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lesbian-deadpool · 4 years ago

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Happy Little Accidents

Part Two: Hope

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Words: 2,317

Warnings: I don’t think there is any?? Crying/light angst, adoption process, stress??

Request: Yes

Summary: You work on getting you little girl back. And hope that it’s successful.

A/N: It’s been a long time coming, I haven’t proof read it or anything (but when do I ever? Lol), so bare that in mind.

Ko-Fi

(Not My GIF)

***

Being a pair of Avengers and going through the adoption process was so very complicated.

On one hand, you were well known across the globe. Household names.

But on the other. You were dangerous people, with violent past's -and futures to come- with more enemies than you could count. Some of which you didn't even know existed. And who in their right minds would ever let a child into that environment? People have been turned down for much less.

However.

You were basically celebrity's. And as everyone knows, that comes with a lot of special treatment. Even if you and Natasha -And most of, if not all of your team- denied to use any of it. But in this case? For little Hope? You would do whatever you had to.

So, it was thanks to that, that you were even allowed to be considered for adoption.

And there was so much work that had to be done.

Papers to sign, meetings to attend, visits and screenings every which way. And so much more.

It was a long and tedious journey. And you still had a long way to go.

Right now, you had to watch as someone picked apart your home -once again- to make sure it was okay for your little girl to come home. Where she belongs.

You had moved not too long ago, maybe a little over two months, and in that time, it had been looked at three times. Which really made it seem like you weren't doing anything, in their eyes, considering you were busy working and renovating the whole place out at the same time.

The day after you and Natasha had to say goodbye to Hope, you knew that you had to get a bigger place than the apartment you had both shared. And began looking for new homes the very same day.

Tony's help wasn't needed, you had plenty of money, but he insisted. So when you two found a townhouse that you absolutely adored, not too far from SHIELD HQ -where you both now worked most of the time. As when Fury found out that you were both to be adopting Hope- or trying to at least, the man lowered your hours and took you off missions altogether. Just until you were all settled-, the billionaire bought it for you, the moment he got wind of it.

You were moved in three days later. Deciding to work on the house while you lived there.

"So, where would the child be sleeping?" Your caseworker asked.

"Oh, right this way," you said, leading her down the hall to the newly decorated bedroom. Natasha following behind.

You gestured to the light pink, yet slightly sparse room. "This is it."

"We still have to pick up some of the furniture. But we've been waiting for the room to be decorated first," Natasha said, excusing the bare room.

"Yeah, Hope's not going to sleep on a stack of paint cans," you tried to joke. To which you barely got a smile from your caseworker, Stephany Halla.

"It look's decorated to me?"

"Oh." Natasha smiled. "We're having a friend of ours paint a mural or two on the walls."

"Yeah, Hope has a few favourite Avengers, so he's gonna paint them. And he's been learning how to draw cartoon characters for it, too."

"He's actually trying to adopt the two kids he took in with his fiance."

"Steve Rogers?" Stephany asked.

"That's the guy," you said, nodding along with Natasha.

"I've seen him around the office," She spoke again a few moments later. "So, when are you planning on getting the furniture for the room?"

"Hopefully, within a month," Natasha replied, "But with our and Steve's schedules, things are up in the air."

It was a difficult start to the adoption process, more so than it was now. Considering that the children legally didn't exist to the world. So, everything was so confusing and thrown up into the air while waiting for the kids to be registered.

Almost like you didn't know whether you were coming or going. Everything stuck in limbo as you waited to see what kind of adoption process you would have to take. And even with all of your connections in the world, you were still left in the dark.

There was the fact that the kids were found overseas in Romania, so they could be considered Romanian. And so, you would have to go through international adoption.

However, none of the children have birth parents and were brought to America because you had rescued them. So, some would say they could be considered immigrants.

Nothing like this had ever happened before.

Babies that had been grown in a lab and saved from a further torturous life, that now needed legalization in the world's eyes.

You and Natasha had to watch as Government's essentially fought over these children you saved. Over the same child, you clothed and fed. The one you played games with and bonded with the little girl you grew to love and consider your own.

So, as the world fought for the right of your child, your little Hope, you waited. Just wishing and wanting to bring your daughter home.

But, luckily for you, the children were now classed as American citizens. Which made it ten times easier for you to adopt than it would otherwise.

Which is honestly just crazy to you, considering just how intensely hard this is.

There were times you didn't believe you could ever adopt your child.

On more than one occasion, Natasha would come to you, saddened to her core, because she truly believed that you would never have Hope in your family.

It was so fucking hard.

Natasha had rolled over one night after you two had -once again- gone through the rules and regulations of adopting. Uttering how you were, "Never going to get her back" that there was "Juts no way, they will let us adopt", as she cried into your arms.

But still, the process continued.

"Well, your home seems to be in good standing. So for. But I advise you to get the furniture for the child's room as soon as possible," Stephane commented as she began packing up her belongings and paperwork.

"Oh, we know."

"Steve did say that he was going to start work on it in the next few days," Natasha added, nodding along with you.

"Well, that's is good news." Stephane smiled. "I'll see you at our next meeting with Hope."

Natasha sighed happily. "We can't wait."

"Well, goodbye then."

You whished the dirty-blonde woman farewell, closing the door behind her.

"We get to see our daughter in a couple of weeks," your red-headed girlfriend said excitedly, dancing from side to side out of pure happiness. Her bright smile filling your soul with warmth, that travelled all the way into your bones.

You matched her emotions, hands coming to curve around her shoulder blades and pulling her close to you.

"I know, Honey. It's been so long since we've seen her. And we're gonna bring her home one day."

That was all you could say before your mouth was covered, with the crushing feeling of Natasha's plump lips against yours.

***

Nerves rattled through you, but you hadn't the faintest idea why, considering this wasn't the first time you had seen Hope. However, it had been one of the first times you were able to see her since the day she was taken away from you.

If you thought you were bad.

Natasha was far worse.

She was practically shaking. From nerves or excitement, you didn't know. But you had a good inkling to think that it was both.

You had done so much for this child in the short span of time you had known her.

And yet, you couldn't imagine your life any other way. The thought of how your life had been that time last year.

No Hope. Surrounded by missions and work. Every free moment you had was spent with Natasha, and the rag-tag group of hero's you had grown to call your family.

It all seemed so foreign now.

Like a past life.

'Wow', you thought, 'Maybe I really am growing up'.

A part of you was afraid that the girl you thought of as your daughter wouldn't recognise you or your []. And would be scared of the two strangers that had just barged their way into her life. Breaking both of your heart's.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

Was the thing that greeted you, as soon as the door had swung open. Making you realise just how stupid your train of thought really was.

Natasha rushed forward, scooping the girl up into her arms, with a bright smile upon both of their faces.

"So, I still don't get a name, huh?" you joked, walking over to the reuniting girls.

Brushing a hand over Hope's short hair. Grinning when she reached her arms towards you, ready to give you a hug of your own, which you gratefully accepted.

"Don't worry," Natasha said, rubbing Hope's back as she hugged you, "You'll get a name soon."

"I better. Or else I'm gonna have ta tickle it out of her."

Hope's squeals reached your ears as you threateningly poked her side with your fingers.

"Here, baby. I'll save you," Natasha called, pulling the giggling girl from your arms. Both of them watching as you pulled your hand's in front of your face, wiggling the fingers almost spookily as them. The girls turned to each other, "They're silly."

Then they walked away.

With you calling after them.

"Hey! I may be silly, but-... I have no rebuttal!"

Natasha laughed at this, then greeted the care worker that was patiently waiting for you both. The one that you had only just noticed.

"Hello, Stephany," Natasha said in greeting, shaking the woman's hand. You following suit.

"Hey. How have you two been?"

"Missing this little one," Natasha replied, bouncing the girl on her waist. Receiving fun-filled giggles in return.

"I bet you have. And you, Y/N?"

"Exhausted," you told her honestly, "With moving house and everything, I just want to have Hope home, then sleep for a week."

The care worker laughed at that.

"Let's hope that that's sooner rather than later, then."

Your few hour's with Hope passed faster than you ever could have imagined. You played with blocks, ate lunch, "helped" Hope colour in her haphazardly filled colouring book. You absolutely adored the way her eyes lit up, and she started dancing and flailing her arms when she saw bubbles for the first time. You almost couldn't continue blowing them because of your bright smile.

And now you were watching as Natasha spoke gently to the little girl. Hope's hand's resting on the red-heads cheeks, watching her mother with such concentrating eyes.

You adored your little family.

You just wished you could have them all home.

'One day', you thought, 'one day'.

Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things you've ever had to do.

Just like the last time.

And the time before that.

And the one before that.

It just got harder and harder each and every time you did this.

Hope was crying. And so was Natasha, albeit silently, as she tried to console the toddler.

"I know, my little love, I know-"

"Mommy!" Hope cried.

"I know, angel. We'll be back before you know it, I promise."

"Mommy!"

"I know."

Once in the car, you let your tears fall, Natasha sobbing in the seat beside you.

"I don't think I can keep on doing this anymore," you admitted. Deciding it was best you explained when Natasha turned to look at you, an incredulous look upon her face, "Keep on seeing her, and not being able to bring her home."

"We'll get there," your [] reached over the centre console to squeeze your hand, "We will. You're the one who's always saying that we've got to take after her namesake and have hope."

"But it almost seems endless, Nat."

"I know, honey." She wetly kissed your tear-stained cheek. Her lips, brushing against it as she continued, "We'll bring her home. I just know it."

"I hope you're right."

***

She was right.

Of course, she was right.

She was Natasha Romanoff, after all.

It was like she just had this inability to be wrong.

But in this case? You were so fucking happy about that.

Granted it had taken a while longer -a good eight months- but finally, you were here.

Exiting the courthouse with Hope in your arms, and Natasha by your side. Bright smiles upon all of your faces, about to take the little girl- Your daughter home.

You would never have to say goodbye to her, like that, ever again.

She was legally a part of your family now. And nothing would ever change that.

"Ready to go home, sweetpea?" Natasha asked the beaming girl.

"I don't know about you," you started, "But I think this deserves celebratory ice cream."

"I think you just want ice cream before dinner."

You gave an overdramatic gasp.

"Why I would never! How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"

Natasha laughed at your antics but nonetheless nodded her head.

"I agree. This does deserve celebratory ice cream."

"Yes!" you exclaimed happily to Hope, your free arm raising above your head in victory, making the girl copy you by raising both of her arms.

She was already taking after you.

Your red-headed girlfriend sighed dreamily after you, as you chanted, "Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!" On your way to the car.

She couldn't remember a time where she was this happy.

It had been a long time since then.

And Natasha just couldn't wait to see what the rest of her life would bring with the two of you now by her side.

***

Permanent Tag List:

@imnotasuperhero, @veteranwerewolf95, @natasha-danvers, @marvelfansince08love, @higherfurther-romanova, @lesbian-x-blackwidow, @sestra-inestro, @thelastavenger-3000, @mixed-fandom-mess,

SFW Tag list:

@peggycarter-steverogers, @natalia-quinzel,

#original work #original fanfiction #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff #marvel #MCU

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andrew37109 · 3 years ago

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Two men in a church. Stormy night.

I approach the great wooden doors, darkened with age, bound with iron. Torrents of rain and wind whip my back like sharp icicles. Relentless. I twist the old handle and fall swiftly inside, pushing with might to seal the door once more. My exhaustion leaves me in a dizzying stupor. My clothes and hair drenched. My finger tips cold to the bone. My cheeks and nose rosey and numb. A great velvet curtain shrouds me. Touching it’s dry edges gives some warmth to my mind. Beyond, safety to the wild outside. Shelter from the storm.

Up ahead is the alter. Christ emblazoned, surrounded by stained glass murals. I take steps towards him, my hands dripping, my boots squeaking. My rudeness unavoidable. I am in the house of forgiveness I tell myself. He will understand. I sit on a pew to the left. For a moment I breathe and close my eyes. When I open them I see a man sitting in front of me to the right. In vain I fight my spastic shivers.

“A cold miserable night” he speaks without turning.

His voice is deep and rich. An accent I do not know.

“Yes” I shudder.

“Were… were you here a moment ago?” I ask.

“Yes”, he moves as if to turn and I catch the side of his face. The bench squeaks in the silence of the Church and he stops.

Time passes. I breath some more and feel heat return to my bones.

“Are you here by accident? Or have you come for comfort?” The man asks warmly.

“Both” I suppose

“How is it you come to be here?” I ask. “And so dry as you are”

I take off my jacket and can feel the man smile, though I can only see him from the side.

“I have always been here. I don’t often step into the rain, should I not have to of course. But then sometimes you have to get wet to appreciate the dry. Don’t you think?”

“Some people dance in the rain. Others just get wet. As they say. Though this time maybe I danced a little too long.”

A bolt of lightning brings momentary life to the images on the glass.

“They are beautiful” I say.

“They are… beautiful” the man replies.

“The life of a good man, do you think?” He asks, stretching his arm along the bench, gazing up at the images, at the statue of Christ.

“A dramatised account I feel, but yes. I hope a good man. If not a good man, at least an honest one.”

“Yes” says the man, his head tilting in admiration

“Yes. Do you know god?”

I can feel myself once more.

“I cannot claim to love or believe in any one god, no. But I believe in an ethical way. If a deity represents that then I see no harm in faith. As for the beliefs in miracles… that’s a little much for me.”

“Are there not such things? Are there not incredible indescribable things which happen for good in the world?”

“Yes, but equally there are as many bad things in this world. It is human responsibility for either one happening, accidental or not. Disease and death may be natural�� And god does nothing to ease such things. Faith is a placebo For the almost dead. For the old and the sick. The young and strong have no need for such things. Well taught morals are as good as any god.”

“What about your father?”

“What do you know about my father?”

The man turns a little more and I see his crooked nose. He appears handsome, though slightly ragged.

“It was not medicine that saved him this past year is what I know. It was something more.”

“I see. So you are god then? You are Christ perhaps, sitting here, mysteriously, here to give me my moment with god. To convince me of your existence and power. Yes?”

“God is a human idea. I am what was here before human life. Before any life actually. If anything I am but the first inhabitant of this rock. It is true I watched you grow. But I did not make you. I am a cosmic entity you have given a name and story to understand. There was a time I wished to know people. That was my mistake and your scholars distorted that truth into religion. So I stopped with you all, less I cause any more influence, for better or worse. For what do I know of being human… I am no god. Ultimately a home is what I have been given. In your hearts and in your temples of worship. And so here I sit in the comfort of such places. The same way I sit in Mosques and monasteries. Mother Nature has a name after all. And in this way, right now, I certainly exist.”

“Suddenly I feel like I’m dreaming”

“Or perhaps you are dead”

“Am I?”

“Not yet. That time is not mine to decide. Like you say it is your responsibility. Take life or leave it behind.”

“And where will I go if I leave it now?”

The man turns. His face is half broken, burnt and grotesque. But he is not in pain. The other half remains youthful and wise.

“We would leave together. And no I am not death. For that is another human idea. I am just. Anything with a name or a story cannot be me for I am not part of this world, though I am this world.”

Moments pass and I look up to Christ, staring down from the cross.

“Life has much more in store for me I think” I say with a warm smile to the man.

“I think so too. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

“What now?” I ask.

A crack of lighting shakes the world and when I look down he is gone.

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crackinglamb · 5 years ago

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Comfort

From this prompt list.

Read it on AO3 here.

Rated T, ~1400 words.

---

“The next time you have to mourn,” La'vise said, “you don't have to do it alone.”

“I'll think on it. And thank you, Inquisitor.”

Solas walked away, back towards the keep and his sanctuary in the rotunda. She watched him go, hugging herself. Was there such a thing as secondhand bereavement? She ached to comfort him, knowing well what it was to lose someone you cared about. Even if that person was a spirit. His loss put into perspective many things about him.

