curled hesitantly in midair from where they had retreated. After a moment, he reached out once more, stroking a finger down its arm. Again, sensation crawled unbidden up his skin and he instinctively shook his arm to rid himself of it, though the action did nothing to alleviate the feeling.

Izaya’s eyes widened. “Incredible,” he murmured softly, fascination lighting up his features. Quickly, he opened one of the many drawers in his desk, retrieving a pen. He held it up, carefully poking the doll up its leg. He winced as he felt the minor pain reflected in his own body, his leg tensing up with each stab.

A sudden shriek of a whistle interrupted his thoughts and he nearly fell out of his chair, his heart slamming about a mile a minute in his chest. The kettle. Of course. He had completely forgotten he had set it on. He quickly stood up, leaving the doll and the pen discarded upon the table as he sprinted to retrieve the screaming pot.

Removed to the kitchen now, he entirely missed the sound of the door opening and the disgruntled voice of Shizuo calling out, “Hello?”

Upon receiving no answer, Shizuo sighed, slowly clicking the door shut behing him and collapsing against it in exhaustion. The rounds that night had seemed to go on forever, and almost every client had decided that day of all days to pick a fight for reasons entirely unknown to the tired man. Tom had offered to let him go early, but Shizuo hadn’t wanted to leave the other alone. So he had stayed. And now it was three in the morning and all he wanted to do was sleep.

He dropped his stuff by the door, wearily making his way over to the living area where Izaya usually spent most of his time. He glanced around, but the info broker was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found a bland doll thrown haphazardly on his desk in his place.

Shizuo raised an eyebrow. Knowing Izaya, it almost definitely wasn’t as harmless as it seemed. “Izaya? You there?”

Izaya paused midway through the process of pouring the kettle, his heart stuttering a little in his chest at the sound of the voice. He had almost forgotten Shizuo had promised to stay the night with the other amongst the chaos of everything Shinra had shown him.

“Late, are you?” he called out in response. “I was starting to think you had run off with Tom instead.”

Shizuo huffed a laugh, taking a seat in the leather-bound chair. “And what if I had?”

“Then I would burn to the ground everything you loved until you returned,” Izaya replied blithely.

“Mm, that’ll be unfortunate for you then. Deciding to experiment in self-arson, Iza?”

Izaya chose to ignore the heat creeping up his neck at the nickname. He poured the remains of the water into the pot, hopping upon the counter as he waited for the mixture to steep. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear brute.”

Shizuo smiled fondly, the exhaustion receding slightly as he fell into the ease of conversation. He turned his attention back towards the doll on the desk, wondering at its hidden purpose. There was no way in hell it was just some toy. He picked up it slowly, holding it up to his face as he turned it left and right in examination.

Sitting on the counter, Izaya’s mouth fell open in a surprised O as he felt a warmth clutch his body tightly, the comforting presence of a human body when there was nothing there. At first he was taken over by the sudden panic that maybe he had truly gone insane after all these years, when he remembered the doll sitting on his desk.

Shit.

Izaya slid off the counter with the intention of intervening, but before he could a sudden poke at his stomach made him jump, his mouth clamping down on a strangled yelp. Just as soon as he’d begun to regain his bearings from the first attack, there was another poke, this one angled down more towards his hips and sides. Izaya’s nerves flared up in anticipation, and he squeaked, falling quickly back against the counter, holding on with one hand for support.

Shizuo, meanwhile, had no idea of the effect he was having on the other. He innocently poked the doll as he searched for some kind of switch or button to activate whatever the toy’s true purpose was. He traced his fingers over the stitches lined haphazardly over the doll, scratching curiously at a cluster of them gathered at Izaya’s hip.

Izaya’s knees crumpled at the fluttery sensation, his face breaking out into a helpless grin. “S-Shizuo!” he stammered, sliding down to the ground. “Wait!”

“What is it?” Shizuo asked, momentarily stopping his attempts. “Wait for what?”

Izaya warily regained his footing, worried all the while for a sudden attack. “Nothing,” he responded, making his way out of the kitchen, tea entirely forgotten. He flashed him a disarming smile, hoping for a distraction. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Izaya—”

“Ah, I see you’ve discovered my secret,” Izaya interrupted, nodding towards the doll. “I found it on the road this morning and figured it belonged to one of the various Ikebukuro brats. I was just going to go out and try to return it.”

“You were…what?” Shizuo asked, genuine confusion wrinkling his brow. “You were going to return it?”

“Yes,” Izaya snapped impatiently, moving forward to try and snatch the doll out of the other’s hands. “So if you could just—”

“Since when have you cared about children?” Shizuo demanded, jerking the doll back and out of his reach.

“I’ve decided to branch out in my hobbies, now will you just—ah!” Izaya’s arm shot back where it had been reaching for the doll, coming down to snap against his side. When Shizuo had moved the doll back, his thumb had curled into its sides accidentally, shooting sparks of sensation throughout Izaya’s core. It was still there, still digging in, and fuck, Izaya was going to kill him.

Shizuo narrowed his eyes at the other. Izaya was strangely doubled over on his desk, but instead of a grimace of pain, his lips were turned up into a wobbly grin. Experimentally, he moved his thumb again and Izaya twitched, the softest of noises leaving his mouth.

“Izaya,” Shizuo said slowly, rubbing his thumb over that same spot on the doll’s side as he talked. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

“I-It’s a v—hmm!—ah, that is, a voodoo doll,” Izaya stuttered, his arms coming down to wrap around his sides though he knew it would do nothing to prevent the sensation. “Shinra g-gahave it to me.”

“Gave?”

“Or rather I stole it from him—don’t!” Izaya squeaked as Shizuo scratched a finger over the doll’s hip again with a disappointed frown. The subtle tickling was insistent against the area, and Izaya found himself at a loss for what to do. No matter how he attempted to rub the spot, the feeling wouldn’t go away. Giggles, of all things, fell unbidden from lips. “S-Shizuo—”

“So, let me see if I have my story straight. You stole this from Shinra, a voodoo doll, a dangerous artifact, brought it into our home, and connected it to yourself? Why would you do that?”

“I wahahas t-testing ihit—” Izaya tried to explain, his sentence breaking off into more stuttered laughter. Of all the outcomes for the doll’s potential effects on him, this was certainly the least expected. He hadn’t anticipated Shizuo to take advantage of the artifact’s power so blatantly. Once again, the other had outwitted Izaya’s expectation.

Usually, this annoyed Izaya. However, as he fought against invisible sensations dancing merrily along his hips, the helplessness of his position beginning to set in, he found that he was almost… excited. Panic, irritation, delight… all of it mixed together into a confusing concoction inside him, and he struggled to find a way to understand just what it was he was feeling. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, with Shizuo now intentionally scratching his nails against the doll’s hips, running his touch featherlight along the other’s bikini line.

Izaya gasped, crumbling instantly to the ground as his laughter rose several octaves. “N-Nohoho, nohoho, nahahat thehehere y-yohohou—fuhuhuhuck!” His insult was lost between expletives and squeaked giggles.

Shizuo watched this display in amazement. Despite the very obvious effects it was having on Izaya, he still found it difficult to believe that it had worked. Voodoo. Genuine magic. He wasn’t surprised to have found it in the info broker’s possession—he was constantly discovering strange and unusual artifacts scattered about their apartment. Still… he couldn’t say he wasn’t impressed with this particular find.

Shizuo couldn’t help but agree that it was the perfect oppurtunity for revenge. For the past week Izaya had been taking advantage of Shizuo’s inability to defend himself against this particular method. Sneaking up behind him and squeezing his sides when he wasn’t expecting it, Izaya would quickly render the man useless on the floor before he could muster enough strength to fight back.

Now, however, the tables had been reversed. He smirked as he held the doll securely in one hand, dragging sweeping touches along his hips with his thumb, the index of his other hand setting to work scratching gently around the place where his ears and neck connected.

There was something so oddly intimate about that casual touch, the slow, gentleness of the gestures, that somehow served to make the whole situation a lot worse. Izaya felt his face warming for reasons entirely outside the tickling.

Curled up on the ground, Izaya was taken over by fits of breathless giggles, unable to continue any kind of rapport. His fingers curled around the folds of his shirt, twitching and gripping it tighter as he forced himself to somehow deal with the devastatingly light tickling. If he would only move off that one spot, for even a moment—

“Can you imagine if I possessed something like this back in our heyday?” Shizuo mused, pretending like the other wasn’t dying on the ground before him. “I would have ruined you with this. What do you think all those top dollar yakuza would think if they saw you like this?”

Izaya dearly did not want to have to think about it. The mere thought of the Awakusu-Kai, or one very specific member at that, discovering a weakness such as this sent a chill down his spine. Luckily for him, holding any thought in his brain was becoming very difficult due to his current predicament, so he didn’t have to dwell on it for too long.

It was when Shizuo’s fingers curled just below the doll’s hips however, that delicate area where torso met thighs, that Izaya began to truly get desperate. “Shizuo please, no, don’t, c’mon, not that—”

“Are you… begging?” Shizuo repeated incredulously, startled delight ringing through his words. “Is the great Izaya Orihara begging?”

Izaya’s mouth snapped shut and irritation flooded through him at the trap of his own making. There was no way to get out of this without shattering his dignity through genuine begging, yet at the same time there would be no dignity left to salvage if Shizuo pursued that spot. In the end he settled on fuming silence, neither a confirmation nor a denial.

Shizuo examined him for a moment, clearly debating the risk versus reward in his head. In the end, he shrugged, holding the doll limply in his hand and thusly removing the threat. “Alright. You win. If you can’t handle it, then I’ll stop.”

Izaya eyed him suspiciously, doubt flickering among his features. “I’m impressed Shizu-chan—that was almost believable.”

“Hey, take my word for it or don’t, but I promise I’m done.” He held the doll out as a peace offering, its limbs splayed out invitingly in his hand.

Izaya narrowed his eyes. He waited several moments for the other to do something, but Shizuo merely appeared bored, his arm growing tired from its outstretched position. Against his better judgement, Izaya slowly stood up, walking over and reaching for the doll.

“Thank you. I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses—ahAHAHA SHIHIT!”

Izaya let out a veritable squawk of laughter as Shizuo jerked the doll back suddenly, curling his fingers into the death spot. Izaya’s legs buckled underneath him as he cackled, and he stumbled forward, falling into Shizuo. Luckily, the other managed to catch him just in time, letting go of the doll and placing it quickly on the table.

Izaya wheezed, the disorientating feeling of the sudden sensation and its abrupt removal leaving him reeling. He blinked wearily, only to find his face inches away from the other. He decided to blame the pink tinge to his cheeks on the laughter.

“Hello,” Shizuo greeted, grinning.

“You are atrocious, you know that? A despicable human being.”

“Hey, save it for tonight.” Shizuo leaned in, softly kissing him in a manner that made Izaya’s bones melt inside of him. When he finally pulled away he found Izaya glaring at him, though it wasn’t very convincing.

“You cannot simply kiss me and expect everything to go back to normal.” He stiffened when Shizuo pressed his lips to his neck in a manner that was altogether far too distracting. “This is not going to work.”

“Mm.”

“I am—” Izaya broke off, struggling to remember how words worked—“still very angry with you.”

“You talk too much.”

Izaya frowned in dismay down at the other, before eventually relenting with an exhausted sigh. He pulled Shizuo’s face up to his, kissing him properly this time. “You are truly insufferable,” Izaya murmured against his mouth.

“And you are tremendously annoying,” Shizuo agreed. It was as close as they got to saying the simple phrase, three words that would make all of this seem too real for safety. So instead they stuck to petty insults, each understanding their hidden meanings.

The doll lay discarded on the desk, but by no means forgotten. In several days, a disgruntled scientist would discover the missing doll and a long-suffering info broker would face the consequences of the phone call that would follow. But until then, the two were content to let the night go on without them as they sat curled together in the slightly spinning chair, their bodies saying what their mouth could not.

Izaya decided that maybe the night hadn’t been a total waste, after all. 

[defilerwyrm]

For the ask meme: burning bright, anything about the parts at the table with the Nein. You write their banter so well!

FIC SPOILERS BELOW!

Burning Bright on AO3

The entire dinner scene hit me like a bolt of lightning while I was working on this fic. It started with Beau’s outburst, and then Veth’s willful denial and subsequent fit, and I built the two scenes around that.

Diving into particulars….

“Uhm,” he said, intelligently, but quickly recovered and flashed his friends a smile. “It is most impressive. Certainly a step up from a tiny hut.”

A direct reference to the name of the spell. Originally it was Leomund’s tiny hut. I have no clue why in 5e Wizards decided to 86 the attribution names on so many spells like Otiluke’s resilient sphere and Tasha’s hideous laughter. Things like that always made me curious about the (what I assume were) PCs the spells were named after. I had thought maybe it was because the characters who diegetically invented them were specific to one setting, but in that case I don’t know why Bigby’s hand is still Bigby’s but Evard’s black tentacles are no longer Evard’s. I don’t like it. As an aside, Widowgast’s Nascent Nein-Sided Tower is, mechanically speaking, Mordenkainen’s Magnificent Mansion. Anyway. Moving on!

It was delectable that Caleb wanted to impress him.

This boy hungry and not just for soup

Flustered, Essek tried to fend them off, but it was Caleb that did him in. It was always Caleb. The human took a large roll from his own plate, broke it in half, and offered one of these parts to Essek, who tried his best not to choke.

“You need to keep your strength up, ja?” Caleb implored him quietly.

The steady hand that accepted was a point of pride because it very much wanted to quake. The Kryn weren’t bread people, but...did he have any idea what this gesture would mean in Rosohna? Any inkling at all?

This is another one of those places where I delight in playing to cultural differences. What I’d had in mind for what that gesture—breaking food into two pieces and offering half to someone—WOULD mean in Rosohna was a bit nebulous, as I like to keep the reader guessing a bit and let their imagination fill in the blanks; but my rough idea was that it’s a courting gesture that signifies “I can and will provide for you, even if it means less for me.” An expression of selfless caregiving and an offer of partnership. Not wholly unlike a bird bringing food to a prospective mate.

And actually it’s a little bit funny coming from Caleb, who has fuck-all to his name but his name, when Essek is a rich bitch who answers directly to the Bright Queen.

Not that he was about to say it out loud, but he was a quick convert to this whole bread thing. To say that it won him over would be an understatement. That seemed to be a recurring theme here.

I imagine if I’d grown up never really eating bread and was introduced to it in adulthood I’d be like “Where have you BEEN all my life?!” But also: the bread is friendship, the bread is the Mighty Nein, the bread is communion in the spirit of sharing rather than politics and appearances and power plays—things he thought he was fine without until they were foisted upon him.

Somewhere in the course of the multiple conversations going on at one time, Jester got an Idea, as she was prone to doing. He became increasingly aware of her talking about kissing, of all things, and this culminated in her shouting above the din, cheeks flushed purple though he hadn’t seen her touch any wine: “I have an idea you guys! Why don’t we all go around and say how many people we’ve kissed?”

Jester is the most wonderfully convenient deus ex machina if you ever need to insert an awkward or embarrassing conversation among the Mighty Nein, because this is exactly the sort of shit she would do.

Jester leaped up and slammed her hands onto the table. “Caduceus you’ve never been kissed?! That’s so sad!”

The firbolg was unfazed. He merely shrugged and said, “It hasn’t come up and I haven’t gone looking. Not something I’ve ever thought about, really.”

Jester’s tail lashed back and forth behind her like an overstimulated cat. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Fjord went a bit wild-eyed at this. Caduceus smiled gently and said, “No thank you.”

Three things about this part:

1) Jester’s tail doesn’t get NEARLY enough mention in fic! If I’m playing (or writing) a character with a tail you can be damn sure you’re gonna know what it’s doing! Makes me wanna play a tabaxi tbqh.

2) Cad’s “No thank you” is the sum total of his sexuality, lol. Jester was raised in a pretty highly sexualized setting, didn’t really get out much before she fled Nicodranas, and can be pretty naïve, so she doesn’t really get the whole aroace thing; but it never crosses Cad’s mind that this would be “abnormal“ or ”sad” in any way—it causes him no distress, as it shouldn’t. This is yet another “Same planet, different worlds” moment.

3) Fjord is physically restraining himself from yelling “JESTER WHAT THE FUCK” lmao

Veth kept picking at it. “So you’re um. You know. Into the fellas?”

Beau snorted. “I could’a told you that months ago.”

“Yeah you could’a!” Veth pouted with a self-conscious curl to her shoulders.

I saw a comment on Tiktok that said Veth was being borderline homophobic, but that wasn’t my intent! It’s just that she inherited a certain blind spot for male queerness from her player, and as hard as she’d been trying to encourage Caleb to hook back up with his female ex, it never occurred to her that he had a male ex, too—and given that they’ve been so close for so long, she’s feeling pretty self-conscious about the fact that she never figured out that Caleb is bisexual in all that time, as well as kind of upset that no one—Caleb especially—told her. She’s having a moment of “Why didn’t I know this? Did you think it was going to change things between us? Did I make you feel unsafe?” And also a little bit of “Okay well, now I have to get him to hook up with TWO people AT ONCE because my boy deserves threesomes 😤”

Jester went goggle-eyed at him. “You’ve only been with one person?” she exclaimed. “But you’re like a hundred years old! And very handsome. I would have thought you’d get like, all the ladies.”

Ladies. Right.

Veth might not be the only one with a certain blind spot.

Beau gave her a funny look, snorting. “I dunno, he seems like the kinda guy who turns down those offers left and right.”

..…But Beau’s got his number, for more than one reason. She’s got super gaydar, for one, and has him pegged as the type who’s very choosy about his partners (also mind you, this was before demi!Essek was canonized by WoG, so I was still rolling with my hc that Essek got around when he felt like it).

