#they’re unavoidable on the grass

[acapacityforenduring]

this is sooooo funny. the cigarette butt in the cutesy pic #london

[hitlikehammers]

if you can’t write your own necronomicon, store-bought is fine 📔

(not ideal but: fine) — 1/3

for @klausinamarink, who prompted 'NECROMANCY' at the @steddiesummerexchange

Steve wants this clear, on-the-record, absolutely fucking crystal, okay?

It was not his intention to snoop through Eddie’s shit.

It’s not even a ‘respect for the dead’ thing. It’s just a ‘be a decent dude and don’t go through another dude’s personal stuff’ thing.

So like. Just to be clear.

It does not start out the way it…ends up.

——————

How it does start out is this notion that gets stuck in Steve’s head about the fucking gravestone they’re putting up. He hates the idea of it being installed over nothing, just plopped atop grass and dirt and just, just…nothing.

Almost like they’re saying Eddie was somehow nothing, and when the overall notion hits on that thought specifically Steve has this simultaneous urge to break a window and vomit, and it’s just, it’s not—

He needs to find a way to curb that feeling.

He hates it enough to mention it to the others, who don’t get it. At all. Maybe because it’s Steve, and they don’t think he knew Eddie enough to be this…this. Maybe because it’s Steve and that’s not Steve’s role, is it? Having the feelings. And if Steve was in a clearer frame of mind, maybe he’d be able to wonder if the people he’s asking just can’t handle what he’s asking, can’t process more of…any of it, not right now.

But he’s not. In a clearer frame of mind. He can’t process, either, beyond the kind of fucking all-consuming need to not bury nothing under Eddie Munson’s name.

So he buys a casket. Anonymously, uses his dad’s business card. Ships it to the place he knows is doing the stone, there’s really only one option in town and maybe they’ll be confused, or maybe they’ll be pissed, but Steve makes sure when it arrives that it sits on their doorstep, moves it in the night when it gets dropped after hours: unavoidable. Unignorable. Black on the outside and red on the inside, but Steve moves it all by himself and it’s still too light. It’s still empty. It’s not quite nothing.

But fuck if it’s enough.

The only two people he’s tried to broach the subject with—or who’ve heard him in the process—and who haven’t brushed him off are Robin, and that’s because she’s his soulmate, and they haven’t slept without one another in arm’s-reach at the absolute most since they lost—

Well. Since.

The second person is Eleven, and she’d just overheard Mike scoffing and Dustin blinking silently, and Steve had known when to leave a battle that couldn’t be won because it wasn’t even gonna be fought, but he had caught her with a crease between her eyes. Her face scrunched all thoughtful. Listening.

And if nothing else: not dismissing.

So when the idea strikes—not manic, it’s not a manic sort of idea, maybe it’s close, like in the ballpark of manic but hotdogs and millionaires are also in the same ballpark at the same time, y’know, and they’re nothing alike so fuck you—but when the not-manic idea strikes to put something, something that means something, that carries literal and figurative weight, inside that casket?

He tells Robin, who looks at him with sadness but not with pity, and who asks how they’ll manage it, rather than trying to talk him out of it. He’ll never get over how lucky he is to have her; never learn words that live up to how much she means to him.

But also: it’s good that all she does is ask how. Because Steve actually has that figured out.

He heads to Hop’s cabin when he knows both he and Joyce are gone. He explains in simple but plain terms, the kind he’s learning El appreciates best and processes easiest, especially when feelings are involved. And these feelings she grasps without hesitation, and fills in Steve’s vague ideas with concrete plans, and it takes less than twelve hours to see them at Forest Hills, where the government still hasn’t moved that goddamn trailer to give anyone any semblance of closure but definitely finds the time and manpower to put up new tape around the scene whenever it’s tampered with, fuck those motherfuckers all over again and—

Right. Well.

It takes less than twelve hours for El to distract the guards with a very minor fire on the other end of the park and some suspicious-sounding chittering she bets right on piquing their attention, giving Steve and Robin the in to sneak around the barriers and find their quarry: the version of the Warlock that never saw the Upside Down, knocked to the floor but in one piece. Weighty.

Something that means something, to mourn in the ground.

Robin’s peeking out the window, checking if the coast is clear for them to jet, for Eleven to ease off and meet them back at Steve’s car to go back to their evenings like nothing ever happened, save for the guitar in Steve’s trunk and at her signal Steve makes to follow with said guitar slung awkward across his back but then something…something pulls in him. It’s not even a catch from the corner of his eye or some shit, no, he feels it in the center of his chest:

What if it’s not enough?

So he grabs as many of the books scattered on the floor around a cracked and quaked-apart shelf in the corner as he can fit between both arms, all sorts and shapes and sizes, and then he’s ignoring Robin’s raised brow and crawling as quiet as he can back out of the trailer, out of the half crime scene, half quarantine zone, and running for the trees to get back to where they parked.

El’s waiting for them, and as he drives, honestly?

Steve thought he’d feel better about things, now. He thought this would start to calm that nauseous rage in him.

Maybe once it’s in the casket. Maybe once he feels the heft of it as a real thing.

Maybe.

——————

It would probably be logical to think that it’s the weight of the guitar that makes the shift, that turns the tides.

