#teach your man how to squabble

[queenielacy]

Danny Garcia throwing Jack Perry against the wall so effortlessly.

[tredawakandan]

Not really mentioned it b4 but I definitely like criminal shows like Snowfall , Power etc.. In the last year or so I started hearing about another show called Top Boy. Gave it a watch and watched the original series. It was cool, ok😅. Im saying this to say please stop comparing Top Boy to Snowfall or Power. Online that's all I see every now and again. Please stop it 😭. In no way are they in the same tier.. Just to get in depth more people actually believe Sully and Du Shane could actually be a credible threat to the others in Snowfall/Power. Please stop the 🧢. Call it American bias😅 but sorry UK drug/criminal culture just ain't can't compare in my opinion. Y'all giving Sully credit for punking dudes who carry 1 gun for every 5-15 people 😭😭. C'mon now they not even in the same lvl of danger. . Y'all really believe that they on the same lvl of Mr Brick By Brick😂 .Ain't a single nigga on Top Boy can mess with Tommy(Power) or Jerome(Snowfall)That's my Ted talk see y'all later 👋

[beforetimes]

OKAY I am back (sorry). I woke myself up with another question about the Shizun!LBH/disciple!SQQ au. I tried jotting myself a note and going back to sleep, but.. yea here I am.

So! Yue Qingyuan. So far it seems to have been implied that all the peak lords except Shen Qingqiu are the same. Liu Qingge for instance was implied to have a friendship (frienemies maybe?) with Luo Binghe. And I can’t remember right now but I think I saw other peak lords mentions?? I could be wrong though. It’s 4am.

Anyway, so I was sitting here thinking about how Yue Qingyuan would probably still be Sect Leader in this au based on that knowledge. But with Shen Qingqiu as a disciple, that inserts a huge age gap there, which means the couldn’t have been slaves together as children and that whole shitshow wouldn’t have happened. This is a Yue Qingyuan who never met his Xiao Jiu in his formative years and failed in his promise to go back and save him. This is also a Yue Qingyuan who wouldn’t have rushed his cultivation and had his life tethered to his sword.

So either, this au rolls with an uber powerful Yue Qingyuan without broken cultivation, orrrr… we’re gonna have to break him some other way 😈

oh no how terrible 😈

Anyway suggestions for your perusal!! I was thinking it’d be interesting if Yue Qingyuan used to feed homeless children while out and about as a disciple. Before the previous Cang Qiong generation ascended, he used to wander around every once in a while as a sort of… short vacation from work. He went out to escape the weight of responsibility he had just for a quick breath before returning, and while out he’d stumble across kids that were hungry so he’d feed them what he could to help a little before going on his way.

And that’s where he meets Xiao Jiu, a feral little homeless child who’s rude and brutally honest and will absolutely bite if you get too close. Yue Qingyuan thinks he’s the cutest little thing he’s ever seen. He lets the child hang out with him every time he’s in town and the kid grows attached. Yue Qingyuan does too. He notices the kid has a knack for cultivation, teaches him a few small tricks, and promises that when he’s old enough, Yue Qingyuan will take him to his sect and Xiao Jiu can cultivate just like his Qi-ge.

At one point, when Yue Qingyuan is visiting the town, Luo Binghe, the head disciple of Qing Jing Peak, finds him and interrupts. Don’t know exactly how it plays out here, but I know one thing, Luo Binghe insults Shen Jiu and Shen Jiu never forgets and that man can hold a grudge.

Time passes and Yue Qingyuan ascension to Sect Leader is getting nearer and nearer and he’s around less and less the but he still finds the time to visit and see Xiao Jiu. But then, one day, Yue Qingyuan shows up and Xiao Jiu is gone. Yue Qingyuan looks everywhere, but can’t find him. All that’s left of him is some rumors about slavers.

Yue Qingyuan is horrified and angry and qi deviates. It damages him in ways that’ll never quite be fixed. He feels like a failure, and hates himself for it.

When he recovers, he tries to track Xiao Jiu for years. During that time, he quietly becomes the force behind many slave trading rings being dismantled, but he never finds Xiao Jiu. He becomes resigned to the inevitability that his Xiao Jiu died.

Until of course, one fateful day, at a disciple selection some years later, a scrawny, familiar looking teenager is digging away in the dirt aggressively. And all Yue Qingyuan can do is stare and stare and stare like he’s seen a ghost. And he numbly watches as Liu Qingge and Luo Binghe good naturedly squabble over who gets to take the kid, before a gloating Luo Binghe collects his Xiao Jiu and takes him back to Qing Jing to become a disciple there.

And all he can hear is a ringing in his ears. You’re supposed to be dead. You’re supposed to be dead. I mourned you. I mourned you I mourned you I mourned you I mourned you.

.

…yea so sorry I kinda went off again 🥸 but the thought of Yue Qingyuan and Luo Binghe paralleling their reactions to Shen Jiu/Shen Yuan had me in a chokehold and I blacked out and was possessed. My hand just kinda… slipped.

[link to og au here]

all fun stuff! yue qingyuan in this au.. hmmm i feel like he'd be a tough character to write in this setting. i imagine he would grow up a slave for a short period of time—i don't remember if this is fanon or not but i like the idea of shen jiu being the more calculated and trickster-like between the two of them. managing to get them out of tight squeezes that yue qingyuan couldn't quite do himself as a child in this verse.

i also think he would grow up more isolated. a lot more lonely. he doesn't have much of a driving force leading him to become a cultivator but once he escapes from whatever family has bought him, he doesn't really have anywhere else to go, either. he ends up at cang qiong mountain and is just. kind but distant from everyone. he doesn't quite know how to get close and even with lessons from his teacher, he's skilled at politics but stumbles around smalltalk like a baby deer on spindly legs. which is why he starts retreating to the marketplace, an area he's much more used to being in, to relax and remind himself, in a way, of how far he's come?

which is where he would meet xiao jiu, etc etc etc. i like the way you described their relationship here, and it makes sense! i think that xiao jiu would also be like, the first real human connection yue qingyuan's felt since clawing his way up the ranks of qiong ding peak slowly but surely. which might feel stupid to him, considering he's talking about a street child, but! yue qingyuan both sees himself in xiao jiu but also sees a diamond in the rough. so he does advise him on some meditation he could practice to get better, even if xiao jiu turns his nose up at it, and buys him food and all. luo binghe i think would see xiao jiu exactly once and not even remember meeting him a few years later when shen jiu comes up the mountain to earn his place in the sect.

and like! i do like the idea of yue qingyuan hearing rumours and doing this systematic dismantling of these slave rings but wouldn't it be just a hint more tragic if there wasn't even a word on the wind about it? just another street kid gone missing, no one's noticed and xiao jiu's been combatitive enough that none of the other people yue qingyuan speaks to now and then have bothered to keep tabs on him either. so he's left to think he's missing or dead.

and even if he did want to go looking for him! he's promoted to sect leader as the previous generation ascends shortly after. there are too many responsibilities for him to keep up with, securing their place with new leadership in all 12 peaks, and even though he desperately wants to go find xiao jiu, he just. can't.

which is where the qi deviation comes in. and generally growing distant from the rest of the peak lords similarly to how he was when he first came to the sect.

i think even when shen jiu does come back, he'd be glad he's alive but also keep a bit of distance. like, just to protect himself emotionally, almost. if this was the canon-verse it would be extremely out of character but here—? him and xiao jiu might have bonded but it was hardly to the extent that the canon characters did. imagine more a big brother, little brother sitatution that yue qingyuan steps back from because he doesn't want to bear the hurt of losing him again and he's luo binghe's student anyway so there's no reason to go over to qing jing peak all the time, especially when luo binghe's been getting more and more irritable and chases just about every peak lord away from his home when they come over even for a moment.

trying to figure out the issue of xuan su, though—hm. i'm not entirely sure what to do about that at the moment. i think the best thing i can turn over in my mind is, like. luo binghe, after his mother dies, ends up under wu yanzi's tutelage somehow. who brings him over to the immortal alliance conference that yue qingyuan is attending. there's a fight between the pair and luo binghe manages to throw off wu yanzi's thrall of command enough to fight back, but at that point some of the demonic cultivation techniques used screwed with the bond between yue qingyuan and xuan su?

so as luo binghe enters the sect, yue qingyuan has no choice but to split time between qian cao and the ling xi caves to recover. which gives a reason for luo binghe to have his classic protagonist backstory of being bullied before rising to acclaim—disciples on the peak upset with him for hurting yue qingyuan, their friendly shixiong and future sect leader.

hope this was a good read, lol. a lot of this is unpolished and i'll have to figure out the details of xuan su a bit later, i think.

masterpost

[corroded-hellfire]

Pixie Dust and Dates - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Trying to get over your crush on your boss Eddie, you’re going on a date after you finish babysitting tonight. So, why do things seem to get tense between the two of you when he finds out?

Note: Needed a little jealous Eddie in my life. This takes place before part one so I guess it’s a bit of prequel. I hope you enjoy! 🩵

Warnings: older!eddie, babysitter!reader

Words: 2.8k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Luke, are you not going to let me leave?”

The little boy hangs onto your waist, his little feet on each of yours. A devious giggle leaves his lips as he buries his face into your stomach. 

“Never!” the little boy cries. “You’re my prisoner!”

“Oh no!” you feign gasp. “Whatever shall I do?”

Ryan jumps up on the couch and does his best superhero pose with his hands on his hips. “I’ll save you!”

“No, she’s stuck with me forever!” Luke says, tightening his hold on you. It’s sweet, but he’s also getting pretty heavy on your feet. 

“She’s got school, ya know,” Ryan says as he jumps down from the couch. 

“She can come to school with me,” Luke reasons.

Ryan rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Can you believe this guy? you can practically hear him say.

“She’s in college, Luke. She could teach your kindergarten class.”

“All right, you two, that’s enough squabbling.”

“But do you have school?” Luke asks, looking up at you. 

“It’s Friday,” you say, poking the tip of his nose with your pinky. “It’s just like you, I don’t have to go until Monday. But I do have plans for tonight and tomorrow. So you can’t hold me prisoner forever!”

“Whatcha doin’ tonight?” Luke asks, grip loosening on you only slightly. 

“Well,” you say as you feel your face getting warm. There’s no harm in telling them the truth, right? It’s nothing bad and you don’t want to lie to them. So, why is there a sinking feeling in your stomach about the Munson’s knowing you’re going on a date? Just because you’re head over heels for your boss doesn’t mean you’re cheating on him by going on a date. But that’s what it feels like for some reason. All of your emotions are so consumed by one man who is married and has beautiful children and now it’s so bad you feel guilty over going on a date with a guy from your history class. The boys are still looking at you expectantly as your mind wanders off. “Oh, um, I’ve got a date.”

“A date?” Ryan asks with the most adorable grin. 

“Yes, a date,” you reply, face getting hotter by the second. 

“Oooooh!” Luke coos, smirking up at you and looking identical to his father. His wonderful, beautiful father. “Where ya going?”

“Dinner and a movie.”

“What’s his name?” Ryan asks.

“Peter.”

Luke gasps and gives your aching feet some relief as he jumps off of you. “Like Peter Pan?”

“Or Peter Parker,” you say.

“Who?” Luke asks, scrunching up his nose. 

“Spider-Man!” Ryan informs his little brother.

Luke shrugs, not caring about the web-slinging superhero. “Peter Pan is better.” 

Ryan gasps and begins to excitedly jump up and down in front of you. “Ooh! Ooh! Can we play Peter Pan?”

“How do we play that?” you ask.

“I mean like, play pretend,” Ryan explains. “I can be John, Luke is Michael, and you’re Wendy!”

“Who’s Peter then?” Luke asks with a huff, obviously wanting to be the main character.

“Daddy,” Ryan says, turning to him. “When he gets home and comes in the door it’ll be like when Peter comes in the window!”

Luke crosses his arms over his tiny chest, not sold on the idea. “Who’s Mom? Tinker Bell? They got the same hair color.”

“Mom is Captain Hook.” Ryan answers so quickly and with such conviction that it’s a struggle for you to hold in a bark of laughter. The kid is right, their mom is definitely the one most suited to play a villain. “She’s Hook because when she comes home, she’ll make us stop playing the game. The bad guy!” The words break your heart. You’re not sure which is worse: the fact that the words are true or the fact that Ryan has learned how cold and uncaring his mother is at such a young age. 

The younger Munson brother looks more convinced of the game now, his arms dropping to his sides and his shoulders relaxing. 

“Where’s Tinker Bell? And Nana?” Luke asks, apparently looking for plot holes in his big brother’s imaginary scenario.