The uproar was instantaneous. Everyone—almost everyone—started talking or shouting at once. Beau’s voice rang out among the din with, “HOLY SHIT ESSEK FUCKS.” Strangely pleased with himself, he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp and spent the next few minutes fending off increasingly prying, personal questions until the Nein grew bored with his lack of answers and someone changed the subject.

There it is, the line that spawned two entire scenes!

He was not a war mage, but he was experienced and wily, and he was damned good at what he did, and as long as there was breath left in his body, the Mighty Nein would not fall here.

Joke’s on me, motherfucker literally has the War Caster feat -_-

But like in my defense, that’s just what it’s called in the book. The feat just means that you have either the training or experience to cast well during a fight, which I see as not necessarily the same thing as a war mage, which was my way of saying an arcane caster who is a soldier.

Veth stared at her blankly as if willing herself not to understand. “Caleb? With who?”

She breathed steadily. “...Essek. Caleb and Essek.”

Beside her, Jester squealed and brought her fists to her face.

Veth was less enthused. “WHAT.”

Beau’s mental commentary here is dead on. Veth still doesn’t really trust Essek at this point and has been pretty vocal about that…despite being the one to declare him part of the Mighty Nein? Eh, she’s allowed to have complicated feelings on the guy, all things considered. But I find it kind of comical and very Veth (and very Sam) for her to be all full of zest for trying to get Caleb back together with the frigging Volstrucker who is actively working for his abuser and worst enemy but balk at him hooking up with Essek.

Jester “explained” in a delighted yell: “Caleb and Essek are gonna fuuuuuuck!”

I don’t know, is this too unsubtle to call foreshadowing? The line flowed naturally in the dialogue, but it’s also letting the reader know exactly what they’re in for next, lol.

“...He’s going to break that little elf twink, you know,” Veth said, sounding distant. Seemed she was having some difficulty processing. Not too surprising, considering how adamant she was about wanting their wizard to hook back up with his old flame, the fucking Volstrucker. “We’ve all seen his dick.”

This was 100% taken from Sam’s little throwaway line “It’s above-average” but it turned out to serve two purposes other than reminding the reader that all of these people have seen Caleb naked:

1) It’s yet another thing Veth thinks she understands about him but doesn’t. Caleb’s a top like Dalmatians are purple and if you disagree then I respect your right to be incorrect ;)

2) That said, it is, in fact, foreshadowing for the sequel, in which Essek experiences a great deal of frustration. (I haven’t touched the damn thing in weeks, feels like; I’ve been too busy with work, being exhausted from work, and being in a tizzy about my upcoming surgery.)

Fjord blurted out, “I’ll join you.”

Poor Fjord has had such an uncomfortable night!

Hoo boy that was a lot. Thanks for the ask, this was really fun!! And sorry it took so long; I work Saturday nights and things got really busy for a bit there.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Seventeen (Zuko x Reader)

Chapter 16 - Part 1 - Part 2

Word Count: 2,130

Author’s Note: All I’m gonna say is that I think my exposition sucks, but here it is, the plot has returned (Alexa play Edge of Seventeen)

News of your newfound comfort with your husband sweeps silently and swiftly throughout the palace following your return from Ember Island, the sideways glances you receive from diplomats and servants alike impossible to overlook. Those mulling about the corridors gawk as you leave your quarters beside Zuko each morning, whispers muttered over the scandal that you now sleep in the same bed; eyes widen when you brazenly peck his lips in the company of others, and cheeks redden when his hand is spied resting shamefully low on your waist. Neither of you mind the reproachful attention, however - you want your love to be seen. 

Of course, it’s a short matter time before the council gets involved in the affair, your advisors calling a meeting less than a week after your return to berate you about the newest stain on your public image. 

“It’s disgraceful!” rages one of Yong’s aides, tossing his arms about as he shoots himself out of his seat. “The Firelord and lady are figures of authority - not foolish teenage lovers! Do you have any idea how idiotic this makes you look to the nation? To the world??” 

“Hakoda loved his wife publicly,” you flatly answer, taking a tauntingly unbothered sip of the tea laid out before you. “He’s still a very respected leader, both in the Southern Water Tribe and in other parts of the world.” 

“Chief Hakoda’s wife held no power,” the aide spits. He leans menacingly over the table towards you, clenching his fists. “You are no longer a weak, sheltered Water Tribe woman. You’re queen of one of the strongest governments to ever exist - you need to damn well act like it.” 

You shift your gaze towards the man, fixing him with a subtle, cutting glare that makes him pale. You feel the weight of your betrothal necklace at your throat, the force pushing you upward to stand at eye level with him. 

“I was never weak,” you state. “I was never sheltered. I watched Fire Nation soldiers murder my parents when I was six years old, and supported an entire village in my siblings’ absence when they left to fight with the Avatar. I willingly left my home to marry a stranger for the betterment of my people; do not call me weak for learning to love him.” 

A heavy silence falls over the room, a dozen sets of eyes trained on you. You stand, unwavering, unblinking, staring at the aide who challenged you; he sets his jaw, refusing to lower himself. Yong comes up beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“What Jenshi means,” she sternly justifies, “is that there are still many people in the Fire Nation who are loyal to Ozai, who are used to a Firelord and lady that operate as a political alliance rather than a traditional marriage; those people may view your affections as a sign of weakness and attempt to take advantage of it.” 

“Yes,” Jenshi mutters, lowering his shoulders as he calms himself. “And with all due respect, my lady, we still don’t know who we can trust. The threat may still very well be within the palace walls.” 

You and Zuko turn to each other, sharing a noiseless, worried look; he takes your hand, squeezing it tightly as he addresses the entire room, lowering you back to his side. 

“What do the other sectors have to say?” he questions. “Military?” 

“The general consensus so far is that the military doesn’t care,” answers Counselor Chin. “Your superior skill as a warrior is revered, and the Firelady has proven a great leader in regards to our decolonization efforts. Your personal lives are of no concern to us, and we are primed to defend you against all existing dangers.” 

“Ethically there are a few problems,” chimes Advisor Shi, head of the Integrity Committee. “Your actions go against what has been culturally accepted since before Sozin’s reign; a Firelord and lady aren’t meant to be publicly affectionate with one another, no matter how they may feel for each other beyond the nation’s eye.” 

Zuko hums, nodding. 

“I understand,” he responds. “But we are trying to move away from the traditional monarchy. We’ve already established that we don’t want any children we have to be forced into their roles, and public reception was relatively accepting. What could it hurt for us to be honest about our feelings for each other?”

“It brings us back to concerns over dissent,” Yong interjects. “As Jinshi said, we’re no closer to understanding who was behind Counselor Fen’s murder or what their intentions are; we can’t let them use your emotions as leverage.” 

“Has word really spread that quickly?” you ask her, fear beginning to quake in the center of your chest. “They’re talking about it outside the palace?” 

“No,” Jinshi replies, “but it will soon. If there are actors within the palace, we assume they already know and will attempt to play your intimacy with each other to their advantage.” 

Zuko’s body stiffens, the corners of his lips turning downward into a grave, shadowed grimace. He nods in concession, but doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“We’ll watch ourselves,” he affirms, clutching your palm tighter within his. “In the meantime, I want everyone within the palace’s actions to be heavily monitored. No one is safe if we’re not.” 

After the meeting, you and Zuko take lunch together, choosing the unromantic and relatively public setting of a stateroom outside your private wing of the palace. Anxiety causes your stomach to churn like the ocean in a storm, hindering your appetite so that you only pick at your food - you notice that Zuko does the same. 

“... I visited the physician this morning,” you tell him, breaking the uneasy stagnance. “She said the medicine worked - I’m not pregnant.” 

“Good,” Zuko murmurs. His hand is raised to his chin, his voice distant as he keeps his pensive gaze aimed at an empty space on the table before you. “One less thing we have to worry about.” 

“What’s on your mind?” you ask.

“The attacks,” Zuko relays. “They’re not… normal.” 

“Normal how?” 

Zuko sighs, folding his arms in front of him as he continues to ponder, his brow furrowing in search of the correct words. 

“... They’re not what my father would do,” he says after a pause. “He wouldn’t utilize outsiders like the Dai Li, or kill an indirect target just to make a statement. That’s what Azula would do.” 

“... So you think she was behind it?” you guess. “They could have been her ideas, but the fact that she took herself out means that there had to have been someone else.” 

“Exactly,” Zuko agrees. “And that’s what’s confusing. The only person she ever feared was our father, but after he abandoned her during the comet, she hated him. Everything we have from her investigation supports that. She’d never be allegiant to him.” 

“But who else could have convinced her?” you wonder. “What else? Threatening her life clearly didn’t mean anything, and she renounced her loyalty to the Fire Nation when she was arrested. Do you think that… that maybe someone told her they were trying to overthrow you? That they offered to let her take your place?” 

“Azula was like our father. If she wanted to take over, she would’ve just taken over. She never would have taken the throne if it were offered.” 

“So… she wasn’t the one leading the attacks… but her pride kept her from bending to anyone’s will but her own. What was her place, then?” 

“I think she just wanted me dead,” Zuko admits. “Whoever approached her, they asked for her help in killing me. They gave her the opportunity to exact her revenge in a way that destroyed me little by little, the way she wanted to see it happen.” 

“... But Ozai and his supporters don’t operate that way,” you recall. 

“ They don’t,” Zuko echos. “They take by force.” 

You meet his eyes, a deep, tumbling chasm bottoming out in your stomach, the shockwave reverberating through your body. Your limbs feel limp, your head dizzy. 

“It’s not the Fire Nation,” you realize.

The words come out in a quiet gasp, carried by what little breath you can manage to force from your lungs. Zuko’s expression falls gravely blank; he reaches for your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips without thought or care to who could see. 

“It’s not the Fire Nation,” he repeats. “Which means… there might be no one we can trust.”

The door to your bedroom slides open and sputters shut behind you, indicating Zuko’s entrance; bent over, fumbling with the ties on your robes, you don't turn to greet him, but instead share the message you got that afternoon. 

“Toph is coming,” you announce. “She heard about Azula and is worried about our safety, so she's bringing a group of-” 

You cease completely as you face the man standing in front of the doorway, horrified to find that he isn't your husband. 

“I must say, you really know how to upset things,” Advisor Xiang sneers, pacing slowly towards you. 

You take a few steps back, cornering yourself back against the nearest wall; in the waist of your robes, Suki’s fan presses harshly to your side, too hidden for you to reach without alerting your intruder.

“Get out,” you quip. “Get out before I call the guards.” 

“Make one sound and this knife will end up in your neck,” Xiang threatens. He raises a blade from his hip, holding it menacingly level with your throat; as he closes in on you, he lets it graze your skin, his gaunt, sunken face glaring down at you like a demon summoned from the darkest corner of hell. 

“You were supposed to run, little girl,” he drawls on. “You were supposed to die in Ba Sing Se. None of this - this love you have for the Firelord, your flirting with the possibility of continuing his bloodline - was ever supposed to happen. And we can't let it happen.” 

“Who is ‘we’?” you demand. You try to make your voice firm, unshaken, but it quivers in your mouth, causing Xiang to release a belittling chuckle. 

“You won't find that out,” he taunts. “I've come to discuss the terms of your punishment. You see, since you defied everything we expected of you, we’re going to make you do what we planned to do months ago - you're going to kill Zuko.” 

Bile rises to the back of your throat, your gut seizing in a panicked, terrified hitch. You shake your head, quickly and minutely, tears starting to sear the corners of your eyes. 

“No,” you detest. “I won't do it. We’ll stop you.” 

“You will do it,” Xiang hisses, “because if he isn't dead within the next seven days, your entire family - that bumbling brother, his wife, your sister and her precious little family, even your father - will die instead.” 

He removes the dagger from your neck, grinning tauntingly, maliciously, as he slips it into the loose breast of your robes. His touch sickens you, but you're too petrified to force him back. 

“And don't you dare try reaching out for help,” he snarls. “We have informants throughout the palace - we’ll know every move you make, and if anyone gets word of this, your loved ones will all perish, and this time you’ll have no one to take you in.” 

It's only when Xiang releases you do you realize he had a hold on your wrist, gripping you so tightly that he leaves flaming red marks on your skin. Tears bubble down your cheeks, a sob lodged in your throat that you refuse to let go. 

“Why are you doing this?” you plead. 

You don't know why you expect him to answer honestly - you don't know why you expect him to answer at all. He smirks, showing the ugly, yellowed points of his irregularly sharp canines. 

“Because Zuko would have been better off dead when Ozai gave him that scar,” he replies. “His is a family of sociopaths and murders, my dear - we must end the cycle before it repeats itself.” 

Xiang slips through the door he ambushed you from, and you're left alone in your terror. Fingers shaking, you take the knife from your robes and hide it under the mattress, your mind racing as you try to figure out what you can possibly do to save the people you love. 

You're in bed by the time Zuko returns, the lights turned out and your body hidden beneath the blankets, too shaken to face him. As he lays down beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist and nestling into the comfort of your body, all you can feel is the blade beneath you, slicing your side as ruthlessly as if you were the one sentenced to death.

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[wonderrdies]

if love be rough with you - pt.1 (pypfc)

In which you and Harry are professors at a prestigious Art and Language university but can’t stand each other. Well, you can’t stand him. 

disclaimer: I fucked up and won’t finish the thing in time for the pick your poison fic challenge (thank you and I’m sorry to @for-fucks-sake-h​ @oh-honey-styles​ @andwhenshesays​) so I’ll split it into two parts. Once I post the second one, I’ll link it down here. 

warnings: so far, so good. there’s gonna be fucking in the next one, though. 

word-count: about 4,000 words

If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

(Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare)

Your copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet fell to the wooden floor of classroom 103 with a dull thud. It was not your favorite play by any means, but teachers didn’t get much of a choice when it came to the syllabus at Markham. Art and Language students there had been learning the same things for generations, walking through ancient hallways with the pretentiousness of people who know they’re special because of more than just daddy’s money. 

Daddy’s money was still a big part of it, though. The fact you didn’t have it made it very obvious that, despite your mid-20s looking face, you were staff and not a student. Which, you said to yourself back when you started teaching at Markham, was fine. You made a mantra out of it in the beginning: It’s fine. I’m fine. When older professors and students didn’t take you seriously, when you were lonely, when the stone walls made you feel claustrophobia instead of wonder, when you had to begin working with Drama students instead of sticking to your comfort-zone in the Literature department. It’s fine. I’m fine. Three years later, it was true; you fit right in. You had learned to focus solely on the bright side of the school and the role you had to play, dressing and speaking and teaching like the classy and stone-faced intellectual you always wanted to be. With all your weaknesses safely tucked away, you felt like you probably were a better actress than most of your students. 

Considering you were 20 minutes ahead of schedule and no one was ever this early for class, bending over in your pencil skirt to pick Romeo and Juliet up didn’t seem like  a big deal. Until you heard the whistling. 

“All this for me?”

You took your time standing up, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“Don’t be gross,” you laid the book back on your desk, crossing your arms as you stared at the man by the door. “Professor Styles.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he flashed you a dry smile, but his green eyes showed amusement. “Darling.”

The eye-roll couldn’t be held back any longer. “Piss off.”

No need to say you weren’t a classy and stone-faced intellectual when it came to Harry Styles. 

“Can’t piss off from my own classroom, can I?”

Seemingly not minding your frown, he walked into the room holding a worn leather case for what you could guess was an acoustic guitar. If he weren’t dressed in his usual expensive and obnoxious clothes, you’d be able to mistake him for a very handsome hobo. 

“No, but you can piss off from mine,” you pointed to the metal numbers on the door. “We’re in 103, Styles. I have it for the next three hours.”

“Funny,” he said before laying his guitar on the desk. It pushed your book away until you had to grab it so it wouldn’t, once again, fall to the ground. “Because my schedule says that I have it for the next three hours.”

“Indeed,” Romeo and Juliet falls on leather harshly, the sound pretty similar to the one it made while hitting the floor. “Hilarious.”

The rumbling of what could only be a herd of students began before Harry could come up with any clever remarks, making his head turn to the door expectantly. His pearl necklace accompanied his movement, and you tried not to stare too hard at the expanse of his neck or imagine what it would look like with a couple of bruises under those pearls. 

You snapped out of whatever that thought was before there was any need to overthink it. Over your colleague’s shoulder, you could see students, not all of them yours, entering the room. If it wasn’t clear before that there had been a mistake, it was now; Drama and Music students looked at each other suspiciously, whispering to their classmates like they were in primary school instead of university.

“Professor?” someone called. Both you and Harry turned to the desks arranged in a circle, all of them occupied. One of his students, standing on the corner, moved uncomfortably under your glare before speaking again: “Where should we seat? Is this a joint lesson or something?”

A joint lesson? You cringed at the idea. “No,” you said harshly. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his voice breezy when compared to yours. “We’ll sort it out, guys. Give us a few minutes.”

He made the two of you sound like a team, which was outrageous. The collar of your sleeveless turtleneck was, all of a sudden, way too tight. 

“You look constipated,” he muttered under his breath so only you could hear him. “Let’s go outside.”

“What for?” But you were already following him to the hallway. “Look, just get another classroom.”

“Why don’t you, if it’s that simple?” Harry asked while you closed the door behind you. 

“Because it’s a good classroom, the best in the building!”

“Is this how you plan on making me give it up?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning on the stone wall like he didn’t have a care in the world. He probably didn’t. 

“Harry,” you sighed. Your hand went to the tiny gold cross in your neck, nervously messing with it. You knew you were about to start pacing like a madwoman. “You could play that guitar anywhere on campus. Just let me have the damn room, alright?” 