But that’d actually be a goddamn stupid thought because nothing about any of this—this town, what lies beneath it, the war they’re fighting the battle they lost, Steves fucking life now at large—none of it is logical, Jesus Christ. The guitar. What a fucking dumb idea.

Because it’s the books, of course.

It’s the goddamn books.

Because the guitar helps but it’s not enough. Steve tried his fucking hardest to lift Eddie’s body, had him in his arms but the gates were closing, the rope half-assed at too short after he’d cut Dustin off and with all of their wounds even Robin and Nancy—both with more upper body strength then you’d think—were basically fish in a fucking barrel and Steve was in worse shape but fuck if he didn’t get them out, get everyone out but—

He’d been the last, with Eddie. He’d felt the heft of that body, too cool against his chest but not cold, not yet—not dead weight, not dead weight, he was a person, he was this incredible person Steve was only just getting to know and he was, now he was—

No one had been unscathed to the point of being able to help Steve up. Steve had had the kind of shocking sort of clarity for being ready to stay with Eddie as the gate sizzled and narrowed, no man fucking left behind, right, but for the screaming growing ever more shrill for each failed attempt Steve made at holding Eddie different, at trying to get up and over the threshold together to no avail: he made the call the rest of them were screaming of him to make, despite the messiest fucking tears:

Leave him. He’s already gone. You’re not.

He knew how much Eddie weighed to carry, is the point. And the man was a lanky fucker with a little more build to him than first glance gave away but still: the guitar does barely half the work of filling the void.

Though the exact void Steve’s trying to fill might be…it might be more complicated than just the fucking casket not being empty.

But the casket does need more than just the instrument.

He sorts through the books he grabbed blindly; they all must at least be ones Eddie liked but…The Lord of the Rings. There are three of those, right? I feel like there are at least the three, and there are three right here that look so well loved they can’t not have meaning; Steve wanted to read them. He won’t be quick enough to read these copies, though, and that does feel like such a fucking loss, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

The grave can’t be empty. It can’t be meaningless. The marker’s meant to bear the loss.

They’re big, like, thick fucking books—one of about a hundred reasons why Steve hadn’t picked them up before. And no, he’s not…he’s not going to dwell on the why behind the way he lets his fingers flip the pages slow, stop here and there and drag the nail-tip across a line, a paragraph, wondering what some of the words mean, what Eddie would have thought of them, if he were here to ask—

There needs to be more weight. He shoves the trilogy to the side and grabs for…oh.

Oh, these are the…manual. Thingies.

For the dragon dungeons.

He lifts one, tests it: not as heavy. But there…there are a lot, and—

And Steve’s opening them too, flipping slow just the same: wondering. Wishing he could have a running commentary alongside that boundless energy even in the face of the end of the world, maybe because of the impending doom of the end of the goddamn world and Steve, walking shoulder to shoulder with him in those fucking death woods, he, it was, they—

“He was right,” Steve remarks, and realizes belatedly that it’s the first words he’s said to Robin where she’s flicking through a stack of books much quicker than him, clinical: all about the weight for the casket but Steve’s stuck on a page that takes him back to a conversation he heard only half of, the kids trying to catch Eddie up, trying to describe what they all call demogorgons and Eddie muttering under his breath about how that sounded absolutely fucking not like a demogorgon, and there a drawing right here, black and white and:

“They look nothing like they do in the game.”

Robin meets his gaze and still—somehow—her eyes are sad but they don’t pity him. Not yet, at least.

He’ll take it.

“Nothing in these is even really, like, connected,” Steve mumbles as he flips, flinches at the marked up pages on Vecna, Jesus fuck; “or workable,” he looks at the Mind Flayer and cringes, feels the urge to hide those pages from Robin even if she isn’t close, then decides to play it safe for probably irrational reasons and tosses the book to the side and grabs blindly for another one, oh cool, this looks like…spells and shit: “like, none of this looks apple,” Steve bites his lower lip, the word he’s looking for a little fuzzy when he’s scanning over the words on the page, because they’re, they’re not; “not even applicable, y’know, in reality,” but that’s vague, they’ve set foot in more than one reality, so does that even count as a caveat anymore but then, but then—and what they fuck is his heart pounding all of a sudden, he’s just sitting down, that’s not; but then;

“Or else, not for the Upside…”

His voice gives, peters out. His pulse is thick in his throat. He’s staring so hard at nonsense, at fantasy, at, at useless pretend things that won’t change anything, won’t fucking help, and why does it all hurt in his chest so fucking much and—

“Right?”

He looks up and Rob’s already got eyes on him. He can’t imagine how he looks. His vision’s a little…blurry, and it doesn’t even feel like it’s from tears, which…it does feel like it should be—but she might have crossed over to watching him with pity, now. He wouldn’t be able to tell.

But either way: Robin knows him, down to the cells. She knows the question he speaks out loud isn’t the question he’s asking. He’s not asking for reassurance, or confirmation. He’s not even asking her an opinion. He’s sure as shit not asking for permission.

Because he’s dizzy. His heart’s pounding, and he’s fucking dizzy, and it’s nonsense, it’s not real, it’s all a stupid game and the names don’t even match—

But. All of it was real. In some way, it was real.