He saw them as people. La'vise admittedly had little experience in such things. She wasn't a mage. And the Dalish were wary of anything that came from the Fade as a precaution against demons. But she'd seen it with her own eyes. The monster they'd released from bondage transformed into a small, vulnerable figure with eyes that glowed with veilfire. She had spoken with feeling, even if her words were few that La'vise knew. But he did.

And he'd had to dissipate her. From what La'vise understood, it was akin to killing her. She couldn't imagine the pain and horror of that act. Or that he preferred to be alone afterwards.

She turned on her heel and went back into the Great Hall, seeing the eyes of her guards on her where she stood, still hugging herself, an equally small, vulnerable figure with too much heaped on her shoulders. Inquisitor. No, she was just an elf. An elf with feelings she didn't know what to do with. She just knew she wouldn't want to be alone at a time like this. But she could wait until she was invited. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way.

***

She couldn't get it out of her mind.

Her ancestors called the land Dirthavaren – the Promise. One that had not been kept. It lit an old, racial anger that beat in La'vise's veins. For less than 300 years her people had called the Dales home. And then they were scattered, chaff on the wind. Never again would the Dalish submit. And never again would the elves of Halamshiral call their world theirs. What little history was passed from generation to generation had sparse details. She had learned more of the history of her people from books found in human libraries across the Emerald Graves and beyond than she had at her Keeper's knee. She took copious notes and sent them back to Deshanna faithfully, taking full advantage of the fact that Josephine kept her stocked with expensive paper and good ink. This hard won knowledge would not be lost again, if she could help it.

She sat back in her chair, alone in her chamber, and set down her fountain pen, making sure it did not clatter and spill ink across her page. It was not easy to think about the land humans called the Exalted Plains. It had hurt, seeing it with her own eyes. Seeing the devastation and ruin of the Promise. Solas had been with her, of course, and his eyes had been hard, the mask he wore to cover his thoughts brittle and cracking. Cole had whispered to him, too soft to carry. Their murmuring conversation had carried on the whole time they rode through the broken, tortured land of her forebears.

Cassandra had kept silent on the matter, for which La'vise was grateful. Although she caught the Seeker's eyes suspiciously wet as they made camp near what was obviously an elven ruin, now nothing more than a few stones outlining a foundation. La'vise had not slept well in that place. She didn't think anyone else had either.

Despair hung over that land, as sere as the grass. The stench of smoke and blood and death was an inescapable miasma. Not even the roaming herds of halla, nor the guardian wolves watching over them, could brighten her spirits there. Everywhere they went there were battles. The warring factions of the Orlesians bled over into the constant struggle against the risen undead. Solas said the Veil was desperately thin, that spirits pressed too heavily against it, piled on each other like so many bodies in a mass grave. There had been many rifts.

She hated it. She hated the land stolen from her people and she hated the humans who had done it, still fighting over its carcass 700 years later like savages. They called her the Herald of Andraste, who was their Maker's Bride, who had made the Promise. And all she could think about when they were there was how to place her feet carefully so she did not trip over the bones of the People.

And now Solas had lost his friend there too. She covered her face with her hands and wept.

***

The rotunda was quiet when she entered it, many hours later. She carried a book with her that she'd found on one of their journeys, a journal written in a hand she could barely decipher. She was getting better at it, but she needed help from time to time, and she knew Solas could do that.

Her heart was heavy, she didn't really want to disturb him. But she needed this to send back to her Keeper. He turned to her as soon as he heard her enter. He was standing near a blank wall, the riot of colors from his murals absent in this spot. She wondered if he was contemplating the next one, or just needed the emptiness of that patch to reflect the emptiness of his sorrow.

“What do you need of me?” he asked, as polite and mild-mannered as always. There was no sign that he was still affected by the spirit's death, but she knew him well enough now to know that he was a master of hiding things.

“I have...I'm having trouble with some translations. I wondered if you could help me, if it's not too much trouble?”

“It is no trouble,” he assured her. He held out his hand for her book and she crossed to him. As he took it, she could feel his eyes on her. “Are you all right?”

Her eyes shot to his and she realized she hadn't washed her face or combed her hair. She felt gritty and wrung out like a rag. She must look it, too. She flushed with something almost like shame at letting him see her so broken, but his smile was soft. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tears that still lingered on her skin.

“You have been crying,” he said.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I failed you. The only thing you have asked of me, and I couldn't...I couldn't...”

Solas set the book down on a table and took her into his arms. This wasn't how she thought this would go. But she could not deny that the feel of him holding her, comforting her, was good. She relaxed into him, and in turn, she felt him relax into her.

“It is not your fault,” he whispered into her hair. “There was little you could do. And what you could, you did. That is more meaningful to me than anything. You have been a true friend to me, and I treasure it.”

She shuddered against him, and his arms came around her tighter. She didn't know how long they stood there like that, but finally her tears eased, the burden of their mutual sadness made lighter by each other. She tipped back her head to look at him and found a lopsided grin. “Is that all I am?”

He smiled back and wiped her cheeks again. “No, La'vise, that is not all you are. You are much more than a friend.”

The moment stretched, and she thought perhaps he might kiss her, but he didn't. Still, the warmth in his gaze poured over her and she felt better. She could see in his eyes that he did too. All at once she remembered why she had come to the rotunda in the first place and stepped out of his arms, feeling the cold loss immediately. “My book...”

Solas drew her back and wrapped her in his embrace again. There was something in his expression that she couldn't quite name. If she didn't know any better, she would call it greed, but that was simply ridiculous. “It can wait. Let me hold you.”

#Lamb writes #dragon age inquisition #solavellan #solas x lavellan #prompt fill #series tag Just Like Fire #post-All New Faded For Her #hurt/comfort

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wincore · 6 years ago

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archenemies | huang renjun

pairing: renjun x reader

words: 8.8k

genre: ‘bad boy’!au, fluff

warnings: language, some juvenile activities, huang “fight me” renjun, he’s way too aries for this to be good

a/n: move aside it’s my emotional support bad boy fic

There are people who are lucky and people who have met Huang Renjun.

Every day is a reminder of all your mistakes, all the sins you’ve committed to have to deal with him. You’ve forgotten what began all the biting comments and burning quarrels, but you’re not going to lose to some quick-tempered punk. In all honesty, however, you’d prefer to never think of him again.

Huang Renjun is just a cog in the machine that controls your life and you’re going to best ignore him till someone upstairs decides to fix that machine. (You wish it were that easy.)

You eye the bruise on your knee with a sour taste in your mouth. It’s a darker shade of purple now, the blues mingling amidst only enhancing the size of it. You sigh heavily and crouch to retie your shoelaces. You’re going to have to slow down now, and not jump over the steps of a ragged staircase. There are few reasons to pass through the playground, when you can take a safer albeit longer way to the subway station.

It’s the shorter way, yes, but there’s more. Is it because of the lack of overenthusiastic students and the loud buzz? Is it because you can walk down the thick metal railing feeling free, arms stretched? Or perhaps, the most important of all—the illegal murals on the walls starting from your school. The art gets removed every time and not two weeks later, there’s a new one. If anything’s more cheerful in colour in this city, you’d gladly pay a pretty penny to see it.

You stand in front of the latest in the collection, eyes studying every stroke of paint. It’s a wolf, made with different colours of the rainbow and with a star gently held in its mouth. You swear its eyes move with the way they stare back at you, deep and alive. You wonder what this criminal artist sees in their head to create things so raw, so full of feeling. You’re always sad when they get painted over.

You take a picture of it on your phone to remember. Your first picture dates to about two years ago, when you accidentally stumbled into the backside of the school buildings. It was the mural of a trophy, more specifically the one your school awarded for academics each year. Except the trophy was made of branches intertwined far too loose and it held a rotting apple instead of a live golden one, greens faded to brown. The single piece of writing was in black—‘here lies our youth’. You had scoffed at it then. Undoubtedly, some sort of edgy loser had spilled ink on those walls. But you had to admit, the mural was unspeakably pretty and you took the picture for your own amusement.

The school, of course, had it removed at soon as they could but you still look at it on your phone once in a while. The look on your principal’s face was glorious when a new one showed up right beside the front gate. A withering rose with thorns made of silver, and a raccoon gazing at it with its head at a slight angle. It made no sense, of course. All of these have been abstract, almost hard to find meaning in but you felt a dash of impertinence in that piece of art. It was meant to piss them off.

And of course, the art continued blossoming. Over the months, they got better and better; every new piece held a different meaning. It became a sort of game for you, to find each work and photograph it before it was criticized by disgruntled police officers and hastily removed. Adults find no importance in these kinds of things; it’s too bright, too attention-seeking and too honest.

You tread carefully along the side of the street now, aware of your aching knee and curse yourself for being so frivolous in movement. Except you aren’t as careful as you think you are, and you bump rather harshly into a lean figure when you were looking elsewhere.

“Sorry! I really am,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you can recognize the boy. But when you do, you grimace, a familiar bitter taste on your tongue. “Renjun. Hi.”

Renjun glares at you as he massages the shoulder you had so carelessly rammed into. The white bones on his dark jacket sleeves and the skull on the back look painted, although you think Renjun couldn’t have made something remotely aesthetic. You await the biting comment he usually sends your way, but he quickly turns away after shooting you another scowl.

“Well, okay,” you tell yourself. “That’s new.”

If it wasn’t clear before, Huang Renjun isn’t the nicest of people you’ve met. With a flaring temper and sharp tongue, he’s on your list of people to avoid, but you cross paths quite literally way too many times. Of course, his entire group of friends is on your list of people to avoid, but it’s Renjun who seems to be fated to run into you every goddamn time. You’ve been assigned to do projects with him at least six times by some sort of treachery, and for all the years you’ve known him, his seat is almost always behind yours. It’s torturous, really. Renjun would be much more pleasant to face if he wasn’t glaring holes into the back of your head all the time.

You pull the vague memory of a shy new boy from middle school and shove it aside—no way can you relate the past and present. At school, he’s only a troubled student, not the type to sugar-coat words and with no restraint on words, he often pisses off people he shouldn’t be pissing off. Honesty is a good feature but not on people like him. Only the bravest of teachers take a liking to him, and the rest of the students are a little in awe of him. I wish I could be that honest, you’d heard one of your friends say. That way, I wouldn’t be afraid of the world. He was mistaken; there’s no one on earth born without fear. Needless to say, your peers like to romanticize him as some sort of cool, tough guy with mystery on his fingertips. You think he secretly likes the reputation. The only times Renjun’s softened is around his band of troublemakers.

You don’t trust reputations but you think Renjun is at least six times worse than what everyone thinks of him. (And you speak from experience.)

You have to admit, though, that you might be a little at fault here. You’ve accidentally spilled hydrochloric acid on him in the chemistry lab and smeared his neck with an obnoxious green in art before, but you don’t think that’s reason enough for Renjun to hate you. Regrettably, there are more cases of misfired actions and you’d rather not dwell on them.

If luck has anything to do in the universe, it loves to mess with you when you’re around Renjun. It’s miraculously always him the victim, and you, an unwitting culprit. Bad luck doesn’t even begin to describe what has bound the two of you. At least, that’s how it began. It’s not like you’re trying to be annoying; the circumstances provide the paint for your already messy canvas and Renjun is left more and more pissed at you at the end of every encounter. You’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t such a prick.

The times you’re not accidentally messing with Renjun, he’s the one with offhanded comments that make your blood boil. You don’t know if it’s payback but it ends up with the two of you neck-deep in hatred for each other yet again. Sometimes, you enjoy the misery you unintentionally give him, like that one time the stray cat you were holding launched itself at Renjun and he ended up with more scratches than what was good (although, he isn’t exactly a stranger to injuries) and of course, the glorious times you were the cause of Renjun’s detention. Sometimes even those aren’t enough to shut his quick mouth and honestly, you’re giving up on ever having an actual conversation with him without being at each other’s throats.

You shake your head for thinking about him for this long. Any thought lasting longer than three minutes about Renjun is a curse.

“(name)!”

Chenle waves at you from a few metres away. It’s always good to see him and you smile; the kid’s a ball of positivity. It’s much better than running into Renjun anyway, for whom you’d have to grit your teeth and brace for another jab, trying not to start another bout of bickering with him. In fact, you find the contrast between Chenle (someone you’ve only ever talked with comfortably and an occasional angel) and Renjun (literally the Devil’s advocate) so sharp that you find it hard to believe they’re friends. The only thing they seem to have in common is living at the dorms, as non-native students.

“Hi!” Chenle greets you from a few feet away as he jogs up to you. “Have you seen Renjun?”

You furrow your eyebrows. You wonder why someone as nice as Chenle would follow around a mean grouch like Renjun.

“Yeah, I just passed him,” you answer, a little piqued by Chenle’s rapid flurry of expressions. Something’s obviously not right.

“Thanks,” he says with a slight bow before he takes off in the other direction.

Now, given your history of unfortunate circumstances with Renjun, you shouldn’t be following Chenle. You shouldn’t. But of course, you’d take this chance to snoop around on Renjun, just watch him speechless as he can’t come up with any response at all. Information, secrets—they give you the upper hand. You’re being petty, sure. It’s good for your health.

You follow the loud footsteps at a safe distance, starting to wonder if it’s worth it. You almost walk into Renjun’s view and scramble back behind the wall. He’s sitting on one of the swings while Chenle pants beside him, trying to catch his breath.

“I told you to stop following me around. You look like some lost puppy.” You hear Renjun click his tongue.

“You’re so mean,” Chenle says with a pout, “Wait, doesn’t that mean I’m cute? Like a puppy? Never mind, don’t you wanna know how far the investigation is going?”

“You don’t have to do that for me,” Renjun responds, looking down at his hands.

Chenle smiles, radiant as ever. “It’s no biggie!”

Renjun laughs, a sound foreign to you. “You’re acting like I said ‘thank you’.”

“Didn’t you?” Chenle grins. “Anyway, you have to be careful for the next week. They’re going to increase patrols near school.”

Renjun scoffs. “Like they’ll ever catch me.”

You narrow your eyes. From all the rumours you’ve heard, Renjun is no stranger to delinquency and other things illegal for high school students. But they’ve only been rumours. This is your chance to get some dirt on him, and you’re certainly not missing it.

Chenle presses his lips together, a flash of worry passing through him.

“Be careful anyway, okay?” he says.

Renjun snaps his head to the side, an annoyed sound leaving his lips. He looks nothing but bothered by the conversation.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

You let out a breath, annoyed with how ungrateful Renjun is. Of course, you don’t expect better from a no-good sociopath, or whatever the hell he pretends to be. You never realized how twisted your ties with Renjun has been this far. You can paint no other picture except of a demon every time you think of him.

“Now scram,” Renjun huffs.

Chenle looks like a kicked puppy and you almost march over to Renjun to reproach him. There is nothing he does that doesn’t get on your nerves. But you maintain your position; it’s not worth wasting your time over.

The twitch of your foot, however, brings you to the boys’ attention. You retreat your head and look forward, your body getting still. Half of you is terrified of Renjun finding you and the other half simply doesn’t care, in fact wanting to shove some choice words at him in case he does find you.

As fate would have it, Renjun emerges from behind the wall and you hit your head back against it. Your heartbeat evens out quick and you face him, not wanting to look stupid. He’s pissed off—you can tell by the knitted brows and bitter twist of his lips.

“I knew you were annoying but eavesdropping?” Renjun rebukes, “Congratulations on getting to a whole new level of weirdo.”

Your ears turn red and you click your tongue. “Whatever.”

“You should stop being so interested in me. Seriously.”

“Me? Interested in you? If anything, you’re the one way too interested in me.”

“I’m not the one eavesdropping.” Renjun stands up straighter, fists clenched. Your cheeks colour.