“Do you think that’s all my lessons are?” He sounded upset.

A brief moment of guilt didn’t stop you from snapping at him. “Do you think I care?”

“No, I don’t,” Even though his voice remained calm, Harry straightened up. “I would never have such high expectations for you, darling.” 

You looked at him with a blank stare. Those green eyes without a hint of malice, the soft brown curls of his hair, the delicate pearls over a pastel blue sweater that had a fucking baby chick on it; seeing him, it was hard to believe he could be mean enough to hurt you. But he had, so you went with the most mature and eloquent answer you could muster: “Whatever,” mumbled under your breath.

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. “Let’s just go to the administration and get this shit over with.”

His tone, finally bordering on annoyed, gave you some satisfaction. Maybe you two had more in common than you thought.

— 

Things between you and Harry hadn’t always been this hard. Back in university, among mutual friends and copious amounts of alcohol, he had been nicer. So had you. But Markham made the differences that seemed meaningless at 19 years old feel like deal breakers for any sort of healthy work relationship; his laid backness, so charming all those years ago, drove you insane now. He was a brilliant musician, of course, but was that really all it took? While you searched for the perfect balance between serious faculty member, approachable but slightly intimidating mentor, cultured academic, reliable friend and well-rounded human being, Harry simply seemed to always be a little late for everything that didn’t involve robbing you of your preferred classroom. Also, he flirted way too much, dressed like a sexy grandmother and never submitted grades when he was supposed to. 

“Hey,” he said, then called your name softly. “I think that’s enough.”

For a second, you thought he meant enough reasons to dislike him. Then you looked down at your overflowing cup of water and the puddle forming on the teacher’s lounge counter.

“Fuck,” you hissed, putting the glass jar back in its place.

“That sounds familiar,” Harry sipped his coffee like he hadn’t just said that in a room filled with ancient Markham professors.

You were torn between giving him a death glare or ignoring him altogether, so you just settled for a death glare directed at no one in particular while you wiped your wet hand on the side of your black skirt. 

“Professors,” greeted one of the Plastic Arts teachers, a sweet-looking old lady. She walked up to the counter so she could pour her coffee, standing between you and Harry in the process. “I take it the 103 debacle hasn’t gone smoothly.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Thomas,” Harry said, a playful smile suddenly on his lips. “Someone here doesn’t know when to give up.”

“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person, Professor Styles. It’s not cute.”

Mrs. Thomas laughed like the two of you were performing a stand-up comedy show. “God, you two are adorable.”

You frowned while she walked away, and even though Harry’s smile stayed plastered on his face, you could see the furrow between his brows. “Adorable?” he asked, voice low. “You?”

“Piss off,” you said for the second time that day.

The 103 debacle, as your elder colleague so eloquently put, hadn’t gone smoothly. At all. Administration admitted to making a mistake and offered, oh so kindly, to relocate one of you to an empty classroom upstairs. Both Harry and you just stood there, looking at each other as if saying “Well, there you go” and waiting for the other to eagerly take room 214. Dark, humid, cold and small 214. After a couple of minutes of painfully awkward silence, the secretary responsible for room assignment suggested a sort of alternation: since the conflicting lessons were taught twice a week, Harry could get 103 on Mondays and you could have it on Thursdays. Neither of you liked the idea, but no amount of “But Sophie…” would change her mind once she came up with a supposedly perfect solution. 

“She’s only saying that because she hasn’t seen your eye twitching while you try to refrain from having a mental breakdown over a classroom,” he said, ignoring the fact you had just told him off. Harry leaned in, annoying smirk on his lips, so only you would hear him when he said: “You can be adorable when you’re whining for more, though.”

He was too close, and you could smell the cologne on the collar of the shirt he wore under his sweater. It was vanilla, sweet and strong like he had been before he turned out to be the kind of guy who insulted you and bragged about having fucked you, all in the same breath. 

“Classy, Styles,” you drank the rest of your water in one gulp so you could get rid of the cup and put some distance between the two of you. He just smelled too good. “You shouldn’t be so quick to make fun of my eye twitch, though. I wasn’t the one using “the humidity in 214 is bad for my hair” as an argument.” 

“I hate that room,” Harry muttered as you walked away. 

Well, that made two of you. 

—

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” you announced to your students. Sunshine flooded the room, casting light on their focused expressions. “You’re going to go through act one again and select a snippet of text so that we can discuss it, and you have to make it so your point —” A determined knock on the door interrupted you. Before you could say anything at all, about a dozen people entered room 103 as if it were expected from them to do so. Strangely, it took you a second too long to realize where you knew most of those faces from: three days ago, they were among your own students as they waited for their professor. One by one, they sat in rows on the floor just like they would in actual desks. None of them made a sound. “Make it so your point about the chosen quote is character-driven,” you continued, choosing to simply not acknowledge any disturbance for a moment. 

Still, there were twelve too many sets of eyes looking up at you. It was unsettling. For the next few minutes, there was a silent agreement between you and the Drama students; the lesson proceeded as they exchanged puzzled looks while pretending to skim the first act of Romeo and Juliet and you anxiously played with your cross necklace. What kind of sick mind game was Harry trying to play here? You wish you knew what reaction he was expecting, only so you could deliver the exact opposite of it. 

“You have ten more minutes,” you said, reminding your students. A few of them nodded as they took notes, but the people sitting on the floor remained quiet and still, eyes on you. “What do you want?” you blurted out. 

“What do you mean?” a girl asked, and you could tell they were expecting you to continue pretending they weren’t there until the lesson was over. Bingo. 

“I mean, what is your goal? Did your professor send you here just to spite me? Is he wasting your time as well as mine? Or are you supposed to learn something by attending my class without my previous consent?”

By then, your own students had dropped their books and were waiting for one of the Music kids to speak up. 

“Today’s lesson is about civil disobedience and other forms of rebellion and how they relate to the cultural and/or artistic aspects of music,” the same girl said. You couldn’t help but admire the way she took the lead, just as you couldn’t help but question Harry’s methodology. 

“What’s your name?”

“Kate.”

“Kate, don’t you think this exercise fails to convey the gravity of civil disobedience? The environment seems a little low-stakes, to be honest.”

“Having low stakes is what makes it an experiment, though,” someone else muttered from behind Kate. 

“You can speak up”, you said. “And yes, it’s an experiment, but it still feels too far-fetched, not even close to a parallel. Once you’re done with the lesson, you should let me know how Professor Styles managed to turn this into a Thoreau analogy. Maybe he should have just taught you how to play Another Brick In The Wall and called it a day.” 

Some of the Drama students snickered from their desks, but Harry’s class didn’t seem to find you amusing at all. Oh, well. You couldn’t please everyone. 

“Since you’re already here, you’re going to learn something. It’s unrelated to civil disobedience but that’s not really my fault, is it? Find a partner that’s actually enrolled in the class about narrative elements in Drama; work on the passage together, from a character-focused perspective, and see if you can relate any of it to your knowledge about art and culture in general. I’m certain someone has taught you about that, even if Professor Styles couldn’t.”

There was a beat of silence, all twenty-four of them staring at you hesitantly. 

“Well? Get to work.”

And so they did. 

—

You zipped up your bag, mind already drifting to the bottle of wine and comfortable blankets waiting for you back home, when someone’s knuckles tapped the door to the classroom. It was neither 103, with its smooth stone walls onto which you could project any material necessary with perfect lighting, or 214, with its moldy smell, but a perfectly decent middle-ground. You had just taught your last lesson of the first week of the semester to a group of eager Literature first-years and even though you were much better at it now than when you first began, it wasn’t an easy job by any means. Shoulders aching with tension, you turned to the door. 

“No,” you said before Madeline could utter a single word. She was your sweetest colleague, and also technically your boss. Madeline was the head of the Literature department and the person who recommended you to the head of Drama when they needed someone to teach a couple of classes on the narrative aspects of plays the students would later perform. Even when you hesitated to take the job and said you weren’t experienced enough to do it, she wouldn’t take no for an answer; Madeline was the closest thing you had to a mother in Markham, always toeing the line between authority and encouragement. 

But she would have to take no for an answer now, because you knew that face. And contrary to her motherly status, she wanted you to go out for happy hour. “Just one drink,” she didn’t even bother denying it. “Everyone’s coming.”

“Everyone who?”

“Everyone!”

Everyone almost certainly didn’t involve faculty over 65, so that left you with less than ten people total. You decided not to bring it up since Madeline could get sensitive about age talk. She was 58 and absolutely outraged by people over 60 that started “acting like they had already dropped dead”. Her words. 

“Professor Styles will be there,” and then she wiggled her eyebrows. Oh my God.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you said, offended, grabbing your purse. You turned off the lights and closed the door, all while she played dumb.

“Nothing, really,” Madeline said with a shrug. “Thought it might be nice to hang out with a fellow young intellectual, ‘s all.”

“Oh, spare me.” 

“You could also figure your shit out before HR needs to get involved,” she paused to see your reaction. There was none. “Just a thought.”

“HR? Are you for real?”

“No,” she said, honestly. “But the two of you can’t keep this up forever, honey. It’s entertaining to watch, but it looks exhausting. You should put an end to whatever this is, if only so you can have a little more peace of mind. You’re both smart people trying to get their job done, that’s all.”

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t want to fight Madeline on this. Harry was… complicated. You hadn’t seen him at all since yesterday’s class and even though you were proud of how you handled the situation at first, you couldn’t help but second guess every move you made while his students were in your classroom. Maybe you should have just made them leave. Maybe you shouldn’t have questioned Harry’s authority so explicitly by saying it was a bad exercise.Maybe you should have just pretended they weren’t there at all. Maybe you should have walked up to Harry himself and thrown a fit because he disturbed your lesson. 

But there was no use dwelling on what should have been. In the end, the lesson was actually productive. Fun, if you might say so yourself. His students proved themselves to be very reasonable people, and the contrast between their perspectives as musicians and those of your students, as actors or future playwrights, contributed to multiple interesting discussions.

“Just one drink,” you found yourself saying to Madeline, not that it mattered. You were already walking together towards the parking lot, where her car was, instead of your usual route. 

“That’s my girl.”

You rolled your eyes as you walked by her side, your black heels making it hard for you to walk on the gravel of the parking lot. The uncomfortable shoes, unfortunately, played a big part in your whole “fake it ‘till you make it” brand of confidence. 

—

The whole table shifted as you and Madeline walked into the pub. You could see Harry from the corner of your eye, fuzzy cream sweater and lilac pants, the shadow of laughter still on his lips from whatever joke was being told before you walked in. 

Two more chairs were placed at random spots, and before you could say anything you were squeezed in between Harry and another professor from the Music department, with Madeline four seats away. This had been a terrible idea. Your thighs were pressed together, the rough fabric of his pants rubbing against your skin; there was no move you could make without somehow touching him. 

“Hey,” Harry said quietly, turning to you. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek. “Did you have a nice class yesterday?”

Despite all the imaginary fights you had with him on the last 30 hours, you smiled. Harry Styles had some nerve. “Which one? I teach a few classes everyday, Professor.”

He laughed under his breath even though you both knew you weren’t a particularly funny person. “You know what? You are adorable.”

You could feel your cheeks flaming instantly. He rendered you speechless for a couple seconds, each one making his smirk grow. You licked your lips and then, with less confidence than you’d like, you said: “I know. Still not as adorable as your little backfiring prank, though.”

“First of all,” he started, still with that damn smirk. “It wasn’t a prank, it was an exercise.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It was! And it absolutely did not backfire. Shouldn’t you know what backfiring means? Aren’t you a book expert or whatever?” 

“Very cute, Styles.”

He murmured a ‘thank you’, choosing to ignore your dripping sarcasm. It drove you crazy. 

Someone cleared their throat, and you realized as soon as you looked up that the whole table was waiting for your order and most definitely paying attention to yours and Harry’s conversation. Your face burned even hotter while you stuttered out the name of your cocktail. 

Your first cocktail, that is. As a storm started outside, one drink turned into two, then three. 

“I should get going,” Madeline said at some point, half the table already gone. Even with all the extra space, you and Harry had shown no intention of moving. “Do you need a ride, honey?”

You thought of your empty kitchenette, a few miles south of Markham, and all the time it would take her to drive you home and back to her house, and her family, under such a downpour. A quick “No, thank you” and she was gone. You turned to the nearest window, your arm brushing Harry’s in the process, to watch the storm outside and figure out if the weather would make it impossible for you to leave, which meant you had made a terrible decision by declining the ride. Sure enough, it was pitch black and the rain was as violent as ever. Oh, well. 

“You have goosebumps.”

“Huh?”

“You have goosebumps,” Harry repeated himself, laughing a little. As opposed to you, he hadn’t had a single drink to slow his thinking. “Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” but you weren’t. Through your protests, he took the beige coat hanging on his chair and draped it across your shoulders. Once you shivered at the touch of his fingertips, there was no lying anymore.

 Harry raised an eyebrow, and you didn’t know what was more infuriating: his smirk, the amazing smell on his absurdly fashionable coat or your uncalled-for horniness, so you decided to ignore all of them. “There’s really no need, Styles,” you said quietly, already reaching to give him back his coat. “I need to get home.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not driving.”

“Well,” he scoffed. “Obviously.”

You furrowed your brows, suddenly very glad you couldn’t see the drunk pout that had just formed in your lips. “Bye, then.”

He grabbed your hand before you could take off his jacket. “No. Let me take you.”

“No fucking way,” you protested. Realizing the three or four remaining coworkers at the table were paying attention to your conversation, you continued much more calmly: “Thank you, though.”

“Come on, Professor,” he teased. “I owe you this one, I guess.”

The gin made him sound so reasonable. He did owe you one, for being such a jerk at all times through the don’t-give-a-shit attitude and how he often brought up that stupid fucking night. Not to mention the 103 debacle and the disruptive prank. He owed you many, actually. 

“I guess?” It sounded more aggressive in your head, but that would do.

So you both said your goodbyes and left, his expensive coat hanging off your back while you walked to his expensive car, as if whatever was his were meant to be shared with you simply because you looked good in it. 

part 2 !

[davidmann95]

JJ Abrams Superman Movie officially announced, with Ta-Nahisi Coates writing

Anonymous said: Just a few days after you said you were happy with DC taking a break from Superman movies and just focusing on him being on tv again, they go and announce a new Superman movie. How do you feel? Coates is an exciting choice, I think

Caught me red-handed! But to be fair a couple times I said that I left a caveat of ‘barring extraordinary circumstances’, which I’d say this qualifies as.

There’s only so much to go off of at this point, but even these tidbits open up a lot to think about.

* As out of left field as Coates feels at first blush - he’s a Marvel man! - it’s not entirely shocking that he’d be on WB’s shortlist to be their ‘how to fix Superman’ guy: he got a MacArthur Genius Grant the same year as his #1 bestselling book about what the American Way actually means, after which he got into superhero writing with a run that ended up having elements incorporated into a cultural moment in Black Panther, and then Between The World And Me was cited as the inspiration for the Watchmen show that substantially drew on Superman iconography and won 11 Emmys. People are already talking about him admittedly not being a DC or Superman guy (though in that same interview he notes his love for the DCAU, specifically including STAS), but if he’s here he’s got something to say and, y’know, probably read a decent amount of Superman stuff either since then/prior to this or to get ready for the gig, so can’t say I’m worried.

* Related note: I’m seeing folks concerned about how much control he’ll really have over the project, which is fair. But that it’s his involvement that’s being touted over JJ Abrams’ (the guy who, like him or not, rebirthed Star Wars as a going concern to the tune of over $2 billion), and that they’re formally announcing and hyping it up as TA-NEHISI COATES’ SUPERMAN MOVIE™, COMING 202X before even having a director or lead actor attached, says to me that whatever his vision is it’s one WB’s going all-in on for the time being.

* I’ve seen plenty of discussion already about the appropriateness of this potentially starring a black Superman given both the dynamics/thematics of Superman as a character, and more significantly the implications of Coates maybe only being brought onboard to do ‘the black version’. That is a conversation I have precisely zero qualifications to wade in on with my own takes, but given that he is a dude with enough options that he could probably even turn down an opportunity on this scale, and the aforementioned weight being given to his role in this, I think it’s safe to say whatever we’re going to get is something he’s onboard with.

* Also seen concerns re: his pedigree as a fiction writer - another one I’m not that qualified to weigh in on, I’ve only read the first year or so of his Black Panther and Captain America runs (though I got the rest of his BP on Comixology while it was free, gotta check it out sometime), which were solid if a bit more workmanlike than you’d hope, along with the (other category altogether) Between The World And Me some time ago, which was...considerably more than solid. I know however his fiction novel debut in The Water Dancer was well-received, his Marvel work rather than staying ‘grounded’ hasn’t shied away from the sort of outré high concepts you’d want to see in a Superman movie, and the main criticism of his runs of ‘they’re too slow’ wouldn’t likely have the space to apply in a 2-3 hour Hollywood blockbuster, so again, not too concerned.

* Perhaps time will make me eat my words, but hot take: there is a basically 0% chance this is about Calvin Ellis or Val-Zod. Yes, yes, the DC movies are reportedly embracing the multiverse an excuse to do standalone stuff, but the two examples of that thus far in Joker and The Batman are still broadly rooted in the conventional trappings of those characters even if they’re separated from the ‘main universe’. Maybe someday the options might go further afield, but right now, when Superman hasn’t had an unambiguous silver screen hit in over 40 years? They’re not going to pour a quarter-billion dollars into a movie with the premise of “last son of the doomed planet Krypton, imbued beneath Earth’s yellow sun with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men and raised with the noblest ideals of truth and justice, Some Other Guy Most Of You Don’t Know protects the world...as Superman!” Not even getting into Val-Zod being just one member of an ensemble cast from a largely overlooked book and having the baggage of being Zod’s kid, and the EVERYTHING of making a four-quadrant tentpole film about Super-Obama (when you haven’t even been able to make your regular Super work) - this is either going to be Clark, or if they do make Superman black or brown but still want some distance it’ll be a Jon movie so it’s still got the direct connection to the original and the ‘son of Superman’ pitch in its corner too.