It’s not an exact science, not a perfect match: it never was. But that wasn’t the point. It was a roadmap. It was a way to process the unfathomable enough to get from point A to point B.

And looking at the words on the page where his fingertip is drawing a long below: he can’t…not wonder. And if he’s already set on wondering, then fuck, fuck—the rage in his chest is easy, his heart doesn’t feel so squished and his might not sick up his lunch for the first time after trying to eat more than a peanut butter sandwich from the community hub. There’s something in this. It’s what he’s been searching for. He reads the words again, again, and again and yeah, they’re absurd, they’re absolutely insane:

RAISE DEAD

But maybe…maybe they’re a roadmap. Inexact but…but up to the task. What if.

They can’t not…try.

Steve will not live with himself if they don’t try.

🖤🪦 NEXT >>>

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[warden-melli]

Please expand on your Melli/Irida ideas for us, I am fascinated by the concept and how it would work on a friendship and relationship level.

Sure thing ^^ I’m going to try and keep this as brief as possible, so this doesn’t get too long. If you’d like me to expand on anything specific, or if you have anymore questions, just let me know. I try to refer to canon as much as possible, but I think it’s unavoidable for something like this to not have conclusions based on personal head canons, or interpretations.

Melli is my favourite character or all time, and I just adore Irida, so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about both characters individually, but it was this moment specifically that first made me consider how the two of them may interact, and of what type of relationship they may have after the events of the main story

They’re both musicians/performers, with Irida being a talented flute player and Melli being a singer. Seeing the pair perform together is certainly a clue that (outside of the events of the main story) the two are likely to get along, or at least work well together. Music seems to be extremely important to Irida, and Melli is someone I feel could truly connect with her through it. It also acts as the perfect catalyst for them to connect and for a friendship to naturally develop between the pair. I’d really like to imagine that the two of them would continue to perform together, maybe even forming a musical duo (or quartet if Glaceon and Skuntank continue to perform with them)

Outside of music I feel like the characters also have a lot of other similarities, or life experiences they could connect with. Both characters are kinda outsiders, with Irida having anxieties about her role as leader, and Melli being confirmed to secretly be extremely shy, the concealment of which is the driving force behind the adoption of his overly confident persona. Both characters are unsure of if they are truly worthy of the roles they have found themselves in, evident in Melli’s behaviour and Irida’s confession during the main story. Despite this self doubt, they are both extremely loyal to their respective clans, dedicating their lives to serving their communities (as leader and warden respectively). Even though their two clans have had disagreements in the past, I can’t help but feel like the two would have a deep respect for those qualities in one another

In the art book Irida is shown to have an interest in foraging plants and botanicals, and Melli is a poison type trainer, so I feel as if the two could have a lot to discus when it came to poisonous plants, and of their uses. My personal headcanon is that Irida collects these plants because she has an interest in traditional herbal medicine, and some poisonous plants have medicinal uses, or require medicines to counter their effects. As a poison type trainer it would make sense that Melli would have an interest in poisonous plants himself, especially with his work as warden. It’s possible he may also have uses for antidotes, either personally from accidental poisonings from his pokemon partners, or to cure wild pokemon he’s encountered/battled out in the field. Melli’s ward, Lord Electrode and it’s Voltorb friends, are also grass types, resembling seeds/apricorns/peppercorns. They may also be of interest to Irida.

Melli is shown to have a great respect and admiration of those he believes to be great leaders (Adaman), and after the events of the story, when the two clans have resolved their differences, he would be exposed to other leaders in a neutral/positive context for the first time. He seems drawn to those types of personalities, and with Irida being the leader of her clan it would make sense for him to gravitate towards her, even if they may butt heads over certain issues. There’s plenty more I could talk about the two characters positively, but this is a good Segway into talking about what factors could make a friendship/relationship difficult between the two of them. And honestly I think the biggest source of tension between the two is, well, Adaman.

As I just mentioned, Melli is drawn to “great leaders”, but more specifically one in particular. Melli is a character, who in the main story, is mostly defined by his relationship to Adman and the diamond clan. Melli dedicated his life to help Adaman become a great leader, and is shown to be very devout in his beliefs, fearing punishment from “Sinnoh” when questioning the right course of action during the main story. As much as I love him, it’s true that he seems deeply superstitious/religious, and views Adaman with great reverence as the leader of his clan, seeking his guidance on spiritual matters, and being highly motivated by his approval. He seems to deeply distrust anyone outside of his own clan, and that likely includes Irida, at least at the beginning of the game. There’s so much more I’d like to talk about when it comes to this topic, but I feel as if Irida, out of any character in the game (outside of the player character) may be the one with the best chance of Melli being able to connect with them outside of his clan, because we’ve already seen it happen with the performance scene. Having music in common, and a shared goal of performing could actually be the perfect catalyst for Melli to overcome these reservations. This sets up opportunities for the two to get to know each other naturally, and may be a good way to challenge Melli’s world view. Irida despite being a clan leader and with the clans past tensions, seems to have no problems connecting and interacting with members of the Diamond clan, forming a friendship with Mai and volunteering to perform at the Diamond Clan settlement