“And I’m not the one picking fights every day at lunch.”

Your hostilities aren’t unknown to the school, who look partly afraid and partly entertained with your jabs and arguments. You’ve figured they’re more afraid of Renjun and his cold face than they’re afraid of your fights. If only they didn’t think he’s cooler than he actually is. You could roll your eyes.

“You guys sound like children,” Chenle butts in.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Renjun scowls.

“Don’t talk to him that way,” you warn.

“And who are you to tell me that?”

“A decent human being.”

“God, talking to you drains me of energy.” Renjun turns his head to the side, his frown never leaving.

“Looking at you drains me of energy,” you grumble.

With one last look of repugnance, you turn around to make your way back to where you were headed in the first place.

“I don’t know why you hang out with him, Chenle,” you say before you start walking off.

You can see Renjun tense up out of the corner of your eye. For a moment, you think he’ll yell an insult back at you but only the gentle breeze fills your surroundings. You like having the last word, but no part of this exchange was satisfying. You should’ve just gone your way.

The conversation you overheard leaves your mind as quickly as it entered. Soon, you’re on the subway home with a larger basket of reasons to avoid Huang Renjun.

As if high school wasn’t dull enough, being unable to skip class makes your sleepless body worse. The can of coffee you got at the vending machine offers no aid, and when you finally blink at the silhouette of escape, you seize it. You’ve never thought of skipping class as explicitly bad. It’s not good but neither is it an awful thing to do considering the condition of the present-day education system. You’d call it a necessary evil.

At least, that’s the excuse you use for yourself every time. You’ve only been caught once, and that’s because you fell asleep under the bleachers. Detention isn’t new, but it doesn’t put you in good books. You care for your future, and the inconvenience you cause others (unlike some others you know). It’s just that there are certain habits that you can’t help.

You’ve decided to be more careful, of course. You don’t want your mother getting any more upset with you nor do you want to spend more time at school through detention. There’s a prettier world outside these drudging walls.

Somehow, you sneak your way out to the back of the school building. The painting has been removed long since you first saw it, but the place has a sense of mystery to it. You’re drawn in, an optimistic explorer to lands that call. You shake yourself to prevent your imagination from wandering.

The weeds grow unkempt here, in the narrow gaps between walls and there’s messy graffiti (vaguely phallic and highly inappropriate) here and there. It’s not pretty but it’s fun walking through here, better than dozing off in class anyway.

The clicking sound grabs your attention. The thought of anyone else being here doesn’t make you very comfortable, but what could they do? There’s no way they’d land you in trouble without facing the same fate. You shrug and take slow, daunting steps towards the source. You might as well figure out who’s there.

You peek out from behind the concrete wall, only able to see a figure in a dark blue hoodie. Only a moment later, though, your eyes inevitably trail to the artwork on the wall.

It’s half done—without an outline or final touches. The strokes of paint make up what looks like a dragon skeleton, its wings spread out and a hollow look in its eyes. Even so, it’s funny to find it smiling. What stands out, though, is the burst of colour it’s made of. And without any prompt, you know it’s him—the mystery juvenile artist of your town. Why did he have to paint it here, where most people would never see it?

You step out from behind the wall, forgetting your hideout. It’s not like you’ll ever give away this artist’s identity, the only person who has the guts to make this place colourful. You’re about to call out when he turns and you freeze, your face morphing into disbelief.

“It’s you?!” you exclaim. This has to be a joke—what on earth is going on?

Renjun yelps at your appearance, dropping the spray can as he stumbles backward. He stands there horrified, eyes wider than usual and mouth apart in a stagnant pose.

“You’re following me again!” Renjun seems to have found words.

“I’m not following you, you dimwit,” you snapped. “I just happened to be here.”

“At least make up something more elaborate.” He takes a step towards you, still standing on the raised concrete between the walls.

You glare at him. “It’s true. I don’t care what you’re up to. But you’re the guy who’s been making these?”

You point to the painted wall, not wanting to believe a demon made something beautiful.

“And what if I am?” he snarls and steps off onto the ground in front of you. You’d be afraid of the look on his face, but you’ve seen it often.

“I could report you,” you say, almost smiling. You’ve wanted to see him squirm for a long time now.

You turn heel and walk inside, but Renjun runs after you, stopping only when you turn.

“What?” you ask, your smile smug.

He grabs your arm hastily before he pushes you against the wall, his hand gripping your shoulder too tight. There’s no doubt he’s learnt how to intimidate people. There are streaks of blue and yellow on the web of his thumb and parts of his wrists. The corridor is silent without lingering students, almost eerie without the buzz.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone.” He’s looking at you intensely, almost frantic. Of course, holding secrets takes courage.

You laugh, and he furrows his eyebrows, his frown deepening.

“What are you going to give me in return?”

Renjun scowls. He’s about to answer when you’re interrupted by a rather shrill yet familiar voice.

“No making out in the hallways!” your history teacher scolds. “I can’t believe you’re skipping class for this. I would say detention but I’m in a good mood. Jesus Christ, I know you’re young but there’s a time and place for everything.”

He leaves, his grumbling fading out soon but the two of you are frozen. You can see the red that’s flushed Renjun’s skin and you wonder if you look the same. His eyes are wide, his hand still in place against your shoulder. In his haste, Renjun had left no space between the two of you; in fact, if he were to dip his head a little lower, he’d have his lips brushing against yours.

Your cheeks flare up at the thought and you shove Renjun off you.

“That was- we weren’t- that didn’t happen,” you say quickly, your voice a pitch higher.

“That didn’t happen,” Renjun agrees, still flustered, the pink bathing his face and neck.

There’s an awkward silence before Renjun speaks again, a warning tone lacing his words.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“You could add a ‘please’, at least.” The look on his face is way too enjoyable. You wait for him to realize you mean it and the look progresses into something even more fun.

“Don’t tell anyone…pl…uh, please.”

Renjun turns a few shades redder. Life just got far more splendid.

Renjun sighs enough times for Jaemin to take notice. The last thing he wants is for Jaemin to mother him but he needs some answer to his problem (you) too. He could kick the telephone pole beside him right now, but there’s no point in hurting himself. He slumps back against the wall.

“So did you finally ask (name) out? I heard rumours of you two…you know,” Jaemin grins, his tone more than teasing.

“Why the fuck would I ask (name) out?” Renjun tries his best to get his disgust across to Jaemin, though the warmth in his cheeks probably gives his embarrassment away.

“I mean, you’re always talking about them.”

“Because they make my life hell! And I’m not always talking about…them.”

Jaemin laughs and Renjun wants to kick him instead. Jeno breaks into a short laugh beside him but quickly recomposes himself at the glare Renjun sends his way. Have his friends always been this annoying? Donghyuck is thankfully absent and Yangyang’s probably hanging out at the bike garage. His friends like to add salt to cuts and wounds. And Renjun’s only used to the physical kind.

He sighs again, toning down the thoughts. If he thinks, he thinks of you and your ways of making him miserable. The smug look on your face had made Renjun want to set fire to something, preferably you.

“You guys don’t understand,” Renjun whines, “I literally got threatened to be reported to the police. By someone who hates me and will probably do it.”

Jaemin and Jeno exchange a look and it irks Renjun all the more.

“I don’t think it’s that serious,” Jeno says, “Or that (name) will do it.”

“Just talk it out,” Jaemin adds.

That’s nice and all but Renjun thinks they’ve completely missed the point. He’s dealing with the root of all his miseries and he sees no easy solution to this. For all he knows, you could be a demon launched directly from hell to make him pay for his crimes. Renjun shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think that way.

“Whatever,” Renjun sighs, “I’ll figure it out.”

It’s easier to get to solutions when it’s other people’s problems.

Jaemin wiggles his eyebrows and Renjun shoves him playfully, a smile falling into place.

You raise an eyebrow. You made a face when Renjun approached you as you left school but now that he’s piqued your interest, you relax against the wall. There’s no one around at this time in the park.

“You’re really making a deal?” You grin, hoping it gets on Renjun’s nerves.

“Yes,” he responds through clenched teeth. “Just don’t say something too outrageous.”

You press your finger to your lips, squinting your eyes to think. Renjun taps his foot impatiently and you almost consider whacking him across the head to stop the noise. There is no way you’d ever get along with him.

“Be my date for prom.”

“What?!” Renjun sputters.

You burst into a fit of laughter; the look on his face is far more enjoyable than anything you’ve seen so far this year. You like Renjun owing you.

“I’m kidding. I don’t have anything in mind,” you say, “I’ll let you know when I do.”

Renjun groans, drooping his shoulders. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re awful?”

“Multiple people actu—wait, I’m awful?! You’re the one with mean comments, little graffiti man.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps. “You’ve been making me miserable ever since I came here—oh, don’t make that face, it’s true!”

You cross your arms and try ignoring Renjun’s look of disdain. After a moment of hesitation, you sigh.

“I never meant to,” you say, voice softer.

Renjun blanks out for a moment and you use it to get back to the dilemma at hand.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you clarify, “But…you have to show me how you make the murals.”

Renjun frowns. “I don’t like that.”

“The alternative is agreeing to do whatever I say whenever I want till either of us dies.”

Renjun throws his head back, a sigh escaping his lips. “Fine. I’ll take you to the next place I work on. You better keep your end of the deal.”

“Of course.”

You smile. As much as you hate to believe the one person you admired for their creations turned out to be a demon, you’re curious. You might as well make the most of this situation while it lasts.

You won’t admit you lost sleep on a Friday night because you were excited to see Renjun spray paint a wall. It’s almost embarrassing, considering the history you have with him but you can’t deny what’s standing so clear in front you. The art you’ve saved in your precious folder in your gallery, its secrets will be laid open soon.

“You know, I heard this place is haunted,” you hum.

Renjun freezes in his path, and you almost bump into him. He turns around with distress across his face, eyebrows knit together.

“Don’t say that,” he says a little too quickly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re afraid of ghosts?”

“No,” he starts, “Yes. A little bit. Whatever. This place is not haunted.”

You giggle. You didn’t expect Renjun of all people to have that look on his face. You know he’s not a tough guy (or, you refused to acknowledge he could be) but wouldn’t the school love to see him like this. He’s always come off as a little detached, uncaring of the world around him and he’s got scratches and bruises on him like he really doesn’t care which fight he’s picking. Of course the school got to talking about him—the foreign student with a mean temper and a rare smile. (“It gives him a rare charm! His laugh sounds so dreamy…” You rolled your eyes at your friends. “No. He’s just mean. And says mean things. You know. Like a mean person.”)

No one comes into this part of the subway station at night. The line is closed off during these hours, and you wonder how Renjun found out the hidden entrance. It's not easy to search over unchanging walls. The tunnel lights barely work, but the warm glow shoos away any unnerving feeling to leave empty spaces. It’s strange to not see platforms bustling with people; this one offering painted seats and large advertisements to no one now.

“What’re you going to make today?” you ask, making sure to not fall behind.

“Something simple,” he responds, taking the cans out of his satchel. “Maybe a remake of Starry Night.”

That does not classify as simple in your books, but you shrug, taking a seat by one of the tunnel walls.

Watching Renjun work is far different from staring at final products. The way his hands move in a fluid motion, the way he sprays the lines and curves with precision, the way he fills out the spaces with colour—you wish you could record all of it too. The clicking of the cans every time he shakes them is oddly satisfying, so are the full colours that transform the wall. His focus is trained and you maintain your silence, not wanting to break the encased time. You want to say you’re impressed, say it’s breath-taking to watch what he’s doing. But words don’t come easy at the cost of pride.

You tilt your head to focus on the large bruise-like mark on his hand. You thought it was paint, then a bruise but you can’t quite figure it out.

“What’s that?” you ask, tapping your own hand.

“A birthmark.” Renjun pauses momentarily to answer before turning back to his work.

You wonder how you never noticed that before. It’s like a little nebula, fitting for a boy who paints the sky with such adoration.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there but when you check your watch, time’s almost over. A little less than an hour left, you notify Renjun.

You never realized the importance of finishing touches. Neither did you ever think you’d find Van Gogh on subway walls.

An overused painting but there are Renjun’s touches to it—small tweaks in the colour and shape. There are still whirling clouds, bright stars and a sweet crescent moon. The village, though dark, somewhat adds meaning to the comfort of the lights from the houses. You shouldn’t forget why something was painted, Renjun had remarked as you were making your way here. This Starry Night holds no mourning, however.

“It’s lovely,” you say, finally. “I can’t believe you made this in a subway tunnel.”

Renjun looks up from organizing the spray cans back into the satchel. There’s a faint glow across his cheeks and he turns back to his bag quickly. His voice is unsteady when he speaks. “Thanks.”

You take your time searching for an angle with enough lighting to photograph it. Renjun looks at you dubiously at first but he steps aside with an indecipherable expression, his lips twitching at the corners.

The footsteps catch your attention. You share a look with Renjun, a cautious one when they get closer and you immediately move to stand near him.

“If that’s a police officer, I think we’re both going to jail,” you whisper.

“Or if it’s a ghost, I don’t think I’ll know what to do.”

“You seriously think it’s a ghost?!”

Renjun can’t answer for a figure comes into view, who most certainly belongs to higher authorities you’re not supposed to upset. Instead of saying anything, you share a look with Renjun and the two of you take off running. The adrenaline has already spiked into your veins as you follow your companion, who unquestionably knows his ways around these tunnels. You hear shouts from someone who’s most likely a patrolling guard but you keep running till an exit appears and you get out into the fresh summer air. You only feel the breeze for a moment before you have to break into a sprint again. You can tell dawn is on its way with the glint of the sky.

You can still hear trouble behind you as you leave the area and somewhere into your escape, Renjun takes a hold of your hand to keep you from tripping.

You reach the school dorms out of breath, sweat coating your skin and muscles throbbing. The two of you breathe heavily before a smile creeps onto your face and you laugh (or rather, wheeze) despite your lungs aching. Renjun looks at you incredulously and smiles back, the moment almost delicate. There’s a brief second when the two of you realize your hands are still clasped in each other’s and you let go with a start. You’ll brush this under the carpet too, of course.

“I hate running,” Renjun says in between huffs, bent over with his palms on his knees. “But the look on your face…I can’t stop thinking of it.”

Renjun breaks into laughter, the dimple on his cheek showing and making his features all the more pleasant.

You shake your head at him, deciding to let this one slide.

“I’ll treat you to breakfast at Red’s,” you say, unsure why you’re doing this. You don’t have to, but you feel like you should. It’s not every day you see the flicks of an artist’s wrists.

“Shouldn’t you get home? You live pretty far,” he says.

“It’s only a ten-minute subway ride,” you shrug, “How do you know I live far anyway? Does this mean you’re the one stalking me? Hm?”

“You’ve said you live far before, dumbass,” Renjun replies, his ears turning red.

You grin at him, hoping Red’s has opened for breakfast.

And just like that, you find you’ve both cast aside your differences. Everyone who knows you are in awe when you and Renjun simply shrug at the idea of being partners for a project. Only Jeno and Jaemin look smug when you laugh at what Renjun says, while Donghyuck and some of your friends leave teasing remarks. Your accidents have decreased by a decent amount and Renjun no longer glares holes into the back of your head in Calculus and Geography. In fact, you’ve been having civil conversations (save for light insults and jokes like between friends) and although something has changed, it doesn’t feel odd at all, like this was meant to be.

You don’t miss any opportunity to trail behind Renjun every time he comes up with something new to paint. It’s not like he keeps it secretive enough from you and although he acts annoyed, you think he’s glad to not venture into creepy, abandoned places alone. He’s a little bit of a coward, but a brave artist nonetheless. You’re lucky that more often than not, it’s a clean getaway (though Chenle’s snooping around the police station helps). Somewhere along the way, you shoved off your unnecessary hatred for Renjun. The night never ages when you’re together.