“Well,” you say, “Tinker Bell is a pixie. So she’s so tiny that it’s hard to see her. She could be anywhere!”

Mollified by that answer, Luke nods his head. “And Nana?”

“Nana didn’t go to Wonderland,” you say.

“Neverland!” Ryan corrects, his face full of offense at the fact that you would mix those two up. 

“Right, right, Neverland, sorry. Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning!” 

Ryan looks around the room and gasps, pointing to a spot about three feet above your head. “There’s Tinker Bell! We need some pixie dust so we can fly!”

You stand on your tippy toes, game to play along, and reach your arm up as far as it can go. Concentrating, as if you’re almost reaching something, you close your fist over the empty air and stand back down on flat feet.

“I got her!” you say. “Come here and I’ll sprinkle the dust on you!”

Luke hops over and stands underneath your cupped hands. You pretend to sprinkle some pixie magic on him before doing the same to Ryan. The older boy holds his arms out to the sides like an airplane and runs around to the other side of the couch.

“We can fly!” he shouts. “Come on, Michael, Wendy!”

“We’re coming,” you tell him, ushering Luke to go in front of you. The three of you run around the house with your arms out, pretending to be soaring through the sky on your way to the mystical home of Peter Pan. 

Ryan stops for a moment and purses his lips. He looks deep in thought before he bolts down the hallway and into his room. There’s a handful of action figures in his arms when he re-emerges. It’s an assorted bunch containing The Hulk, a Ghostbuster, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and a GI Joe. You’re even more curious as to what he’s doing when he walks into the bathroom with them.

“Uh, Ryan?” you ask, heading down the hall towards him.

“It’s John,” he reminds you. 

“Right, John. What are you doing, John?”

Ryan sets his action fingers up so they’re sitting on the rim of the bathtub.

“It’s Mermaid Lagoon!” he announces proudly. 

“They’re boys,” Luke says.

“Mermen are a thing,” you say, ruffling his curls. 

“Okay, where’s Skull Rock?” Luke asks. Ryan thinks for a moment before darting out of the bathroom and down the hall again. Luke chases after him but you take your time with a leisurely walk. 

“It’s here! But it shrunk!” Ryan pretends to be baffled as he picks up a chunky silver skull ring of Eddie’s. It was sitting in a bowl that was on the table near the front door. Your only guess is that on days where his hands weren’t covered in dirt and grime, he had the rings in the perfect position to slip them on when he walked through the door. 

“Maybe Tinker Bell shrunk it with her magic! Revenge for when Hook tried to kill Peter!” Luke adds. 

If your logic is right—which you know it isn’t in this case of make believe—Ryan and Luke are talking in terms of the events of the Peter Pan movie already happening. Which means Hook would’ve been eaten (or maybe just chased) by the crocodile. The mental image of a cartoon crocodile chasing Brittany down the street is enough to make you giggle out loud. 

“Wha’s so funny?” Luke asks, turning to you. 

“Hmm?” you ask as you shake the fantasy from your head. “Oh. Just, um… Well, look!” you point up at the ceiling and drag your finger around as if you’re following something that’s moving. “It’s Peter’s shadow! It looks like he lost it again!”

“We have to get it for him!” Luke says.

“How do we do that?” Ryan asks, putting the ring back in the bowl. 

“I think only Peter can catch it,” you say with a sigh. 

“But you can sew it back on him again, right Wendy?” Ryan slash John asks. 

“I will certainly do my best,” you tell him. 

The front door opens and Luke races over. Eddie is prepared for the ambush and hoists his youngest son up over his shoulder. 

“Hey, munchkin,” Eddie says.

“Hi, Peter.”

A confused frown grows on Eddie’s face, and he maneuvers the little boy so he’s holding him out in front of him and can look him in the eye. Luke giggles as he dangles from his father’s grip.

“Whatcha call me?” Eddie asks.

“Peter! You’re Peter Pan!”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow and looks over at you. “Is this some joke about me never growing up?”

You giggle and shake your head. “No, we’re playing pretend. You were unanimously elected to be Peter.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie muses and settles Luke on his hip, even though he really is too old to be held like that. “So, who are you, little dude? The dog?”

Luke huffs and rolls his eyes overdramatically. The apple clearly did not fall far from the tree. “I’m Michael.”

“And we’re John and Wendy!” Ryan tells him, proudly taking your hand in his. 

“Well, why aren’t you flying then?” Eddie asks. Before either boy can ask him what he means, he lifts Luke over his head as the five-year-old giggles and holds his hands out in front of him. Eddie brings him over to the couch where he plops the boy down on the couch. Luke instantly scrambles up and tries to jump on his dad’s back. Eddie lets him and holds his son’s small legs as he wraps them around his waist. 

“How ya doing, Wendy?” Eddie asks as he walks past you into the kitchen. “These lost boys aren’t driving you too crazy, huh?”

“Never,” you say, trying desperately not to ogle your boss. You clear your throat and rest your hands on Ryan’s shoulders, jostling him gently. “They make my days fun. How was work?”

“Eh, loud and greasy,” Eddie replies, pulling a beer out of the fridge. “Glad to be home.”

The smile he gives you has your knees feeling weak. Mentally, you berate yourself. This is exactly why you’re going on a date tonight. Peter is a nice enough guy but doesn’t really do anything for you. But when he asked if you’d like to get dinner as the two of you were leaving your shared history class, you agreed. The way you feel about Eddie quickly evolved from just thinking he was attractive as soon as you got to know him. His kindness, humor, gentleness, and wit quickly had you falling down the slippery slope of feelings. Hopefully, Peter could catch you with his own charm before you fell even further down the rabbit hole for Eddie. 

“You gotta catch your shadow!” Luke’s words break you out of your small daze. The little boy is bouncing in his dad’s grip, gesturing towards the tall shadow on the kitchen floor. “Wendy has to sew it back on for you! Then you kiss!”

Both you and Eddie blanch at the five-year-old’s statement. 

“Huh?” Eddie manages.

“After Wendy sews Peter’s shadow back on, she tries to kiss him!” Luke clarifies.

Dear God, I wish, you think. 

Eddie chuckles and shakes his head, avoiding your eyes. He opens his mouth and you’re almost afraid of what he’s going to say. Luke beats him to the punch though, annoyed that the game has stalled.

“Daddy! Shadow!”

“Hurry, before she has to go!” Ryan adds. 

“Yeah! She’ll be late! Late, for a very important date!” Luke laughs against his dad’s neck, finding it hilarious that he was able to quote another Disney movie.

“Date?” Eddie lets the refrigerator door slip from his grip, and it slowly slides closed. You think you’re imagining his hand tightening around his beer bottle but can’t help but hope that your boss doesn’t like the idea of you going out with someone.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, suddenly feeling nervous. That is ridiculous, you tell yourself. Eddie has never made you feel nervous–okay, that’s a lie. But a good, giddy kind of nervous.

“A boy from school?” Eddie asks, bringing his beer up to his lips to take a sip. 

“Yep. From my history class.” 

“He’s taking her to dinner and a movie,” Luke informs his father. Eddie’s head turns over his shoulder to look at his son, as if he’d just remembered he was there. 

“Oh. T-That’s nice.” Eddie’s words have an edge to them, despite how casual he tries to make them sound. Luke releases his grip from his dad’s neck as Eddie crouches down to let the little boy down. He scampers out of the room, officially bored now, and Ryan looks between you and Eddie once before following behind his little brother. 

“You, um,” Eddie says as he leans against the counter behind him, setting the bottle down. “You have to get going now? Get ready?”

Truthfully, you do. But leaving Eddie is always easier said than done. 

“I guess I should,” you say with a shrug. As you move to leave the kitchen, Eddie steps forward and extends his arm as if he’s going to grab your arm but thinks better of it. Awkwardly, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his coveralls and clears his throat when you turn back to him.

“If, uh, you need anything…like, if he’s an asshole and you want to bail or um, anything else,” Eddie says, looking at you from underneath his impossibly long eyelashes, “just give me a call. I’ll come get you. Whenever and wherever.”

The offer has your heart swimming in your chest. Even if he doesn’t have feelings for you, Eddie definitely does care. Being so kind and thoughtful are two of the reasons you were already so crazy about the man, so this offer is doing nothing to dampen your feelings. It’s so touching though, that it gives you goosebumps. 

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a small smile. “I really appreciate that.”

“Of course,” Eddie says before he clears his throat again. “As long as you’re safe.”

Unable to come up with anything else to say, you nod your head. A goodbye with Eddie has never felt this way before. Uncomfortable, yet you don’t want to escape it. How could you ever want to escape Eddie? You blame your own awkwardness and mentally scold yourself for projecting how you want Eddie to feel onto him. 

“I’ll, uh, see you on Monday?” you finally ask.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Eddie’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes, but neither does yours as you turn to walk out of the kitchen.

“Your homework better be done,” Brittany says as she thunks down a bowl full of microwaved macaroni and cheese. Eddie moves around her in the kitchen, his jaw squared and tense as he pulls the pork chops from the oven. Brittany and both boys keep glancing at him every time he slams something around on the counter. 

“It is,” Ryan says of his homework as he takes his place at the dinner table. 

“Luke?” Brittany basically snaps.

“Did it when I got home,” Luke says, reaching for the cheesy side dish. “Before we played Peter Pan.”

“Who did–oh, the babysitter?”

Luke frowns, not liking his mother’s tone or how she doesn’t refer to you by your name. Neither does Eddie, judging by the way he practically tosses the pork chops onto a platter.

“Yeah,” Luke answers his mother. “We played Peter Pan and then she had to go ‘cause she had a date.”

Eddie yanks his chair out from the table, the legs squealing against the floor at the ferocity with which he pulled it, so he can take a seat. He doles out a piece of pork to everyone’s plate, his knuckles white from holding the fork so tightly. Brittany just arches a recently-shaped eyebrow at her husband before returning to the conversation. 

“A date, huh? Wow.” Her snark is clear, and Eddie has to bite his lip from barking out something he’ll regret.

“What’s wow?” Ryan asks as he jabs his fork into the mac and cheese on his plate.

“Oh, nothing,” Brittany says with a shake of her head. “Nothing at all.”

The table is quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds coming from knives and forks working on the food. Ryan keeps sneaking peeks at his dad, wondering why he’s so unusually quiet. Normally, Eddie would be asking about their days at school and telling them about anything funny that happened at work today. His silence is making Ryan fidget in his seat. Brittany is the one to break the silence, though the three men silently wished she wasn’t.

“My sister is going to come over tomorrow. Eddie, did you hear me? Eddie?” Brittany glares daggers at her husband when he doesn’t answer, or even acknowledge her. But Eddie isn’t looking her way. Of course, this only irritates Brittany further.

“Eddie! Why in the hell are you staring at the phone like that?”

[laurellerual]

Arya remembering her father's teachings:

"Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. 

…

Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. "Know the men who follow you," she heard him tell Robb once, "and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger." At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories.

…

Father had always said that most sellswords would betray anyone for enough gold.

…

Whenever her father had condemned a man to death, he did the deed himself with Ice, his greatsword. "If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look him in the face and hear his last words," she'd heard him tell Robb and Jon once.

…

She remembered hearing her lady mother tell Father to put on his lord's face and go deal with some matter.

[gg-pedro]

can you hear the music (ch. 1) - joel miller x reader

masterlist

even here, at the end of all things, some things persisted. one thing in particular, throughout all the places you had been. music.

summary: everyone in jackson is trying to distract themselves from something. you teach ellie piano and find yourself trying to help more than one miller settle into their new world.

warnings: post outbreak!joel, jackson!era, platonic!ellie x reader, implied age gap, joel x reader, AFAB!reader, they kiss lolz, smut to come, pining, feelings.

words: 1.8k

a/n: a little sweet, a little bitter, a little self indulgent. I'm planning on this being a series! I hope you enjoy. warning tags only apply to this chapter.

-

Two knocks. Three. More knocking, hushed squabbling from outside your door. You got up from your seat at the kitchen table, a piling mess of sheet music and scribbled notes.

Opening the door revealed your newest student, Ellie, looking very much like Joel was leading her to the gallows with that scowl on her face. 

“Can we just get this over with? I’m fucking hungry.” Ellie pushed past you, shrugging off her coat and kicking off her boots. 

“I’m sorry… ‘bout her. She likes doin’ this, I swear. Always comes back talking about it. Just give her some time to warm up to you.”

Joel had this particular look on his face whenever he talked about that little girl. His dark eyes would soften and he’d push a hand through his graying hair, his thoughts seeming like they were somewhere else entirely from his surroundings. The most he ever said to you was about Ellie. Everything you knew about Joel was from Ellie, naturally.