* Abrams is an interesting partner. He’s Hollywood’s big nostalgia guy, and that’s...probably not what Coates is going to be going for here. I assume he’s basically there to keep things familiar enough for WB’s tastes, which itself raises questions about the nature of Coates’ pitch and how it was internally received even if they’re clearly very publicly committed to it.

* Michael B. Jordan probably won’t really be the guy - he apparently talked about it, reasonably concluded he didn’t want to face that inevitable scale of backlash after what he already went through just playing the Human Torch, and the tradition is to cast an unknown in the part - but I guess never say never. Heck, while I sure wouldn’t bet on it I don’t think Ryan Coogler ending up involved is out of the question either; Coates’ previous screenwriting experience was working on a project with Coogler and Jordan that evidently didn’t come to fruition (Wrong Answer, a drama about a 2006 Atlanta public school cheating scandal), and they seem to have maintained a relationship as they had a public discussion regarding The Water Dancer in 2019.

* Ok I know making fun of Snyder people is passé at this point and usually more “NO SUPERMAN MOVIES MAY BE PERMITTED UNTIL THE CIVILIZATION-REDEFINING FIVE-FILM SAGA IS COMPLETE” howling into the void is barely worth notice, and “this is solely WB retaliating against us for bending them to our will!” in response to a Superman reboot would normally be just an amusing side-note too. But trying to get #HenryCavillSuperman/#HenryCavillIsOurSuperman trending in response to the possibility of a black Superman...I mean obviously so fucking many of them are fully aware they’re just not saying the quiet part loud, but what’re the percentages here?

So that’s what I’ve got so far. How do I feel about it all? It’s odd; given that there are basically no actual details beyond a name attached I’d never thought about in this context, and that this came with no forewarning just as the prospect of Superman in movies for the next long while seemed as dead as it ever had been, it’s so ill-defined and seems so unreal that I don’t feel much of anything about it yet? Plus I’m no longer driven on a day-by-day basis by a savage, all-consuming desire to slake a thirst for quality Superman stuff long left unquenched the way I was even a couple years ago, which likely also plays its part. But objectively? This is a guy formally, nationally recognized for being smart who’s also a journalist and comics fan being given Superman, with what sure feels like a lot of leeway and presumably a blank slate, which is basically the abstract concept of a perfect pick. So yes: I formally rescind my “please no Superman movies in the 2020s” plea.

[buck-nialled]

could you write something based on that Niall insta story with the chocolate and the “it’s the small things” where maybe y/n bought him the chocolate on her way home after work just because?? I don’t know if that makes sense

NOTE: been seeing a lot of negative stuff on my dash these past couple of days so I figured I could write a little and cheer this anon up and others too (hopefully). I kept the concept the same for the most part and just changed a few small things. Also made this a barista!niall au bc why the hell not? HOPE YOU LIKE THIS ANON, it’s a small thing but i hope it cheers you and others up :) 

Take It - N. Horan Imagine

You had been infatuated with the man behind the counter the moment you stepped into the small café. Though, it was the smell that had captured your attention first. The aroma of coffee beans brewing winded around the block which you usually traversed through to get to your job. You were thankful you left early that morning upon reaching the building which had been under construction for quite some time, but now held large, red-printed letters on its window reading “NOW OPEN”. You did not fight the smile stretching on your lips as you entered the building and let your eyes cascade over the textured wallpaper lining the interior of the store, which mimicked that of aged stone. A small logo came into sight a few times as you gave cursory looks over more of the interior. Your heels clicked over the sanded hardwood flooring, which you admired for a moment or so until your eyes looked up and caught sight of something more captivating.

This something was adorning a black shirt, partially guarded by a green apron, with the familiar silhouette of the shamrock and a name embroidered beside it. Your eyes chose not to decipher the cursive and rather traveled upward to meet two clear oceans staring back at her.

“G’mornin! Welcome to Horan’s Coffee House, how can I help you?” The man’s lips peeled open, revealing a gorgeous set of teeth between his light stubble. You were still unsure if it was his smile or thick, accented voice that sent your knees into a small wobble and tongue tremble in apprehension. You chose not to think too hard about it though and reminded yourself that despite your leaving early, your schedule was still airtight.

“Um, I just need some coffee.”

“Sure, our coffee menu is right up here,” his hand motions toward a chalkboard right above him, where various drink options were listed, “or I could tell you about our special.” He offers, smile now residing to a quirk in the left corner of his pink lips. You tried refraining your curiosity, but his kind eyes could not help to tighten the metaphorical lasso his voice and smile already had wound around your body. You moved closer to the counter he was stood behind.

“And what might that be?” His tongue peeked out to lightly wet his lips at your interest. And he joined you in your eager state, leaning forward against the counter.

“It’s our Mullingar Macchiato, like regular macchiato but with a shot of Irish crème.” You hummed in interest, eyes flicking upwards and to the side in a pondering gaze. It made the range of the man’s smile increase as you did so and had him baring his teeth at you once more when you gave him a firm nod. “Alright, you sold me.”

“Perfect. I’ll start on that for ya right now, love.” Luckily, he had turned his back to you and face the machine as the blood ran up to flame your cheeks. You took the silence as an opportunity to let your eyes wander the interior of the store once more and think back to the man’s prior words.

“So…you’re Irish? That’s the whole theme of this place?” You question, turning away from the counter just in case he turned to peer at you. You were not confident the fire in your cheeks had dimmed down quite yet.

“Uh, yeah I guess you could say I was inspired. I’ve been cookin’ ever since I was little. When I finally left culinary school, I figured this was the best place to get started.”

An Irish-themed bakery was incongruous to this block of buildings, to say the least. The interior was like nothing Y/N had ever experienced. But with how expansive New York City was in its culture and wide-ranging heritage, it was nothing arbitrary in terms of the state. Your feet led you to a large case, which held all different and unfamiliar sweets. Among the various nametags, you picked out a few which piqued your interest the most: Bailey’s Cheesecake, Irish Apple Cake, Shortbread, Irish Oat Flapjacks.

“So…you made all of these?” You look up, ready to pivot to face the worker at the coffee machine but are startled to find him behind the case already. His arm lifted and the corner of his apron peered up enough for you to catch the embroidered name: Niall. He set the coffee atop of the case for you to take, which you did with a smile. The coffee made your hand feel warm, much like your insides when he spoke his reply.

“Yeah. I know they look complicated, but most of them have the same base of alcohol. That’s one stereotype I won’t deny being true.” Both of you chuckle as you nod your head.

“Trust me, I’m well aware. I studied abroad in Ireland for six weeks.” You had hoped this unnecessary knowledge you were spewing was helping your case, rather than hurt it. And it seemed like you made the right choice in sharing when Niall raised his brows at you.

“Really? What part?”

“Dublin.” You answer, bringing the lip of the cup to your lips for a sip. But before you could tip the cup back, a small scoff left Niall. Your brows furrowed as you let the lid leave your mouth, now slightly agape.

“What?”

“Please,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Dublin is nothin’ compared to other towns in Ireland. It’s an overpriced tourist-sucker with extremely overpriced drinks.” He declares, unbridled.

“Well, I can confirm that last part.” You murmur. “So, you’re not from Dublin then.”

He shakes his head rapidly, very eager to dispute the thought as he informs you. “Mullingar.” And he is beaming once again after saying it.

“Mullingar.” You repeat, before furrowing your brows and glancing down to the warm cup in your grasp. “Like the name of this drink.”

“Aye, she’s catchin’ on!” He cheers, cueing you to roll your eyes.

“Whatever. Speaking of the drink though, I should probably pay you now.” Your voice declines in volume as your turn to fish your wallet from your purse slung on your shoulder. But Niall’s hands begin waving nonchalantly from your peripheral vision.

“Ah, don’t worry 'bout it. You’re the first customer since we opened this mornin’. It’s on the house!” He insists.

“What? No, let me—” Niall reaches to lightly shove your free hand away from the lips of your purse.

“I’m serious, don’t worry about it! If you end up liking it, which I’m sure you will,” you mimic the smirk that falls onto his lips, “you can pay next time you’re here. Swear it.” You carefully eye him, a suspicious squint only making his smile grow as you readjust the purse’s strap on your shoulders.

“Alright, here’s to hoping I like this drink then,” you raise the styrofoam cup before you are pivoting and walking out of the store. As you step out of the building, a man bustles in behind you, shouting desperately at Niall to see if he left his card there. You pause in your footing and glance back to see Niall consoling the man and handing him the credit card he had supposedly left in the store earlier. All you could do though, despite the small irritation within you, was smile and continue your journey to work with the shake of your head.

It had been three weeks since that morning, and approximately five additional visits to Horan’s Coffeehouse. Of course, Niall tried playing the same trick on you your next two visits, which you wanted to so badly refuse. But his voice, which was especially gravely one particular morning, and paired along with his charming pools for eyes, was enough to have you concede. The previous three, however, you refused to leave without paying which left Niall sighing and feigning pain from your card as it was accepted by the machine.

It made you feel accomplished, to have him taste his own medicine. That was until you checked your account later in the day to find various returns, all from the same place: Horan’s Coffeehouse. You despised how the sight made your heart flutter and gnawed on your lip in thought, the monitor on your desk at work mocking you with its blank stare. You were too concentrated on Niall to even concentrate on your current tasks. How you were ever going to let this man receive something, anything from you?

One particular memory played out in your collage of dreams that night. It was a morning you had visited Niall and took notice of a small chocolate bar hidden (not so well) in the register. You questioned him about it once the previous customer he was helping departed, leaving the two of you alone in the store.

“Can’t a man get cravings for chocolate, too? Damn,” He replied in his usual, jocular tone, before explaining how it was his favorite chocolate bar growing up, and remains so to this day. You think the best part about that conversation was you not even asking for the context of the chocolate, and how easily he justified himself to you. Of course, the dream ended much differently than that day did. Rather than leaving the shop with a smile like you always did, you somehow ended up on the counter with Niall’s face between your thighs and a never-ending string of moans leaving your lips.

But that’s not important. Not as important as your alarm waking you up with a jump in your heart and smile curling your lips upward as an idea came to mind. You bustled from your apartment as quickly as possible, not wanting to waste more time than necessary as you hurried out of your apartment and to the small shop near Niall’s and seeking out your treasure.

You underestimated how early you managed to arrive at Horan’s Coffeehouse, though, and nearly ripped the door handle off upon tugging it and not receiving its normal swing open. “Huh?” You muttered, attempting to dig your phone out of your pocket to check the time, a frame popped up beside you. Looking up, you found Niall smiling down at you as he was twisting the key into the shop’s door.

“Wow, you’re here early today.” He comments, swinging the door open. You meet his eyes and were certain there was no covering up your red cheeks now. “Well come on.” He chuckles, encouraging you to step inside the building with a small motion of his arm.

“So,” he sets down the Mullingar Macchiato, a drink you’d never grown tired of since beginning your mornings here, on the counter behind him to cool. “What brings ya here so early t'day?” he sets his arms down onto the counter and leans towards you curiously with a small smile. It was as if he already knew he was a constant thought of yours. Which, you would not be surprised if he admitted. You were not the most “subtle” person when it came to falling for somebody.

‘Well, I uh—I wanted to give you this…” You slowly reached in your purse and pulled out the chocolate bar. The same one he tries hiding in the register and does poorly at. His mouth falls open at the familiar label, and he takes it into his hands with a laugh of disbelief.

“I also want to go on a date with you.” You continue, “that is if you want to go out with me. And if you aren’t busy…or are already with someone else. In that case, I totally understand if—”

“Love,” he addresses, before cooing you in a shush. “You’re rambling…a date with you sounds lovely. I think I’d be an idiot to say no to tha’.” You bite your lip to hide the smile threatening to break out on your face.

“Cool…but I’m paying for it.”

“Of course,” Niall huffs out, face forming an expression of slight annoyance. “Knew there’d be a catch.”

“That’s my offer, Horan. Take it or leave it.” You straighten your stance, looking all business. Niall’s lips twitch back and forth in thought.

“How about I take the bill, and you leave the tip.” Niall counters, with a raise of his brows. You shake your head, rolling your eyes at him. “Alright alright, how about this. Come closer,” suspiciously, you inch towards his frame stood behind the counter. “Closer.” He encouraged, and you proceeded until your body was practically up against the counter’s rim.

“Wha—” before you could question his motives, his hand swoops down to grasp the back of your neck and let your lips collide with his as an answer. It was an answer you could not refuse, and your arms glided up and reached his shoulder blades to keep your lips pressed against his. When you finally broke apart, lightly panting, the smile which never seemed to leave Niall’s features was more prominent than ever as he grabbed the cup of coffee from behind him, “you take that…and leave with this.” He finishes as he places the cup down on the counter in front of you.

on the look for more niall stuff? my masterlist is full of it. seriously. go check it out!

[lesbianlovelanguage]

hey tay! how about: situation #28, sentence #15, person(people) steve/billy 😊 thank you!

Hi bb!!! Sorry this took forever, it just kind of kept going haha. 

Enjoy! 28. Love Confession and 15. “If you think I don’t have feelings for you, you’re dumber than I though.” (I also added college!au because why not?) 

--

Billy had thought moving to college would have meant freedom from Hawkins, from his dad, from the memories of a certain kiss in the dark. He had packed his camaro and never looked back as he sped out of that shit hole town. It wasn’t until he was unpacking his couple of boxes that it finally hit him. He had done it. He was out.

Then he walked into his second college class, Forensic Science 101, and spotted that damn head of perfectly styled gravity defying hair, and met wide brown eyes. They stared at each other for a whole minute before Steve was tugged away by some spunky looking blonde with a jean jacket that was more patches than denim. 

Billy watched them take a seat towards the front of the hall, and then deliberately made his way to the back. He hoped that this would be the only incident of bumping into an old face, but when had he ever had that much luck? 

The second item listed in the syllabus, written in bold 12 point times new roman, was a group project due at the end of the semester, and the professor just had to announce that they were assigning partners by last name. When the list was projected up Billy could have screamed. 

Of course.

Of fucking course, on his first day of college, when he thought he was finally safe and free from Hawkins and all that came with it, he had to get paired up with King Steve for a fucking semester-long assignment. 

By the end of class, Billy’s pencil was chewed to bits and his anxiety was through the roof. The bell caught him off guard, and as the rest of his classmates were filing out of the hall, he was slowly packing up. It wasn’t until he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder that he saw Harrington waiting at the end of the aisle Billy was in. He looked equally nervous, bottom lip red and puffy from biting it. Billy started thinking about other ways he could make Steve’s lips look like that, thoughts steering to Tina’s graduation party and a shady corner in the backyard. Before he could dig himself too deep of a hole, a soft cough brought him back to reality. 

“So, I guess we’re partners?” Harrington asked hesitantly.

Billy just replied with a grunt and pushed past Harrington to leave the lecture hall. He didn’t have time for Harrington’s ridicule and judgemental looks. But before he could ditch him, Billy felt a hand grab his jacket sleeve and tug him backwards, prompting him to spin around and face Harrington again.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Harrington,” he growled. Harrington dropped his hand as if he had been burned. 

“Jeez, sorry. Who pissed in your cheerios, Hargrove?”

“Piss off.” Billy started walking away again, until Harrington jumped in front of him.

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry. We do need to work on this project together though.”

“Yeah? Well we haven’t even gotten an assignment sheet yet,” Billy shrugged. Steve dug into his bag and pulled out a thick packet. 

“Um, hate to be the bearer of bad news Billy boy, but we actually did?”

“Fine. We can figure out some time to meet and go over this stupid project.” 

“Great! I was thinking three times a week? at like 6?”

“Mmm, ‘fraid not Princess. Once a week, on Thursdays, at 7. Meet in the library. Final offer.” 

“Jesus,” Harrington said, “You really haven’t changed. Still the same asshole who’s too good for anyone?”

“No, Princess. Just too good for you,” and with those parting words, Billy pushed past Harrington and snached the packet out of his hands. He heard Harrington squawk in protest, but before he could pull another stunt to stall his departure, Billy was ducking out the door and striding through the quad.

And thus, their schedule was set. Billy successfully avoided Harrinton in the classroom by sneaking in at the last minute and sitting in the very back in order to be one of the first out with the bell. During their study sessions, Billy remained quiet and aloof, responding to all of Harrinton’s questions with biting cynicism and witty insults. He finally stopped trying four weeks in, and now they simply met, put a couple hours into their project, and then left. 

This lasted until the second to last meeting they had. The Thursday after Thanksgiving break found the two boys in the library like every other Thursday of the semester. They were going over every detail, reviewing their conclusions, and finalizing their presentation for next Friday. 

Billy was packing up his stuff, getting ready to go home when he heard Harrington clear his throat.

“Hargrove, wait. I-I uh, I can’t make it next week.” Billy froze.

“Harrington, are you kidding? We present the next day, what the hell?” Billy couldn’t believe it. All semester Harrington had been riding his ass about being on time to their stupid little meet ups, and now he wanted to just ditch it right before the end? 

“I’ve got another commitment,” Harrington said, and Billy noticed his ears were bright red. That’s when it hit him. 