You sit atop the ledge of an apartment rooftop with Renjun beside you. There’s a bunch of obsolete items stashed around the small space—an old vending machine, partly broken flower vases, a rusted bicycle and more—some entertained by the overgrown vines cradling them. Renjun’s finished painting the floor of the roof, a sunflower field with vague meaning and a tiny Moomin hiding in between. This building will be gone soon and no one would find this one easily, yet he painted here. You don’t understand why he works on things that don’t last.

The building is too short for you to view the skyline; it’s quite dazzling to look at during night-time but it’s morning now. Thus, you only have the sky’s pink clouds and Renjun to keep your company interesting enough.

“I mean, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought this way,” Renjun continues rambling, “If the universe doesn’t give a shit about you anyway—why shouldn’t you do whatever the hell you want? Our lives are too small when you compare it to stars and planets. And even they don’t matter in the end!”

“Optimistic nihilism is not an excuse to wreak havoc, Renjun,” you sigh. The breeze is finally picking up on the rooftop. Empty apartment buildings are hard to find these days. Of course, you’ve only learnt that because of Renjun.

Renjun rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’re an angel, you know?”

You feign a shocked expression, hand flying over your heart. “But you’re the one in black, Mr. Huang Renjun. And I’m the one in a white sweatshirt, looking as angelic as I can be.”

Renjun drops his head to rest his cheek against his palm, the look of distaste across his face.

“You have no idea how miserable you made me all these years,” he huffs. “I remember when you dropped the pottery mud on me in sixth grade—you ruined my figurine and I never got to wear that shirt again!”

“Why do you remember what I did to you in sixth grade?”

“You expect me to forget tha—you don’t look very apologetic either.” He narrows his eyes at you.

“I swear I never meant to do any of that!” you defend, shaking your head profusely, “Maybe a little sometimes. But mostly never.”

Renjun breathes out, a defeated sigh tumbling out. He turns back to the sunflowers on the roof, a brief flash of respite passing his features. The following moments are coloured with silence and you lean back onto your arms. You can see the beautifully simple tattoo of Saturn on his left wrist peeking out of his sleeve. Renjun doesn’t like showing it to people often, and it’s not very easy to spot it either with his love for jackets and long sleeves. He said he wasn’t really thinking when he got it, just thought it was pretty. You think it’s just like him.

If you were to reach out right now, you could run your thumb over the ink, feel the skin. Your face turns warm. This is not supposed to be the feeling you get. You must not think the words, or you’ll accept them for reality.

You’ve started thinking this lately, but Renjun isn’t a bad person. He might be too honest for his own good but he has a strong sense of right and wrong, something your class is not wrong for admiring. He’s said he wants to be brave one of these passing days, (“I don’t want to run all the time. Just from the cops maybe. And anyone with a weapon.” “Glad to know you’re not going to jail any time soon.” “Don’t look so disappointed.”). You think he already is brave for being true to himself. He’s not always impulsive either, and he’s surprisingly kind often. He’s clever with his words, not just annoying. You realize you’ve seen only a shadow of him before. You feel guilty for having been so harsh.

“It’s funny,” he says, a small smile on his face, “People who know usually question me why I do this first. You haven’t questioned me yet.”

“Why do you do this?”

“I don’t know.” Renjun shrugs. “I just wanted to shove my feelings somewhere, I guess. You know. Choose your own sin, that kinda thing.”

“That’s nice,” you say, your smile mirroring his. “You don’t have to show off, Mr. Artist.”

Renjun laughs, his eyes twinkling with the stars. He doesn’t have to look like that. You look away for fear of delving deeper, something unknown gripping you. There’s an uncomfortable feeling choking you, its dark hands constricting around your neck. This isn’t good. You must not think the words, the feelings or they will become reality.

You get up suddenly.

“You think I can jump across to the opposite building?” It’s no use. The red must have started blossoming over your neck and ears already. No matter; you have to run away from this feeling somehow.

“What the fuck?”

“Treat me to ice-cream if I succeed,” you say, the adrenaline rushing in. Much better than whatever the hell had gripped you. The gap’s not that large; if you get enough momentum, you can leap onto the building’s ledge. You can run away.

Renjun stands up in haste.

“Did you get hit on the head?” He takes a step towards you. “Why the hell do you think this is a good idea?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Before you can step on the ledge, however, Renjun’s hand shoots to grip your wrist, the touch burning your skin.

“Don’t.”

Oh, you definitely know what this feeling is. You’re not sure what the outcome will be, especially when a mere touch to the wrist can bloom red all across your skin, free so many butterflies in your chest and stomach. You’re almost ashamed of yourself, yet a voice inside you is smug; it was bound to happen. Renjun pulls you down off the ledge and lets go.

“Oh, well. The last one to reach the ground treats ice-cream!” you declare before you rush to the door at lightning speed, and swing it open to exit. You don’t want your feelings written all over your face for him to read.

“No- what?! That’s cheating!” Renjun scrambles behind you, his voice full of annoyance, but a different kind than before. You wish it hadn’t changed, but you’re also not quite complaining.

Renjun hates this feeling more than he’s ever hated you. In fact, he can’t remember the feeling of hating you anymore. He wonders if it’s okay to have these thoughts about you.

Renjun spots your figure on the couch by yourself. Jaemin’s parties have two kinds of people—people drunk out of their minds and people only here by peer compulsion. He can’t say he’s ever seen you at parties before, maybe once or twice, not that he’s cared—he only wanted to avoid you then. He fidgets with the yellow sleeves of his sweatshirt; he doesn’t usually wear something this bright but he’ll blame you once more. He wishes you hadn’t been so elusive lately; a part of him feels weary without you and a part curses him for that.

Renjun’s heart leaps to his chest when he sits beside you, only to be greeted with a sweet smile and flushed cheeks. Stop looking at me like that, he wishes he could think the words into existence. There are scores of emotions tangled up inside him with no way to untie the multicoloured knots. It takes a while to calm his heartbeat, and even then, it’s unnatural. He might as well tell you at this point—tell you that he likes you, that he’s wanted you more than he’s ever wanted anyone. He read somewhere that summer is a good time to let out your feelings although he can’t be sure of the credibility of the article.

You’ve always been a problem for him, this stupid, annoying problem he wanted to get rid of as soon as he could. And yet, you’ve given him the sweetest picture of all. He doesn’t usually play this game—in fact, he’s never done anything like this before. He feels embarrassed every time he drifts past his daydream, wanting you to kiss him, caress his cheek and run your fingers through his hair. These thoughts feel more illicit than anything he’s ever done. Renjun feels weak in the head when you tug at his sleeve.

“Hi,” you greet, still smiling. Renjun desperately wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that.

Just confess, the voice inside his head tells him. Get it out of your system.

“Hey.”

However, the words halt on his tongue. This is the voice he’s been saying no to ever since you looked at him with wonder, with stars tugging your smile by those subway walls.

He needs to swallow his pride to confess— but just what is he doing? This is not what was supposed to happen, this is not something he’d ever imagine a few months ago. He’s practised the words, but he can’t look you in the eye. He can’t tell you, oh no. It’s easier to run away.

You tilt your head, your gaze soft and Renjun feels a sigh leave his mouth.

“I like you,” he blurts out. “Yes. I, uh, l-like you. That’s what I meant to say- what I’ve been meaning to say. For a while.”

“Oh, thank you,” you say, “That’s very sweet of you.”

You burst into a fit of giggles. Renjun is only slightly baffled as he examines your condition. Out of all the ways he’d imagined you reacting to his confession, this was not one of them.

“Are you- are you drunk?!” he asks, the realization dawning upon him. You reek of alcohol, he finds with a sniff.

“What? No. Go back to being sweet. What were you saying again?”

Renjun places his face in his hands and groans. Not only did his horribly timed confession go unheard, but also he’ll undoubtedly have to carry your drunk ass back home. He definitely does not want your family finding him with you in this state.

“How much did you drink?” Renjun asks with a grimace, helping you up.

“Renjun. You’re adorable,” you say, wrapping your arms around his torso. He freezes immediately, resisting an urge to push you off him. This is strange, the feeling is strange. Renjun’s cheeks have risen a few degrees, his chest blooming with electricity and his ears will blow steam if he doesn’t do anything soon.

“We need to get you home,” he says, the syllables distinct.

“How could I go home?” you whine, wrapping your arms tighter around him.

Renjun resists another urge to smack you over the head. His heartbeat is frantic at this point, and he wants nothing more than the sweet relief of death to free himself from you. Besides alcohol, he can smell strawberries, possibly from your shampoo, and a dash of fabric softener. You’re warm and comfortable, annoyingly so. If you stay like this, he might not be able to bear the thought of you moving away from him.

Of course, Jeno has to find the two of you like this, your head in the crook of his neck and arms wrapped around him as his own balance you. In the middle of the living room, you look like young lovers who have forgotten the rest of the room, the world. There are people all around, yet no one cares.

Better Jeno than the others, Renjun thinks when he meets his friend’s eyes, although Jeno can be equally teasing.

“Help me get them home,” Renjun says, pulling you apart and holding you steady. You let out a complaint that he ignores.

“You could take them to the dorms,” Jeno offers. “It’s nearby.”

“What?!” Renjun didn’t realize his pitch could rise that high. “Can’t they…stay here?”

“The rooms are occupied. Besides, your roommate’s on vacation, right? You can take the top bunk,” Jeno suppresses an amused smile. Renjun hates him looking so smug.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll…do…that.”

“Need help sneaking (name) in?” Jeno has a teasing lilt to his voice.

“No, I’m good,” Renjun responds quickly. Jeno won’t let him live, will he?

In the end, with much difficulty, Renjun actually manages to sneak you in and with even more difficulty, he gets you to sit on the bed.

“I like you like this,” you say with a laugh. “I wish you’d always be this nice. And loving. And nice. Everyone would love you more. Not as cool guy Renjun. But sweet guy Renjun. I love sweet guy Renjun.”

Renjun sighs heavily. “If I gave all my love away like that, do you think people would care about me for me?”

He shakes his head. There’s no way he’s having a coherent conversation with you right now.

“I would,” you respond, your voice meek.

Renjun ignores your answer; you must be too drunk to think right now. With a hurried goodbye, he turns off the lights and clutches his heart tighter to bed.

You clear your throat, trying desperately to distract yourself from certain memories of last night and the fact that you’re currently in the school dorms, likely in Renjun’s room.

The afternoon has bled well into wisps of the evening, and you look around more nervous than ever. You remember clinging onto Renjun a little too tight, your hands around his waist—it’s the first time you’ve touched him save for the occasional swatting at his hands or punches to the shoulder. What would the school think of you two warmed up so close to each other like that—what would Renjun think of your stupid drunk self holding on to him like that?

Or even worse, what if you said something? What if you let slip something important at a time when words don’t mean as much?

The door opens and you flinch, turning your head to find the object of your afflictions. Renjun blinks for a moment or two before he sits beside you. He’s wearing a thin jacket; it’s not cold outside but he prefers those anyway. There are a gash and a bruise on his cheek and you wonder which obviously larger and stronger opponent he pissed off again.

“I thought you’d never wake,” Renjun says, nodding to emphasize. “That’s my bed, by the way.”

“Who’d you get into a fight with?” You shift closer, narrowing your eyes.

Renjun sighs, making a face. “Some idiot. Why does that matter?”

“Hold that tongue of yours for once,” you chide.

He heaves a noise of annoyance. “What are you, my mom? I let you sleep here all of last night and most of today—and the first thing you do is complain. I could’ve left you at Jaemin’s house, you know?”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about—you have no control over what you say sometimes,” you state, an old feeling bubbling up. “You pick a fight with everyone.”

“No. Everyone picks a fight with me and they do that because they hate the truth.” He pauses to let his frown show in his eyes. “Are you telling me I shouldn’t tell people to stop being rude to waitresses or tell the other kids to stop whining about not doing anything? They know the truth too.”

“When will you realize there are things more important than the truth?” Your voice is louder already. But you don’t think you mean the words; they’re just cowardly, from a person too afraid to lay their feelings out in the open.

“So you’ve decided to be this way then,” he says, scowling already. This is an old scene alright.

“I’m just telling you what might help—God, never mind,” you say, standing up quickly, “This what I hate about you. You’re just- there are just so many things I hate about you.”

No, you don’t mean any of this but habits die slow.

Renjun looks up at you silently. The sunlight makes its way to his cheek, caressing it with golden hues. His hair brushes against his browbone, the sun apparent in the brownish loose strands. The gash on his cheek is unbecoming but if anything, it highlights the rosy hues of his lips and nose. You’ve never been this infuriated yet fascinated with someone before. Your hands twitch, head still clouded with unfamiliar thoughts and a hangover. You wish you hadn’t snuck a look at his lips.

“Go on then,” he whispers, eyes flickering down for barely a moment, “Tell me what you hate about me.”

Do you take the risk? You hold the fragile thread against your thumb, a small tug required to snap it off.

You pull him up by the lapels of his jacket into a kiss, his lips rough against yours. The force of your pull sends the two of you stumbling backward three steps before your lower back hits the side of the study desk. You hold your position, your shaking hands bunching up the cloth you tightly hold.

When he doesn't respond, you feel a tremor of panic—maybe you shouldn't have been so hasty, maybe you figured wrong. You pull away with a start, an apology popping up on your lips and warmth across your face. But in the brief stretch of a moment, Renjun slides one arm around your waist and the other against the table for balance, his torso relaxing as he pushes against your lips again to further the kiss.

When you pull away, Renjun’s face is a sweet shade of pink. He looks embarrassed for a moment before he furrows his eyebrows, lips curving to a frown.

“You shouldn’t go around crashing your lips onto other people’s,” he scolds.

Your face flushes hot and you stumble over words to excuse yourself.

“Sorry,” you say, “I should have asked.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mumbles. “You’re lucky I wanted to kiss you the moment I entered this room.”

You feel another rush of warmth to your cheeks. Renjun is no different, face splashed pink from his words and your actions.

Renjun dips his head and you press your lips against his in another kiss, this one much calmer as a promise, the feeling already getting familiar. Maybe fate had different plans all along and the two of you misunderstood. Or perhaps, you’ve fallen into something fate forgot to acknowledge, perhaps fate grew tired.

Renjun pulls away first, lips parting into an open smile. Your heart swells, all the contempt inside driven out.

“I was wrong,” you confess, “I was wrong about you- about a lot of things, actually.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same boat,” he says softly.

You bury your head against his neck again, the smell of summer wind and green tea hand cream wafting in. You can’t quite describe it but you’ve grown used it, the scent and the warmth. You’ve grown used to Renjun as a person now and not as the bane of your existence.

“You know, I actually wouldn’t mind,” Renjun says.

“What?”

“Going to prom with you.”

You laugh. He looks away bashfully, the dimple appearing once more and you know right then you’ve been wrong in cursing fate—this is a gift that took time, one you unwrapped late. He’s only occasionally timid, not looking to pick a fight and you want to cherish moments like these. You don’t have to say things to mean them with him; you don’t have to hold his hand to feel warmth. Whatever had been set up for you, the two of you have finished it and as your mother says, only once in a blue moon does fate betray its course.

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legolaslovely · 5 years ago

Text

Pretend

Written for gatheringfiki ‘s Winter FRE 2020. Prompt 104: Fili, a NASA scientist, and Kili, an artist

Pairing: Fili/Kili - Modern AU, Fili and Kili are not related

Warnings/Ratings: Teen, language warning

A/N: They’re such dorks, that’s all I have to say.

Summary: Fili is a data scientist at NASA and Kili is an artist who was hired to paint a mural on the overpass bridge outside the NASA facility. Staring through the window of Fili’s office may or may not go on.