Even if Melli was able to get over his own reservations and connect with someone outside of his own clan, Adaman would likely still be an obstacle in other ways, simply due to his open dislike and incompatibility with Irida. Adaman is the person Melli looks up to most in the world, and it would likely be a source of tension between the two if Melli was to strike up a friendship/relationship with the leader of the rival clan. At the end of the game, Irida and Adaman come to a bit of a truce, vowing to put aside their natural dislike of one another for the good of the one thing that they have in common, a love of Hisui and it’s people/pokemon. Even though they’ve vowed to work on their issues, it’s likely negative feelings from past interactions, as well as the personality incompatibilities that (in part) caused much of their tensions to begin with, still remain even after the truce. Melli may be too conflicted to pursue anything beyond a working relationship, and it’s likely he’d have to deal with negative opinions coming from both parties about the other, but I don’t necessarily think this is a bad thing, at least from a potential growth perspective

Having Melli come between Irida and Adaman as somebody they both care about would not only help to challenge Melli’s rigid world views and help to lessen his reliance on Adaman in regards to his own identity, but could also serve as a catalyst for Irida and Adaman to truly overcome much of their own conflict, and could allow for them to genuinely connect in their own right. Having Melli openly challenge misconceptions the two may have about one another, and hearing stories about them through Melli’s perspective might help them to see each other in a completely different light, allowing them to genuinely get past their rivalry, or at least truly accept each other’s differences as quirks, and not as reasons for conflict. Even if only for Melli’s sake. I feel like the three of them have the capability of forming a genuinely healthy relationships with one another, even if at first any sort of relationship between Melli and Irida may be a source of tension.

This is a general overview, and I could easily talk more about different dynamics, conflicts and logistics about these two, and of any friendship/relationship the two could potentially have, but this post is already too long lol. Ultimately the two seem likely quite lonely characters, and with them both looking so happy performing together at the festival, and with the potential for the two of them to gain so much from a potential friendship/relationship, I can’t help but consider the possibility. The possible tensions or problems that may arise between the two is equally as fascinating as thinking about the ways that they could connect. As is thinking about ways they could potentially overcome any problems. I personally like to think of the Pokémon world as a multiverse, so from that perspective it’s fun to consider different interpretations of characters/worlds, and of different dynamics and relationships between them

[roosterbruiser]

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 "𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐧" 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬���𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲) ✯ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Things are rocky--but the sun will always feel good on your face. ✯ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 506 ✯ 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✯ 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

When Jake looks at you, you’re certain your heart stops. 

Really--it stutters in its steady pace and for a fleetwing moment, it ceases to beat. All your hot blood pauses in its flowing. Your breath gets stuck on your front teeth and your fingers grow warm. And then--just as abruptly as it halted--your heart blinks back into operation with an erraticism that only he has been able to invoke.

You look at him, look at those aspen-colored eyes and that lilt in his grin and watch those fingers curl around the neck of a guitar, and you can feel it in your toes, in the prickles on your scalp, in the apex of your thighs. It echoes in your bones even: you love him you love him you love him you love him you love him. It’s intrinsic to you at the very age you are now and the very age you were fourteen years ago. You think you were born with him in your marrow. You knew him before you even met him and you’ll know him even after you don’t anymore.

It’s pathetic, really--or that’s what it feels like. Him, only him, that’s all. That’s it. 

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” 

There it is--your body is reacting to him without your explicit guidance. You have to breathe through it all like it’s some sort of labor. You don’t face him; you can’t face him. A measly shrug of your slumped shoulders is all you can muster under his gaze right now as you bite down hard on your bottom lip.

The swing croaks beneath your combined weights, rocking very gently as Jake presses his toe against the grass. You’re close enough that you can feel the expanding of his chest when he breathes and the hinge of his knee popping when he extends his leg. You feel it every time he moves and you wish--you really, really wish--that you couldn’t.   

“Nothin’,” you say softly, which is juvenile and false and terse. You don’t know when this started--all this lying. But it feels inevitable now. “Life, I guess,” you finish with a pathetic breath. 

The sun washes over your face, warmer than it should be this early in the morning. It kisses your cheeks with a roughness only something so paramount and unavoidable can possess. It strokes every hair of your eyebrow, grazes every individual eyelash, weaves through every curl on your head. It is good to be touched by it--so good that you tilt your chin towards the cornflower sky, so good that you let your eyes fall shut. They’re swollen with tears, thick from your sleepless night. The sun kisses each vein littering your eyelid, too, taking special care of the salt dripping down your lashes. 

“Can’t keep doin’ this to each other,” Jake says hoarsely. 

As if you don’t already know that. 

“Don’t wanna talk,” you mutter, keeping your eyes shut as spots of dazzling yellow dance against your eyelids. “Don’t say anything.”

He doesn’t. He just sits there and stops your heart.

✯ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

✯ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

✯ 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

✯ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @hazyretina @violetta-ximena @illicithallways @winterrebel04 @chicomonks

[theculturedmarxist]

Israel’s military strategy follows precisely the parameters its war planners proclaimed: total war. This would not be mowing the grass. This was a fight all the way to the end of the line. To eradicate Hamas, yes. But far beyond that.