“Oh, I see.” Billy felt a downright nasty smirk take over. “King Steve’s got a date huh? Tell me Stevie, is she another Wheeler bitch, or is she the spunky blonde you’re always with? What’s your type these days Pretty Boy?”

“Fuck off Hargrove. God, why are you such a dick all the time?” Harrington complained, sounding every part the spoiled brat he was. 

“Just part of the charm, Princess.” The smirk only got bigger, started to resemble a sneer with the way his lip curled up and his teeth showed.

‘Never let them see you hurt.’ he thought, feeling jealousy pool in his stomach. 

“So who is it Pretty Boy? Ice queen or punk band reject?” Billy sneered. 

“It-it’s not a date.” 

“Oh, please. You’re redder than a fucking tomatoe. C’mon Harrington, what’s a little gossip between pals?”

“We are not friends,” Harrington growled, finally reaching the end of his patience, “and if you refused to answer my questions after Tina’s party, I don’t see why I have to answer any of yours.” Harrington crossed his arms and pursed his lips.

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about Harrington? You didn’t ask me shit after that night.”“Yeah, because you never let me!” Steve practically shouted. He quieted down after a sharp glare from the pruny old librarian behind the desk. “You practically disappeared after that night.”

“Yeah, because I already knew what you were going to say, and I didn’t need that shit from some bumpkin fuck right before I got to leave that tiny shit town.” Billy leaned forward as he practically spit the last words, getting up into Harrington’s blank face.

“Oh, if you’re so smart, what was I going to say Billy?” Harrington seemed unmoved by Billy’s presence, only scrunching up his nose a little and shifting his shoulders.

“Fuck this. I don’t need your interrogation now. Enjoy your date, and just make sure your fucking essay is finished.” Billy adjusted the strap of his bag, and pushed past Harrington to leave him behind. Unlike their first collegiate interaction, Harrington didn’t follow. Billy made it all the way out of the library and around the corner before having to stop and take a few deep breaths. He didn’t know how, but Harrington had the innate ability to get under Billy’s skin. Ever since that Halloween party, where he gave Billy one glance over and moved on to follow some prissy looking ice princess. 

After some deep breaths, the urge to punch something slowly faded to a simmer, at least enough to make his way back to his dorm. 

Monday came, and with it Forensic Sciences 101. He pulled the usual routine of coming in late, only to find a certain mop of brown hair sitting in his usual seat. Billy made the educated decision to tuck tail and beat it. There wasn’t an attendance policy anyway, skilling wouldn’t hurt.

Using that logic, he also skipped Wednesday’s lecture just to be safe. He decided to use the time to study for another final coming up, and headed to the library. He was deep in the zone, reading about the historical significance of guinea pigs in ancient South American culture when suddenly his textbook was ripped away from him.

He jerked up to see who the thief was. Standing before him was the same blonde that hung around Harrington so often, and she looked pissed.

“Can I help you?” Billy asked, raising an eyebrow and staring her down. She didn’t even flinch as they suddenly ended up in a silent staring match. After a few tense moments, she suddenly smiled and plopped down in the seat next to him. 

“Name’s Robin. You’re Billy Hargrove right?”

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” 

“Okay, listen. I’m friends with Steve, basically his only friend on campus,” she said with an exaggerated eye roll, “and I’m here to tell you to talk to him, please. The little pining sulky thing he’s got going on was cute at first, but now it’s just kind of sad and annoying, so whatever happened between you two? I don't care, just fix it.”

 “And what makes you so sure it’s me he’s pining over or whatever? It’s probably that chic he has a date with tomorrow.” Billy leaned back in his chair, trying to feign nonchalance.

“Because,” she stretched out the word, “Dingus abandoned me during Forensics to sit in the back, even though his eyesight is terrible, all because he knew a certain blond always sat in the back. And then when you ditched, he was silent for like, an hour.” 

“Yeah? Wow. Real compelling evidence you got there chief. Unfortunately, I’ve known Harrington for longer and I know that’s not the case. There’s nothing going on between us.” Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Now can I please have my textbook back?”

“Not until you agree to talk to him,” she fired back.

“Oh yeah, I’d love to have that discussion.”

“What, big tough guy like you scared of what a dingus has to say? What’s got your panties in a twist Billy Joel?”

“None of your business. Now scram.”

“Nope,” she said, popping the p. “I need my best friend back. Besides, don’t you guys have a presentation on Friday? I can guarantee unless you two talk whatever out, he’s gonna be practically useless.”

“You don’t even know what’s going on!” His volume began to raise, only to be lowered again in the face of the librarian. He leaned closer to Robin instead. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. It's. Not. Happening.” 

“Fine. I guess it’s not what I’m thinking. After all, what do I, a lesbian from a tiny town in rural Illinois, know about mutual gay pining?” She said, leaning in to Billy too. They were practically bumping heads at this point, exchanging harsh whispers. But, as the term ‘mutual gay pining’ came out of her mouth, Billy squinted his eyes and smirked menacingly. 

“I see. You’re just some dyke who’s projecting her failed love life onto her bff in hopes of not being so lonely. Guess what buttercup? You’re dead fucking wrong. So fuck off, and go draw more tits on your shoes.” Robin leaned back in mock offense, before matching Billy with her own wicked smile.

“Oh okay. First off, fuck you, but I’m going to let it go because I know you probably have some deep seeded internalized bullshit. I had to help Steve through the same shit this semester. You’re from Hawkins too right?” One manicured eyebrow popped up, before she continued on her tirade. “Secondly, I’m never wrong. I saw the way you straight up stared at his lips that first day. Fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss him? Real no homo of you.”

“Are you done?” Billy asked, preparing to pack up and piss off. He didn’t need this shit, he had too many finals coming up. 

“Sure, if you’re ready to talk to Steve?”

“For the last time, take your psychoanalytical routine and fuck off.”

“Fine, whatever. Enjoy your pining anguish and ruined project.” She stood up, and prepared to turn away, before shooting over her shoulder, “By the way, I’m not sad or lonely. I actually have a girlfriend cause I’m not a pussy.” With that, she walked away, leaving Billy floundering for a scathing retort and coming up empty handed. He huffed and settled into his seat again to study, but suddenly he couldn’t focus on the guinea pigs. Sighing, he packed up and went to eat dinner.

Over the next two days, Billy tried to go about business as usual, but found himself staring off into space a lot more, Robin’s words echoing in his ears. Finally, Friday came about and Billy had to face the music. Or at least Harrington.

He got to the hall 30 minutes early, in order to sort his papers and double check all of his notecards were in the right order. Apparently, Harrington had the same idea, because he was already seated in the second row, head bent in concentration as he fussed over a stack of papers. 

Billy walked down the aisle, hands in his pockets. When he reached the row where Harrington sat, he cleared his throat. When Harrington’s head shot up in surprise, Billy was taken aback for a moment by the positions they found themselves in, reversed from that first day. 

Billy’s eyes flicked downwards before he shuffled through the seats and flopped down into the seat next to Harrington. 

“I uh, I got my papers. Gimme a sec, and we can put them all together.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, quiet so as to not break the hush an empty lecture hall seemed to require. 

“Okay.” Harrington’s voice was equally as soft. Billy began rifling through his bag to pull out the folder containing his portion of the project, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Harrington squirm nervously, bouncing his leg and chewing at his thumbnail. Robin’s words came back to him, “he’ll be practically useless.” 

Billy pulled out the folder and sighed as he turned to Harrington. Here goes nothing. 

“How was your date yesterday?” he asked, wincing a little at his choice of conversation starter.

“I told you, it wasn’t a date,” Harrington snapped, continuing to bounce his leg rapidly. 

“Fine, fine. How was your commitment?”

“Fine,” Harrington said, clipped. They lapsed into another bout of tense silence.

A few minutes passed before Steve finally broke.

“What did you think I was going to say to you?” he asked, but he resolutely didn’t look at Billy. He chose instead to focus on his hands as he picked at his cuticles.

“Oh, okay. I guess.” He paused to clear his throat. “I guess you were looking for me to say it was an accident, a drunk mistake or whatever. Didn’t need to get rejected in person when I knew it was coming anyway.” 

Suddenly, Harrington burst out laughing. It wasn’t very long, but just enough to piss off Billy.

“What’s so funny Harrington?”

“You thought I was going to reject you?”

“Yeah. Brush it off as a drunken mishap and go back to fucking ice princess or whoever.”

“Oh my god, Billy.” His first name rang in his ears. It was the first time he could remember Harrin-Steve calling him by it. “If you think I don’t feel anything for you, then you’re more stupid than I thought.” Steve’s voice carried the boisterous laugh until it began to dwindle into quiet timidness as Billy just sat there, blinking, before shooting up. 

“See you’re already insult- wait, what?” He faltered, and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“I said, if you think I don’t feel anything for you, if you think I regret it or brushed off what happened as some drunk mistake, you’re more stupid than I thought.” Steve said, the last part holding a light teasing tone.

“You... but… you’re…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“I’m not what? Not gay?” He paused before reaching out to gently offer his hand. “I’m not. I’m bisexual? I think? Robin’s better with the terms or what not, but um, basically I like both?” 

Billy sat down heavily before hesitantly grasping Steve’s outreached hand. 

“I guess that makes sense, but you really like me?”

“Yeah. I mean, you are an asshole, but I also saw how you were with Max and El, and even Will sometimes. You have a soft side, er. Well, softer.” Billy cracked a smile.

“I like you too Pretty Boy. Have since that one Halloween.”

“God, we’re dumbasses, huh?” Steve moaned. “Robin's going to hold this over me forever.” 

“I think she’s just going to be happy we’re not ‘mutually pining dinguses’ anymore.” Steve snorted, before looking up and squinting at Billy.

“Wait. Did she talk to you?”

“Yeah, she cornered me in the library Wednesday. You know, she kind of reminds me of a pitbull, all protective of you.”

“Yeah. I’m still gonna chew her ass. I told her specifically not to talk to you!” Before Steve could go into a full on tirade against his best friend, other classmates began to trickle in. Steve and Billy dropped hands and faced forward, prepping for their presentation again. However, just before the professor officially began class, Billy leaned over and whispered in Steve’s ear.

“You know anywhere we can talk after class? Privately.” He emphasized the last word, blowing a little puff of air, and watching Steve shiver.

“Yeah, yeah. I, uh, I have an apartment,” he stuttered.

“Perfect.” 

-

Hope y’all liked it! As always, my askbox is always open to prompts, it might just take a minute to get them out.

[bastillewolf]

The Grand Tranquility Hotel (VI)

Pairing: Alex Turner/Reader

Summary: An eccentric hotel owner and an inquisitive writer find solace in each other when they both seemed to be at the edge of rock bottom.

Notes: I have the week off of work! Expect some updates in the next few days!

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list.

Chapter VI - The World’s First Ever Monster Truck Front Flip

She’d managed to rid all the tension from her shoulders after a steaming hot shower with a lovely lavender-scented shampoo and was now strewn out across her bed with the book she’d been reading from the library. She didn’t have much planned for the day, simply wanting to refrain from causing any more distress between the others and herself. But when someone came knocking at her door, she didn’t feel like she had a choice but to open it. She was met with the eyes of intrigue himself.

“Will you accompany me for the day?” Alex merely asked. “Where will we be going?” she questioned in turn.

“You wanted to know all about my hotel. So, I’ll show you what I can, writer. Meet me in the service room behind the lobby when you’re dressed.” Looking down at her figure clad only in a soft white robe, her cheeks reddened in embarrassment. She saw the corner of his lips quirk up, before he sauntered back down the hallway towards the elevator. Cheeky bastard.

Having decided on wearing a long skirt with a pristine white blouse to maintain some form of professionality, she grabbed her notebook and pen and made her way towards their one-sided agreed upon meeting point. When Nick was greeted by her ‘good morning’ and with the sight of Alex holding the door to the back room open for her, he gave them a look of complete bewilderment, which Alex simply deemed to ignore. She shrugged and held her notebook a bit closer to her chest before stepping through the doorway.

The room wasn’t very large. In fact, most of the space was occupied by a large desk, filing cabinets and most prominently; television screens. They showed different camera angles to hallways and other communal areas, such as the library and dining hall. It was clearly live, because she could see Matt taking Mardy out for a walk in the gardens and Nick behind the counter, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off of the door they’d gone through. Alex took a seat at the table that held all the electronics and cables and motioned for her to do the same.

Hesitantly lowering herself on the chair next to him, he seemed to be waiting patiently until she’d opened her notebook on a blank page and her pen had revealed its ink when she scribbled down the date on the top right corner. She looked up at him and saw a look in his eyes she could only describe to be the hesitancy of a man who was desperately trying to place his trust in a stranger for the first time in years. She felt it was her turn to take the initiative. “When did the hotel first open its doors?” she decided to start with.

The simple question seemed to bring him back to focus, as he cleared his throat. “About twelve years ago, I’d say it was.” “That’s quit a while. I’m guessing you were rather young to be opening a hotel,” she noted, silently scribbling her pen across the paper in the meantime. She didn’t dare look away from him. He nodded and grumbled a chuckle. “Young, and very inexperienced. Even though I’d had everything planned out from the start, it turned out to be a lot different in practice than what I’d expected it in my head to be.”

“In what way?” He thought about it for a moment. “I guess I had to learn that I couldn’t do everything beforehand and that I had to make more direct decisions on the spot. Although, I was very lucky to have Miles and Matthew at my sides. They were with me every step of the way.”

She smiled softly. “Matt told me about your school years with him and Miles.” “He did? Yeah, we go way back. Bit ridiculous to think I made him promise to come work for me if I ever opened a hotel. Poor lad never stood a chance choosing a different career path. Miles, however, he’d always expected to become my business partner.”

“So, it hadn’t really been Miles’ initial ambition to become mayor?” Alex shook his head, “No. He’d always had a knack for politics and as you well know he’s socially very capable. But if it hadn’t been for his position today, I think this hotel would’ve remained a pipe dream.”

She hummed, letting her eyes wander over the wide array of television screens. “This is your office?” she wondered. “Of sorts,” he replied, “Though Nick often finishes his paperwork in here. It’s where everything is filed.”

“Doesn’t the noise ever bother you?” The slight static hum appeared to be constant and she felt like it derived the room of its peace. “It would most certainly drive me insane.”

“Ah, the exotic sound of data storage. Nothing like it, first thing in the morning,” he quipped with satire. “No, I think I’ve gotten used to it over the years. I don’t really hear it anymore.”

“Have you always had cameras around the hotel?”

“No. We didn’t think it was necessary for a long time, but certain events proved otherwise.”

“Events you’d rather not talk about right now.”

“You’re really getting the hang of this, writer.”

 He took her to see the library next, and their walk was silent until they were once again behind closed doors. “I didn’t mean to be secretive, but I did borrow a book from here,” she admitted, shuffling to one of the plush seats near the fireplace. “I know,” he replied, making her look at him in surprise. “I’ve read every single one of these books. They’re all classics, because I’d never let a bad piece of literature enter this room without my permission. You just happened to take one of my favourites, which I can only commend you for.”

She knew the plot of the book from memory and couldn’t help but let a mischievous smirk spread across her face. “You like cheesy romance novels?” she teased. “Laugh at me all you want, writer,” he replied, “But it was you who specifically chose that book to borrow out of all of the ones in here, which means I’m not the only one guilty of fancying a good love story.” “Alright,” she admitted, “What other genres do you prefer when you’re not swooning over Mister Darcy?”

He snickered at her banter. “I take interest in science fiction.” “Intriguing. I suppose great minds do have a wild imagination.” “Was that a compliment I heard?” he inquired. “Don’t get cheeky now, mister Turner. We’re both still testing boundaries here.”

He told her all about the becoming of his grand book collection; of how he’d initiated his fondness of reading through his mother’s literature shelves until he’d gone through them all and started sticking his nose in bookshops and libraries. “When the hotel gained more popularity, some regular guests seemed to pick up on my hobby and I’ve only ever received books as thankful parting gifts from that point on. I’m rather relieved, because I was getting sick of flowers and champagne bottles from people with horrid taste.”

“You really do sound like a ritzy hotel owner now.” “I’d rather be ritzy than be in the rubble.” She raised her brows at him with a silent inquiry at his remark. “Don’t say it,” he muttered.

It was when they winded down a staircase she hadn’t seen before did she unravel her notebook again. During the beginning of their conversation she’d only written down the facts and dates, until she’d decided her memory would suffice for the rest of their conversation. Up until he’d taken her to the lower level of the hotel, which managed to fascinate her to a great extent. “What is this place?”

She knew what it was on first glance but wanted him to elaborate on it. “It used to be a bathhouse,” he told her, “but the previous owners were never able to maintain it. It’s a long-term project of mine to restore it.”

It looked very worn indeed, but the vines that protruded the walls and the moss overgrowing the smooth pillars reminded her distinctly of the Romantic art in the paintings she’d seen across the halls of the hotel. There was a large pool in the middle, and though the green substance that most likely used to be clear water obtained a lot of algae’s, it was alleviated by the gorgeous flowers floating atop their lily pads.

The grimy pastel-coloured tiles in blues and pinks were illuminated by the soft light appearing through the ceiling window in the back of the room, which had a few cracks here and there. She walked around one of the separating walls and found an array of bathtubs lined up to the side, decorated with rusty showerheads and crooked room dividers.

“It’s gorgeous. I’m glad you haven’t decided to tear it all down,” she breathed in awe. He hummed, “I have thought about it. But I’m legally not allowed to since it’s been deemed a piece of ‘cultural heritage’ by the mayor himself.” She snickered, “So, Miles didn’t want it to be torn down.” “Let’s just say it was a mutual understanding.”