Thank you so much @lakritzwolf for this beautiful photoset made as a prize for Winter FRE! Link Here!

There had been a lot of deception going on in the NASA parking lot this week. Deception, pretending, acting, bluffing, masquerading- however you wanted to put it, it was happening. Nothing was exactly malicious, but the two men involved were definitely not being truthful with themselves, each other or anyone around them.

Fili spent his days at his desk by the window, pretending not to notice the dark, lean artist on the boom lift outside. Fili was a diligent employee- he kept his eyes on his work and not on the over sized jeans Killian “Kili” Durin was wearing that had rags stuffed in the back pocket and splashes of finger tipped color all over the hips and thighs. He did not stare and most definitely did not groan aloud when the man he had never spoken to raised his arms to work on the lining overhead, leaving his shirt to ride up and reveal light skin, dark curls, and hip bones- all not delicious in the slightest. Nope.

Most importantly, Fili’s blood wasn’t boiling from the women in his office ogling and drooling over the artist that he didn’t know or care about. He was simply frustrated by his research and the most recent data supporting the terrifying and increasing existence of global warming, despite the constant twitter rantings of one idiotic, moronic, clueless, elementary president.

“Artists are good in bed, you know. They live by different rules than the rest of society.”

“No one should be allowed to be that handsome.”

Fili’s keyboard clicked louder than usual as his fingers slammed the buttons. Fucking useless president should look at this report about the melting ice caps and then tell me global warming is a conspiracy theory, Fili thought.

“I bet he’s good with his hands-”

“Can you ladies please take this conversation somewhere else?” Fili said with raised brows.

The three of them nodded, “Sorry, sir,” and left.

Fili did not peek outside to see dexterous fingers and veined hands create long blue lines- perfect, precise and flowing under the overpass bridge they were hired to work on. He did not think of other things those hands could do. That would be inappropriate. He was at work.

Similarly, Kili, outside, sweating despite working under the shade of the bridge, pretended not to notice the handsome NASA scientist who barely looked up from his research and sat just through the window. Kili did not chose his schedule to match the blond’s and he would never purposefully set the boom lift at a height that allowed him to see the other man perfectly any time he turned his head just right. To get the sun out of his eyes. That’s all.

He was painting with golds and blues because he was hired to paint the sun, not because this man warped his mind to see blond hair and blue eyes wherever he went. That would be ridiculous. Kili was a professional. He would never waste his time combing this particular branch’s website to understand the exact duties of this “Phillip” man who went by Fili- he had more important things to do with his time.

Above all else, if Kili happened to glance to the parking lot below at 6:10 pm every afternoon, it was not because he knew the scientists on the day shift got out at 5:30 and the blond data researcher always stayed to finish extra work before he left for the day. He didn’t wait religiously for Fili to wave goodbye to the security guard at the door before he crossed the lot, fishing his red NASA key chain out of his pocket. And he surely did not wait for this man- this stranger- to nod at him with a small smile that was the sun itself, no. No.

While Kili was busy not painting golden waves and sky blue irises, Fili was too preoccupied with anything but warm, calloused hands to notice one of the human resources secretaries come up to his desk with a stack of papers.

“These were just faxed over from headquarters for you,” Dawn said. “He never takes a break, does he?”

“Who?” Fili asked, not quite listening.

“The artist,” she said, finally giving Fili a valid excuse to stare at the painted hand prints on the back pocket of Kili’s worn jeans. “He’s been out there every day. Gets here before I do and doesn’t leave until it’s too dark for him to work. I’ve never seen him take a break- similar to someone I know.”

Fili rolled his eyes. “I take breaks.”

“Replying to emails on the toilet doesn’t count as a break.”

He scoffed. “How about you take a break from monitoring my breaks?”

“Ah, but there are no breaks to monitor and I’m sick of saying this word, so why don’t you just go take a you know what?”

After another glance out the window, Fili pushed back his rolling chair and stood. “I think I will.” He chuckled at Dawn’s dropped jaw and stalked past her, downstairs to the cafe.

Kili didn’t mind working in the rain. He was sheltered by his own work, the waves and shapes and colors he’d finished in the days before. The rain was warm and made the ground around him soft and fresh smelling. The sound was a personal soundtrack for his art and his distracted, ever present thoughts he pretended not to have about Fili, the beautiful, blond scientist. So when he heard a smooth voice from below and saw the aforementioned beautiful, blond scientist, Kili thought he was imagining it at first.

“What did you say?”

Fili held a wrapped sandwich high in the air. “Do you like chicken salad?”

“Love it,” Kili called down. More pretending. “Watch out, I-I’m coming down.” The lift chugged to life with a pull of the lever and Kili slowly descended to the ground, but it didn’t give him enough time to think of something intelligent to say. So he stuck out his hand, saw it was covered in paint, and sucked it back into his body again. “I’m Kili,” he said, grabbing the rag from his pocket.

“Phillip. Or Fili.” He handed Kili the offending sandwich.

Kili jumped to the ground and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “You wanna sit?” he asked, pointing to the lift. “Well, actually, it’s raining, so maybe not-”

“I don’t mind the rain,” Fili said. He moved to sit and almost leapt out of his skin when large, warm hands caught his waist.

“Wait- wait a second,” Kili said. “It’s dirty.” He couldn’t even pretend he didn’t get lost in those wide blue eyes before he remembered how to move his feet to retrieve a clean tarp from his gear. He laid it out on the lift and sat, unwrapping his sandwich that he would force himself to eat because this gorgeous man bought it for him.

A few bites went by in agonizing silence- Fili trying not to stare at the hands he’d been thinking of for days straight and Kili secretly taking mental screenshots of deep dimples that would star in his sketches later. Then finally, Fili spoke.

“I’ve enjoyed watching your mural grow. It’s- it brightens the whole office, really. It’s very... dynamic.” Really? he thought. Fili was an avid art collector, but Kili would never know that based on the line he just used. He wanted to ride the lift to its greatest height and throw himself off of it. But his thoughts stopped completely at Kili’s bright, toothy grin.

“Thanks. It will take a few more days to finish, but so far it’s been going as planned. You won’t be going on any space expeditions any time soon, right?”

Fili couldn’t help but chuckle at the drastic change of subject that Kili himself could barely seem to keep up with. “No. I like to leave that to the astronauts. Why?”

“Would you want to eat- a sandwich here? Again? Same time tomorrow?”

Fili nodded, dimples now permanent fixtures in his cheeks. “Yeah.”

#WinterFRE2020 #fiki

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dearlazerbunny · 6 years ago

Text

Fires Burning

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Jotun!Loki; G, no warnings apply

Words: 1200

Summary: Written for 1V1 on Ao3, who won a little contest I made for Lie to Me. Featuring Jotun!Loki, complete with horns.

You’re dragged before the king of Joutunheim, amongst ice and snow and inexplicably, fire.

“What. The. Fuck.”

You can barely get out your curses between viciously chattering teeth, and though you keep using what little strength you have left to twist and tug, the- things, dragging you along with them have an iron grip around your wrists. You’ve stopped kicking in favor of letting your feet be dead weight, but they just haul you through mounds of wet white snow like you weigh nothing. Even worse, the cold is slowly sinking into your bones, turning your fingers blue and lips numb. Everything you can see- the ground, the landscape, even the flurries falling from the sky- is ice and snow. It’s a winter wonderland, except it has teeth sharper than it’s razor-thin wind and it’s coming for your throat.

That is, if these monsters don’t break it first.

Monsters? Giants? You don’t know what to call them- these creatures that kidnapped you, at least twice your height and with pale skin covered in some sort of swirling runes that seem to shift in the light. The temperature doesn’t seem to bother them a bit. They wear fur- though not from any type of animal you’ve ever seen- but in configurations of ragged-cut skirts and thin vests that would offer little protection from the weather.

Unfortunately they haven’t offered you any of those furs, and so as they drag you to your impending doom your sweatshirt gets crystallized with snowflakes and your jeans rip open and crust to your legs. By the time you get to a massive set of double doors carved of pale ice and petrified wood, you’re afraid you’ll die of hypothermia before the giants have their turn.

“Quiet.” The one on the left of you grunts out the order in a gruff voice, peeved by your outburst. “Pesky little thing.”

“I swear to god-” he yanks on you harder, dragging you down a grand hallway. “I don’t know what you want with me but if you’ll just-”

Your words die in your throat. The end of the corridor gives way to some sort of throne room filled with even more creatures like your captors, gathered around a dias at the far end. The walls are carved with a language, maybe, one you can’t recognize, and there are actually fires dancing in alcoves inlaid in the walls and in the floor. You can feel the heat on your face- it burns, causing a few tears to streak down your cheeks- but none of the surrounding area seems to melt. There’s a sense of magic about the place, something ancient and strange, but you’re more preoccupied with both the relief of warmth and also the man staring at you from the far end of the room.

Because he is a man- at least, moreso than any of the other creatures you see. He’s tall, but only for a human, and his skin is more porcelain rather than stark white. Blue runes highlight sharp cheekbones and glittering, curious green eyes; he’s lither than the hulks keeping you captive, but you have a feeling he’s just as- or even more- dangerous.

You’re pulled through the room and deposited at his feet- without anything supporting you, your legs slack and you barely catch yourself before falling flat on your face. All is quiet except for the roaring flames. They cast shadows that stretch through the hall and fill your ears with strange whispers.

“What have you brought me?” The man- some sort of king, based on the wreath of wood and crystals circling his head and set amongst small, lethal looking horns peeking though his ink black hair. He’s beautiful, in some ethereal, fantastical way- you can’t look away. It’s a fever dream come to life right in front of you, fearsome appearance juxtaposed by a honey-smooth voice.

He notices you looking, and the corner of his lips tilt into a smirk. You force your gaze elsewhere.

“We found her in the wastelands, Lord. A strange creature.” You huff at that- you’re the strange one?- and receive a kick to the ribs for your trouble. “We thought it might make a suitable sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” You find your voice unexpectedly, even if it’s an octave higher than normal. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh,” the other giant says belatedly. “It talks, too.”

“I can see that.” The Lord’s tone is amused. He descends the steps from his throne and lowers himself so he can tuck a hand under your chin and force it upwards to meet his face. His fingers are soft, but cold. “A mortal. Fascinating.”

You want to spit in his face- or maybe slap him- but his gaze, those eyes, keep you glued to where you are.

“Is it acceptable, my King?”

“Mmm.” He circles you slowly, sizing you up. “You might have prevented her from freezing to death. She’s hardly useful like that.”

“Our apologies, Lord.” A heavy fur is immediately draped around your shoulders, nearly knocking you flat. Wonderful. It is warm though, so you try to count your blessings and keep your mouth shut. For the moment.

They talk amongst themselves for a while longer, lapsing in and out of a guttural language you can’t make heads or tails of. The carvings on the wall remind you of something from old mythology, depicting gods and heroes and monsters. “What are you,” you murmur, entranced by the murals, not realizing you’ve spoken aloud.

“I am Loki.” His name is accompanied by a wolffish grin and a click of sharp teeth. “King of this realm. And what shall I call you, my pet?”

“My name is Y/N,” you say harshly, “and I’m no one’s pet.”

“So ornery.” Fingers whose touch are becoming rapidly familiar comb through your mussed hair. “How refreshing.”

“Get away from me,” you spit out, recoiling from his caress.

“Believe me, I have no wish to harm you.” His voice softens, and you almost believe him. Almost. “Ask a question- any question, and I shall answer truthfully. A sign of good will, as you call it.”

Where am I. What are you going to do with me. How do I get home. Can I have something to eat. Are you going to kill me. Will the frostbite kill me first. Why do I find you beautiful, when I should find you terrifying. “The fires. They- they’re burning, but the ice doesn’t melt. How-?”

King Loki laughs, but not derisively- it’s actually quite a pretty sound, low and smooth. You almost want to make him laugh again. “A little mortal wanders her way into the realm of Joutenheim, surrounded by foreign creatures and foreign names- and she wants to know how our fires burn?” He’s almost gleeful. “Oh, I think I quite like you, my dear.”

“Bite me.” You say it as viciously as you can, imagining you could snap his neck with the force of it.

Loki only smiles. It sends a shiver down your spine, with something like fear and curiosity and anticipation. “All in good time, love. All in good time.”

#loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki imagines #loki x reader #loki x you #reader insert #jotunheimen #jotun loki

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thedustyrebel · 8 years ago

Photo

Alexis Diaz

The incredibly detailed mural by Puerto Rico based artist Alexis Diaz outside Rag & Bone on Elizabeth Street. More photos: Alexis Diaz, Rag & Bone Murals, Street Art

#alexis diaz #street art #nyc street art #urban art #rag and bone #rag and bone murals #nolita

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memcaked · 4 years ago

Text

send him home in a limejuice tub!

Source: Subarashiki kono Sekai | The World Ends With You

Relationships: Kiryu “Joshua” Yoshiya & Sakuraba Neku, Kiryu “Joshua” Yoshiya & Hanekoma Sanae, Sakuraba Neku & Honjo Sota

Characters: Kiryu "Joshua" Yoshiya, Sakuraba Neku, Hanekoma Sanae, Honjo Sota

Additional tags: Alternate viewpoint, Mostly canon dialogue, Week 2 Day 6, Introspective, Character study, Gift fic, TWEWY Secret Valentine, Not beta read

Summary: Joshua looks down at his hands for the first time. Almighty, almost a month and he forgot what it was like to be physical. Instincts, skin, nails - unchipped, rounded, inch-long keratin buried into the heels of his palms, threatening to break his skin.

Beginning notes: This was made for ShibuyaPharmacy as part of the TWEWY Secret Valentine event. She asked for art or writing with Joshua, Minamimoto, or Fret, so obviously it meant I had to enact one of my TWEWY ideas rolling around in my brain for this. Inspired by a tumblr post which I can sadly not find written by @/shadnoise analysing Joshua's body language in this scene, and pushed out today for my headcanon birthday for Joshua. Happy birthday to this anime game guy who hasn't left my brain for years I think its because we share a star sign

Body:

No matter how Joshua’s beams of light should be vaporising the Taboo noise the sound of them being Erased is always the same: screeching, scraping, like the coalescing of Shibuya soul and the something Minamimoto put into the refinery sigil roiling in its soul code. It's the same discordant chords striking their way across Shibuya this week. They’re awful, through and through - Joshua hacks on their smoke-and-oil stench, whether it's a horn or a kick or quills they leave his skin stinging and red. Taboo noise were nothing, a mystery untold until this week and it doesn’t do anything to convince him that this place can be saved when it's able to foster the frenzied supernoise brainchild of some young Officer with a usurper fantasy. Sanae would tell him J, you always think everyone’s out to get you, and he didn’t believe Joshua when he cited his evidence. As he feels himself falling out of the Noise plane he argues with Strawnae that his attempted murderer has learnt how to breed the dark arts and if he’ll even let him go he’s meant to be doing it thinking he shouldn’t be so negative and everyone he meets is an angel.

They drop back into the UG, or only Neku as he floats in the air. Down on the ground he’s planted to his feet, looking expectantly on wounded, Erased-to-be Sota. He should’ve put the unpartnered timers on their hands before he gave up his powers and his clairvoyance, has to count it by himself with one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi, four, without any ticking clock that he can see or divine when it’ll happen. “You OK?”

“Yeah... you saved my ass,” Sota cracks a half-smile, the muscles on the left side of his face going limp. His chuckle is half-hearted, a little pained. He knows his erasure is inevitable to be genuine about it, Joshua thinks along with eleven mississippi. “Heh, for now, anyway. I lost Nao... I don't have much longer.” He groans, body shaking as his voice cracks and a second of static courses through him.

Neku droops, his hair falling under his eyes, head buried in collar, spine slumped. “If... if we'd gotten here sooner--” Twenty two mississippi, twenty three mississippi.