US leaders have telegraphed their acceptance of this approach by floating the notion of “what comes after Hamas is defeated.”  In other words, after Hamas is totally dismantled and destroyed as a viable entity.  They may be thinking of how the west and its regional allies attacked and largely eliminated ISIS as a viable force.

But as this article points out–the proper insurgency analogy for Hamas is not ISIS, but the Vietcong.  A people’s army rooted in every home and village.  With disciplined political and military cadres operating covertly and overtly everywhere and anywhere.  Even when the Vietcong faced the most severe US-Vietnamese attacks, they never wavered.  It was their country after all. They could never be defeated in any real sense.  And events proved them right. They outlasted the invaders: a Vietcong version of summud.

Gaza, of course, is a much smaller area than Vietnam. So targeting Hamas would be an easier feat.  But among 2-million people, you cannot eradicate a movement the people embrace.  You would have to eliminate all the people to do that.  Which brings me to my next point.

It is very likely, I believe, Israel intends to expel all Gazans.  This isn’t just a war to destroy tunnels, or to eliminate Hamas fighters.  It wasn’t even exclusively a war to eliminate Hamas.  It was a war to make Gaza entirely unlivable.  It is total war in an urban setting.

By total war, I mean one that destroys everything. Everything and everyone.  Leaving the living to bury the dead…or die trying.  The goal is to make Gaza so uninhabitable, that the world will find this version of the Final Solution perhaps unpalatable, but in the end unavoidable.

I can’t think of any modern version of total war comparable to this one.  In every similar attack on a major city, the attacker did not intend to render the place permanently unlivable for survivors.  Even in the case of the atomic bomb attacks in Japan, the US formed an Occupation government which entirely rebuilt the country, including Hiroshima and Nagasaki, while also creating a new democratic political system. After murdering 500,000 during the infamous Dresden bombing, the city was rebuilt. Only the ruins of the bombed cathedral remained, as a testament to the cruelty and suffering of the War.

There are ancient versions of this, all revolving on conquerors sowing the earth of the vanquished state with salt, so it would be unable to produce anything that could sustain life. In fact, this ancient version of a scorched earth-total war strategy, may originate in the ancient Middle East.

This may Israel’s Total War 2.0: a military strategy “updated” for the modern age.  Preferably, it would be studied in military academies more for its horror than for the innovation of tactics or long-term success in achieving political goals.

The first stage of this process is the one we are in now–genocide by degrees. Eliminate neighborhoods, infrastructure, institutions. Render hospitals, schools, businesses either destroyed or inoperable.  The latest is they’re even bombing water tanks and solar panels.  Because I presume they’re major weapons of war.

People will then die not only from the bombs, but from their untended wounds, starvation, disease, etc.  Despite the savagery of Israeli tactics in this stage, eventually the world slowly becomes acclimatized to it.  What was once horrifying and downright uncivilized, is now the new normal.

That leads to what may be the next stage: Israel declaring, Gaza is now unlivable. It’s a sad tragic fact of war. We had to do it. They gave us no choice, etc. But guess what, the Israelis could say. Let’s start over. Let’s reconceive what Gaza is.

They might have a hybrid approach to how the post-war landscape will look: perhaps Israeli Jewish settlements, interlaced with Gazans carefully screened by the security apparatus, who are permitted to remain.  Or perhaps it would be Palestine-rein (though that might be a bridge too far for a finicky global audience).

Gaza: Nakba 2.0

Israel has already published two separate plans, one produced by a whack job analyst, Amir Weitmann, arguing it would only cost $5-8-billion to resettle Gaza Palestinians in existing or newly built housing stock on the outskirts of Cairo.

In the video below, he tries to tear an RT reporter a new asshole. Pulling an Israeli Rambo, he threatens to personally destroy Russia. Or something.

A mentally deranged genocidal Nazi threatens Russia… 🤷🏽‍♀️#GenocideinGaza #ShutElbitDown STOP THE #GENOCIDE NOW! pic.twitter.com/GrMWMmbc4A — 🗣️📢 𝕗𝕣𝕖𝕖 𓂆 𝕡𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖 (@ronnie_barkan) October 20, 2023

The other proposal came from the intelligence ministry.  It was similar in some respects to the other plan.  But it did not offer the newly expelled refugees anything other than tents in the Sinai. As far as this proposal was concerned, Israel dumped them there. It was now someone else’s problem.

Which wasn’t much different than what Israel did after the 1948 War.  It expelled a million indigenous Palestinians and foisted them on neighboring Arab countries: your problem, Israel said.  These countries now have 5-million Palestinian “problems.”

Media reporting on these two documents noted they weren’t produced by the country’s highest level security think tanks and that the intelligence ministry is really an insignificant backwater as far as government ministries go.

But a different strategy may be involved.  These plans may be part of a broader plan.  After they are leaked, the government gives them time to be absorbed by Israelis and the world.  Then the genocide continues. The body count continues to rise.  Savagery even escalates. Pressure builds up.  Then Israel says: hey, we have a plan to end all this. No more killing. No more terrorism. No more Palestinian Gaza.  Are you interested, world?  It is quite possible that so many nations and world leaders will be so outraged by this Israel will pack it in and return to killing business as usual.