She gave him a look and took a step around the next corner, but then no longer felt the ground beneath her foot. She could start to feel gravity pull her down until a hand wrapped around her arm and pulled her back, causing her ankle to scrape against what she now recognized to be a large crater she was meant to have fallen in. Alex pulled her flush against his chest and she let out a deep breath of relief, her heart a pounding mess against her ribcage. “I understand your curiosity is getting the better of you now that I’m answering most of your questions, but it wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit more careful.” His breath tickled her ear and his husky voice was like a musical echo throughout the room. “Thank you, mister Turner. I think I’ll be alright now.”

He slowly let her arm slide out of his hand. “Were you hurt?” “Just scraped my ankle. I’ll be fine.” He shook his head. “Let’s get it sorted. Can’t have you limping around my hotel. It would ruin my reputation.” “To who? All of the other guests?” “I will push you back into that pit if I have to, writer.”

She was still able to walk well enough, but they decided against taking the stairs this time and took the service elevator instead, which lead them straight to the kitchens. He’d rummaged through a few cupboards before finding the first aid kit. She sat upon the counter and lifted her skirt a tad to inspect the damage.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut it off, miss.” She smacked his arm and he let out a bark of laughter. It was deep and vibrant, and it gave her more joy to hear it for the first time than she’d expected.

Yet, as he cleaned the wound and wrapped her ankle with a soft bandage, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of grief towards the evident wall he hid his emotions behind. It added to the long train of thoughts she was already dealing with right now, and she couldn’t say she was particularly pleased with it.

A silence washed over them as he finished his work and it gave her the opportunity to really look at him. Not just his appearance, but taking in everything he was.

“What will you do if you can’t save this hotel?”

He took long enough to form an answer that she’d almost thought he’d gotten upset with her again. Instead, he replied in a quiet voice that deeply saddened her to the core.

“I really don’t know.”

[thranduilland]

I’ve tripped back into the Barduil fandom, so...

(Whoops, I did a thing.)

Bard isn’t human, least not fully. He’s not fully anything. He’s not mortal either. There had been a time, in his youth, where his parents thought that perhaps he would be mortal in the way that his mother and grandfather weren’t, but he reached his majority and didn’t grow a single day older and they knew.

When his beard had started to grow in, he’d been surprised, had assumed that he wouldn’t grow one, like his grandfather. But he’d been pleased when it had grown, without it he looked too young, too other-worldly and he didn’t want that. Especially not after learning the reason for the Master’s hatred of him. He does wish his mother could have let Grandfather murder the idiot, but alas, that was too much to ask for.

He’s twenty when his father dies, illness had caught him in the winter and he never recovered. He watched his mother wither away in the months that followed and begged her to stay, but he already knew that she would be leaving him. At twenty, he loses his mother and father and begins working as the bargeman for the Woodland Realm.

At twenty-five he meets Florrie; he knows within moments of meeting her that she is like him. Stuck halfway between belonging anywhere and, therefore, belonging nowhere. They spend the majority of their courting days chasing each other through the trees at the edge of the wood at night, giggling like little children and pretending that they are elves of the wood and the moon and the stars. All the while, they know that when morning comes, they’ll be forced to return to their lives among mortal men, where they do not fit in. They know already that they do not fit in under the trees, either, but it’s fun to pretend.

His grandmother dies suddenly when he is thirty-three and he already knows without his grandfather needing to say a word, that he will lose him, too. The morning after his grandfather passes, he clutches Florrie close to him and they promise each other that they will not fade, no matter what happens, because one of them must always be there for the life that grows in Florrie’s womb even then.

His wife dies when he is forty-one, sickness and age could not claim her, but the birthing bed did. She leaves him three beautiful children and he promises that he will raise his children right, that he will love them always and ensure they know their mother and where she came from.

He is fifty when a dragon burns his town to ashes. Fifty when he does what countless others have failed to do. Fifty when he slays a dragon and becomes a king.

He is seventy-five when he has to sit his lover down and point out the fact that they’ve known each other for fifty-five years and he hasn’t aged a day. This is when he realizes that time truly means nothing for his grandfather’s people.

--

Ever since Bard abdicated his throne to Bain, citing old age, and disappeared into the Woodland Realm to be with his lover, he notices the way his lover has changed. Where once his lover made as much time as possible to be with him, now he pulls away, avoids him, and does what he can to be elsewhere, which is made easier by the fact they’re still sneaking about like they did in those early days. For all the affection they used to show in public, their relationship is one that has never been out in the open and now it seems to be slipping away. If Bard didn’t know better, he’d assume he’s made a mistake, that what he thought was love between them was only affection, but knows he isn’t wrong.

He has more patience than most, but even his patience is not infinite.

“Why are you avoiding me?” his voice comes out harsher than he intends, but he cannot ignore this situation any longer. If he had wanted to engage in a charade, he would have stayed in Dale. His lover is silent, looking at him from across the room, his lover’s eyes flickering to the doorway that Bard is now blocking. “Thranduil, answer the question.”

“I’m not avoiding you.” Thranduil finally answers, sighing and crossing the room to pour himself a glass of wine, as ever.

“I haven’t seen you in a week.” Bard points out, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes tracking Thranduil’s every movement.

“I have responsibilities and-“

“Don’t.” Bard says, cutting him off and shaking his head. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll accept whatever you have to say, as long as it’s the truth. You’ve never purposely lied to me before, don’t start now.” Thranduil is silent and still, a goblet of wine clutched tight in his hand as he looks down into the liquid depths. “If you don’t love me anymore, just say it and I will leave, you’ll never have to see me again.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Thranduil says, the words leaving him in a rush.

“What?”

“That you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again.” The elf answers, slowly putting the glass of wine down and looking across to Bard, his eyes shining with tears Bard has never seen him shed. “I thought I knew what I was doing when I let myself love you, Bard. But you’re mortal and I’m not and I can’t-“ Thranduil chokes on his words, swallowing thickly and looking away. Bard stares at him in stunned disbelief, before he let’s out an amused laugh, that he just can’t hold in.

“I’m not mortal, I never have been.” Bard says, watching as Thranduil’s eyes snap back to him.

“What?”

“My mother was half-elven, so was my grandfather.” Bard answers, cocking his head to the side and frowning at his lover. “I thought you would have figured it out by now, love.”

“How?” Thranduil exclaims, even as something like hope lights in his eyes.

“Love. We’ve known each other for fifty-five years! Do I look any older than I did the day we met? When you decided you just had to meet your new bargeman and decide his worth for yourself?” Bard demands, looking intently at Thranduil’s face, watching the confusion and disbelief that forms there.

“It can’t have been that long, surely.” Thranduil denies, but Bard can see him doing the maths in his head.

“Love, it’s been fifty-five years, trust me.” Bard promises, sees the moment Thranduil has counted the years in his head and realized the truth.

“I’m so stupid.” Thranduil whispers, burying his head in his hands and groaning. “I’ve been breaking both our hearts for nothing.”

“Yes.” Bard answers, laughing softly and shaking his head. “Honestly, Thran, I thought you’d figured it out!”

“Who?” Thranduil asks, looking at him suddenly, Bard just frowns and shakes his head in confusion. “Your elven ancestor?”

“Oh. Well that’s kind of hard to say, most of them were half-elves.” Bard explains, then he hums. “I guess Lindis but… look, I’ll just draw the family tree.” He mutters, crossing to the writing desk and sinking down into the chair, pulling blank parchment from the drawer, and starting to write. From a young age, his grandfather had ensured he could recite his family tree without prompting or hesitation.

“You are born of noble blood, Bard. No matter where life takes you, you must never forget the blood that runs through your veins is the blood of kings.”

His grandfather had just laughed and ruffled his hair when Bard had pointed out that Girion had only been Lord of Dale, not a King.

He starts the tree from the bottom, the way he had learned it in the first place. So lost in his writing is he, that he doesn’t notice when Thranduil appears at his shoulder, he doesn’t notice when Thranduil grips the back of the chair to steady himself, and he doesn’t notice the hard look that has formed on Thranduil’s face.

He draws the link between his great, great, great grandfather and great, great, great, great grandfather, marking them as brothers and the family is complete. He carefully puts the quill in its stand and blows across the parchment, drying the ink.

“There we are. The family tree of one King Bard of Dale.” He announces, leaning back and looking up at Thranduil, he frowns when he sees the far away look in Thranduil’s eyes, notes the way his lover’s hands are gripped so tightly to the back of the chair, his skin has gone white. “Love?”

“It always comes back to Doriath.” Thranduil whispers, his voice shaking as tears slip from his eyes.

“Thranduil?” Bard asks, nervously biting his lip. Thranduil gives a quiet little laugh and leans down to pick up the quill, dipping it in the ink pot and beginning to amend the family tree.

Bard watches in surprise at the names Thranduil adds, they’re not new on the family tree, they’re just alternate names. Names that Bard knows, names that everyone knows, if they know anything of Doriath, as Bard’s grandfather and great-uncle taught him.

“That’s not possible.” Bard whispers, but he remembers his grandfather’s words, remembers the argument his grandfather and his great-uncle had when they all learned he wasn’t mortal.

“He will not be recognized! They will not accept him!” Uncle Elurin grumbles, glaring at Bard from across the room, Bard doesn’t know what he’s done to upset his great-uncle, who has always enjoyed telling him stories and teaching him of his grandfather’s culture. “He is too different.”

“He is the heir.” Grandfather answers, his voice brooking no argument. “If the day comes that he must step into his own, he will claim his birth right and they will accept him. They have no right to do otherwise!” his grandfather snaps, then the brother’s devolve into a heated argument at a volume so quiet not even Bard can hear what they are saying. So, instead of trying to hear more, he turns away and gets ready to start his shift.

He’d assumed they were arguing over Dale, though why they thought he’d want to claim a ruin had been beyond him at the time. Now, he understands and he doesn’t want to.

When he looks up at his lover, he finds Thranduil watching his face intently, searching for something, his lover doesn’t speak, just keeps looking at him. Bard sighs and looks away.

“My grandfather always told me I was born of kings, that I was born to be a king.” He admits, rubbing his eyes, feeling suddenly like crying. “I always just assumed they were talking about Dale. He was talking about Doriath.”

“No.” Thranduil answers, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. “No, he wasn’t, Bard. Elu Thingol wasn’t just the King of Doriath. He was considered to be the King of All Sindar.”

“Fuck, no.” Bard exclaims, shaking his head. “No, no, nope, no. Dale is… was more than enough for me!” there’s a moment, of silence before Bard remembers what his great-uncle had said and he laughs, the sound quickly turning to sobs. “Fuck, that’s what Uncle Elurin was talking about.” He says, through hitched breaths.

“Bard.” He looks to Thranduil, even though his chest aches and he can’t seem to bring enough air into his lungs. “Bard, listen to me. There is no need for you to do anything, now or in the future regarding this. Alright?” Thranduil says, his voice pitched low and so soothing it seems to reach right into Bard’s mind and quiet all his fears. “No one is going to expect anything from you unless you want to give it, I promise. If the day comes, where we need another High King, there are others who it could be.”

“I know.” Bard says, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he gets control of himself. “Like… like Elrond… and my cousins.” He whispers, rubbing the tears from his eyes.

“Cousins?” Thranduil asks, looking back at the family tree. Bard sniffs and reaches for the quill, to add them in. Three cousins that he has never met but has heard stories of from his uncle.

“Oh. Hmm, that’s quite interesting.” Thranduil mutters, reading the names with a little laugh. “I wonder if they know.”

“I don’t … I don’t think so.” Bard answers, resting the quill back in its stand.

“You ready for another surprise?” Thranduil asks, an amused glint in his eyes, Bard breathes deeply and scowls at him.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. But it’s a good surprise, I think.” Thranduil answers, leaning over to pick up the quill, but he hesitates before putting quill to parchment. “This… changes nothing between us. I love you.”

“I still love you, too.” Bard replies, brow furrowing as he watches as Thranduil starts writing.

His breath catches in his throat and slowly he lifts his eyes from the parchment to stare at his lover, who also, apparently, is a cousin. “Did you elves ever figure out that inbreeding is really bad?”

“Don’t judge us! The First and Second ages were wild times. There was a lot happening.” Thranduil argues, though there is laughter in his voice. “But if you must know, yes, we did figure that out, thank you.”

“Clearly not, if we’re an indication.” Bard replies, looking down at the family tree once more. “Do you want another surprise?” Bard asks, smirking at Thranduil who groans.

“What now? Isn’t this enough of a revelation for a single evening? For both of us?”

“Hmm.” Is Bard’s only reply as he reaches for the quill, a laugh bubbling in his throat.

“It’s always bloody Doriath!” Thranduil grumbles, Bard just laughs and then sighs.

“So, Daeron is from Doriath, too?”

“Yes! He was Thingol’s bloody scribe! We thought him long dead! But we thought the same of Elured and Elurin as well.” Thranduil rubs at his eyes and groans. “You don’t have to claim anything, there’s nothing really to claim at this point, but… we should tell people. I’m sure Celeborn would be happy to learn he has more relatives still living, and Elrond, at least, would probably like to know that he has cousins. Valar, he probably would like to know that he has a living uncle.”

“I don’t know if he is still living.” Bard points out, frowning at the tree. “I haven’t seen him since my grandfather passed, long before Smaug came.”

“Well, either way, I think this is something that should be shared, Bard. Finally learning what happened to Elurin and Elured is… incredible.” Here Thranduil pauses and looks at Bard who stares back and simply raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been wanting to ask since I found you after the Battle of Five Armies, but you were mortal and I...” Thranduil pauses, shaking his head as he breathes in deep and lets it out slowly. “Will you marry me?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re already married in the elvish custom, but… if it’ll make you stop hiding me in the shadows, yes, I’ll marry you.” Bard agrees, sees the smile that lights up Thranduil’s face, only to dim a few moments later, Bard frowns.

“I didn’t… I never meant for you to feel like something I was hiding or that I was ashamed of, I just… I didn’t think I’d be able to keep you so, I wanted everything that we had to be just… ours and no one else’s.” Thranduil admits, sighing. “I was foolish.”

“It’s alright. We both… we made assumptions and those assumptions were wrong. We’ll do better in future.”

“Yes, we will.” Thranduil agrees, gently pulling Bard up from the chair. “Let’s go to bed, tomorrow we can scandalize my kingdom with the news of our affair.”

“Technically, we’re already married.”

“Yes, but also technically, we are each still married to our wives, so we’re having an affair...” Thranduil points out, Bard laughs, a full belly laugh, leaning into Thranduil for support, unable to stop laughing as he lets Thranduil all but drag him to bed.

--

Bard is seventy-five when he learns he is the heir of Elu Thingol.

It changes nothing, but it also changes everything, as is the way of such secrets when they come to light.

He was always the heir of Elu Thingol, even if he never knew it.

He was always the heir of Girion, even if he never wanted it.

He was born of kings and a King he became, just as his Grandfather foretold.

[feathersandphantoms]

I started writing this before I’d seen that people were tagging Walter x Lance as Walance, but didn’t want to change my idea so I just went with it anyway. Also, I didn’t mean for this to be over 1.8k, woops. So most of it is under the cut.

Operation: Launch the Ship

Walter’s stomach grumbles hungrily as he approaches the break room. He’s thankful it is already noon, because he is super hungry after working all morning on his latest project. He’s about to walk into the break room, when he hears his name spoken from inside. It catches his attention and he stops walking, standing just outside the open doorway. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but no one should be foolish enough to gossip in a shared office space if their conversation was not meant to be overheard. So, he listens in.

He can barely hear Eyes and Ears arguing over the whir of the microwave.

“It should be Walster! It makes more sense because Lance usually goes by Sterling.” Ears argues.

“But you can’t just combine first and last names! That’s like against the rules!” Eyes says defiantly.

“There are no rules!”

“Well, there should be! Then you’d see, it should be Wance. It concisely combines their two first names. It’s perfect.”

“That’s terrible! It sounds like a child talking. I say it should be Walster.”

“Come on, you know Wance is a better ship name. You’re just too stubborn to admit it!”

Walter cringes. Neither Walster or Wance are ideal. And, he realizes with a sigh, if they’re talking ship names for him and Lance, they’ve probably been gossiping about their relationship, too.

Walter and Lance have been dating for three months. While they haven’t kept it a secret, they have tried to keep their personal lives as separate from their work at the agency as possible. They’re professionals and don’t want their relationship to interfere with the important work they’ve been doing in their newly founded branch of the agency.

Walter waits for a break in Eyes and Ears’ conversation before wandering into the break room nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just overheard their heated discussion. He grabs his lunch bag from the fridge and decides it’d be better to eat at his desk, where he can wallow about the lamentable options available for his ship names in private.

After Walter rushes through his lunch, he tries to focus on his work to take his mind off the office gossip. He is currently developing a Version 2.0 of his multi-pen. His first multi-pen tool has been a hit with field agents, as it is so easy to hide the gadget in plain sight. The new model will come with advanced safety features and four new functions. It’s nearly finished, with just a few more adjustments needed to the Bubble Blaster setting before he sends it to the prototype lab for testing.

But even his excitement over the improved multi-pen isn’t enough of a distraction from the terrible ship names that Ears and Eyes had debated. By the end of the day, he feels a heavy grey cloud of disappointment hanging over him that even a dose of Kitty Glitter can’t cut through. Hoping that a low key night in with Lance will improve his mood, he rushes to pack his pens and notebooks into his bag before heading home.

Coming home does not improve his mood. He still is in a strop about the ship names as he empties the dishwasher and prepares dinner. He’s unusually quiet as they eat.

“Is everything alright, Walt?” Lance

“Yeah. Just some stuff at work bothering me.” Walter brushes off his concern. It’s just a silly nickname, why does he even care? Lance probably wouldn’t care.