“Ain't your fault, dawg. I wasn't strong enough. End of story,” He wheezes, gags a little trying to get the air back. The static flashes repeat, repeat, the pauses closing in. “Neku and Joshua, right?” Joshua lifts his head up, makes eye contact with Sota.

“Yeah.”

“You two survive,” The right side of his face falls. thirty nine mississippi, forty mississippi, “Get your old partner back,” He painfully clings to the last happy face he has, static almost falling out of his screwed-up eyes. “I hope all three of ya get back safe.”

He’s Erased with a buzzed heave, gone in a flash and a crackle. Sota Honjo, small-time criminal, Nao’s partner(-in-crime), joins her in Shibuya’s soul. Sixty mississippi. Neku runs into his spot, the crest of a building’s tall shadow, squinting towards the silver-lined rooftops. He shakes his fist, voice crashing up an octave, “Fucking reapers!”

“Angry, I see,” Joshua lowers himself down, huffing when he scuffs his sneakers on the pavement. When Neku whips his mink-lithe body around Joshua almost hears cracking bones.

“Hell yes, I’m angry!” The vessels in his eyes look swollen red, like if he has to feel for any moment longer they’ll burst into blood and tears.

“So what?” Joshua isn’t particularly interested in making eye contact with Neku - he runs the stopwatch in his head again. “At least you’re still in the game.”

Neku lunges two steps forward, the same shaking fist maybe two inches from Joshua’s nose. “Yeah, and what about those who didn’t? Screw the game!” He stomps his feet on the pavement and makes Joshua forget what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. “They’re people, not toys!”

Neku Sakuraba himself, grandstanding about people? People? The ones he was bemoaning a few days ago, the ones he hated so much Joshua chose him. He was such a rugged survivalist - knew how little time Beat and Rhyme had and only caved when they thought it was a good idea - and suddenly when he echoes Neku, Joshua walking away from this with a bruised bloody nose seems to rest in the balance of his outburst. The adrenaline of his thoughts distill into a slow cool-tongued mumble. “Why the sudden interest? I didn’t think you cared about other people.”

“No…” The taut muscles in Neku’s knuckle strain, his voice run ragged by his screaming? His crying? His energy?

The trail-off’s a chance for Joshua to load bullets into his barrel. “No what?”

Neku clears his throat and backs away, opens the sore fist into a palm. “Sure, other Players are strangers. Not just Players. Everyone,” Joshua looks down at his hands for the first time. “I don't know who they are, where they're from, what they care about,” Almighty, almost a month and he forgot what it was like to be physical. “But... since I came to the UG, I... I've talked with them a little.” instincts, skin, nails - “Got to know them a little. Felt them a little…” - unchipped, rounded, inch-long keratin, “Felt my world grow. Just a tiny, tiny bit,” buried into the heels of his palms, “It's different now. They're not just some strangers. I can't shut them out like that.” threatening to break his skin.

“My my,” He’ll understand, Joshua keeps assuring himself. Neku wouldn’t exactly be joyful but he’ll agree Shibuya needs to be shut down, die off with him. He’s - and a lump forms in Joshua’s throat - sounding like now, he won’t back down. “This isn’t like you at all.” He doesn’t even want to make eye contact. How does he get through to Neku? “Well, don’t get your hopes up. You’ll never really understand the people around you.”

“Enjoy the moment.” It’s what imprinting does to people but he only realises how wrapped Neku was around Sanae’s middle finger to Joshua’s crisis of function. Neku’s eyes shine, he mourns the Erased, he thought they’d walk together hand in hand but Joshua feels more and more like he’s reaching an arm out for someone crossing a threshold he can’t.

“Hmm?” Joshua imagines Sanae sitting on Neku’s shoulder, adjusting his halo and sitting in the white flowy robes he hates. Frustration shoots up his fingers and digs harder into his hands.

“Enjoying your world means making it bigger,” Joshua remembers how Neku told him of a girl who’s grip floated up and away from him. “I finally get that.” Joshua remembers that erased couple, arms linked in life, death, erasure, the erased couple who would hold Neku, Joshua, Shiki, everyone in their hands if they didn’t only have two. “The world as one person sees it is tiny.” Joshua remembers Neku, every day in his solitude admiring the mural, rubbing and caressing the wall of paint. “You've gotta... gotta reach out to other people.” Joshua glances back at Neku’s shoulder. He can’t see anything. His hands unfurl, hang free and limp at his side.

“...... Hee hee.” He doesn’t feel anything in his throat. “Maybe so. Only by allowing strangers in can we find new ways to be ourselves.” He wrings his body, one he needs to get used to. “It's possible. This mission looks like it’s up to us.”

Neku silently starts moving towards Q-Heads before stopping, staring over his shoulder while his partner stares at splayed hands. “Joshua?”

"Hold on,” he picks at his fingers, “I’ve broken a nail.”

Ending notes: Not exactly sastified with this but its been a busy lead-up to Valentine's offline and online, I'm glad this is done, and I'm happy if at least one person enjoys what I've wrote. Happy valentine's day, Jordan!

#twewy #the world ends with you #neku sakuraba #joshua kiryu #yoshiya kiryu #sanae hanekoma #fanworks #writing

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zenithlux · 5 years ago

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Cadence Update - 33

Catch up on AO3 Here!

My wish for you Is that this life becomes all that you want it to Your dreams stay big, your worries stay small You never need to carry more than you can hold And while you’re out there gettin’ where you’re gettin’ to I hope you know somebody loves you And wants the same things too\

My Wish - Rascal Flatts

-----------

A week went by, but nothing happened. Everyone was on edge, but all managed to pretend they were fine. Nero called Kyrie every day to check on the kids, and Vergil could hear the worry in his voice every time they spoke. Dante grew more and more restless, flying back and forth between Redgrave and Fortuna to take on any hint of demons. Nico continued to watch the DVD, but she could only work about half an hour at a time as the video kept freezing up and it took far too long to fix it.

Vergil went through some of the information with her, but it didn’t provide any insight into Mundus’ plan. It all seemed very straight forward. Demonic kidneys transplanted into demons with human forms. A liver for another. Lots of blood transfusions. Nico had yet to find Roxy’s surgery, and Vergil wasn’t certain Roxy would even want to see it.

“I’m sorry, Rox,” Nico said. “I wish I could get through it faster.”

Roxy just shook her head. “You’re doing your best. I’m sorry I haven’t been helping.”

Vergil did, however, manage to convince Roxy to keep working with her powers, if only to overcome her fear. It had taken many attempts to persuade her, as she struggled to get the temporary transformation out of her mind. But eventually, Vergil was able to coerce her into at least trying to learn small facets of her power. They focused on defense. She was summoning small walls for a shield, knocking things out of the sky and surrounding his own body with ice crystals. Anything they could think of to help him fight. Eventually, she started enchanting Aki’s arrows with ice and managed to freeze the enemies she hit. “Kuro used to do that for me,” She told him. “So, it wasn’t too hard to pick up.”

“You should still be proud,” Vergil said.

He’d gotten a ghost of a smile for that, but she hadn’t responded.

Now they were out wandering Redgrave, searching for any demons they could find. Nico was in the van less than a mile away, finishing up the last of the DVD. They all hoped it would be enough, but Roxy had too much on her mind to wait around.

“You know Dante got my mail yesterday,” She said as she plopped down on a piece of cement and looked over at him.

“Yes,” He said, leaning against the building. His human form was easy to maintain now. Almost easier than Shadow. If only V’s form was better in a fight. Vergil was fairly certain he’d break his bones just touching a demon, much less attacking one. She’d tried to summon his actual self but had only managed to change his hair. But Vergil was hopeful. She was getting stronger, little by little. He just didn’t know how much time they had left.

She reached into the inside of her jacket and pulled out an envelope with a golden seal. “An invitation to the gala,” She said. “He actually sent it.” She turned it in her hand. “It feels like a lifetime since we’ve talked about it.”

“Are you planning on going?”

“I haven’t had any time to paint,” She said. “I don’t even know if I have any creative energy left.”

“I’m sure you do,” Vergil said. “You just need some time.”

“What would I even present?” She said. “Assuming my house hasn’t been ransacked by now, all I was working on were flowers and butterflies.”

“And they were quite beautiful.”

She blushed as she met his gaze. “But I need something new. Something original.” She shook her head. “And with everything that’s happened...”

“Paint Kuro,” Vergil said. “You never did finish the mural.”

Her eyes seemed to glaze over in thought. “No I suppose I didn’t,” She said, her voice quiet as she held her hand out. A small ball of ice appeared, hovering there for a moment before she sent it away with a small, but unreadable smile. “A girl and her dragon.”

They looked up as the squealing of tires echoed in the distance. Nico barrelled around the corner, barely keeping the van on all four wheels as she slammed on the break and skidded to a spot. “Rox!” She said as she leaned her head out the window. “I think you’ll want to see this.”

Roxy glanced at Vergil as Nico disappeared into the back of the van. “How did she find us?”

“She always does,” Vergil said, helping her up.

“I’m still not convinced the van isn’t a demon.”

Vergil chuckled as the side door opened. “Come on!” Nico said, beckoning to them both. Roxy hopped in and Vergil narrowly made it inside before Nico slammed the door back closed. “I was watchin’ that tape,” Nico said as she tried to rewind it, hitting the remote a few times before it worked. “And I found this.” When she stopped, a man appeared on the screen. His resemblance to Roxy was uncanny; similar jaw-line, same hair color, eye color, and general build. This man, however, looked like he’d been run ragged. And considering the empty basement behind him, Vergil assumed he and Dia had just gotten done cleaning it all out.

“Dad,” Roxy murmured, her hands gripping the edges of her coat with such force that her knuckles had turned white.

“Roxanna,” Her father said with a small smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to speak to you, and I’m afraid it might be longer still.” Roxy’s eyes widened, but she didn’t speak. Her father smiled, and Vergil swore he saw a twinkle in the man’s eyes. “If you’re watching this, then you probably already know what I did to save you. I really hope Kuro or Dia told you before you watched this, or that might have been a terrible shock,” He chuckled, but it was strained and quickly followed by a sigh. “I want you to know that I tried to find another way out of this, but I’m afraid this will be my last night on this earth.”

Roxy’s hands wrapped tighter around her as her father continued. “I don’t know where you’ll be when you see this. I hope you’re happy and healthy and living life to the fullest. I hope you’ve found someone to cherish you even more than I have, whether it be Kuro or someone else entirely. I hope you have it in your heart to forgive everyone involved,” He paused and lowered his voice. “A few weeks ago, Raijin informed me that Mundus has taken his heart.”

“His heart?” She echoed. “What does he want?”

“Before he was taken away, Raijin warned me that Mundus has a prisoner whose body he hopes to use to cross fully into our world.” Vergil’s blood rain cold and Roxy shivered without looking at him. “Apparently he doesn’t believe any other body will work, and I know he wants to use my research to accomplish it.” His eyes closed for a moment as he took a long, deep breath. “I’m certain that Raijin has been commanded to take my work and kill me, as Mundus would never work with a human so far below him.”

He glanced behind him. “But I made sure there’s only a small amount left for him to find… enough to save Raijin’s life… and enough for you.” He shook his head with another, small smile. “He won’t be able to enter this place until you do. Dia’s going to seal everything up once I’m done. And don’t worry if he took the notebook. We already agreed that was what he would return to Mundus with.”

“But why?” She whispered. “What good is it going to do?”

“The notes are incomplete,” Her father continued. “The information is incorrect in some places. Missing in others. Mundus might believe he has everything I’ve ever written, but all he has is a bunch of medical jargon and a mess of scientist notes. Will it stop him? Probably not. Raijin knows enough about my work that he will be forced to interpret it, but I hope it gives you and Dia the time to find someone who can help.”

Roxy glanced at Vergil for the briefest moment. “It was you,” She muttered. Vergil didn’t reply; his stray thoughts were more than enough.

“Roxy…” Her father said. “My beautiful, wonderful daughter.” Tears filled the corners of his eyes. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now, but please don’t blame yourself for anything. Not for Kuro’s decision. Not for your sister’s death. Not for your mother’s failing health. Nothing. None of this is your fault. Raijin is fighting, but I know one day Mundus’ influence will be too much. He will come for you, and I pray you find a way to save him.”

“Save him,” Roxy echoed. “After everything…?”

“But I hope someday, somehow, you’ll see this and know how much I love you.” Her father blinked rapidly, dispelling any tears he could. He wasn’t very successful. “And I hope one day you can forgive me.” He smiled through his sadness.

As the video ended, the world shook. Roxy flinched, reaching instinctively for Vergil. Except that just destabilized him and they both ended on the couch. Nico stumbled past them both, reaching for a chair. Cracks appeared in the asphalt around them. “Shit,” Nico said as she made it to the front seat and threw the car in reverse. They hit a bump on the way, throwing Roxy to the ground as she dragged Vergil with her. He transformed before he landed on top of her, growling in annoyance. Roxy forced herself back to her feet as another shake jarred the van.

“What’s going on?” She said as she eventually found her way to the passenger seat.

“Hell if I know!” Nico said as she spun the wheel. She slammed on the breaks when more cracks appeared, throwing Vergil into the back of the seat. He heard a groan from Roxy and felt a pulse of pain in his chest. “Sorry,” Nico said.

“It’s fine,” Roxy said. “It’s not like I needed my ribcage.”

That’s when the demons emerged. Small creatures like the empusas scurried from the cracks to their side. Multiple scythes snapped up from the darkness before the ghoulish beings attached to them emerged, moaning and groaning as they wandered toward them. Three furies snapped up in a blur, landing and summoning their blades. Another jolt knocked a few of the weaker ones off their feet, but the others stalked forward. “Vergil,” Roxy said as she scrambled to the backseat and swung the door open, summoning her bow. “Fury's first or I don’t think we’ll last long.”

“You’ve never managed to shoot down a fury.”

“Well, I better figure it out now, huh.” She launched a trio of arrows, but the furies lurched forward. Roxy rolled out of the van, barely dodging a swipe and fired another shot. Vergil knocked the second fury out of the air, impaling it with his tail long enough for her to stab it with Kuro’s sword. The third fury appeared behind her. Roxy pulled back as the blade cut her shirt. When her hand snapped out to catch herself, a spike of ice shot out of the ground, piercing the fury’s chest. The third one slipped, and Vergil managed to catch it with his tail as she shot it.

“Does that count?” She said as she rolled to her feet.

“It wasn’t moving.”

“Still shot it.”

Vergil rolled his eyes as they turned on the other demons. Except they were gone, and a certain red-jacketed half-demon was standing in their place. “Good!” Dante said. “You got the other ones.”

The earth rumbled again. In the distance, Vergil could sense more demons all congregating in one area. But where? The underworld itself was breaking through the ground and Vergil didn’t know why.

“Take a wild guess where they’re coming from, Verge,” Dante said.

He looked up at Roxy’s blank expression, then back to Dante. He growled, hoping it would convey a silent where? Dante sighed, running his hands through his hair. “That stupid tree,” He said.

“The tree?” Roxy said. “You mean that giant thing that broke through Redgrave?”

“The thing I raised,” Vergil thought bitterly. “It can’t be back. We cut it down.”

When Roxy relayed this, Dante nodded. “It’s not back… but that’s where the hole’s the biggest.”

A gentle thud drew their attention. “He’s coming,” Raijin said as he leaned against the van. Nico scowled in the front seat, but wisely remained where she was.

Dante reached for his sword. “Bold of you to come straight to us.”

“That is what he demanded,” Raijin said, eyes locked on Roxy. “He’s not very happy that his favorite prisoner actually took my brother’s place.”

Vergil glared at him, but it was Roxy who took a step forward. “There’s a way out of this,” Roxy said. “A way you can live.”