But…if Israel preps enough allies, if it gets Biden and Blinken on board. If they lobby the European allies, then Israel may be able to pursue a diabolical plan to its “logical” criminal conclusion. At least that’s what Israel hopes.

Gaza as colony. Israel, US, and European and Arab allies as colonial powers

The US and Israel have cooked up a real stew. They propose that after Hamas is eliminated (a dubious proposition to begin with–but more on that later), an occupation force consisting of American troops would administer Gaza:

The US and Israel are exploring options for the future of the Gaza Strip, including the possibility of a multinational force that may involve American troop…

Plan B involves an Arab multilateral force that would administer Gaza. It has even designated who that could be–none other than the next-up in the Abraham Accords sweepstakes, Saudi Arabia.  Yes, those Saudis did such a bang-up job in Yemen, where they not only murdered 80,000 Yemenis, they also slaughtered hundreds of Ethiopian refugees fleeing from Yemen. We want these humanitarians to work their magic in Gaza.

Secretary of State Blinken summed up the (stupid) thinking behind the plan:

“We can’t have a reversion to the status quo with Hamas running Gaza,” Blinken, who will travel to Israel on Friday, told the Senate Appropriations Committee. “We also can’t have — and the Israelis start with this proposition themselves — Israel running or controlling Gaza.” “Between those shoals are a variety of possible permutations that we’re looking at very closely now, as are other countries,” he said.

So you can’t have Hamas running the show. And Israel wants nothing to do with the job itself because, guess what? It tried it and didn’t work well for them: one of the reasons Sharon so unceremoniously withdrew in 2005. A decision which led–you guessed it–to Hamas’ takeover of Gaza. Israel, of course, wants to foist the unwelcome job on someone, anyone else.  Smart move for them. But not for the sucker left holding the bag.

But look at the language of Blinken’s statement. Who’s missing from consideration?  Gazans themselves. They are an after thought.  Or a non-thought.

The only thing colonial powers understand is who will run things. Not who lives there or what they want. But who’s on top. The problem with that approach is it ends up as all colonizing schemes do–the natives reject the guy running things because they want to run them for themselves.  This is precisely the disaster the US is heading for under any of these schemes.

For once in his professional life as a pro-Israel US diplomat, Aaron David Miller is right when he warns:

“The idea of bringing Arab states in to do counter insurgency in Gaza in the wake of the death and destruction that the Israelis have visited is going to be extremely problematic because it would involve Arabs killing Palestinians,” said Aaron David Miller…

You bet.  Not only that. It will involve Gazans killing Israel’s Arab stooge occupiers. That’s a message that would resonate with any Gazan.

Oh and here’s another Biden humdinger:

…One option would grant temporary oversight to Gaza to countries from the region, backed by troops from the US, UK, Germany and France. Ideally, it would also include representation from Arab nations such as Saudi Arabia or the United Arab Emirates,

Consider all the vague meaningless unquantifiable terms in this passage: “temporary,” “oversight,” “representation.”  These words mean nothing: tissue paper floating on the breeze. What European country in their right mind would want to station troops in a Gaza tinder keg?

It was bad enough for them when they joined multinational forces in Afghanistan and Iraq.  At least there was some international consensus behind the US invasion (as wrong as it was).  There is no such consensus how to deal with Gaza.  They would be walking into a building already on fire.

Which Arab nations would be foolish enough to join this shit show? Of course, those buddy-movie heroes, MBS and MBZ.  They’ll go anywhere, do anything: Starve Yemen? Check. Murder Shiite clerics? Check. Fund ISIS? Check. Fund anti-Iran terror? Check. Dissolve dissident journalists in vats of acid? Check.

Israel’s friends at the Washington Institute came up with their own plan. It has as much merit as my last Amazon packing slip:

[It] called for a Palestinian-run interim administration, with the UN Relief and Works Agency continuing to provide food, heath and education. “Public safety and law enforcement could be directed by a consortium of the five Arab states who have reached peace agreements with Israel—Egypt, Jordan, the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain and Morocco,” Washington Institute scholars wrote in an Oct. 17 note. “Only those Arab states would have Israel’s confidence, which is essential for this effort to succeed.”

So in other words, some Palestinian stooges, presumably the PA since they’re perfect casting for such characters, and UNWRA, will respectively, feed Gazans and administer traffic tickets (if there any cars left); while Abraham Accord stooges do all the heavy-lifting on behalf of Israel. I couldn’t have come with anything better myself (and I didn’t!).

As if reading my mind, Blinken offered fond hopes for PA’s future stooge role. Just not quite yet:

…What would make the most sense would be for an effective and revitalized Palestinian Authority to have governance and ultimately security responsibility for Gaza..

If those aren’t a few choice euphemisms concealing his admission that the PA is a bunch of corrupt aged incompetent grifters.

Media reporting on the various plans say Democratic senators were receptive. I wonder: do they have eyes in their head? Do they read the news? Do they remember when we imposed our own version of “democracy” on captive nations in Afghanistan and Iraq?  How well did that end?  If any of these harebrained schemes sees the light of day they should all have their heads examined.