“Alright. But, you know, I’m here if you want to talk. Or if you need me to blow someone up.” Walter flinches and Lance quickly tacks on, “With non-violent glitter bombs, of course.”

Luckily, Lance seems to drop the subject, turning the conversation to the flight training he did with Lovey and Marcy. Lance describes how Marcy ended up in the trash can while practicing a loop-di-loop maneuver and it has Walter in stitches, bad mood nearly forgotten.

After dinner, they settle in, such a quiet night together watching tv and talking about their days. He curls into Lance’s side, resting his head on Lance’s broad shoulder and is ready to forget about all the stresses from his workday. Until Lance finds a rerun of a Star Trek episode, which brings back all the same worries about the state of their ship name. As the episode plays on, his disdain for the proposed ship names his coworkers had created returns. He sighs deeply as Kirk and Spock interact. Spirk is a great ship name, short and catchy and not infantile. Not like Wance or Walster.

“Okay, what’s up.” Lance turns, jostling Walter from his position, forcing Walter to sit up and look at him.

“Nothing.” He deflects.

“Don’t “nothing” me. You’ve been weird since I got home. Did I do something?”

“No, of course not. You didn’t do anything. I just overheard something at the office. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if it upsets you. Who do I need to fight?” He puffs his chest up protectively.

“No one, calm down.” Walter pats his chest, then smooths a crease in his shirt down as he adds, “It’s not even a big deal.”

“If it’s not a big deal, then you can tell me.” Lance pesters.

“It’s just that I overheard Eyes and Ears talking about our ship name. I don’t know why I’m upset. It’s so embarrassing.” Walter covers his face with his hands.

“Ship name? Are you building a ship in the lab?” Lance gets overly excited.

“No not a ship- ship. Like a relationship.”

Lance looks so confused, like he’d never heard that term before. “Oh, you’ve never heard of shipping!” Walter laughs at the realization. His boyfriend’s ineptitude for understanding pop culture is enough humor to raise his spirits a bit. Of all the things his smart, strong spy boyfriend can do, from catching the bad guy to turning into a literal bird, he’s still completely clueless when it comes to pop culture.

“Why are you laughing?” Lance pouts. He never likes to be the butt of jokes that he doesn’t understand.

Walter just laughs harder. It reminds him of the night he had to explain to Lance how memes worked. But eventually, he catches his breath and explains, “Shipping is when someone thinks two or more people should be in a relationship.”

Lance’s brows furrow. “We /are/ in a relationship.”

“Let me finish. A ship name is usually a combination of the people’s names, like a shorthand way to reference them. Like Star Trek,” Walter points at the television. “Lots of people think Spock and Kirk are in a relationship, so they call them Spirk.”

“Spirk,” Lance repeats skeptically.

“Yeah. So, like, I overheard Eyes and Ears arguing about it today and I realized that we don’t have a good ship name.”

Lance has a blank look on his face, like something isn’t quite making sense. Walter knew he wouldn’t understand why it upset Walter. “Never mind. I told you it was silly.”

“No, no. It’s not silly if it’s important to you. I’m just trying to figure it out. So, it’s like a code name?”

“Kinda?”

“Well, what’d they come up with? It can’t be that bad.”

“Walster and Wance.”

Lance grimaces. “Oh, those are bad.”

“Yep.”

“Why don’t you just make up one that you like?” Lance asks.

“I can’t just make up our own ship name!” Walter throws up his hands in frustration. “There’s like rules against that! It’s a name bestowed upon the couple.”

“Oh.” Lance falls silent. The characters on the tv screen fill the silence between them. Walter doesn’t know what’s happening on screen and doesn’t even attempt to focus on the episode, mind still stuck on his own personal travesty. If only he could hint at it, or get someone else to use a better ship name.

That’s it! Walter sits upright, eyes widening as the perfect solution comes to mind. “We could do it!”

“Do what?” Lance asks.

“Create our own ship name.”

“But you just said you couldn’t.”

“But, what if they didn’t know we’d picked our own? We are spies, we should be able to infiltrate the gossip network at the office and implant a better ship name without anyone finding out.”

Lance is still skeptical, his eyebrows raising as he tries to catch up to Walter’s thoughts.

“Come on, it’s a win-win. We can pick a name we like, and no one will know it was you that did it.”

“Do you even have a name picked out?”

“Well, I was thinking Beckling. You know, like Beckett and Sterling. It’s short and catchy. And cute!”

Lance rolls his eyes subtly. He can’t say that he loves that choice, but he is endeared by his boyfriend’s enthusiasm. And though he may not understand ships, he can tell this nickname means something to Walter. After weighing a few pros and cons, he comes to a decision.

“I guess.” Lance reluctantly acquiesces.

“Alright!” Walter pumps his fist in the air excitedly. “Operation: Launch the Ship is on! But, we’ll have to work fast before one of those awful names sticks.”

Walter quickly withdraws a notebook and an ink multi-pen from his work bag, eager to plan a fun mini-mission with Lance. It’ll be sorta like when they first met, just the two of them working together. “Let’s begin!” He clicks on the purple ink button with gusto!

The purple button, however, does not activate his favorite purple ballpoint. Instead it launches a stream of bubbles from the tip of the multi-pen. Walter watches in horror as the activated Bubble Blaster quickly fills the living room with a sea of foam. He must have accidentally brought home the unfinished multi-pen 2.0 instead of his favorite multi-pen. Unfortunately, as he was still tinkering with the design, there was no way to shut off the Bubble Blaster until the multi-pen ran out of ammo.

Finally, the multi-pen finally fizzles out and the last sudsy drops spill out of the end. Walter’s cheeks flame red, embarrassed to have accidentally brought another of his unfinished inventions into Lance’s house. It’d been two weeks since the last incident, and Walter had promised to be more careful. He is afraid of how Lance will react to this latest mishap.

“Walter… are the bubbles part of the operation?” Lance asks, tone unreadable.

“No…” Walter turns back to Lance, hoping that he isn’t too angry. Instead of anger, he is surprised to find the most adoring look on Lance’s face. “But they could be, if I can fix the multi-pen 2.0 in time.”

“I hope so. I think the bubbles could come in handy.” Lance says. Then he leans in and wipes a bit of foam from Walter’s cheek with his thumb.

There’s never a dull moment with Beckling. And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Six (Zuko x Reader)

Part Five

Word Count: 2,100

Author’s Note: Wow it’s been a clusterfuck this week. I’ve been exhausted and unable to concentrate for the past few days, and then today when I tried to release this chapter for patrons it turned out that all of Cloudflare was down, so something like 12 million sites worldwide were just completely unreachable. I plan to force myself into going to bed early tonight so I can actually get myself back on track and be productive over the weekend (I have two requests I want to publish so they don’t get pushed back into all my ideas for next month, and I also want to look into other ad providers outside of Adsense so I can start saving up money for my eventual move out of the country). I promise that next week will be less of a bummer chapter. Here’s hoping sometime we’ll actually catch a fookin break, m8. 

~ Muerta

You stand in the portrait hall, awaiting its newest addition with Rina; she grips your arm, clapping giddily as the towering scroll unfurls to reveal the painted image of you and Zuko beside one another. 

In it, you're seated to his left side, mirroring the generations of other wedding portraits that line the massive hall; what's different is not only the color and style of your robes, but the fact that Zuko’s hand rests on your shoulder, yours clasped firmly within it. When he did so, the royal historian who was present instructed that the Firelord and lady were never depicted touching one another - you'd placed your hand over his in a unified stance of defiance. You'd also been asked to remove your betrothal necklace for the portrait, and had told the historian in a few choice words exactly why it would be staying on; you still feel the rush in your veins of hearing Zuko mumble “that's my girl” under his breath.

“Oh, it's gorgeous!” Rina exclaims, bouncing excitedly on her toes. “The Firelord looks so handsome in a Water Tribe silhouette; I'm so glad you did this!”

You laugh, hugging her by the arm that's hooked with your own and unable to deny the fact that the Southern style tunic you had the seamstress make for him does provide a nice view of his body, highlighting more of his broad shoulders and sturdy midriff than the billow of traditional Fire Nation robes. It also pairs well with his chest plate, making him look every part the skilled warrior he is instead of some aristocratic monarch ruling only by privilege. Beside him, his fingers locked between yours, your gaze steely and knowing behind layers of ink, you look like a weapon instead of just a wife; you start to think there might be much more reason Hakoda arranged your alliance with Zuko than just forming a concrete tie between your nations. 

“My lady,” one of the palace messengers addresses you, bowing respectfully as he approaches. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Advisors Sung and Qiang request an audience with you in their offices.” 

You and Rina look between each other, Rina’s eyebrows raised in confusion. 

“Just me?” you ask. “Should I also send for the Firelord?” 

“No, your majesty,” the messenger says. “The councilmen asked that only you be sent for.” 

You nod, bowing to the messenger in thanks before taking Rina’s arm once more, walking in pace with her to the administrative wing of the palace. 

“They’re sure to send me out of the room,” Rina tells you, speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “I’m unsure about Advisor Sung, but Qiang has never trusted servants with any kind of information; he used to work information security under Firelord Ozai until he defected after Prince Zuko’s banishment.” 

“If he won’t allow you in the room, you’ll wait at the door,” you state. “Whether he likes it or not, I still have more power than he does.” 

When you arrive at the international affairs office, Qiang and Sung are seated around a small table, primed in wait for you. You make a point of not bowing in return when they do so upon your announcement, instead choosing to simply nod in greeting. Sung smiles at you in his polite, pleasant way as you sit, while Qiang eyes you with a cold, almost uncertain stare. 

“My lady,” Sung welcomes you, “I apologize for bringing you here on such short notice, but there are urgent matters that must be discussed. As you know, Advisor Qiang has taken the liberty of guiding me as I adjust to my new position as the head of international affairs, and we’ve been mulling over the matter of your wedding portrait for the past few days.” 

“More specifically,” Qiang interjects, “we’ve been discussing the stunt you pulled in deciding your wardrobe. Many people across the Fire Nation are not pleased to see their Firelord in Water Tribe garments.” 

“It was simply a tunic,” you calmly defend yourself. “The only other change was to the color. Has anyone taken issue with the fact that I wore a Water Tribe dress under a Fire Nation robe?” 

You glance between the two men, expecting the question to be entirely rhetorical - you know the answer already, but as you guessed, they’re either too cowardly or too correct to say it aloud. 

“We understand your intentions,” Sung replies after a beat, “but we’re uncertain the execution of your ideas is as tactful as it should be; I know I needn’t remind you that we’re still living in very unstable times as of the end of the war.” 

“I understand your concern, but I don’t think the nature of our mixed heritage is the most pressing issue at hand,” you say. “The world experienced a century of cruelty under Fire Nation imperialism - it’s important that we reform our militant image in every way we can. Dressing me like a traditional Firelady when I very clearly am not one would have upset far more people than just our citizens.”

“The Fire Nation is still very powerful,” Advisor Qiang argues, “even with the abolition of many of the Earth Kingdom colonies. Upsetting our people could have consequences that reach beyond the mainland’s borders.” 

His words are spat at you almost like a threat. You tilt your chin a little higher, meeting his gaze without faltering. 

“What do you suggest, then?” you ask. 

“We want to keep watch on you,” Qiang tells you. “Our aids will accompany you as you gain more freedom from the Firelord and guide you to ensure that your actions reflect the image the nation wants to see from their leader.” 

“This sounds like something Advisor Yong should oversee,” you evenly contest. “I'm certain my husband would like to have his say, as well.” 

“We simply wanted to present the idea to you,” Advisor Sung cuts in. “We thought it might give you more peace of mind to have someone beside you; teach you how to properly present yourself to the people of the Fire Nation.” 

“You can send your aids to keep tabs on me,” you reply, “but I am still your superior. Firelord Zuko has been more than an adequate mentor. I don't need another one.” 

“Do you suggest we have you answer to the Firelord on our behalf, then?” Advisor Qiang asks, sounding skeptical. 

“I'm stating that I don't answer to anyone,” you respond. “Zuko is my equal. You're the one born and raised in the Fire Nation - you should understand that better than anyone.” 

Qiang fixes you with the chilled, empty glare you noticed your first day in the council’s meeting chambers. You keep your own expression blank, refusing to avert your eyes from their lock on his. 

“My lady,” Advisor Sung addresses you, “I promise you, we mean no offense. We truly have your best intentions at heart; we understand that the culture of the Fire Nation is very different from that of the Southern Water Tribe, and only want to keep you safe in the wake of Advisor Fen’s passing. We believe taking extra care in how you interact with our people is the only way to move forward.” 

“Alright,” you say, standing abruptly. “I'd like some hands-on training, then. I need fabric to build my wardrobe with, and want to explore my new home. Gather your aids - I’m taking them to the market.” 

To say that people are shocked to see the Firelady out amongst common folk is an understatement. 

You travel in a rather large group, flanked not only by Rina, Iroh, and Toph, but three of Qiang and Sung’s aids and a small army of royal guards. People flee when you approach, some of them going as far as to fall to their knees before you, bowing out of fear; each time, you offer your hand and help them back to their feet, explaining that you're only out to do some shopping. Once more onlookers notice your kind, gentle handling of those who cross your path, panic turns to interest, many people staring at you as you pass or calling out to you, saying hello; a little girl manages to get past the guards, scurrying out of her father’s flower shop and through their legs, stopping in front of you with an adorably clumsy bow to present you with a dandelion she picked from between the cracks in the cobblestone street. 

“Why, thank you!” you exclaim, daintily taking the flower from her chubby little hand and bowing in return. “It's very beautiful, just like you.”

You twist the dandelion into your hair before walking the girl back to her father, who apologizes and thanks you profusely; you assure him it's no trouble. 

“How very touching,” Iroh says to you once you continue on your way. “I wonder what the aids will tell their superiors.” 

You huff, smirking at him out of the corner of your eye. 

“Probably that I don't inspire enough fear,” you mock. “I thought the dictatorship ended when my dear father-in-law was thrown in prison.” 

“The memories of his reign are still very fresh,” Iroh explains. “A brute hand is all much of the Fire Nation knows in a leader; it is hard to bring change.” 

“I still don't like our little entourage,” Toph remarks, loud enough that the men trailing you can certainly hear. “Aang never travels with guards, and he's got a way bigger target on his head than you do.” 

“Yeah, but he can also bend everything,” you remind her. “I've never even held a spear.” 

“I'm blind and I still kick hella ass,” Toph replies. “You don't have an excuse.”

You roll your eyes, grinning as you shove her sideways so she stumbles; she laughs, coming back at you with a hard punch to the boob and blowing a raspberry into your face. You can't help but cackle, taking her into a headlock and scruffing up her hair. 

“My lady,” one of the aids pipes up, her nose wrinkled in disdain, “this isn't proper etiquette for a Fire Nation queen.” 

“Oh, spirits forbid anybody be human,” Toph groans. “The war is over and this is a leisure trip. People have to get used to the Firelady acting like a person instead of a government puppet.” 

Rina takes hold of your arm, leaning in close to your ear. 

“I like her,” she whispers. “Can we ask her to stay?” 

You laugh, shaking your head.

“I wish,” you mumble back, “but Toph sort of just does what she wants.” 

You choose a small, cozy-looking shop to buy fabrics from, everyone in the group (save for the aids and guards, who have no choice but to wait outside) making easy, pleasant conversation with the owners; they're a relatively young couple from Omashu, who came to the Fire Nation after the war to trade fabrics that weren't widely available in either country, wanting to bring more options to each place. Their shop is filled with soft cottons and delicately embroidered patterns, many laced with shimmering metals and gems only found in the Earth Kingdom; you purchase a few yards of almost everything, leaving them a contact to the palace so that they can come and discuss expanding their trade routes. Everyone is pleased except for the aids, who look on with disapproving glares.  

When you return to the palace, you find not only Zuko awaiting you, but Qiang and Sung as well; you hardly acknowledge the two councilmen, instead going straight to Zuko’s side. 

“Rina sent me a message about your meeting this morning,” he murmurs. “I told Advisor Yong, too. They should have come to both of us.” 

You nod, taking him by the arm and leading him away from the larger group, out into an open corridor surrounding a courtyard that sits off the entrance hall of the palace’s administrative wing. 

“There has to be something we can do, right?” you wonder. “We’re above them. We have the final say in everything.” 

Zuko sighs, taking your hands within his and holding you close to him, chests pressed together. 

“We’re supposed to,” he says. “But my grandfather taught my father and sister how to manipulate their way into power. Lots of other government officials learned it, too, and it hasn’t completely gone away.” 

Advisor Qiang passes through on the other side of the courtyard, eyeing you with his signature frigid gaze as Advisor Sung and the aids trail behind him. You look away from him, focusing only on Zuko. 

“We have to keep the people on our side,” you murmur. “The government may be able to manipulate itself into submission, but they're no match for everyone else. The world beat them once - we can beat them again.” 

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[kittinoir]

Echoes of You Ch. 9

Read on Ao3

“I’m going to design something based on Ladybug’s new suit.”

Marinette grinned, glancing over at Alya as they swayed with the metro as it took a graceful turn beneath the banks of the Seine. They were headed for Trocadero Gardens to work on Mme. Bustier’s latest fashion assignment: formal wear inspired by the heroes of Paris. Alya had suggested the Gardens, and though it was Marinette’s secret place for inspiration, she found she wanted to share the space. She’d missed her best friend. 

“Long black gloves?” Marinette suggested with a knowing look. “Ombre skirt?”