Raijin scoffed. “What makes you think I want to?”

“Let me deal with this, Rox,” Dante said. “I'll make it quick.”

“Where’s Nero?” She said.

“Fighting demons with some other devil hunters,” He said. “Why?”

“Demons are coming from the center,” She said. “It needs to be closed.”

“We’re not totally sure how to do that,” Dante said.

“Go figure it out.”

He paused, eyes flickering between her and Raijin. “You want me to leave you alone with him.”

“She’s not alone.”

“I have Vergil.”

“But…” Dante sighed. “Come on, Nico. Let’s get you to safety.” Vergil was grateful when she didn’t argue, slamming her door closed while Dante summoned his bike. “Good luck,” He said as Nico climbed on. “Don’t make me regret this.” He hopped on his bike and the two were gone faster than Vergil could blink.

“We won’t,” Roxy said hollowly, her grip tightening on her bow. Vergil could feel her thoughts attempting to seep into his own, but she was either expertly holding it back, or it was, once again, too jumbled for him to make any sense of. “Right, Raijin?”

The man shrugged. “That depends on you, Roxanna. I have my orders.”

“It’s Roxy,” She said simply.

“I never called you that,” He said. “Drove you crazy, though you never did admit it.”

“We were friends.”

“We were nothing of the sort.”

“Then why haven’t you killed me?”

Vergil tensed, eyes locked on Raijin. He was confident he could defend her, though he wasn’t quite sure what they would do if he transformed. But Raijin made no effort to do so, nor did he move from his spot against the van. “I hated you,” Raijin said. “For stealing my brother away.”

“I’m not the one who killed him.”

“You might as well have,” Raijin said, his voice bitter. “If he were here… if he were with me…”

“He’s not,” Roxy snapped. “You made sure of that.”

“I did what I was told!” Raijin said. “I always…” His hand moved to his head, grunting. “I always…” His scales began to glow, even through his clothing. He stumbled back a few steps, leaning on the van for support. Breaths turned ragged. Eyes turned to slits, glowing a dark purple. Lightning crackled on his hands, and Vergil wondered if they should have let Dante kill him in the first place.

“There’s a way out of this,” Roxy said. “I can help you.”

“Enough!” When Raijin spoke, lightning slammed down around him. Both Roxy and Vergil jumped back, avoiding a strike. But Vergil didn’t think Raijin was really aiming. Losing it, maybe. But not trying to kill them. Not yet.

Finally, he looked up, his expression filled with hatred. “You can’t even help yourself.”

#zenni-writes #cadence #vergil #vergilxoc #vergilxroxy #dmc #fan fiction #dante #nero #nico

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dailycharacteroption · 6 years ago

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Class Feature Friday: Tribe Spirit (Shaman Spirit)

Family, community, oneness. As social creatures, humans crave these things, as do most other sapient races in fantasy. Community helps lift us up and be more than a clever beast in the wild thanks to the nature of education and the understanding of empathy and communalism.

Of course, having your very own guardian spirit doesn’t hurt either. Such spirits might entities that came into existence because of a community, adopting imagery that it’s wards ascribe to it, or they might be different sorts of spirits that the community decided to venerate that slowly became tribe spirits over time in response to the needs of the people under its care.

Don’t assume that this is limited to cultures that are less advanced than the baseline for your setting either. A larger city with a strong cultural identity might have a particularly powerful spirit of their own. Imagine what a major city in the modern world would have? “Brooklyn Stands Up” indeed.

The important thing to remember is that a tribe spirit is a protector of communities, no matter what form they take, including rag-tag found families of wayward adventurers and the like.

Shamans that channel these spirits seek to do the same, and while they may not manifest obvious physical signs of the spirit’s presence, they definitely adorn themselves in cultural iconography of the culture or group they belong to.

The spells granted by these spirits are revolved around supporting others, blessing them with good fortune, protecting them from harm, providing for them, summoning aid to defend them, linking to their thoughts, divining truths, and even healing them en mass.

In order to protect those they care for, shamans often entreat these spirits to intervene when a deadly blow is about to land, causing the foe to falter at the last moment.

Just as being part of a community brings solace, being an outsider or exile is agony, and these spirits can make the latter wash over foes, making it impossible for them to work with others effectively for a few moments.

By serving as an example, some shamans can inspire an ally to hold fast and steel their mind when fear or mental subversion attempt to take hold.

With a blessing, these shamans can make their allies so imposing that foes have difficulty maneuvering around them.

Supporting their allies is a key part of a tribe shaman’s role, and so many can also remove various debilitations with a touch.

While not otherworldly the way other spirit animals tend to be, the spirit animal familiars associated with these spirits often bear patterns on their body that resemble symbols and iconography of the shaman’s tribe, and they are preternaturally skilled at helping others.

These shamans are blessed with knowledge of how to work together effectively, and can command the spirit to temporarily impart this knowledge to nearby allies, allowing them to work together in powerful ways.

The spirit can also bridge the gap between minds, establishing a link with allies when the shaman prepares their spells, allowing all to communicate with their minds.

Additionally, they also can conduct spells to nearby allies, allowing the shaman to cast those spells that require a touch from a short distance.

The most powerful of these shamans become avatars of community, becoming incredibly difficult to affect with magic and other abilities, and totally immune to mental magics that would force a betrayal. What’s more, they can use powerful magic to instantly revive a downed ally they are bonded telepathically with from anywhere, as long as the two are on the same plane.

A powerful support spirit, such shamans help facilitate party communication and teamwork while shaving action and position economy with heals and buffs from a distance, with some flavorful debuffs against foes to boot. If you want to focus support, or need a bit of help supporting others for a day, this spirit is valuable both as a primary and wandering spirit.

It’s interesting to think what the effect that a tribe or community’s belief about their guardian spirit might have. For example, over time they may develop beliefs about the physical form the spirit takes, which will affect how it manifests. For example, they might conflate the spirit with a powerful magical beast that lives nearby, and so the spirit begins to manifest in ways that resemble the beast in question, and so on.

The ogres of Blade Ridge venerate a spirit they call Big Bear, whom they believe gives them great endurance and might in battle. Their shaman certainly enjoys the benefits of the entity’s patronage, surrounding his underlings in protective wards, though he saves the best spells for himself.

While not as much so as life spirits, sometimes tribal spirits serve a role in fertility in the context of perpetuating the tribe… but that is not what is happening to the Caribou Walkers, who have fallen under the depredations of a spirit, the remains of a deceased drakainia, whispering words to the shaman to bless the unborn with foul magics that will either make them stronger, or kill them. Either way, the results will be monstrous.

Whether it is on billboards, hand-painted signs, or elaborate wall murals, it’s clear that the town of Kallisville is in love with their local lake monster, which they describe as both fearsome, but also kind to children. The local bone-thrower even claims to be able to commune with the beast, though sightings and information seem dubious at best.

#pathfinder #archetype #shaman #spirit #tribe #ogre #drakainia #Wilderness Origins

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jasonnaylor · 6 years ago

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SPREAD COLOR TO THE WORLD 🌈 Part 2 of my collaboration with RAG & BONE for World Pride! This mural is on the side of the store on Houston / Elizabeth, and this design is all about putting our hands together and spreading love and color to the world. This is a very coveted wall and I feel so special that I was able to paint it, and with something meaningful to me. Thank you @ragandbone for having me :) Happy Pride month 🏳️‍🌈🖤💥 ———— Special thanks to @fillinglobal for making this happen 😌🙏🏻🌈 artwork by Jason Naylor

#IFTTT #Instagram #jason naylor #jason #naylor

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littleoldrachel · 6 years ago

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Eleventh chapter is up! Read it here on ao3, or here on ff.net, or under the cut.

100 Ways to Say I Love You Summary: In which actions speak louder than words, Sirius and Remus sort of fall in to a relationship, and even though neither of them have said those three all-important words, they both know it anyway.Or: 100 Ways to Say I Love You by Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Previous | chapter 11/100 - “You can have half.” | Next Based on this post by p0ck3tf0x Tw for grief, anxiety, hints at depression, a use of the f-word, mentions of child abuse.

Against James’ wishes, Remus’ advice, and Akilah’s concerns, Sirius returns to work just a few days after the news breaks. Having lost four days to his grief, his schedule is tighter than ever, but the pressure is a blessing in disguise - because he plunges headfirst into his projects, and just… does not surface.

Time loses all meaning, now that he's spending every single second in the office - sketching, programming, editing, it's all time-consuming work that requires Sirius’ utmost attention.

His friends bring meals to the office and his colleagues force him outside once in a while for some fresh air, but without his graphics tablet in hand, he's a shell of a person, aimlessly fidgeting and tugging at his clothes. He needs to be busy and productive because otherwise he's just the waste of space his parents always claimed he was, haunted by memories and longing for relief - but nobody seems to want to accept that. He begins to sleep at the office, but with no semblance of a schedule; he crashes beneath his workstation whenever exhaustion gets the better of him, and wakes to expressions of concern, aching shoulders, and the feeling of bone-deep fatigue that no amount of sleep can solve.

His grief is a current that keeps pulling him away from the work he's trying so hard to focus on, and every time it's a little harder to propel himself back to it. It tugs and claws and drags at him, and no matter how firmly he tries to embed himself in the sand, his pain is relentless.

But so are his friends in their compassion. Lily brings him his medication, and texts him reminders to actually take it, you silly angel. Frank cooks his favourite comfort foods, and doesn't complain a jot when Sirius cannot manage more than a mouthful. Kingsley makes him drinks by the gallon - some alcoholic, some not, some piping, some ice-cold, depending on how sad he looks at that moment.

Alice sends him videos of animals doing stupidly adorable things that thaw his frozen heart like nothing else can, and bakes him cookies and cakes that go largely uneaten. Peter seems to be the only one who understands Sirius’ need to be at work, because he enables him like the rest of the group refuse to - taking him to work, bringing him fresh clothes, asking him about the projects, and it's refreshingly normal where nothing else is. James encourages him to talk about his feelings, takes him to therapy, and doesn't get mad ever when it all gets too much and Sirius screams at him to fuck off, Prongs, I'm fine. Every time Sirius thinks James has peaked as a best friend, he goes and pulls something like this, which just reminds Sirius how utterly indebted he is for this friendship.

Marlene gets in touch with a promise to chase up the issue with Alphard leaving Sirius everything. Sirius wants to shout that he doesn't give a fuck, he wouldn't touch a penny if he could just have Alphard back, but he knows that she feels guilty she can't be there physically, so he lets her do what she needs to without arguing. On top of all of this, there are well wishes and messages of love from school friends he hasn't spoken to in years. It's a lot.

(It's too much, and every day, more and more messages stack up in his inbox that he simply doesn't have the energy or the will to respond to).

And then there's Remus.

Lovely, soft, understanding Remus, who comes to the office just to sit in silence and be with him because he somehow knows that the memories are a little less intrusive with his presence. Who brings him flowers just because Sirius’ shoulders slump a little less with the sight of them. Who stops him from torturing his heart with a caffeine overload. Who witnesses every single panic attack and anxiety attack and supports him through them no matter what he's supposed to be doing. Who never asks for anything from him but gives and gives and gives, and Sirius takes it all greedily, because God knows he's earned the right to be selfish.

(Sirius cannot comprehend why he's spiralling when he has literally the best support network he could ask for, but he hates himself for this perceived flaw in any case. And this self hatred only shoves him harder into his work - he doesn't spare a thought for what he's going to do when he's finished because all that is keeping him going right now is the fact that he needs to get these done).

His therapist tells him that the way he's responding is normal and expected, and he wants to yell fuck off in her stupid face, because if it is normal to be this angry and numb and depressed and overwhelmed, he is uninterested in ‘normal’ and ‘expected.’ He tries to channel this frustration into his art - because healthy outlets are important, she also reminds him, but there’s just… some kind of barrier? Blocking his emotions from the blank white page? He wants to fucking smash something - because fuck healthy coping mechanisms, fuck it all.

Of his two projects, the most pressing task is a double page spread in the next month's issue, which will introduce a character of Sirius’ own design, complete with costume, backstory, and a personal article. He has enough free reign that he barely needs to ask Akilah's guidance at all (which is a blessing because the thought of talking to anyone brings him out in cold sweats and ragged breaths).

His character is one he's been perfecting since his Final Project at university, and perhaps this makes it such an easy task despite the fogginess of his brain. He pours his tattered heart and battered soul into first the paper sketches, then into the tablet, his eyes aching from the attention to detail. What he ends up with actually stirs a feeling of something in his stomach, and he clings to the thought of something that isn't grief-related like a lifeline.

Ember, a trans woman of colour whose 'real job’ is in chemical engineering, can manipulate shadows to travel through the world, and she's, in Lily's words, completely fucking awesome, I love being bi. Sirius maps out her afro with painstaking strokes, referencing and counter referencing her features to ensure he's doing this right, and by right, he means don't be a racist fuck and make her nose all like a white person, in Frank's words.

The comic strip of her origin story involves an unhappy childhood, a found family, and a journey of self-acceptance that is so close to his own, it's almost embarrassing, except he's so in love with Ember, he doesn't give a single shit. Her superpowers come about from an experiment gone-wrong at work, the product of enthusiastic conversations he'd had with Gideon about the plausibility of this incident all those years ago. It’s nostalgic in just the way he needs - living in the past, a past in which Alphard was alive and well and thriving, means that he can pretend, however briefly, that the ground hasn’t collapsed beneath him.

The final section - the personal article - presents the greatest challenge, and he half-heartedly bashes out a few paragraphs on the importance of representation that make him wince in their detachedness. It takes almost a full bottle of whiskey late one night to actually allow the emotions to spill out, into sentences about how works like Queerllustration’s saved his life, how the realisation that people like him could be heroes too meant so much to anxious, closeted twelve-year-old Sirius. It’s cheesy and personal and possibly too-much when he sends the article to Remus to edit, because as gifted as Sirius is with pictures, it's Remus who's best with words. Remus sends an edited version back within a few hours, and Sirius loves him for it - both the eloquent way he's rearranged Sirius’ syntax and the speed with which he's turned a diamond-in-the-rough shiny.

The end result is one that, even in his grief and frustration, Sirius is proud of.

(He thinks Alphard would be too).

(If only he were here to see it).

The second project is one that Sirius had been so excited to be commissioned, because the idea of a mural for a children's ward sparks the sense of adventure and hopefulness that he sorely needs. Fresh from the adrenalin of churning out his first project, he refuses all offers of time-off or an extension, and ploughs onwards, ignoring how flat and empty the world outside his sketchpad has become.

Remus comes to the office at eight o'clock at night one day, and watches him work for a while in silence. He’s been working on the mural mock-ups for hours by now - a fact, he knows by the ache of his shoulders and the sting of tired eyes. Eventually, Remus shifts from his spot in Sirius’ swivel chair, and crouches before him, cupping a hand to his cheek and forcing Sirius to meet his gaze.

“Please come home,” Remus says softly, and the vulnerability in his eyes almost breaks Sirius. He almost caves. Almost.

“I have to finish this section,” Sirius mumbles, reluctantly removing himself from the warmth of Remus’ palm, and turning back to his designs.

Remus says nothing, and Sirius cannot bear to look back at him, for the disappointment in them will be unbearable. When Remus gets up and leaves, Sirius feels his already-broken heart shrivelling, and he forces himself to breathe through the pain of it, concentrating as hard as he can to distract from the ache in his chest.

But then -

The door clicks open once more, and Sirius jerks around in surprise. Remus is standing there, his expression heart-rendingly kind. He’s got a blanket wrapped about his shoulders and arms full of take-out containers.

(Sirius wants to sob at the gesture - at how good Remus is, and how much he cares - but he can’t seem to remember how. Or rather, there’s something that doesn’t allow the tears to come, they’re somewhere inside him, but trapped).