But hey, it’s their own party. Let them make the rules. But remember the Pottery Barn rule, which Tom Friedman so infamously and erroneously attributed to Colin Powell: you break it, you buy it.  The beauty of the these plans, especially for Israel, is that after they break it, they don’t buy it or fix it. They pawn it off on the Saudis and they “fix” it, as only the Saudis do (cf. Yemen). If Biden thinks that a joint military occupation by European or Arab allies will absolve him of responsibility for the inevitable disaster, he should think again. It won’t.  Republicans will see to that.  And for once in their lives, they would be right.

Hamas will last

Whatever happens to Hamas during this war, no matter how decisively it has been defeated (which is by no means certain), it will not disappear. It will not be eliminated. You can kill 100,000 Gazans and you will not eradicate it. Like the Vietcong, it is so part of the people the two cannot be separated.

No matter how much propaganda Israel tries to peddle. For example: Whispered in Gaza, a dog and pony show “hosted” by pro-Israel front-man, Dennis Ross, with his Foundation for the Defense of Democracies sidekick, Jonathan Schanzer.  I tell you: there’s nothing that validates Israeli genocide more than offering Israelis and the west the delusion that they’re actually helping Gazans.  One question? How did they obtain these purported statements from Gazans?  Under what guise or pretense?  Because even if these statements are genuine (not necessarily established), I guarantee that interviewees were deceived as to the purpose for which their statements would eventually be used.  This is plain and simple information warfare. Ross has moved on from US diplomat to propaganda warrior.

That doesn’t mean all Gazans love Hamas. Not all Vietnamese loved the Vietcong.  Not all colonial Americans loved the patriots.  But Hamas fights. It resists.  There is no other force in Palestinian society that fights for its rights against occupiers and oppressors. So until something better comes along, Gazans say this will have to do.

In whatever bright new future the colonial powers have in mind for Gaza, Hamas will not just fade into the mist never to be seen again.  It will be there. It will assert itself and its presence. It will resist whoever calls himself a colonial Lord Jim. Doesn’t matter whether its a GI Joe, Saudi commander, or a Jedi knight.  They’re all foreign occupiers. All unwelcome. It will be the undying mission of Hamas to rid Gaza of them.  And eventually, if it takes a decade or five, it will.  My money is riding on it.  Colonial powers don’t have a very good, or long track record.

Something better could come along if these powers deciding Gaza’s fate recognized a Gazan voice, and compelled Israel to recognize a Palestinian state in the West Bank and Gaza, including free, full and fair elections.  Never happen. I know. But I wanted to put out the real and only solution that works. Not the one that these colonial douchebags are sticking together with rubber bands and wood glue.

Gaza: the Biggest Loser

The Biggest Loser–and they always are–are the Gazans.  At least one can say that in the Saudi scenario, they aren’t expelled and turned into refugees twice in 75 years. But they would now be under the boot heel of a hated, corrupt, despotic monarchy.  If Hamas resonated with Palestinians before–it will even more in this scenario.

The Saudis failed to quell the Yemeni Houthis. In Gaza the conditions would be even less favorable.  Despite their Israel-induced deprivation, Gazans are worldly, technologically-adept, politically engaged, etc.  They are not tribal kinsman from the mountains.  Gazans have as much in common with Saudis as Gigi Hadid has with Tokyo Rose. The Saudis will be as unwelcome occupiers as Israelis.

[letssgolesbians]

a collection of eco friendly lifestyle ideas + swaps from various sources around the web:

reusable makeup remover wipes/cotton rounds - i use these and they’re way softer on the skin and bigger so you can use multiple times before washing either in sink or with a laundry load.

cutting products open when they are almost finished - will acc save a lot of money and means that even if buying sustainably is inaccessible to you (valid!) you can make products last for longer

freeze your overripe fruits for smoothies - all tastes the same, means you can make ur own cute lil smoothie mixes and they are often thicker!!

wash dry and reuse plastic bags - they’re almost unavoidable, but you can reuse them easily (i do this for my lunch!)

buy slow fashion - to some this might be too pricey which is totally fine!! but for my uk ppl: run and fly, lucy and yak, and fat face all look rly good and have fun clothing.

eat plant based food - you don’t have to be a vegetarian, you can do meat free monday or just choose the mcplant over a normal burger at maccies! quorn has acc aamzing chicken nuggets and often supermarkets have vegetarian aisles!

support your local farmers market - they often do not wax their apples and you will actually be able to support local businesses instead of big corporations! they also are just fun to go to :)

use a bar dish soap and a bamboo brush

to wash your body, buy bar soap and a net type pouch for it to be able to save it and exfoliate, often less expensive and not packaged in plastic, more scents or you can even make your own!! i’ve heard black african soap is rly good!

use a recycled plastic toothbrush over a normal one - you can use bamboo, but for me bc of sensory issues i can’t, so this is a nice compromise!

use beeswax wraps for food instead of clingfilm - they are more sticky and thick so accessible for people with motor issues (maybe, correct me if i’m wrong but less delicate?) and they have fun patterns and are available from lots of small businesses

instead of liquid hand soap, either use a bar soap or my preference would be a glass pump bottle and tablets that you can dissolve as i find bar soap hard to handle, but bar soap you can keep in tins!