Alya shook her head but stifled a giggle. “It’s like you read my mind, girl. Kinda obvious I guess, but…”

“I think it’s sweet!” Marinette said. “You’ve been a staunch supporter of Ladybug since the first day. You’ve been running the Ladyblog for a year and a half. A Ladybug gown only makes sense.”

“What about you?” Alya asked, tugging on her bag strap. “A stunning gown inspired by Rena Rouge? Or maybe Ryoku? You always love a challenge.”

Marinette shrugged. “I was actually thinking something inspired by Chat Noir.”

“Seriously?” Alya said, eyes wide behind her glasses. “You think he’s the lamest thing since, like, creation.”

“I do not!” Marinette said. “I think he’s…well, I think he’s really cool. And funny. And sweet. And the way he fights is just…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Alya held up her hand in front of Marinette’s face. “Since when do you have a crush on Chat Noir? What happened to Adrien?”

“A crush?” Marinette repeated. “I do not have a crush on Chat Noir!” But she felt a familiar blush creeping across her cheeks as her heart kicked into double-time. 

“Uh-huh.” Alya raised a single brow, eyeing the red stain. “I can see that.”

“Seriously!” Marinette said, but Alya just winked and went back to scrolling through her blog for inspiration.

She did not have a crush on that…that tom cat. There was no way. Her heart was dedicated to Adrien, one hundred thousand per cent. He was the first thing she thought of when she woke up and the last thing she thought of before going to sleep. She still swooned every time he smiled.

So what was up with her heart doing the tippy-tappy thing over Chat Noir!? She could tell Alya whatever she wanted to; Marinette knew what it meant. She didn’t not have a crush on Chat Noir.

Marinette stifled a sigh as they arrived at Trocadero and she followed Alya off the train. Maybe designing a gown inspired by Chat Noir would be a mistake. Maybe she should focus on one of the other heroes intstead. Rena Rouge did have a beautiful colour palette.

“Let me know if you have any, uhm, questions,” Alya said as they walked to the gardens. “About…well, you know.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The Miraculous.”

A crease appeared between Marinette’s brows. “…Questions?”

“Yeah,” Alya said with a nod. “I know you had that whole…thing a few weeks ago.”

“Thing?” Now she was really confused. “What thing?”

It was Alya’s turn to frown. “The thing. The thing where you forgot all about the super heroes? Hawkmoth? The Miraculous? You called me totally freaking out.”

Marinette tried to comb through the last few weeks in her memory, but nothing jumped out at her as out of the ordinary or suspicious. She’d missed one or two akuma attacks, but she’d seen them later on the news or on Alya’s blog. She used to get a thousand notifications on her phone whenever one happened, but she’d disabled them; they were way more annoying than they were helpful. She didn’t even remember downloading half the apps.

Finally Marinette shrugged. “Must have just been stress,” she said as the picked a spot to start working. “You know how I get sometimes.”

“Not really,” Alya said slowly. “Not like this.”

“Oh.” Marinette bit her lip, but she was still coming up empty. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“Worried me?” Alya squinted at her friend as they sank onto a bench near some rose bushes. “How many heroes are there?”

Marinette frowned. “Trick question, Alya. Obviously Ladybug and Chat Noir are the main duo, but there a team of six other heroes that help them out from time to time.”

“Trick question you answered wrong,” Alya said triumphantly. “There are seven others.”

Marinette made a face. “I wasn’t really counting Chloe, but sure, I guess, technically seven.”

Alya seemed surprised but let it go. “Ok, who are they fighting?”

“Hawkmoth,” Marinette answered immediately, “But he sometimes has help from Mayura. Ooh, she has a great costume. Do you think Mme. Bustier would let me do a design based on her instead of one of the heroes?”

Alya rolled her eyes. “Never mind,” she said, flipping open her notebook. “It was clearly fever-induced hysteria.”

“Sorry,” Marinette said. She nudged her friend with her shoulder. “Seriously though, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Alya gave Marinette a half-hearted smile. “You just scared me, girl. I’m glad you’re…well, feeling better, I guess.”

“Right as rain,” Marinette promised. Alya just shook her head, either in fake exasperation or real exasperation, Marinette wasn’t totally sure which, then dove into her sketch. 

Marinette opened her own sketch book, flipping past old designs of derby hats and reception dresses until she came to a blank page. She pulled a pencil out, but she hesitated before putting lead to paper. She had to decide before she started. She only hesitated for a moment more before committing to the design that had been flickering around her mind since the homework had been assigned. Besides, if she didn’t like it, she could always change it later.

She began with the bodice, sketching out the silhouette of a cheongsam. Marinette had discovered some time ago that she enjoyed infusing her designs with aspects of her culture from her mothers’ side.

She followed the simple and elegant lines down to the floor in a fit and flare skirt, forsaking the yards of fabric and billowing skirts she normally favoured. While his suit had more embellishments than Ladybug’s, they were few, far between, and utilitarian. Well, she thought, smiling to herself as she added a bell to the collar, almost. 

Marinette scrawled notes in to the side of the design indicating colour and texture, then tilted her head as she considered what she had. She liked the silhouette, but many cheongsams had some floral design embroidered across the fabric. There was also the matter of the belt. She added a modest slit to the skirt on the left that came up to the knees while she thought on it.

Before she reached a decision, alarmed shouts erupted around them. Marinette twisted, her sketchbook falling to the paving stones, as she searched for the source. Sure enough, Alya’s phone erupted with at least six notifications, alerting them to an akuma attack in the area.

“Score!” Alya cheered, shoving her book back in her bag. “Talk about inspiration!”

“I don’t think it’s normal to be that happy about someone else’s misfortune,” Marinette chided, but Alya had already set her phone to record.

“Are you coming with me this time, girl?” Alya asked, but as she spoke the paving stones beneath them began to rumble.

“I don’t think I’ll have to,” Marinette said, her voice vibrating with the impact. “I think whatever it is is coming to us!”

Sure enough, something exploded from the ground mere feet away from them, showering stone and dirt in a 5 metre radius, a black rose clutched in its hand. Marinette and Alya ducked, wincing as small pebbles pelted them. Alya shrieked as a larger stone ricocheted off her phone with a loud crack and the screen went black.

“My phone!” Alya smacked the side of the device, trying to get it to light up again while Marinette watched in horror as the monster turned towards the noise. “My phone!”

“Alya!” Marinette leapt at her friend, tackling her out of the way as the monster crashed towards them. It missed them by a wide margin, and a second later, Marinette could see why: its eyes were clouded over. Either this thing was blind, or could see very little.

“Time to go,” Marinette said. She grabbed Alya by the wrist and tugged her after her as she sprinted back towards the train station.

“But Marinette, my blog - ”

“These things are dangerous, Alya!” Marinette snapped as her friend tugged her to a stop. “Why don’t you get that!”

“Dangerous?!” Alya sniped back. “Ladybug’s miracle cure always fixes everything !”

Marinette wanted to rip her hair out. “But what if it doesn’t? What if she loses? She’s just a girl, Alya, and Hawkmoth is getting closer and closer to cornering her! Do you even realize how much pressure you put on her by putting yourself in danger like this?”

For once Alya seemed to be at a loss for words. “I.. I just…”

Marinette knew. She wanted to be a reporter. She admired Ladybug so much. She loved superheroes. She wanted to be a part of the team. She wanted to help do what was right.

“Come on,” Marinette said, “Let’s head for the roof of the Musée de la Marine. It’ll be safer and you can probably still see what’s going on.”

Alya said nothing, but let Marinette pull her along again. They hadn’t gotten very far, however, when the monster exploded from the ground again, closer this time.

“I WANT THE MIRACULOUS,” it shrieked. It writhed , and before they could react, it pounced on Alya, burrowing back into the ground with her trapped between its hideous arms.

“Alya!” Marinette clawed at the ground where they’d disappeared, but the dirt sifted through her fingers, empty. She whipped around as the monster burst from the ground again, thirty metres away. Alya was no where in sight.

“Give her back,” Marinette shrieked. She seized a large rock by her foot and flung it with all her strength. A small part of her was surprised when the rock actually nailed the thing in the forehead, but it was swept away in the flood of her rage. She grabbed another rock, and another, pelting the monster’s wide body as it searched wildly for her. It dove suddenly, and Marinette flung herself to the side, scraping her arms and cheeks on the rough stones as the akuma resurfaced where she’d been crouched.

“Lucky Charm!”

Marinette threw her arms over her head protectively as the battle cry rang throughout the gardens. She could see the shadow of the monster arcing towards her, and then she was flying, the Trocadero Gardens far below.

“Nice aim,” a voice said in her ear. “I think the akuma’s still shaking.”

Marinette looked up into the face of Chat Noir, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck as she put the pieces together.

“It took Alya,” she blurted, and she was embarrassed to discover she was tearing up. “It took her, please, you have to - ”

“We’ll get her back, Marinette,” Chat Noir promised as they landed somewhere new in the gardens. He gave her a crooked smile. “I swear on one of my nine lives.”

“It’s holding a rose,” Marinette rambled as he set her legs back under her. “I think that’s where the akuma’s hiding. It’s in its right fist.”

Chat Noir’s grin actually faltered. “What - How do you know that?”

“The rose was black.” Marinette turned back towards the monster, as though she could see it from where she was. She couldn’t, but faint dirt clouds marked where it was hiding. “There aren’t any black roses grown here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the monster  is actually a gardener here.”

Chat Noir nodded, squeezing her shoulder. “Thank you, Marinette. We’ll get your friend back.”

He extended his baton and used it to vault back towards the action. Marinette crouched by a near by bush, making sure to note whether or not the ground was shaking, but it seemed Ladybug and Chat Noir were keeping the villain well occupied. Minutes later a red cloud burst from where the fight had taken place. She could hear the cheers of people nearby. 

Marinette began to straighten but froze as a small cloud of ladybugs sought her out and swirled around her face and arms. It was only then she truly noticed the scrapes, but as she watched, they faded. Seconds later they disappeared altogether. Still, the ladybugs danced over her skin, tickling, caressing, comforting, almost as though greeting an old friend, but slowly their light began to fade. They only lasted moments more, and then they, too, vanished with a small, red sparkle.

[twatd]

Getting TWATD at the Wake, ii: The Eulogies

Every month, two writers returned to this blog. They did an essay each. For five years. And now it’s all over.

The Wicked + The Divine #45 came out a month ago, and we’re still at the metaphorical wake. In this part, we pick out two characters we haven’t written much about, consider the paths their lives ended up taking, and write their obituaries. It could get emotional.

Spoilers for... well, for the entirety of WicDiv, I guess, below the cut.

Tim: Endings are bittersweet things at the best of times, and for a series as preoccupied with death and heartbreak as The Wicked + The Divine, we were never going to reach a conclusion without shedding a few tears. Still, there are many ways in which #45 is a happy ending for several of the characters – and that’s truer for Aruna, the god formerly known as Tara, than possibly anyone else.

Looking across the span of the series as a whole, she is a character who has suffered abuse, indignity and manipulation. But here at the end, Aruna is free from many of the troubles that plagued her life both before and during her time as a god. I don’t know if the Aruna we see in 2055 is living her best life, but it seems infinitely better than we could have expected after #13, the issue which gave us a painful glimpse into a character who had remained a mystery up to that point.

Pre-Godhood, Aruna had been made to feel uncomfortable in her own body by sexism and misogyny. That feeling was amplified by her divine transformation and the increased celebrity that came with it, culminating in her begging Ananke for the mercy of death. But Ananke’s manipulation accidentally set up Aruna to transcend the cruelties inflicted upon her. As a miraculously preserved head, she was free from the burden of her body, and free to reinvent herself.

With the help of Jon, Aruna she was able to reject a new form when she wasn’t ready for one – and, once she was, to create one that existed beyond the constraints of traditional biology. Her story touches on themes of transhumanism, not an area that WicDiv has traditionally dabbled in, but one that has some interesting connections with the themes of people seeking immortality. As you might expect given the ideas of gender and bodily autonomy at play, it’s also easy to read through a queer lens.

I’m glad that, while it’s clear Jon and Aruna have developed a close partnership over the years, Gillen and McKelvie chose to leave the exact nature of their relationship open to interpretation.

Aruna’s previous discomfort with the spotlight, and Ananke’s subsequent exploitation of that fact, also ended up benefitting her in other ways. Her distance from the rest of the Pantheon meant she avoided jail time after the events of #44 (it probably helped that it’s hard to handcuff someone when they’re just a head).

You could also maybe draw a line between the sudden outpouring of appreciation following Tara’s death and the way she was able to successfully campaign for the Pantheon’s early release, performing benefit concerts and raising awareness. This goes some way to colouring the previously devastating ending of #13 in a new light, as the insincere chorus of Twitter observers become a platform Aruna is able to use for good.

There’s an important distinction, though – this time around, she was able to approach a musical career and fame on her own terms, as Aruna rather than Tara. Also, the fact that her ‘death’ wasn’t a permanent one doesn’t take away from the tragedy of it, or how the comic made us complicit in the culture that led to it.

Aruna’s story following her ‘death’ could be called WicDiv’s ultimate triumph. The old truism about suicide being a permanent solution to a temporary problem feels especially apt here. Ananke took someone who was miserable and vulnerable, and proceeded to place them in a situation that they couldn’t cope with. Ananke became Aruna’s sole source of ‘support’, isolating her from the other gods, amplifying her insecurities until Aruna felt the only solution was to take her own life.

Strip away some of the details, and the story starts to take on some truly dark parallels, but unlike so many real-life stories, there is a second act to Aruna’s tale.

Once the true nature of Ananke’s plans are revealed, Aruna is eventually able to escape her role in them, retake control of her life, and eventually thrive on her own terms. WicDiv may be a story that largely approaches death as a firm reality, but by giving Aruna a reprieve from her seeming demise, it allows us a glimpse of a real happy ending, in amongst the more complex feelings the final issue evokes.

Alex: Aruna’s story is a happy one because she escapes the cycles that life locked her into. But the god I want to talk about, I’m not sure they ever did. Which might not be a terrible thing – it was always a little different, with Dionysus.

We don’t get much time with Umar before he goes all Olympian, but the moments we do get suggest there’s less of a gap between his two identities than there is for most of the other gods. He’s the guy who drives his friends down to London so they can get wasted on the way, who asks sensitive questions of strangers.

When he becomes Dionysus, the difference is mainly a question of scale. The group of people he’s trying to do right by gets bigger and bigger, and that makes this behaviour unsustainable. That first time we meet him, in issue #8, we get pretty much the whole Dionysus story. Dude takes on everyone else’s troubles, exerts himself to make them feel better, and makes it look breezy – only occasionally cracking and showing the weight of it all.

I’m not sure that ever really changes for Umar. He keeps using his powers to make people happy for a night, even as it starts to take a toll. He waits in the darkness, lets The Morrigan attack him, just to be there for Baphomet. He has faith in the power of the crowd, even as they crush him. He just keeps giving and giving, and it lands him in a coma.

This is Dionysus’ hamartia – the fatal flaw built into every one of WicDiv’s gods, the thing that ensures their downfall. As these things go, it’s not a bad flaw to have.

It marks him apart from the other gods. Gillen has talked about the Pantheon all being aspects of himself, his own flaws built out into characters, people he’s trying not to be anymore. But Dionysus’ flaw actually makes him someone to aspire to.

A spare Gillen quote from my Polygon interview that didn’t make it into the final article: “Umar is someone I'd love to be now… But Umar's a fictional character. Therefore, it's easier for him to be Umar than for Kieron to not be a shithead.” Even in the comic, we see how Dio’s behaviour is unsustainable – but to try and live that way, all of the time, in real life? It’s impossible.

I say this with authority, because in many ways I spent my twenties trying to be a Dionsysus. I’m an Inanna by nature – a pleasure seeker who tries to be kind but can sometimes forget that having the best possible time can have consequences on the people around them. (And, sidenote, it’s a fascinating twist on the archetypes that the god with these traits isn’t the one who, y’know, gave us the word bacchanalian.)

But, to be uncharacteristically nice about myself for a second, my idea of having a good time does tend to include bringing as many people along with me as possible. The version of me I like is the one who always opens up the circle on the dancefloor to sweep up strangers and stragglers. Or spot someone who seems left out and work to change that. Or pour hours into a project that’ll be seen by just a handful of friends, or just one.

I kind of buried that person this year.

This wasn’t an active choice, or something I was even conscious of doing at the time, but looking back I can see the reasons behind it. Firstly, because it’s not always clear whether people actually want these things done for them, or if it’s an unwelcome overreach, and that thought makes me to want up curl into myself and just die. And second, because I’m not good at knowing how to apportion effort, meaning it can involve frankly life-damaging amounts of preparation for very little payoff.

It’s not a sustainable way to live. Dio might be the best possible version of the WicDiv god, but he’s still someone sacrificing his self to become an idea. It kills him, eventually, and #37 shows how he’s remembered for it by the public, the people he gave everything he had to: ‘that guy on drugs’.

But eventually he is repaid by one of the recipients of his kindness, as a little bit of that selflessness rubs off on Baphomet. And Umar joins the rest of the Pantheon as they step back from their defining flaw, allow themselves to become more than an archetype. “I thought it was my job to save everyone,” Dionysus says, and I cry my little eyes out.

Maybe that was the moment I started to realise I’d been stepping back from that version of myself. Or maybe it was talking with Tim (my other, non-fictional model for the sort of person I want to be) about issue #45, when he explained how he read the older Umar: someone in whom all that kindness turned a little bitter. Aged like vinegar, not wine.

My reading is more hopeful than that, I think. The final issue trades in hints and suggestions of lives, but with Umar more than most. And personally, I fill in that blank with a different story: someone who has tempered his need to always put others first, and become more judicious about when and how and to whom he gives himself. And that? That is someone I’d really like to be.