He was from Texas. He was fairly older than you– you didn’t have much experience from when it was before the end of the fucking world. He sounded tightly wound. He could play the guitar, and he’d taught Ellie a few things. Once, she’d said that he only liked piano music if Billy Joel was playing it, whoever that was. That made you laugh.

You gave him a thin smile, crossing your arms over your chest to ward off the draft that was blowing through the open door. “I know. She’s a great kid, I can tell she wants to learn. I think it helps her– you know, keeping busy.”

Joel met your eyes for the first time since the conversation had started, something painful and poignant seeping into his expression. 

“Yeah. I think so.” He was quiet for a few seconds before looking straight over you to grab Ellie’s attention. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’m down the street helpin’ Tommy with that old building. Be good,” he warned, before giving you a grateful nod and turning back. 

And that was your routine. Joel was usually short with you, a little quiet, a little shy. You thought he was a sweet man– and a painfully attractive one at that. All southern and rough, broad shouldered, puppy-dog eyed. He seemed like he would do anything to keep that girl safe. You were glad the community had someone like him.

You had started teaching Ellie a few weeks after they had settled into Jackson. It was mostly because of Maria’s recommendation, who you were fairly close with. Ellie had hated taking lessons from you more vehemently in the beginning, but the more you worked at it, the more comfortable you saw her get. 

“Come on, kid. This is good for your brain,” you would say, beckoning her to sit next to you on the piano bench. 

She scoffed, but yet she obliged. “This is dumb. I could be doing something useful. Like shooting guns.”

“Art is as important, Ellie. More important than shooting guns. For you, anyway."

Her fingers tapped gingerly on the keys and she played a scale they had learned the week before. “How would you know? You aren’t even old,” she countered. “How long have you been playing?”

You glanced over at the clock. You two were wasting time, but at least she was talking. “My whole life, give or take. I tried to hold onto it whenever I could. It was my favorite thing in the entire world.”

She nodded, seeming to understand. “That’s cool. I get why Joel likes you.”

You didn’t think Joel was someone who particularly liked you. He didn’t dislike you, clearly, but if he had given any hints, they had been falling on deaf ears. You tried your best to keep your expression neutral. “And why’s that?”

She giggled to herself as she flipped through the pages of her sheet music booklet. “‘Cause you’re both fucking weird.”

You laughed too, punching her gently in the arm. “Fair. Now stop stalling and play me whatever you remember.”

Life was special nowadays. More precious than it ever had been. You would have to cherish moments like these. Loss was all around, and loving always risked the hurt. You were really, really fucking tired of hurting. 

-

Walking back to your home, trudging through the snow, you were tired. Working in Jackson’s small clinic was easy enough, but it was draining. You saw to children mainly, bandaging up wounds and dosing out rations of antibiotics when needed. The kids liked you, the parents liked you, and that was rewarding, but plastering on a smile and a light-hearted tone all day sometimes felt like too fucking much. 

So naturally, you were ready to pick a fight when you felt a broad hand consume your shoulder. 

You turned around to match the disembodied hand to a face, only to see Joel Miller. He looked tired, more tired than you, and a little sad. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t tryin’ to scare you. I saw you, and I…” He paused, looking down at the two sets of footprints that had outlined both of your paths. “Ellie isn’t feeling well. I think it’s best she skips y’alls lesson tomorrow.”

She released the breath she'd been holding. For some reason, he had the tendency to precede the things he said as if he was about to tell you that the world was ending. Again.

“That’s fine, don’t worry about it. Is she alright?” 

“Yeah, she’s alright. This whole things a big fuckin’ adjustment, and I… I worry she’ll push herself too much if nobody stops her,” he explained. “She’s been with Maria all day. But yeah, she’ll be okay.”

Ah. He was worried about her. It seemed like he was always worrying about her. “I understand. Can’t imagine what it must be like for her. And you.”

She’ll push herself if nobody stops her. Who stopped Joel? Who looked out for him? His brother, surely, but was it like that? Did those two, hardened and stretched thin, have the time to be concerned about things like that? How long had he just been… going?

You reached a hand out to touch his upper arm, rubbing it a little before pulling away. “You’re a good man, Joel. I really think that, and I hope you know it.”

He laughed a little at that. “I haven't done any good, trust me on that.”

You dropped your gaze and looked away. You knew that everyone here, without a shadow of a doubt, had done things they weren’t proud of. Things they never would’ve done if not at the end of the world.

You were maybe 20 steps from your front door, standing out in the Wyoming cold with him. You tried to meet his eyes before speaking again, but he wouldn’t face you. 

“Come in. Please, I insist. Warm up, I just traded for coffee.”

He looked like he was fighting with himself for a few seconds, raising his head and looking off to the side. “Yeah, alright. Why not.”

-

Joel Miller was sitting in your living room, sipping from a mug so carefully that you’d think he was afraid he’d break it. The fire was lit and casting warm shadows across the dim room. It was endearing. You hadn’t felt like this in a lifetime. 

“I couldn’t do it. What you do. Dealing with all those kids,” he said after a long lapse of quiet.

You shrugged, sipping on your own cup. “I love it. I never thought I’d have the chance to play music again, much less teach. It’s not perfect, but it's something,” you said. “Ellie tells me you play guitar.”

Joel rolled his eyes and finally sunk back into his chair instead of hunching over. He groaned a little as he did it, as if he stored all of his tension in his back. “Yeah, used to. I ain’t good at it anymore.”

“But you used to be?” You pried.

He finally looked at you, his eyes infinitely more dark in this light. “Maybe. Don’t think I’d be able to forget how to play even if I tried, so might as well put it to some use.”

You smiled. “I know. Funny how things stick with you. Muscle memory.”

He nodded. “Somethin’ like that.”

And it was true. There were lots of things neither of you would forget how to do, no matter how much time had lapsed in between the before and the now. And sure, most of what you had learned happened after the world had ended, but that was irrelevant. The most important things had always been there. You’d known how to love for your entire life.

His eyes wandered over to the old upright piano situated on the wall in the living room. “Is she any good on that thing?” He asked.

You thought about Ellie, who would curse everytime she slipped on a scale, who would argue fervently about how that squiggly shit on the sheet music could possibly mean anything, who learned faster than any of your other kids.

“She is. She’s impressive. She picked up Old McDonald Had a Farm like that.” You grinned, snapping your fingers for effect. 

He smiled thinly, his mind clearly somewhere else. “Explains why she won’t stop humming that shit. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“My pleasure, Joel.” You laughed. “You finished with that?” You gestured to his empty mug.

“Yeah. Hey, I’ll help you.”

You were elbow to elbow with each other at the sink, cleaning out the liquid and the scattered coffee grounds from the bottoms of your respective cups. Joel took yours and placed it on the drying rack, wiping his hands off with the towel you passed to him.

You leaned back against the island as he turned his back to the sink. He was so tall, so rugged, so handsome. His age only added to it. He had a softness around his eyes now, his features slightly obscured by the absence of much light.

“Should probably take off… Thank you. For the drink,” Joel began.

“Don’t thank me, I’d do it anytime. Tell Ellie that I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

He nodded, and he swallowed. He wasn’t making any moves to leave, save for his eyes on the door. They flicked back to you, watching you, scanning you up and down until he finally said, 

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart, lookin’ at me like that.”

You weren’t really sure of how it all happened, but in an instant your bodies were pressed together with your lower back digging into the dull edge of the island counter, Joel’s lips pressed to yours like he was seeking oxygen.

His free hand felt up your body, and your skin was on fire. A match thrown onto a pool of gasoline. Everything was electric. He kissed you like he’d learned it in another life, back when love was free, when forever was a tangible thing, when strings weren’t attached. You felt it all on your lips and tongue, in the bonfire that was being fanned in your abdomen.

When he stepped back, you pulled him in for more. The opposite reaction to the Earth pulling down on you is you pulling the Earth back up. You tangled your hands in his soft hair, and his dug into the fabric of your jeans on your hips.

You both came up for air after a while, having migrated to the entrance of the kitchen. He had you backed up against the beam of the open doorway, tucking both sides of your hair behind you ear to see your face.

"Shouldn't be doing this," he mumbled, nipping at the warm skin on your neck.

"Maybe not," you conceded. I didn't mean you couldn't want it– what he could give you. You'd all done wrong things. "You could still stay."

"Yeah," he responded, pressing his body against yours and sweeping a hand over to cradle your lower back. "Still could."

Maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe that glassy, far off look wouldn't be permanent. It could be like this. You could have a reason.

And yeah, maybe Joel knew more than he let on. Some things never really left him.

-

[chamerionwrites]

Okay you KNOW I have complaints (Gilroy treat the women of color right challenge: impossible), but some notes-scribbled-on-back-of-hand favorite things about the final arc of S2:

Cassian and Melshi and Kay playing space poker and giving each other shit and giggling tipsily, 15/10 no notes

Luthen "The ego that started this fight will never have a mirror or an audience or gratitude" Rael's first response when he knows he's caught: "Do you want to know why?" Dedra (and by extension the ISB) does not in fact give a single fuck. The authorial restraint exhibited in writing him a meaningful sendoff but NOT allowing him the what-radicalized-me speech that all evidence suggests he's got in his back pocket. Immaculate characterization, A+ literally killing your darling, A+ not letting your fave run away with the narrative when it's time for the narrative to run away with him.

Relatedly, the smug little arrest theatrics Dedra has clearly been rehearsing and fantasizing about. They both want a main character monologue sooooo bad. Made for each other (evil version) tbh

God help me but I do love a can't-rescue-the-captured-spy-but-can-make-their-death-as-peaceful-as-possible plot point, that whole hospital sequence is so tense and good

KLEYA MY BELOVED

Top secret Death Star program not immune to CC-ing the wrong person over space email (gritty realism)

@ my past self tweaking Luthen for his theatrics and referring to that sacrifices speech as "his best space king lear audition:" how does it feel to have the gift of prophecy?

Luthen teaching Kleya that cool spies don't look at explosions (before they go off) was a great little spy-story tradecraft bit

Krennic remains an all-time great space fascist for me and Ben Mendelsohn remains a scene-stealer. The way he grabs Dedra by the FACE and shoves her back down into her seat was crazy work

Partagaz also launched himself straight to the top of the villains list. Love that* for him [*fucking around and finding out]

Honestly imo one of the most consistently strong bits of S2 - both in terms of political commentary, and of thematic continuity with Rogue One - is mercilessly drilling down on all the ways the system eats its own. All these guys (& Dedra) think that empire is their pet leopard, that it follows their commands and gives them power. But it was always only ever Palpatine's pet leopard (and it still eats his face in the end!)

I've been having lot of feelings about getting to see Yavin as a physical space where people live and eat and sleep. Even if I do find Cassian's house a bit silly (sorry it looks like a real estate brochure for some kind of treehouse meditation retreat)

Fraught Mon & Saw holocalls are exactly what I ordered from Star Wars I would watch a whole season about that

Draven looking Bail Organa straight in the eye with zero shame and the galaxy's most blandly noncommittal "You could make that case" running cover for the guys he's also completely furious with: there he is! The bastard man I know and love! (Completely hapless at controlling his operatives #notmydraven but this was good. And lowkey hilarious)

I did also enjoy his increasingly quiet & pensive face as he catches the scent of good intelligence while everybody else squabbles

Raddus sighted! Merrick mentioned! This is blatant Rogue One fan pandering but I fear I am not immune

Vel being asked to suss Cassian's story out and just. asking him

Kleya my beloved (Part II)

MY BOY WILMON LIVED

[mediumgayitalian]

part one

— — —

Reyna meets them right inside the borders, arms open wide the second she catches Nico’s eye. He leaves the rest of his friends to argue with Terminus – Nico stopped listening very quickly – and sprints right to her, nearly bowling her over with his enthusiasm. She laughs, holding her ground, but wraps her arms so tightly against him, squeezing, and she smells like wool and sunshine and her clementine shampoo, and just barely, chocolate. 

“I missed you,” he whispers into her shoulder, and instead of responding she just holds him tighter. 

Sometimes touch makes his skin crawl – hardly, anymore, with how touchy his friends are. Sometimes he has to remind himself that a hand on his shoulder is friendly, not trying to restrain him, that whatever annoying person who is ruffling his hair is fond of him, not mocking.

He doesn’t have to remind himself of anything with Reyna. Her touch is familiar. Her hold means safety, her hold means I watched out for you, kid, and never stopped. Her touch feels like Bianca’s, like someone who has seen him at his worst and angriest and not only loves him but respects him. 