Remus sits beside him, and Sirius tucks against his side, huddling into the blanket that Remus drapes between them. When Remus pops the lids on the various containers, the aroma of Indian food hits his nostrils, and for the first time in weeks, the smell doesn’t nauseate him. He manages more than a few mouthfuls, listens to Remus natter about his day, allows himself this hour to just be.

Because then it’s back to the grind, and no amount of pleading from Remus will persuade him to cut himself some slack.

(Why should he take it easy when Alphard cannot take anything ever again?)

The finished design is pretty fucking epic; superheroes will decorate the wall, clad in brightly coloured costumes and masks, but these superheroes are special, because some are in wheelchairs or on crutches or missing limbs, some have Special Needs, some have no hair, some have oxygen tanks. In other words, they look like the children he’s seen on his visits to the ward, all with various illnesses and injuries, all far stronger than anyone their age should have to be.

(And if there’s a hero in there who’s older, with crinkles around his grey eyes and a wild mane of platinum hair, whose features make Sirius’ chest pang, then what of it?)

The commissioners are utterly thrilled with it. The children are delighted, the families are admiring, the medical staff appreciative. Congratulations, interview requests, and thanks come pouring in at an alarming rate. Plans are made for it to be painted the following month, and the attention it attracts funds a second commission in another section of the hospital. All Sirius hears is how well he’s done, that he’s a rising star, that this is only the beginning of a bright future. And of course, he’s grateful, these are things he’s dreamed of hearing his whole life.

But it’s too much.

Of the people clamouring his brilliance, there are none more enthusiastic or proud than his friends, all of whom photograph it from every single angle, save any and all mentions of his name in the local paper’s coverage, are more supportive than he deserves.

And Sirius -

Does not register any of it.

It's almost like he thought that finishing these projects and making a name for himself would feel like enough - would counter the horrible, unacceptable truth that Alphard is gone.

But nothing has changed.

Alphard is still gone.

And logically, Sirius knew that completing these projects and pretending things were normal wouldn’t change this fact.

But he still feels like a failure for it.

When the paint is dry on the walls, Sirius leaves the hospital, nodding at the nurses he’s come to know by name, and… walks. He walks past the tube stop he needs to take if he’s heading back to the office, past the stop that leads home, past the buses that he could catch to Peter’s - and he just keeps walking.

The sun drifts lower and lower in the sky, until the Christmas lights are flickering on and Sirius is low-key shaking with the cold the evening brings. Businessmen shove past him impatiently whilst tourists amble in front of him, and no matter where he positions himself, he is in the way, a burden, an annoyance, empty, empty, empty. Catching sight of his reflection in the shop windows is a nasty surprise; he barely recognises himself in the heavy bags beneath his eyes and the downwards twist of his mouth, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

By the time his nose is running from the cold air and his limbs are well and truly numb, the crowds have thinned out, but he doesn’t stop walking. His mind is oddly blank, and his feet keep carrying him, as though each step might shake off the incredible weight of grief he’s shouldering.

(It doesn’t).

He’s not sure at what point the tears start coming. In fact, it’s only when an older gentleman leaving a mosque stops him in concern that he’s even aware that he’s crying. He accepts the tissue the man is pressing on him, but waves off any other questions, dabbing his leaking eyes and forging onwards.

It’s ironic that the harder he cries, the more people avoid meeting his gaze. The tears are streaming and his vision is too-blurred to see straight - he’s a complete fucking wreck, and nobody cares enough to help him.

(Except that’s not quite true).

(Because there are friends who would help him only a phone call away, and it would break James’ too-generous heart to know that Sirius was walking the streets alone and devastated).

(As it is, it’s Remus’ door he ends up at).

(Because of course it’s Remus. It’s always been Remus).

He’s trying to pluck up the courage to knock on the door, when the man himself comes round the corner. Remus is wearing his university sweater - the one that Sirius likes to steal and curl up in because it’s huge and carries Remus’ scent better than anything else - and has his earphones in, a carrier bag swinging loosely from his fingers. Sirius hasn’t been spotted yet, which gives him approximately five seconds to arrange his features into something a little less distressing, and wipe his eyes.

Then, Remus looks up. The second his eyes meet Sirius’, he’s running - and Remus doesn’t run - but he makes the short distance down the corridor in record time, and presses a hand to Sirius’ cheek.

Neither of them say anything for a moment, but Remus’ eyes flit frantically over Sirius’ face, before he loops his arm around Sirius, and tugs them both inside his apartment.

(Were he in a better state of mind, Sirius would be concerned over the fact that Remus doesn’t bother with a key, because his lock’s still fucking broken).

Winky hops down from her perch on Remus’ countertop, and purrs as she winds through their legs, following them to the sofa. Remus pulls Sirius down beside him, and Sirius goes, willingly, hugging as closely to Remus as is possible. The tears, which have momentarily eased, return again in full force, and Sirius is racked with sobs as he arches into Remus’ lap. “W-why am I - crying - again?” Sirius manages, and Remus runs a soothing hand up Sirius’ back. “Why can’t I stop?”

“Because you’ve repressed this for too long,” says Remus so gently that Sirius doesn’t even flinch at the blunt honesty of it. “Because you pushed through it, and didn’t let yourself grieve.”

Sirius screws his eyes shut, the pain in his chest mounting with every ragged breath he draws. “It hurts, Moony.” He claws at his chest vaguely, though hurts doesn’t even cover it - it’s all-encompassing, all-consuming -

“I’m sorry, love,” Remus whispers. He twines their fingers together, rubbing his chest in circular motions. It does nothing to ease the pain, but it’s a reminder that he’s not alone in this hell-hole, and it’s Remus.

“Hurts,” Sirius repeats to himself.

“What can I do?” Remus says, the desperation seeping into his tone.

Sirius shakes his head, has to bite his tongue to stop himself from snapping something like bring back my dead uncle, and murmurs, “just hold me?”

“Of course,” Remus whispers, tugging Sirius even tighter against his chest.

Eventually, Sirius’ flow of tears ceases, though this has more to do with dehydration and exhaustion than because he’s nowhere near done feeling terrible about it. From that point, the intense cuddles morph into something more relaxed; the tv is left on a Netflix show they’ve both seen before, Remus reheats some leftovers, and Winky settles down in Sirius’ lap. Sirius looks blearily at the menorah in Remus’ window - it’s electric, because anything else in a flat so poorly-built and badly-designed seems too risky - and watches as Remus lights another of its candles. He looks so beautiful in the candlelight - all soft edges and warm golden glow - and he ducks his head self-consciously when he catches Sirius’ staring. “Happy Hanukkah,” he says.

“Happy Hanukkah,” Sirius returns, trying to ignore the thought of is Remus missing Hanukkah with his family? Is that because of me?

“Where do we go from here?” Remus asks, what must be several hours later, judging by the temperature drop in the room. Sirius, almost cozy and comfortable in his nest of blankets-safety-Remus, takes an anxious breath, because he knows what he needs, but it’s not what he wants.

“I think… I need to sign off work for a while. But like, properly this time.”

Remus squeezes his hip where his hand is resting. “I think that sounds like a really smart idea. I’m proud of you.”

“I love you,” Sirius says quietly, and one day, when his head is less grief-heavy and his heart less broken, he will be able to say those words with the full significance of everything in his soul. But today is not that day.

Remus replies at once, and the words bring a warmth around his heart that is the most feeling he’s had in far too long. “I love you too.”

And so begins a true healing period. One in which Sirius lets himself sob when he feels his heart re-shattering, scream when everything feels so unfair dammit, smile when something pleasant happens - because lovely things do happen, and he doesn’t have to live the rest of his life feeling guilty for it.

(Or so his therapist says. He’ll get there eventually).

In other news, he’s sort of living at Remus’ now? For the time being at least? The first night he’d slept over, Remus had had to go to work the next day, and Sirius just… didn’t leave. And then he continued to not leave. He spends the time Remus is working hanging out with his friends in their various workplaces, or binge-watching shows with Winky, or sketching for fun, not for work, I promise, Prongs. It’s the first time in forever that his mind has been able to just be, and he can feel the weight lifting a little with every day he spends waking up to the sight of Remus bashing his alarm clock in annoyance.

That’s not to say it’s easy - it’s not. There are days where getting out of bed is Far Too Much, and he cannot breathe for panicking. There are times when he remembers that he’s probably really overstayed his welcome at Remus’ and works himself into a tizzy about burdening his best friend.

But there are also lazy Saturday mornings with pancakes and syrup, late-night excursions for ice cream, tug-of-wars with Winky, outfit-selecting for Remus, phone conversations to Remus’ family… it’s all so fucking domestic, and it makes Sirius’ heart ache for what could be. The thing is, living with Remus is safe and warm and comfortable, and Sirius wants it all, all of this and so much more.

(“Is it helping?” James asks him one Wednesday evening, when Remus has a bar shift and it’s just the two of them in the flat. Sirius feels guilty for the wistfulness in James’ eyes as he nods, but his heart flutters as James admits, “you seem so much better these days. Remus is so damn good for you”).

In Sirius’ incredibly unbiased opinion, he’s inclined to agree, because days later - days? weeks? months, even? - he opens his eyes, takes a breath, and isn’t bombarded with painful memories. And a little while after that, he wakes up and finds that his chest isn’t a gaping hole - it’s more like there’s the skin covering the wound is thin and fragile, but healing. He’s healing.

Before Sirius’ colossal and overwhelming breakdown, Marlene had promised to help him with the Will Situation, because an official-looking letter arrived from his parents’ lawyer that had made him burst into tears without even opening it. He kind of assumes she’s got better things to do, until one day, he gets the following cryptic message:

Marlene: ahem, bow down before me, underling, for I have worked magic and it is finally time to recognise my brilliance

Sirius: ????????

Sirius: i kno ur brilliant i don’t understand

Marlene: true, true

Marlene: but no seriously, I’ve dealt with your shitty family and the will money is yours. They can’t touch it, or you.

Sirius: ??????

Sirius: !!!!!!!

Sirius: are you for real???

[Sirius is calling]

“Marls,” Sirius half-sobs the second she picks up, “Marls - thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Marlene’s voice - usually full of the fire and justice that make her such a successful lawyer - is soft, but no less protective. “It’s amazing what you can achieve with accusations of child abuse and neglect.”

Sirius winces, because she’s right, but the truth hurts. “I love you,” he says, and Marlene makes an mhm sound that Sirius knows is accompanied by a hair flip. “I - I don’t know how to thank you enough -”

“No seriously, don’t mention it. You’re my friend and I would do anything for you, yada-yada-yada, let’s not get sappy.” Marlene’s briskness has returned, and Sirius can’t help the fond smile his lips curve into. “I’m gonna send you over the details of emails between me and their fuckheads - I mean lawyer scum - and the form you need to sign, and then the money is yours.”

There’s a pause, in which Sirius exhales, trying to process everything all at once, and Marlene softens her tone again: “And Sirius, love?”

“Mmm?” Sirius says vaguely, still too affected to deal with more.

“It’s a lot. The money, I mean. He’s left you everything.”

“I don’t care about the money - as long as I don’t have to face them again, I couldn’t care less about-”

“You will, when you see it.”

(Despite Marlene’s efforts to warn him, waking up one morning with an extra two digits on his account balance is a shock, to put it mildly. Once he’s finished logging in and out of his account, refreshing the page, and even contacting his bank, it finally begins to sink in that Alphard has given him everything. And the implications of that generosity are huge).

Because, here’s the other thing: Sirius knows that Remus is poor. Living with Remus had been like a brick in the face at university, because he’d never had to worry about where his next meal was coming from, or choosing between paying the gas bills and paying for school textbooks. But Remus did have to, saved and scrimped every penny like it was goldust, and got terrifyingly annoyed at the rest of them if they were ever wasteful. But somehow, in Sirius�� disgusting throne of privilege, since university he’s sort of forgotten what it looks like to be poor. It’s only as he watches Remus cut open toothpaste tubes to scrape off the remnants, or mix his toiletries with water when they’re half-full, or save potato peelings for homemade soups, that he remembers. (And he’s completely disgusted with himself that he ever forgot).

He watches Remus’ pile of bank letters grow, watches the way Remus’ wrinkles deepen and his shoulders climb higher and higher with tension whenever he’s opening his bills. He watches Remus’ gaze skip straight over the Tesco Finest selections, to the reduced to clear and everyday value ones. He watches Remus wear through the sole of his shoes, shrug and continue wearing them, because what choice does he have?

And his door’s still fucking broken.

Sirius thinks it’s this last thing that causes the spark of inspiration in his brain, and once it’s ignited, it’s unstoppable.

“We should move out and get a place together,” is what he proposes over dinner that night, his heart hammering and palms sweating.

Remus raises his eyebrows, forces a laugh, and says, “very funny, Padfoot.”

“No, I’m serious -”

“So am I,” Remus says, laying his fork back on the plate. “We’ve talked about this before. This place is a shithole but it’s also the only London property in my budget.”

“Not if we were living together.”

Remus pauses, and for a split-second, Sirius thinks he’s going to agree. “You and I have wildly different budgets,” he says eventually, taking a sip of his drink, and not meeting Sirius’ eye. “And besides, I thought you were saving up for your own place?”

“Just listen to me, for a second,” Sirius says, reaching across the table and wrapping his hand around Remus’ wrist. Remus looks at him, but says nothing, and Sirius takes this as a sign to continue. “I’ve researched this properly, Moony. This place is awful, and I hate the thought of you living somewhere like this… but if we joined forces - well, with the money from Alphard, we could get somewhere together - somewhere nice and safe.”

Remus has stiffened, and Sirius feels the anxiety creeping up his spine like a serpent.

Fuck.

“I don’t want your money, Sirius,” says Remus tightly. “Or Alphard’s. Let’s drop it.”

“But it could help us find somewhere to live,” Sirius protests, his anxiety making him clumsy and insensitive, but also unable to stop his efforts. “You could live somewhere with a landlord who’ll fix your door, and where you don’t get faggot written on your mailbox, and where-”

Remus stands abruptly, taking his bowl to the sink, and scrubbing at it harshly. “Drop. It.”

“Just explain it to me then!

“I just did, you’re not listening.”

“If this is about the money, then you know I don’t care -”

“Exactly, you don’t care about it,” spits Remus, whirling back around to face him and - oh, he’s pissed. “Because you’ve never had to. You look at a place like this and think, oh what a dump, and throw your money around, but for some of us, this is as good as it gets, okay?”

He’s not quite shouting, but this is no longer a conversation, and Sirius feels awful and shaky. “But I’m offering you a way out of that,” he says in a small voice, even as he digs himself further and further into this grave.

Remus closes his eyes, presses his fingers against his mouth, and says, “I don’t want your money. I’m really happy that Alphard’s left you enough money that you’re able to offer this, and I know this comes from a good place, but-”

“You can have half,” is what spills out of his mouth, and he knows how it sounds - it may have come from a place of utmost care and concern but right now, it just sounds privileged and classist and awful. “I-”

“I don’t want your money,” Remus repeats. His face has shuttered off, and Sirius feels a swell of annoyance because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Stop being so bloody proud, I just want to help,” Sirius snaps back, hating himself even as he’s ruining everything. “I love you, and I don’t want you to live like this.”

Remus laughs, but the sound is wrong-wrong-wrong, miserable and cruel and so un-Remus-like that Sirius flinches. “If you really loved me, you would understand that you’re being a massive dick about this.”

Silence falls. Winky looks between them, at the shattered remnants of their friendship/relationship/whatever they are to each other. Sirius’ chest hurts once more, but this is an entirely different type of heartbreak, one that he’s not sure he’ll survive.

“You can go.” Remus won’t look at him.(Sirius has ruined everything).

#littleoldrachel writes #writing #fic #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #100 ways to say i love you

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