“Hazel’s riding Arian,” she says, clearing her throat and reluctantly pulling away. 

Nico swipes quickly at his face and pretends he doesn’t want to tuck himself right back under her chin. (He is happy with his choice. Despite what he expected, he loves Camp Half-Blood. It’s home, now, in a way Camp Jupiter was never going to be. But his sisters – both of them – are his home, too, and it aches something horrid being away from them for so long.)

“Frank’s trying to chase after her, but he’s running out of fast animals, so it might be a minute.”

Nico cracks up at that image. It was clearly Reyna’s intention, because she grins, and continues, “He tried to dive after her as a falcon when they were running along the Bay, but he missed and nearly drowned himself. Or so claim the rumours, Kahale has been watching from the towers for the past hour at least.”

“Thank you for this. I’ve run out of things to give him shit for, lately, I needed that.”

“Anytime.” She flicks her gaze over at his crew of dumbasses, who have not, in fact, managed past the border in the ten or so minutes since Nico ditched. In fact, their whining and arguing is drawing a bit of a crowd. 

Or maybe that’s Leo and Lou Ellen, who have given up trying to get through and are amusing themselves by making a mini firework show. Will seems to be the only one still actually arguing with Terminus, long arms flailing as he tries to convince the god to let them in. (Well, one arm is flailing. The other is clenched in the back of Cecil’s shirt, preventing him from running off to do Zeus knows what). Piper is next to him, possibly by virtue of charming their way in, but she appears to be occupied with teaching Kayla and Austin some kind of clapping game. 

“We should probably go collect your circus.”

“I mean, we could also walk away,” Nico offers, even as he follows her towards them. “They’re capable people.” He pauses, thinking back to the sheer number of rest stops they were kicked out of on the way here. “Kind of.” And fast food restaurants. “Mostly.” And, notably, one public park. “Well, whatever. I’m sure they can figure themselves out. If we go to the cafe now, we’ll have hot chocolate to rub in Cecil’s face by the time they finally argue their way in.”

Reyna says nothing, although her mouth twitches. “Terminus,” she calls, when they’re close enough. All the squabbling and fireworks and general ruckus stops as everyone turns to look at her. “These are friends, who have come to visit. Why are they being detained?”

“Detained?!” Will squawks. “Try held hostage!”

“Back in my day you’d be whipped for your attitude, boy, why I should –”

“Oh, go ahead, Bucky Barnes, I’m real scared –”

“Your man is going to get himself smited,” Reyna comments.

Nico sighs. “He gets himself almost smited a lot, actually.” It takes him a moment to clock the entirety of Reyna’s sentence, in which time her smile becomes evil and Nico’s face matches the hue of Apollo’s sun cows. “And he’s not my man! Why would you say that! What does that even m –”

“Terminus,” Reyna says again, visibly snickering, “this group has my permission to enter the borders.”

Terminus grumbles, but he knows better to defy her. There’s a brief shimmer to the air, and then the seven of them scamper inside before Terminus changes his mind.

“What have we come to,” Terminus mutters. Will sticks his tongue out behind his head.

As the group follows Reyna and Nico towards the city, Nico squeezes her hand once and ducks back to join Will, who is still pouting. He couldn’t help his smile if he tried.

“What happened to civil relationships, Mr Diplomacy?”

“It’s not my fault!” Will cries. Nico ducks slightly to avoid his hand before he’s smacked in the face – he’s gotten smacked enough times by Will’s dramatic gesturing to become well-used to avoiding it. “I was polite, I requested entry, I had our papers, he was just a dick!”

“I think you maybe just don’t get out enough,” he says, biting the corner of his mouth to keep from laughing. It’s hard, because Will’s eye genuinely twitches. “I think Chiron was right, man. You need to be re-socialised.”

He can’t quite keep his shoulders from shaking as Will’s jaw clenches. It’s just – he is so so easy to wind up. He really is. The second you learn what buttons to push, they’re big and bright red and begging to be abused. Nico didn’t get it in the summer – but by November, he was exchanging looks with Cecil, of all people, and snickering every time they made Will stomp out of the pavilion. 

(It has, of course, nothing to do with the way his face scrunches when he glowers, or the way his blue eyes go dark and a little bit furious and a lot bit sexy. Nothing to do with the growl in his voice when he bites out “I swear to all that is holy, di Angelo,” and shudders zap up Nico’s spine. Obviously. It’s just funny.)

Will opens his mouth – no doubt to let loose a string of insults that would make Mr. D. blush – but before he can let Nico have it, a flash streaks in front of them, and a second later a gust of wind bowls them both over with a yelp.

“Nico!”

Groaning, Nico tries to stand, but finds that he can’t. He glances up and meets Will’s eyes, milimeters from his own, and goes so brightly scarlet that he can hear Reyna’s sharp bark of “Ha!” before she clamps her hand over her mouth to keep her dignity. 

“Get off me, Solace,” he complains, but the effect is significantly lessened when his voice cracks – no lie – thirteen separate times.

Cupid, he thinks, as loudly and pointedly as he can, kill yourself.

“I’m not that heavy,” Will grumbles, getting petulantly to his feet and immediately tripping over the world’s smallest pebble. Nico covers his face and screams, very quietly, just a little. When he finally manages to drag his hands away from his eyes, the face of his sister hovers over him, grinning wickedly, dark eyes glinting.

“Wow,” she whistles, at least having the decency to keep her voice down, “Piper wasn’t kidding. You’re embarrassing.”

“Shut up,” he says halfheartedly. “Just – leave me to die.”

She laughs, and Nico smiles on reflex, because she sounds like twinkling gold bangles on a waving arm. He accepts her hand up and laces them together, squeezing gently. Her smile widens further when he leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“It’s good to see you, bella. Even if you’re mean to me.”

She knocks their heads together gently. “You just make it so easy. You should try not swooning into his arms whenever he so much as smiles at you, it would help your image –”

“My image is fine –”

“ – and I heard something about a sleepover? Unsupervised? In cabin 13 –”

“That was greatly exaggerated! We passed out playing –”

“ – can’t forget the time he laughed so hard he snorted and you walked into a wall and broke your nose –”

“You weren’t even there for that! No one was! How do you –”

“Dear, dear brother,” she says, patting his head patronizingly. He's appalled with himself for leaning into the touch. “There is not a soul – living or dead – that doesn’t know about it. I was IMed by four separate people an hour after it happened.”

“I’m leaving,” Nico announces abruptly. He turns back towards the van. “I’m going back to Dad, I’m literally never leaving my bedroom again –”

“Oh, no you don’t.” She hauls him back after the rest of the group, a few yards ahead of them, still grinning. “Let’s go, Nick Gatsby. I want to watch Aeliana’s eye twitch as a vanful of noisy Greek teenagers cause a ruckus in her restaurant.”

— — —

part three

[dareactions]

How will companions react to a teen!Warden? Will their behavior change or they will act the same way as with an adult!Warden? Who would like to be friends with Warden and who's more annoyed by teens? Sorry if my request is too long:(

Alistair: He always wanted a sibling in some ways. There's something nice about the idea of having someone that depends on him and the Warden becomes a younger sibling so fast he gets a bit scared. Alistair wants to so badly steer them in the right direction- and he very easily falls into that role of the cool older brother. Honestly he kind of lets them get away with way too much just because they're younger but eh- he's not here to be a dad let's be honest. Leliana: Honestly she's kind of excited. Teenagers are always some of the most creative people in terms of problem solving and they have the ego and gumption that rivals most politically inclined adults. She for sure leans into the big-sister role that she finds herself in. She is a confidant, someone who listens and gives advice when asked. Also the person who pretend she doesn't see anything if you don't want her to. Loghain: Only one internal thought- what the fuck? He is so confused. Like- Loghain can't even be angry, he's just confused. Why the fuck is a teenager this competent? Since when were Grey Wardens below the legal drinking limit? There's such a mix of feelings that anger never even bubbles to the surface; he just becomes an exasperated dad in the funniest way imaginable. He hates this, he doesn't want this but it's not like Alistair or Morrigan is going to tell the kid off. Morrigan: She is so actively displeased she may as well just have even more of a permanent frown. She's not bad with kids and she would argue she can handle teens even better; but really? A teenager? She just sighs, rolls her eyes and makes sure they're not more than an arm's reach away when they're in major cities and anyone who even so much as raises their voice at them- it's on sight. Oghren: This man- does not know what to do. He isn't exactly the most stable person to put anyone around; much less a teenager. There's a lot of squabbling and stupid fights. Teenagers like pushing boundaries and Oghren likes pretending he is unbothered until he no longer is. It takes a LONG time to find a stability that actually works on the road between the two but hey- he doesn't mind teaching the kid a trick or two. Shale: Could care less, let's be honest. Just more inclined to not take you as seriously initially but eh- humans tend to exceed all odds. Sten: It's a big of a weird situation. In some ways- he likes the initiative the Warden is showing at a young age. After all, it's not like age actually decides your competence in battle - however he really could do without the whole mood swings and feeling on top of the world thing. He doesn't baby them whatsoever- just treats them like he would any teen within the Qunari. Wynne: If the Warden didn't want a mom figure- they should've stayed out of Wynne's sight. She is ON THAT. She does not mind being the bad guy unlike Alistair and is here to ensure the Warden survives this Blight. She's soft, comforting, nurturing- and also willing to put her hands on her hips and stare them down with a look that would make gods shake. Zevran: You know that older brother or uncle that teaches you how to pick locks and steal cars? Yeah, that's him. Zevran is actually the one who seems the most upset visibly that they're doing all of this so young- but he takes it in stride. He keeps them within arm's length, his protective nature is always a silent one. He is pissed when he finds out he was hired to kill a child though.

[griddleharkbrainrot]

I love movie Charles Xavier, but comic Charles should NOT have been allowed in charge of students. Anyway, I have a LOT of thoughts about Charles as a parent who is trying his best but he does not know how to raise a kid. So here are my thoughts on what was going through his mind when he made the decisions he did.

They put you in charge of children. There are so many of them with tiny little faces and impressionable little minds and it is your job to protect them. To teach them how to protect themselves. The world hates them, wants to crush them just for existing and it’s your job to be their shield until they can be their own sword. You are one man and there are so many of them. 

There used to be Erik. It was supposed to be the two of you together, him on the offensive while you protected the homefront. A team working together so that your kind could be safe, but Erik left and now it is just you. 

You do not know how to be a parent. When they come to you with skinned knees and hurt feelings, are you supposed to soothe their aches or teach them how to face them? Thinking back to your own parents, you only remember being tossed aside and told to deal with it. What are you supposed to do? You decide that the world will be cruel and so you should teach them how to face the pain head on and keep going. You decide it is time to teach them how to fight. Later they will tell you this is a mistake. Your children will never forgive you from turning from their father to their drill sergeant. This is the day you go from a family to an army joining the war. They are too young for this conflict.

Little Jean does not know how to deal with the voices in her head. There are so many and they ricochet and clash against her thoughts. Something in your heart aches for this young girl and the familiar pain but you do not have time to address it. You teach her how to build up the wall in her mind, how to block the others out. You tell her all you have learned of how others will distrust her for her power, how she must be careful so she is not hated. You do not notice the tears forming in her eyes or the little arms reaching out for a hug. You have already turned away to address the next crisis. There is only one of you and so many children.

You don’t know when Scott started calling you Proffesor instead of Dad. When he stopped coming to you with his nightmares and headaches. You tried everything you could to help him but it wasn’t enough. Children need reassurance, clear affection and love, something you’ve never really been able to express. How do you tell them that you are proud of all they have accomplished? You give Scott command of the team, trying to communicate how you believe he can do this, how strong he is. You do not see his shoulders droop as another responsibility rests on them. He is a child and he is a soldier and he must protect his people. He weilds himself like a shield not caring for his own safety in an attempt to make you proud. He does not know that you already are.

Erik has children now. Two little girls and a boy, all mutants. They follow him like ducklings, showing off for their father and squabbling with each other. You think fondly back to the days when your little ones would trail after your wheelchair, all clambering for your attention. When did they stop? Your children have grown from tiny breakable little things into battle hardened soldiers. The whole world looks to them as the face of mutant kind. They can not take a step out of line or mutants everywhere will face the consequences of humanity’s fickle temper. It was not supposed to be this way. They were supposed to be children and the adults would protect them. What changed?

You know what changed. Erik left and you broke. You do not know how to be a father, how to do this alone. You are a teacher and you have learned how to be a general, how to be a politician, wielding people like chess pieces in a greater game. But somewhere along the way you lost sight; for these are not pawns, they are your wards, your students, your sons and daughters. They return from their missions weary and injured, something in their spirits breaking. 

You were given children and raised soldiers. You are Charles Xavier: teacher, politician, activist, and general, but you have not earned the title of father.

[aquamarinemarie]

Romancing the Dread Wolf, Pt. Three

Chatting, squabbling, and flirting with the legendary, extremely opinionated Dread Wolf. Former spirit, ancient elf, Second to Mythal, and rebellion leader…

Oh, Lavellan, if you only knew who you were talking to.

Elf Talk (Haven)

Lavellan: I’d be interested in hearing your opinions on elven culture.

“I’d be interested in hearing your opinions on elven culture,” she says. Oh, boy. Maker, have mercy.

Lavellan walked right up to a hornet’s nest and wacked it good, didn’t she?

Solas: I thought you would be more interested in sharing your opinions of elven culture. You are Dalish, are you not?

Immediate attitude. 😂

My Lavellan only wanted to talk, maybe get to know Solas a little better. But alas, Solas it seems has other plans.

General: Option One. Lavellan (Proudly.): Yes, I am. The Dalish are the best hope for preserving the culture of our people. Solas: Our people. You use that phrase so casually. It should mean more… but the Dalish have forgotten that. Among other things. Lavellan: Oh, but you know the truth, right? Solas: While they pass on stories, mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not.

"Our people," he says, so bitterly.

Yes, Solas, the Dalish are indeed your people, just as the elves in the alienages are too; much as he and the other ancients would like to deny it.

I always pick option one here because of the emphasis on our people, since my Lavellan sincerely sees all elves, not just Dalish, as her people.

General: Option Two. Lavellan (Why are you so angry?): What’s your problem with the Dalish? Allergic to halla? Solas: They are children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times. Lavellan: Oh, but you know the truth, right? Solas: While they pass on stories, mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not. General: Option Three. Lavellan (I am a true elf.): My people come from the elves who refused to surrender when humans broke their treaty and destroyed the Dales. Solas: Your Keeper was not wrong about that, at least. We must mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly. Perhaps we should plant a tree. Lavellan: You insult my people. Solas: They insult themselves. Remember, I have walked the memories of the Fade. I have seen the history of the Dalish imitate.

“Your Keeper was not wrong about that, at least. We must mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly. Perhaps we should plant a tree.” 😂

I love how much of an asshole he can be.

General: Option One. Lavellan (So help them.): The Dalish are trying to restore elven history. If you know something new, share it. Solas: Would your clan listen to what I had learned in my studies, my travels? Or would they mock the flat-ear and his stories, and go back to their ruins? At least you are asking. That is something. I will answer as I can. General: Option Two. Lavellan (So teach other elves.): Fine, you think we’re terrible. What about the alienages full of elves who aren’t Dalish? Solas: Why? What would it benefit some poor man in a Fereldan alienage to learn that his ancestors strode the lands like gods? It would only make him bitter, or inspire him to take a foolish risk and get himself killed. Lavellan: You’ve decided his reaction for him. Solas: Perhaps I have. If you have questions and believe the answers will help, ask. General: Option Three. Lavellan (We are trying. Accept that.): Ir abelas, hahren. If the Dalish have done you a disservice, I would make that right. What course would you set for them that is better than what they know now? Solas: (Sighs.) You are right, of course. The fault is mine, for expecting what the Dalish could never truly accomplish. Ir abelas… da’len. If I can offer any understanding, you have but to ask.

Solas: What do you wish to know?

I really do prefer option three, since my girl is honestly a bit taken aback, but is also capable of recognizing that Solas has a point. He does walk the Fade, and thus, has likely seen and learned truths her people would greatly wish to know.

So, my girl pivots, and counters with a show of manners. (She’s going to get along great with Josephine.)

She speaks elven, apologizes, and for added flavor, addresses Solas as an elder, and he… Sighs, resigned. She’s given him exactly what he seems to be asking for. Respect, and an opportunity to be heard. To be listened to. Decency now demands he apologize in turn.

Which he reluctantly does, and in elven no less. That’s very much a win in my book.

Investigate: Option One. Lavellan (Tell me about ancient elves.): I’d like to know more about the elves from before our time. Solas: The Dalish strive to remember Halamshiral, but Halamshiral was merely a fumbling attempt to recreate a forgotten land. Lavellan: Arlathan. Solas: Elvhenan was the empire, and Arlathan its greatest city. A place of magic and beauty, lost to time. Lavellan (special) (What else?): You’ve studied ancient elves. What else do you know of Arlathan? Solas: We hear stories of them living in trees and imagine wooden ramps or Dalish aravels. Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.

How broken and unnatural the new world must seem to him. You can hear the sadness creeping into his voice whenever he speaks of his people and the old world. A world Solas tells himself he alone destroyed, when we all know he’s the one who saved it.

After all a broken world is objectively better than a blighted world.

Investigate: Option Two. Lavellan (Tell me more of the Dalish.): Are all Dalish elves like my clan? Solas: No. Your clan was unique in having enough interest in human affairs to send you to spy upon the Divine’s meeting. As your clans have been separate for so long, they have all changed, adapting to the lands in which they live. Some are no more than bandits, others trade freely with humans, and some have disappeared entirely into the forests.

Alright, who’s been blabbing?

Lavellan, was it you? Did you tell everybody you were sent by your Keeper to spy on the humans? Or did smarty-pants figure it out? Aah, who am I kidding? Lavellan blabbed.

Investigate: Option Three. Lavellan (Tell me about city elves.): What can you tell me about elves living in human cities? Solas: The culture in alienages or among the slaves of Tevinter is like any of the impoverished and powerless. They cling to memories of a better past and practice a few rituals to distinguish themselves from humans.

I think if my Lavellan actually saw the alienages and how the elven slaves in Tevinter lived, she’d honestly be horrified.

Investigate: Option Four. Lavellan (Mage) (Tell me about elven magic.): Is the magic they teach in the Circle different from the magic I learned with my people? Lavellan (Non-Mage) (Is elven magic different from the magic used by humans? Solas: No and yes. Magic is magic, just as water is water, but it can be used in different ways. Dalish magic is more practical, not needing Chantry approval, although they still frown on blood magic. Superstition. Much of it is more subtle, a legacy from when elves were immortal. Lavellan (Special) (Was immortality due to magic?): The legends of elven immortality… did they use magic to increase their lifespan? Solas: No, it was simply part of being elven. The subtle beauty of their magic was the effect, not the cause, of their nature. Some spells took years to cast. Echoes would linger for centuries, harmonizing with new magic in an unending symphony. It must have been beautiful. Lavellan (Special) (About blood magic…): You said that the censure against blood magic was superstition… Solas: I did. It’s fortunate Cassandra is not within earshot. Most modern cultures forbid blood magic. Publicly, even Tevinter disapproves of it. But as I said, magic is magic. It matters only in how it is used.

“It must have been beautiful,” he says. Again, the sadness. Guilt. Hints of pain.

Special Response (About blood magic): Option One. Lavellan (Blood magic seems interesting.): I’d be interested in learning more about blood magic. Solas: I would teach you, if I knew it. Unfortunately, using blood magic seems to make it more difficult to enter the Fade. You understand why I have never bothered to learn it. A shame, as it is extremely powerful. Provided it remains a tool, not a crutch… nor a passion.

“You understand why I have never bothered to learn it.” Lies. More lies.

Yes, Solas is slippery with his words and prefers to lie by omission. But, he also, occasionally, blatantly lies as well. Does this bother me? Nope. Not one damn bit.

Special Response (About blood magic…): Option Two. Lavellan (Blood magic is evil.): Every time I’ve seen blood magic used, it has been for some evil purpose. Solas: I once saw a woman stabbed in the stomach with a dagger. She died slowly, in agony. It was repulsive. If the Chantry outlawed daggers, would that stop people from using them? Of course not. Some would use daggers in secret, ashamed, and some would find rebellion titillating, a step down the path of depravity.

General: Option One Lavellan (That metaphor doesn’t work.): You don’t need to sacrifice a slave’s life to make a dagger. Solas: I suppose it depends upon the dagger. How many men have you killed while fighting for the Inquisition? How many more will you kill out of necessity? And if blood magic could help you? Well, it matters little to me. I do not use it, but I do not think it evil. General: Option Two Lavellan (The alternative is Tevinter.): So we should allow blood magic to be used freely? It works so well for the Imperium! Solas: Tevinter’s foundation stones are the bones of ancient elves with slave-blood for the mortar. It is an example of nothing more than gilded savagery. Pitiable, in a way. They always succeed through power, so they have never had the chance to learn another way. General: Option Three. Lavellan (They’re still evil.): It doesn’t matter how they arrived there. Most blood mages use their power for the wrong reasons. Solas: Yes, but not all. I once saw a blood mage healer who would shed her own blood to close a patient’s wounds. Although, admittedly, you are unlikely to find her here.

Option three here interests me a great deal.

I rather like the idea of a blood mage healer – especially a powerful one. Could they heal severe burns, close otherwise fatal wounds, restore a man’s sight, regrow a lost limb, perhaps? I can easily imagine my Lavellan being interested in learning this kind of magic.

(And not just because she’ll later lose half a limb herself. My girl’s a knight-enchanter, y’all. Healing others is practically her job… when she’s not cutting her enemies heads off with a magic sword.)

Special Response (About blood magic…): Option Three. Lavellan (I don’t mind blood magic.): To be honest, I don’t see it as different from any other magic. It’s a means to an end. Solas: Indeed. The problem is that, under the Chantry, blood magic is forbidden, so only criminals practice it. While in Tevinter, magisters compete with each other instead of keeping their volatile friends in check. They always succeed through power, so they have never had the chance to learn another way.

Lavellan: We’ll talk later. (That’s a promise.) Solas: Goodbye.

The early hostility of this conversation is really interesting, since we know Solas reached out to the Dalish at least a few times before joining the Inquisition. Which resulted in the superstitious Dalish attacking Fen’Harel and or mocking Solas as a madman. The rejection must have truly hurt, especially since (we can presume) Solas genuinely intended to help them… or at least educate them. Hence his frustrations, and general distaste for all things Dalish.

Until Lavellan, that is. She’s the sole exception.

The only Dalish elf that’s actually willing to listen to him without shoving a pie in his face… even if at times she may feel tempted to.

Source: daitranscripts

[2ratzwriting]

Untitled Secret Project

Here lies our Dramione fanfiction.

Summary

Teachers at Hogwarts (7 years after the war)

In Hermione Granger's third year teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, Draco Malfoy enters his first year teaching Potions. They squabble and can't get along, alerting the attention of Minerva McGonagall. To help restore peace and order in the castle, she insists they work together and get to know each other. As a play to improve his reputation and assure wary students, Malfoy is enlisted to co-sponsor Hermione’s Muggle Studies club.

Chapter One: A Wary Welcome

“How can I be sure I am making the correct decision, Albus?”, Minerva fluidly paces in front of the portrait of Albus Dumbledore.

“Well, you cannot be. Decisions are about trust and vulnerability. That is why they are the hardest thing to make. The question is now, do you trust yourself enough?”, the portrait replied, his voice wispy with decades of wisdom.  

“I trusted myself when I made this very decision two years ago. And the year following. This time I am trusting him. And, I am trusting Horace”. 

Minerva McGonagall stood in the headmistress’ office. The portrait of her late colleague hung proudly on the wall, the glimmering gold frame often catching her eye from her desk. Oftentimes she found herself wandering towards this corner of her office, seeking solace from her past friend. It sometimes seemed like the gold shone brighter than the frames surrounding him, drawing her attention in grief. 

Is she betraying him now, inviting the person who compromised Hogwarts security, and illustrated the demise of one of the most powerful wizards of all time, back into the wards of this ancient school, still freshly refurbished from the damage of the battle. The attack that was only possible due to this very person. 

She thinks back to her conversation with Horace just weeks ago. 

She could not say she was surprised when two years ago Horace Slughorn sat her down to discuss his second retirement plans. She knew he only came back to the potions position at the strong request of Dumbledore. After 11 years of his second run in the classroom, and having the threat of Voldemort’s eyes removed, he was ready to leave the castle again. 

Minerva felt the weight of choosing a new professor on her shoulders, feeding her determination to fill the position with a thoroughly qualified witch or wizard. Hogwarts has been a great school for centuries. Her position as headmistress required her to be cautious with her decisions, so that everything she did ensured the success of the school. Her students deserved to be taught by the best minds of their time, masters of their subjects. 

Disappointingly, her expectations seemed to be a great feat for the pool of candidates. Both potions professors in the two years following Horace’s leave proved to be wrong fits. Frustrated in her third attempt, she requested a meeting with Horace to seek new contenders.

She sat a cup of tea down in front of the balding man she’d spent so many years with, the buttons on his waist coast straining towards the wood of the table. 

“As you know, I have had quite the trouble trying to replace your seat in the castle. I imagine since you were the best fit for the job, you may have some insight on who else may live up to the challenge,” Minerva enthused as she took a sip from her own cup. She was well aware of what flattery could do for her old colleague, always looking to satiate his vanity. “I remember your attention for the gifted. Do you recall any students who have graduated in recent years with exempleramy marks, for whom you would see a good fit? Besides our own Hermione Granger of course,” She questions, sneaking in a prideful gleam in the end.

“Well, wherever Hermione Granger stood in marks and exemplary, you always only had to look a couple steps behind to find Draco Malfoy. I’d say one of the most talented students in potions I’ve taught. Had a knack for it, a natural talent, it seemed. Although he also had a natural talent for disrupting my classroom. Always fighting for attention and picking on Miss Granger and her friends,” Slughorn returned with a chuckle. 

The teacup paused briefly on the way to her lips at the surprise of hearing that name. “Mr. Malfoy? I remember his academic prowess, but I do not recall him being a part of your club. If he was so exemplary, why would he not have received an invitation?” Minerva eyed suspiciously over the rim of her cup.

Slughorn’s jovial demeanor faltered briefly with nerves. “Well, you know, when his father was a student he had much of the same talent for potions, naturally I invited him to the SlugClub. But, seeing what he grew up to be, and what he went on to do…”, his voice trailed off distractedly. “I saw so much of his father in him, like a perfect duplicate. I was afraid to get caught up in the wrong people again, you understand.” 

Minerva regarded his explanation warily. She had seen what Horace was referring to in Mr. Malfoy through the years. She had never expected Draco to follow in his father’s footsteps so closely, and so quickly. Learning he took the dark mark at just 16 years old had filled her with something akin to pity. To know he cemented his place in a world he had yet to explore.

Minerva had not been keen to bring Draco Malfoy back into the place he had put in so much danger just seven years ago. But she was not ignorant to the change people can be capable of. She had seen many wizards experience a change of heart. Some to the light, others to the dark. 

She accepted the application when it came through Owl, for the third year in a row, placing it with the others on her desk, the silver M shining on the top of the pile.

After countless interviews, candidates were slowly dwindling out of the running, or being cut entirely. The envelope with the silver wax seal stared at her from its place on the desk, now the last remaining of its stack. 

Every question she asked was met with an easy reply, like the answer had been obvious. His confidence flowed in a steady stream, regardless of the complexity of the potion he brewed. She watched in scrutiny as he perfected each test potion, every stir he made in the cauldron exact to the turns, every ingredient precisely measured. 

“Well, I certainly have not seen anyone more talented and suitable for the position.” Minerva said shortly. 

“I will see you at the beginning of the school term then,” Draco sniffed before walking out of the Headmistresses office.

Minerva was brought back to the present as her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her door. 

Hermione Granger is greeted by Minvera at the door with a familiar smile. 

On her way to the desk her eyes scan the portraits lining the walls of former Headmasters. Her steps falter slightly when her eyes make connection with Dumbledore’s. She brushes off the intrusive edge of contempt and makes her way quickly to the seat across the desk.

It was not uncommon for the two witches to be sitting across from each other. She often sought out Minerva when she needed reassurance, or wisdom. In times like these, the comfort of her voice echoes in her mind and mixes with the sound of her mother’s. Hermione quickly pushed it out of her mind and suppressed the wave of sadness in her stomach. 

She hadn’t known why her headmistress had asked her to meet in her office, but Minerva cut to the chase as quickly as she sat down.

“Hermione dear, I requested your presence today out of respect for you as a person, and out of knowingness of your past. Know that I am not seeking your counsel on this decision,” she paused. "I have filled the position of Potions Professor.”

“That’s great,” Hermione started cautiously, wary of her superior’s preface. “Who did you choose?”

“Draco Malfoy–

“I’m sorry?–” Hermione interrupted, thinking she must have misheard. That can’t be right.

“–will be filling the position because he has the proper qualifications. I understand Miss Granger, that you have a complicated history with Mr. Malfoy, but you need to understand that it was a case of childhood. Mr. Malfoy grew up to be an exceptionally talented potions master. Hogwarts can benefit from his expertise,” Minerva stated in a stern voice. 

“But he tried to kill Dumbledore!” Hermione couldn’t help but burst out. 

“Severus Snape killed Albus Dumbledore, you know as well as I do”, she replied gravely. 

Hermione stammered in rebuttal but Minerva’s clipped tone cut her off. 

“Draco Malfoy is a reformed man. The ministry backs his safety and pardon as a reinducted member of society. He was the most capable candidate for the job, so I must give him the job. It will do you well, Miss Granger, to give him a chance.” 

Hermione sat in stunned silence for a moment before retorting quickly, “But–...but, Minerva, the things he used to say to me, what he used to call me…you expect me to pretend like it didn’t happen?”

“I would never expect you to forgive him if you do not feel like he has earned it. All I am asking is that you be civil with each other, and maybe consider giving him a chance to apologize.”

“Draco Malfoy would never apologize to me. He made it very clear I am not worthy of it,” Hermione replied bitterly.

She is startled when the door to the office thuds closed behind her. 

“Talking about me behind my back are we? Nice to see nothing has changed,” a low voice cooly drawled. The second Hermione heard the first word she froze. She didn’t dare to turn around, she knew exactly who she would face.

“Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for joining us. Please, take a seat,” the headmistress greeted.

Malfoy swiftly takes a seat next to Hermione and takes an inquisitive turn in her direction.

“I heard the Golden Girl is the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hermione swore she could see the smirk on his face as he said it.

“You're just ornery because I got to it before you did. I see you got potions, just like Snape.” She snapped.

She noticed in her peripheral vision his posture grow slightly more rigid at her words. This seemed to shut him up just long enough for Minerva to push her way back into their bickering.

“Professor Granger, now that we have all been reacquainted, I will have you escort Professor Malfoy to his sleeping quarters here at Hogwarts for the rest of the term,” she said with finality Hermione didn’t dare question.

The two young professors stood silently and proceeded to leave, finding it better to not argue with the headmistress so early in the school year. 

As they reached the door, Minerva called from her desk, “I certainly do not want to be alerted to any funny business coming from the two of you. I expect you to be on your best and most professional behavior. You are professors here after all, not students”.

As Hermione crossed the door, she became acutely aware that she is now alone with Draco Malfoy. She refused to feel afraid. Malfoy was nothing but a bully from her school days, she would not allow him the satisfaction of her fear. 

This resolution did nothing to cut the tension, rising with the seconds between them. She glanced at Malfoy from the corner of her eye, his stride confident and smooth but with the air of indifference. His eyes stared hard ahead, as if he was trying not to notice her next to him. 

She debated speaking to him, but she decided that if she had nothing nice to say, she was not going to say anything at all. She didn’t want to stoop to his level.

Their walk was painfully silent, the only noise being their footsteps echoing throughout the empty corridors of the castle. She couldn't help but notice a slight bellow of his cape, eerily reminding her of Snape. Interesting. There was a stark shiver of unpleasantness shooting down her spine as they rapidly approached the large dark chestnut door leading to his living quarters.

She slowed to a stop in front of his door. As she opened her mouth to speak, he barged through the door. The slam a second later blew her hair back off her shoulders. She stood there gaping for only a few seconds before remembering herself. 

What am I doing? 

She shut her mouth abruptly before turning on her heel and stalking away. Frustration pricked in her veins on her walk back to her rooms. He is going to rue the countless days he taunted me. 

No. I need to be the bigger person. 

Hermione stormed into her rooms, slamming the door behind her before falling face-first into her bed with a scream.

Authors' Note

gonna crash out if no one likes this

[cliperry]

FOLKLORE. MYTHOLOGY, LEGACY. Big words that chime with serious musicians far louder than a bathroom shelf cluttered with Grammys.

These are also the totemic words a young man or woman can stay awake all night cowering over; imagined stories of fame and fortune blinking like lost Russian satellites in the solar system of a blackened bedroom. Orbiting around the sun of one's burning youthful ambition, or in other words: teenage kicks, right through the night. Remember them?

Turmoil.

Harry Styles has been thinking awfully hard about legacy and lore and longevity over the past couple of years. He's had to. After all, post-One Direction and, suddenly, Styles (now 24) finds himself in total control. It's all him.

Finally, he can open his mouth, his songbook, and say, as he did: "I didn't want to write [just more hits]. I wanted to write my stories, things that had happened to me."

It's also meant that the buck stops right there, at his size 10 snaffle loafers. There's no more sly avoidance tactics. No more inter-band squabbles to blame. No Svengali or puppet master in the background with dollar signs in his eyes and gold fillings in his molars.

(Although his new manager, Jeffery Azoff—son of legendary music mogul Irving Azoff—has been steering Styles' career as attentively as a father would teach his son how to ride a bike: one hand letting go, one hand still on the saddle.)

A word Styles drifts towards in interviews since becoming the best-dressed pop troubadour (since Elton donned a rhinestone jumpsuit and salmon pink shades) is honesty.

Styles’ legacy, he believes, is about finding the music that allows his truest self to be revealed. Or at least, those candid parts of himself that he wants to reveal.

If One Direction was all a brand's vision, someone else's worldview, then this is his antidote.

How's that for ambition? A pop star who wants to tear down artifice? A treacherous game, perhaps, when the world is watching your every move.

You don't need to be a rock star, of course, to enjoy a rock star tale. Whether they are true or not doesn’t necessarily matter. "Print the myth," as David Bowie's publicist was once so fond of telling reporters—a saying, ironically, spun from a line delivered in the James Stewart movie The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

When the rock star body is spent, it will be the stories, passed down through the generations like punk rock heirlooms, that will remain.

It's the stories that create the aura, after all. As Styles himself has commented: "It is the rumours and the whispers that help create the mystery."

We all have our personal favourites. Like the time Keith Richards supposedly stayed up for nine days straight: "I fell asleep standing up... Woke up in a pool of blood wondering, 'Is that claret?'”

Or in 1984, when Ozzy Osbourne joined Mötley Crüe on the road to oblivion and proved his rock 'n' roll worth by snorting a line of ants off the pavement. (I guess that beats snorting your own father's ashes, right, Keith?)

Yet not all musical mythology is anchored in riotous bacchanalia. The stories surrounding Prince's vast “vault” of music locked away in Paisley Park, for example, tell of exquisite songs he wrote about failed love—songs he would record late at night, sometimes after a date gone wrong, only to have his engineer wipe them immediately. Gone forever, as they were just too poignant to keep.

So then, what of Styles' legacy? Having snuck out of the juggernauting boy band colossus in August 2015 and emerging relatively intact—give or take a total lack of privacy, no semblance of a normal life, really long hair, and more Hawaiian shirts than Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson has leg days—now solo, alone, and head-to-toe in some seriously kaleidoscopic (and enviable) Gucci suits, he is in as good a position as anyone to begin to weave his own mythology.

His own fantastical tapestry that will inspire, provoke, and ignite the imaginations (and, let’s be honest, loins) of the next generation of dreamers, both young and old.

Yet, ask yourself this: What is the Harry Styles Myth thus far?

If, heaven forbid, his private plane were to sweep through a skein of geese at 20,000 feet, submit to catastrophic double engine failure, and smash into the side of Mt. Eyjafjallajökull, then what would be the most luminous highlights of his life retold in newspaper obituaries and around bar tables the world over?

There would be moments from the One Direction fable, talk of Simon Cowell's rictus grin, and perhaps Taylor Swift's vengeful lyrics—of that, there is no doubt. But what else?

Well, this is what Styles is in the process of securing right here, right now. His estate. His domain. His very own Paisley Park.

I've been fortunate enough to meet Styles a number of times, on the record and off, and he has always remembered my name. This isn't meant to sound pompous on my part—quite the opposite. You see, Styles remembers everyone's name.

If Dave Grohl is considered by many as The Nicest Man in Rock, then Harry Styles is without question The Politest Man in Pop.

Still, I mention this detail as it is significant: Styles cares what people think of him. He understands the power of reputation and how quickly a reputation can precede any talent in this business.

When the rock star body is spent, it will be the stories that will remain. It’s the stories that create the aura, after all.

Styles is also acutely aware that being thoughtful and considerate to others may well stand him in good stead if anything were to go wonky with his output. The judge and jury that make up the press and public are far more forgiving of a boy who has been self-effacing on his way up than a rocker who has only ever been wretchedly arrogant.

Styles is savvy enough to keep an incredibly smart team of friends and colleagues around him to keep him grounded. That goes for both official and unofficial management.

Take his friend Ben Winston, for example, a staggering talent himself—the youngest showrunner in the history of late-night TV to come out of the UK and take charge of an American chat show (in this instance The Late Late Show with James Corden, of which he is now executive producer). Styles has known Winston for years, heeds his advice, and trusts his perspective from the outside, in.

Styles even lived in Winston's loft in Hampstead Heath for a short period of time, providing shelter away from the press and public at a time when the band was bigger than Coca-Cola. (There’s a good story about Winston’s wife bumping into a very naked, very blonde, very famous pop star making toast downstairs one morning, if you ever get the chance to ask.)

Winston, Corden, and Styles—three British men basking and making it in the States—know how precious this opportunity is. They talk about it. They’re allied, loyal, and connected.

They understand instinctively how the press works. Years in Britain battling tabloid hacks has taught them—especially Corden—that "never complain, never explain" is a motto well worth abiding by.

Also, to secure one’s professional legacy, you’d better do something about it—otherwise someone else will. The sharks are hungry in this business.

So: Be polite. Be professional. Stay focused on doing that thing you do—whether music, film, talk shows, or Carpool Karaoke—better than anyone else.

Take charge of your own stories, your own legacy.

Aside from whether or not you enjoy Styles’ new music—his ’70s-inspired troubadour rock—or whether or not you care who he’s dating, his sexuality, or how he takes his coffee in the morning, Harry knows the key to sustaining the magic is to keep the mystery.

It’s for this reason, now solo, he does so little press.

He knows who he is. He wants his audiences to know parts of him, too. Just not everything.

"With an artist like Prince," says Styles, "all you wanted to do was know more. And that mystery—it’s why those people stay so magical! Like, fuck, I don’t know what Prince eats for breakfast. That mystery… it’s just what I like."

Constructing a dreamy, musical folklore in this day and age—where social media rages with the minutiae of everyday life, for the famous and non-famous alike—is one of the roughest tasks a pop star can attempt.

Especially if you’ve been under the glare, as Harry has.

Thus far, by our book, the boy band member formerly known as Harry Styles is doing just fine.

Styles, however—a middle-class kid from the right side of the tracks—has been brought up, both inside and outside the industry, by those who get it.

[robininthelabyrinth]

I messed up my prompt, I left some out so I’m going to awkwardly regroup it.

Au where Wen Zhuiliu is Meng yao’s dad instead of JG. Meng Yao is raised in the wen sect, as his son also the idea of the golden-core-snatcher thing being hereditary or not would be fun to explore. It’s be the ultimate dagger-up-the-sleeve move. Meng Yao joins Wen Qing and Ning to study at the Lans sect.

ao3

"Question," Lao Nie said, and Wen Ruohan tried not to groan - the other man had a tone that suggested trouble. "Do you remember that time in Yunping when that Jin bastard was so drunk that he couldn't find the brothel stairs?"

"Why do you care?" Wen Ruohan grumbled. He just wanted to sleep - Lao Nie was one of those irritating people that got more energy after sex rather than falling asleep like any normal man. Freak. A freak who wouldn’t stop poking him, and not with anything fun, either. "Fine, fine, yes, I remember. What about it?"

"Didn't you order that new retainer of yours to go upstairs and fuck that prostitute for him? Saying something like 'it's a waste not to get the value even if he can't'?" 

That sounded suspiciously like the sort of spiteful mean-hearted joke Wen Ruohan might make while drunk, yes. 

"What about it?" he asked.

"She got pregnant."

Wen Ruohan blinked.

"Now, she's saying it's Guangshan's, of course,” Lao Nie said. “They all do when they don’t realize how much of a miser he really is under all that gold. But if there's a chance...it was that Zhao Zhuliu fellow, wasn't it? The one with the core-melting hand?"

"Wen Zhuliu," Wen Ruohan corrected. "And yes. I think he was too new to realize I wasn’t actually serious...hm. You think the child may have inherited his talent?"

"Why not? Especially if you start teaching him early..."

What an interesting proposition.

"So…” Lao Nie scooted closer. Somehow. There was not enough room on this bed. “Can I have this one?"

"What? Absolutely not."

"But you already have the father!"

"And that means the son is mine as well. Get lost!"

"But -"

"Keep your grubby hands to yourself,” Wen Ruohan scowled. “All good things belong to me, least of all talents that I've put in time and effort to raise."

"Spoilsport,” Lao Nie said, though he didn’t look especially put out by the refusal. “Anyway, what if I were to put my 'grubby hands' here..."

“Get lost!”

-

"Sect Leader."

"Get lost," Wen Ruohan growled, not even bothering to turn to look at whoever it was that had entered. When he didn't hear the pitter-patter of fleeing feet, he added: "Or else I'm going to kill you."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement of fact, and a sincerely meant warning.

Wen Ruohan might have a temper and be inclined towards sadism, but he valued talent. Anyone with access to his study was a talent he had cultivated with great effort, and it would be such a pain to undo all of that by murdering them himself. 

Which was not to say he wouldn't, if his mood were bad enough, just that he'd make the effort to warn them away first. If they still didn't listen, that was their problem, and presumably a sign that they didn't really have as much talent or brains as he'd initially thought.

"Sect Leader, I have some news for you."

Wen Ruohan restrained the urge to throw something - did he seem like he was in the mood to receive news, either positive or negative? - but only because the longer speech had revealed the identity of the servant that had intruded: it was little A-Yao, Wen Zhuliu's boy.

He was being uncharacteristically stupid in stubbornly insisting on approaching Wen Ruohan now, which was most unlike his usually gentle and cautious character, but he was also ten years old - some stupidity was to be expected. Didn't adolescence start around then or something....? Or whatever it was that rotted teenage boys’ brains the way it obviously had his sons’? 

Wen Ruohan pinched his brow and exhaled hard, struggling to manage his temper. He had not yet descended to the level of squabbling with children.

"What," he forced out through gritted teeth, "is it?"

"Nie-gongzi wrote that he'd like to come visit," Wen Yao said, which was both exactly the type of "news" a child might be expected to think was earth-shatteringly important and which made Wen Ruohan nearly see red at how stupidly inane it was - and all the more because it included that accursed surname Nie. "He says his father is being intolerable."

Well, Wen Ruohan could scarcely argue with that.

After all, wasn't that why he himself was so angry at this precise moment? Lao Nie's cavalier behavior, his indifference, his disdain...

Wen Ruohan frowned, suddenly distracted from his anger. 

"Did you say Nie Mingjue was complaining?" he asked. "Nie-gongzi, not Nie-er-gongzi? Not Nie Huaisang, the littler one?"

Nie Huaisang complained about everything, being six, but loud with it. But Nie Mingjue?

Nie Mingjue was fourteen and fundamentally a good boy, with none of the typical self-absorption and moodiness of adolescence. For him to complain about another person, least of all his father, and to someone in another sect, no less, even if that someone was just a friend he'd made during his father's visits to the Nightless City or Wen Ruohan’s own to the Unclean Realm...that was out of character.

That was practically a cry for help, really. It suggested something might be genuinely wrong.

Something wrong with the Nie sect leader –

Wen Ruohan’s anger, entirely caused by the particularly aggravating behavior of Lao Nie, abruptly cooled so fast that it felt as though his entire body had fallen into an icy river.

After all, who didn't know about the Nie sect's famous inclination towards qi deviations...?

"Yes, sect leader," Wen Yao said, blinking up at him. "The older Nie-gongzi. He seemed very distressed. Should I write him back and ask about particulars?"

"No need," Wen Ruohan said, making a snap decision. "I'm going to go pay a personal visit to the Unclean Realm right now. I'll settle the details myself when I get there."

He swept out the door, tossing a "Get someone to clean this mess up, will you?" over his shoulder as he did.

-

It turned out the letter from Nie Mingjue was a fabrication, but after patching things up with Lao Nie, Wen Ruohan was in a good enough mood to forgive Wen Yao for his little schemes.

-

"How attached are you to Wen Yao?"

Wen Ruohan blinked, then stared incredulously at Lan Qiren, who was probably the last person he'd expect to try to poach talent away from him. It was Lan Qiren, after all, boring old-before-his-time teacher that he was.

Lan Qiren grimaced at him, which was an unusual posture with which to start such negotiations. Normally someone trying to steal someone away, much less someone actually surnamed Wen, servant or not, would put on a flattering expression and try to butter him up first. Lan Qiren’s disgruntled expression was completely out of place. After all, people didn't try to steal other people's servants involuntarily...

Unless.

"Wait, you're saying Mingjue's little scheme worked?" he blurted out, and Lan Qiren’s scowl worsened. "It did? Absurd. I don't believe it."

Nie Mingjue had only been talking for the last two or three years about how he had to introduce his two good friends, Wen Yao and Lan Xichen, and how well he was sure they would get along. Up until now, Wen Yao had been politely putting him off, mostly because of some ridiculous self-image issues - so what if he was a servant's son or born of a prostitute, he had the Wen surname, and that alone made him nobler by far than any of the smaller sect's true-born children, perfectly capable of speaking on equal terms with the heir of a different Great Sect, and really, Wen Ruohan needed to encourage the boy to pick up more of the arrogance that was now his right - but with Wen Ruohan sending him, Wen Chao and Wen Ning to the Cloud Recesses for lessons with Lan Qiren as a favor to Lao Nie, he presumably wouldn't have been able to avoid meeting Lan Xichen any longer.

Apparently, it had gone even better than Nie Mingjue had predicted, if Lan Qiren was already here to feel Wen Ruohan out about a potential marriage agreement.

Unless that had been what Nie Mingjue meant all along - Wen Ruohan wouldn't put it past Lao Nie's son.

He wouldn’t put anything past that family of rascals.

"Believe it or not, as you wish, but that doesn't change the reality of it," Lan Qiren said, sounding grumpy, and for the first time Wen Ruohan realized that the other man - who he normally avoided out of residual dislike of teachers, and perhaps some jealousy of Lao Nie having friends other than him - was completely unafraid of him. How interesting. "I assume you'll want to extract everything you can over this and naturally you have me over a barrel, so I thought it better to finish it quickly so that you wouldn't have time to think of any more outrageous demands."

How delightfully blunt. Had Wen Ruohan missed something here, seeing Lan Qiren only in his role as acting sect leader? He'd assumed that the overly-cautious pedant was all there was to the man, Lao Nie's unfathomable appreciation for him aside, but perhaps Lan Qiren was one of those rare people who was genuinely different in a different milieu. 

Perhaps Lao Nie might even be right about him, which, knowing that man's proclivities, would mean that this seemingly innocuous man was actually dangerous in some fashion. 

Interesting indeed.

"What's the rush?" Wen Ruohan asked, and suppressed a grin at Lan Qiren’s audible huff of exasperation. "This is their life we're talking about, after all. We should treat it seriously."

It was said that Lan loved only once in a lifetime, and irrevocably - if that were true, Wen Ruohan really did Lan Qiren over a barrel, as the other man had so forthrightly admitted. Given Lan Qiren’s obvious adoration of his nephews and Lan Xichen's role as sect heir, even sect leader presumptive given his father's seclusion, Wen Ruohan was in a position to make considerable demands.

Studying the man in front of him with curiosity, he wondered idly if he could even go so far as to obtain a person of the previous generation. A teacher renowned throughout the cultivation world had to have considerable talent, and, well, Wen Ruohan had always appreciated talent...

[foxes-that-run]

Harry for GQ Australia May 2018

(There’s a good story about Winston’s wife bumping into a very naked, very blonde, very famous pop star making toast downstairs one morning if you ever get the chance to ask.)

There's just something about Harry

FOLKLORE. MYTHOLOGY. LEGACY. Big words that chime with serious musicians far louder than a bathroom shelf cluttered with Grammys. These are also the totemic words a young man or woman can stay awake all night cowering over; imagined stories of fame and fortune blinking like lost Russian satellites in the solar system of a blackened bedroom, orbiting around the sun of one's burning youthful ambition. Or in other words: teenage kicks, right through the night. Remember them?

Harry Styles has been thinking awfully hard about legacy and lore and longevity over the past couple of years. He’s had to. After all, post-One Direction and, suddenly, Styles (now 24) finds himself in total control. It’s all him. Finally, he can open his mouth, his songbook and say, as he did, “I didn’t want to write [just] ‘stories’. I wanted to write my stories, things that had happened to me.”

It’s also meant that the buck stops right there, at his 10 snaffle loafers. There’s no more sly avoidance tactics. No more inter-band squabbles to blame. No Svengali or puppet master in the background with dollar signs in his eyes and gold fillings in his molars. (Although his new manager, Jeffery Azoff, son of legendary music mogul Irving Azoff, has been steering Style’s career as attentively as a father would teach his son how to ride a bike, one hand letting go, one hand still on the saddle.)

A word Styles drifts towards in interviews since he’s become the best-dressed pop troubadour since Elton donned a rhinestone jumpsuit and a pair of salmon pink shades is ‘honesty’. Styles’ legacy, he believes at this point, is about finding the music that allows his truest self to be revealed. Or at least, those candid parts of himself that he wants to reveal. If One Direction was all a brand’s vision, someone else’s worldview, then this is his antidote. How’s that for ambition then? A pop star who wants to tear down artifice? A treacherous game, perhaps, when the world is watching your every move.

You don’t need to be a rock star, of course, to enjoy a rock star tale, whether they are true or not doesn’t necessarily matter; “Print the myth!” as David Bowie's publicist was once so fond of telling reporters, itself a spin, ironically, from a line delivered in the James Stewart movie The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

WHEN THE ROCK STAR BODY IS SPENT, IT WILL BE THE STORIES THAT WILL REMAIN. IT'S THE STORIES THAT CREATE THE AURA AFTER ALL.

When the rock star body is spent, it will be the stories, passed down through the generations like punk rock heirlooms, that will remain. It’s the stories that create the aura, after all. As Styles himself has commented: It is the rumors and the whispers that help create the mystery.

We all have our personal favorites. Like the time Keith Richards supposedly stayed up for nine days straight: “I fell asleep standing up... Woke up in a pool of blood wondering, ‘Is that claret?’” Or in 1984 when Ozzy Osbourne joined Motley Crue on the road to oblivion and proved his rock ’n’ roll worth by snorting a line of ants off the pavement. (I guess that beats snorting your own father’s ashes, right Keef?)

Yet not all musical mythology is anchored in riotous bacchanalia. The stories surrounding Prince’s vast ‘vault’ of music locked away in Paisley Park, for example, and the exquisite songs he wrote about failed love that he would record late at night, sometimes after a date gone wrong, and then have his engineer wipe immediately, gone forever, as they were just too poignant to keep.

So then, what of Styles’ legacy? Having snuck out of the juggernauting boy band colossus in August 2015 and emerging relatively intact — give or take a total lack of privacy, no semblance of a normal life, really long hair, and more Hawaiian shirts than Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson has leg days — now solo, alone, and head to toe in some seriously kaleidoscopic (and enviable) Gucci suits, he is in as good a position as anyone to begin to weave his own mythology, his own fantastical tapestry, that will inspire and provoke and ignite the imaginations (and loins, make no mistake) of the next generation of dreamers, both young and old.

Yet, ask yourself this: what is The Harry Styles Myth, thus far? If, heaven forbid, his private plane were to sweep through a skein of geese at 20,000ft, submit to catastrophic, double-engine failure and smash into the side of Mt Eyjafjallajokull, then what would be the most luminous highlights of his life retold in newspaper obituaries and around bar tables, the world over?

There would be moments from the One Direction fable, talk of Simon Cowell’s rictus grin perhaps and of Taylor Swift's vengeful lyrics, of that there is no doubt. But what else? Well, this is what Styles is in the process of securing right here, right now. His estate. His domain. His very own Paisley Park.

I’ve been fortunate enough to meet Styles a number of times, on the record and off, and he has always remembered my name. This isn’t meant to sound pompous on my part, quite the opposite. You see, Styles remembers everyone’s name. If Dave Grohl is considered by many as The Nicest Man in Rock, then Harry Styles is without question The Politest Man in Pop. Still, I mention this detail as it is significant: Styles cares what people think of him. He understands the power of reputation, and how quickly a reputation can proceed any talent in this business.

Styles, however, a middle-class kid from the right side of the tracks has been brought up, both inside and outside the industry, by those who have continually told him to be empathetic and humble. Styles is also acutely aware that being thoughtful and considerate to others may well stand him in good stead if anything were to go wonky with his output. The judge and jury that make up the press and public are far more forgiving of a boy who has been self-effacing on his way up than a rocker who has only ever been wretchedly arrogant.

Styles is savvy enough to keep an incredibly smart team of friends and colleagues around him to keep him grounded. That goes for both official and unofficial management. Take his friend Ben Winston, for example, a staggering talent himself — the youngest show runner in the history of late night TV to come out of the UK and take charge of an American chat show, in this instance The Late Late Show with James Corden, of which he is now executive producer.

Styles has known Winston for years, heeds his advice, trusts his advice from the outside, in. Styles even lived in his loft in Hampstead Heath for a short period of time; providing a shelter away from the press and public at a time when the band were bigger than Coca-Cola. (There’s a good story about Winston’s wife bumping into a very naked, very blonde, very famous pop star making toast downstairs one morning if you ever get the chance to ask.)

Winston, Corden, and Styles, three British men breaking and making it in the States, know how precious this opportunity they have is. They talk about it. They’re allies; loyal, connected, understanding. They recognize instinctively how the press works — years in Britain, battling tabloid hacks has taught them, especially Corden, that “never complain, never explain” is a motto well worth abiding by.

Also, to secure one’s professional legacy, then you’d better do something about it, otherwise someone else will. The sharks are hungry in this business. So be polite. Be professional. Stay focused on doing that thing you do — whether music, film, talk shows, or Carpool Karaoke — better than anyone else. Take charge of your own stories, your own legacy.

Aside from whether or not you enjoy Styles’ new music, his ’70s-inspired troubadour rock, whether or not you appreciate or care who he is dating, his sexuality, or how he takes his coffee in the morning, Harry knows the key to sustaining the magic is to keep the mystery. It’s for this reason, now solo, he does so little press. He knows who he is; he wants his audiences to know parts of him too. Just not everything.

“With an artist like Prince,” says Styles, “all you wanted to do was know more. And that mystery — it’s why those people are so magical! Like, fuck, I don’t know what Prince eats for breakfast. That mystery... it’s just what I like.”

Constructing a dreamy, musical folklore in this day and age — where social media rages with the minutiae of everyday life, for the famous and non-famous alike — is one of the toughest tasks a pop star can attempt to do. Especially if you’ve been under the glare as Harry has. Thus far, by our book, the boy band member formerly known as Harry Styles is doing just fine.

[corpseri]

So Ikevil MC seems to be brave at times but she’s pretty demure

so can I request a more sassy, fiery, feisty, take no shit MC?

Spacific lay with our favorite foul mouthed man Jude (my fav 😍)

The others if you want but not required only if your in the mood to write them

I’m thinking maybe when she’s first getting to know them and Jude is being his normal foul mouthed rude self and MC Is basically just “oh hell no I’m a put this man in his place”

I imagine this type of mc x Jude down the line would wind up turning into a sort of enemies to lovers type tho g 😂 (ofc my fav trope)

Thanks!

𝐉𝐔𝐃𝐄 𝐉𝐀𝐙𝐙𝐀 | 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐘 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: ᴊᴜᴅᴇ ᴊᴀᴢᴢᴀ

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: We love a sassy MC putting a foul-mouthed man in his place. Also, enemies to lovers is my favourite trope, and Jude is my favourite character in the game, so this is perfect. Uses she/her pronouns but could also be gender-neutral

𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊

"Quit your yappin' already. You don't want to see me mad,"

"Oh, I definitely wish to see the 'foul-mouthed', 'evil' Mister Jude get mad. It will certainly be entertaining to see a child throw a tantrum for his favourite toy," You mock teasingly, causing an irk to rise from Jude's forehead.

Ellis intervenes, hopefully before his contractor decides to put a hole in your head, "Should we get going, Mister Jude? We need to leave now so we can get to the company on time for the meeting,"

"..." Jude pauses for a moment before ultimately letting out a sigh, "Fine, let's get this shit over with. I had enough to deal with today, I'm already in a foul mood because of this ugly, scrawny dimwit,"

"I'm not a mirror, Mister Jude," You retort with a giggle, catching the way his features tensed up for a second before maintaining his cool.

This was always a thing between you and Jude. You'd like to say he started it by being the Emperor Ass that he is, but you have to admit you caused this situation to rise a little bit.

From talking back to him to openly defending Victor in the petty squabbles those two have, no matter how much in the wrong Victor is, but you digress.

You could say you were enemies. Everyone would notice the tension build up when both of you are in the same room together, but despite this, you admired his ability to take control of the room with ease, especially in a well-known trading company. But you'd never admit that.

But there was one incident you would never be able to forget...

"I'm not interested. Please leave," You were waiting for Harrison in a pub as this was the place he usually be at around this time. He did mention that he may be a few minutes late, which wasn't a problem. Well, until that drunkard tried to score you.

The man wasn't having it, grabbing your arm and pulling you off your seat. "Aaah, come on! I can show you a good time~ I'm sure whatever man you're with now can't pleasure you the way I can!"

You tried to pull your arm away from his grip, grunting as he cackles at your failed attempt. Apparently, being drunk gave him super strength.

You look around desperately at the other people at the bar as a desperate plea for help, to which they all avoided their eyes. Well, you certainly aren't going to be coming to this pub in the future.

He drags you out of the pub, and his sloppy movements cause you to lug around poorly, sometimes tripping on your own feet. You pray to find Harrison walking to the pub, but alas, he was later than usual.

The drunkard continues on, throwing you against the wall of an abandoned alleyway, holding you in place with his foot pressed up against your stomach.

The sudden impact made you yell in pain, toppling over if it wasn't for his leg in the way. "Stop being so loud... do I have to teach you to be obedient?"

"Maybe when you fixed that rugged look of yours and get a decent life, maybe then you can think that you can control me, you utter idiot,"

"You..." He mutters, teeth gritted as he kicks your stomach again, harder than the last time. "You're just like your boyfriend, huh. A foul-mouthed rat who should be better on the streets,"

"What... boyfriend...?" You try and muster the courage to ask.

The drunkard was irked at your question, "That bitch of the trading company. Seeing his girlfriend suffer like this will make him pay... maybe I should kill you for revenge!"

So he hurt you because he thought you were associated with Jude, huh? Maybe you shouldn't go near him anymore if you even survive.

Suddenly, the man was on the floor unconsious, leaving you free. Before you could land on the floor, strong arms held you up. "Mister Jude, she’s injured,"

"She’s fine," Jude dismisses almost immediately, watching you with a small glimmer of pity as he sees you clutch your stomach in pain. "Give her to me," He orders, practically pulling you towards him to be carried.

Ellis stands up from his crouched position, "Are you sure?" He does not answer, simply walking away from each passing second, not realising the soft breaths coming from your sleeping form.

You woke up the next day, Roger said you were fine but advised you to stay in bed for, the next few says until you feel 100% better for you to walk around with no abdominal pain.

Harrison apologised for leaving you alone in a pub, hoping to make it up to you. Ellis visits you every day, asking you the same question, "Are you okay?" before making small talk and leaving.

Today, you finally decided to ask why he asked you the same question, to which he replied: "Mister Jude ordered me to check in every day to see if you were alright. I think he felt bad because you got hurt because of him,"

"Oh..."

"He's in his room right now. I can take you there if it makes you happy,"

"Thank you, Ellis,"

With a knock on his door, you enter, not bothering to wait for his response. After all, you would have come in even if he said no.

His eyes look uo to find yours, in a small shock. His expression immediately turns back to his normal, grumpy façade. "What do you want?"

"You know, if you wanted to know how I was doing, you could have just come to me yourself,"

He turns away, mindlessly sorting through papers scattered on his bed. "I wasn't worried. If you died, I would not hear the end of it from the Queen. Besides, yer fine. You were just on bed rest because Mother Roger wouldn't stoo yappin'"

"But why bother asking Ellis to ask me how I'm doing if you knew I was alright?" You close the door behind you, making your way to his bed, sitting down on the edge of it.

Jude pauses for a moment, trying to come up with a structured answer, which would make you go asay the fastest, "Because I was worried for yer stupid ass. That fatass won't hurt you again, I've made sure of it. So don't worry about shit, alright?"

You giggle at his tsundere side, leaning over to gove him a wick peck on the cheek. "Well, thanks for saving me, back there. Who knows what would have happened," You stand up from your seat, making you way to the door, noticing how Jude's face flushed a bright pink. "See ya around, Mister Jude~"

©️umi-adxhira [27/06/2023]