use a reusable water bottle - you can fill them with fizzy drinks or energy drinks, there’s no rules against this!! they keep your drink cold and are sturdier then plastic, and definitely cheaper!! you can also draw on some or stick stickers on to make them more ‘you’!

use cloth napkins and ‘unpaper’ towels instead of rolls of paper towels

buy in bulk

use an ice tray or machine instead of buying big bags from the store - less heavy definitely, and you can add fruits and make ice pops with trays!!

use a refillable or natural deodorant- i use wild (uk ppl!!) and it smells nice, the refills are easy and come in paper and i have a rly cute metal holder!!

you can get reusable cupcake papers - esp for my ppl who like the lick the bottom, they won’t fall apart XD!

use a kindle - reduces the amount of paper books you have to buy, easily transportable, can lend books out to ppl and cheaper books!

bring your own lunch - esp if ur a picky eater like me, i often bring a cheese sandwich and some crisps places so i’m not stuck not eating or choking down food i don’t like and leaving leftovers, also means you can use your own plastic tupperwares instead of store bought single use things lol

grow your own things - i used to grow strawberries as a child and it was surprisingly easily, some ideas are bottle tower gardens and a kitchen herb gardens, you can also grow cat grass and catnip for all my cat parents out there :)

collect rainwater for your plants - just keep a mason jar in your backyard if you have one, or journey out when it’s raining and fill a jar, will last you a bit!!

that’s all i have for now but feel free to add more!!

[meggtheegg]

To love a beast ? 👀

!!!! Okay So, this is basically a Beauty and the Beast AU, as the title implies, with Sam as Belle and Bucky as the Beast. It hits a lot of the same beats as the Disney movie, but with a few important changes to keep it more closely aligned with the events of the MCU. This one is still in its early chapters, and I haven't actually gotten to them meeting, yet, so here's some snippets with both of their POVs:

Snippet #1:

If not for the untamed chill of the coastal autumn breeze, Sam Wilson may have been fooled into believing that it was still summer. After a long week of stormy weather, the sun burned bright in a cloudless sky, as though the entire universe had opened up around the small, secluded village he called home. Children ran about in the grass, playing silly little made-up games with whatever newest toys the local wood carver had come up with, while parents tended to their daily tasks, running into market, gossiping with the neighbors, and living their dreary little lives, seemingly unaware that the world could have anything to offer, outside of what they already knew.  On this day, Sam was out on the family fishing boat, which had long outlasted expectation but was quickly approaching disrepair. In recent years, more sophisticated watercraft had found their way into the harbor, and each season had brought with it a smaller and smaller catch. He’d sworn to his sister, though, that he would fix the old girl, and after days stuck inside, he was determined to put in whatever work he could, now, before the river froze over and she started to look more like a stack of firewood than a legacy. “If nothing else, no one can say you aren't dedicated.” The sound of a familiar voice pulled Sam’s attention away from his work. At the end of the dock, a man smiled, his face wrinkled with age and his tired, blue eyes filled with a lifetime of untold stories.  Sam snickered and rolled his eyes. Steve Rogers was the kind of person who always seemed to have something to say, and sometimes, those things even made sense. That wasn’t what the rest of the village could see, of course. Small minds only had room for so much, and the old man’s stories of better times long past felt less believable, with each unremarkable new day. “Should I be worried about whatever else they’re saying?" “Only if you like to waste your energy.” Steve stepped onto the boat with a little too much ease, for someone of his age. “Need any help?”

Snippet #2:

He couldn’t remember much of anything, anymore. Even his name sat, hovering, just outside his mind's reach. At least, the name he used to go by. A prince has many names, he'd learned, but only one of them was ever really his. So, of course, that had been the first of them to fade away. No one who remained in the castle had used it, since the spell took hold. Many refused to acknowledge him, at all. To those who did, he was simply Your Highness, My Lord, Sir… Occasionally, he was James, but the name never sat right on their tongues, or his, in those few bitter moments when he’d find it in himself to speak. In the early days, he’d tried to remain something close to human, in spite of himself. Checked in on the others, followed some semblance of a routine, walked with his head held high and spoke like the man he used to be. But the last seventy years had dragged on for so long, each day blending unchangingly into the next, with no sign of an end, the clocks unmoving, the sun never rising. Every agonizing moment had stripped away his will to keep fighting, and his humanity had gone, with it.  Perhaps he’d never been human, at all. The creature that stared back from each unavoidable reflection was certainly no man, so what was the point of wasting energy pretending to be something he was not? The very idea of it had become a fantasy, his true face, true mind, true life, buried only in his books and the dreams that taunted him, at night.

send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you, and i will post a little snippet or talk about it

[underground-rice]

'When we made the angels cry'

A Gideon/Harrow AU Fic. (TLT) - cross-posted on ao3

Summary:

As much as Harrow wanted to say otherwise, a large part of her was drawn towards the red-haired girl who sat opposite her in Church. Maybe God was glaring down at her, or maybe it was Him that gave her the crooked heart that wanted Gideon so badly, but either way, she wasn't about to ignore that desire.

Content Warnings:

Christianity/catholicism, homophobia (internalised and external), implied sexual content, kissing, implied child abuse (physical/emotional), brief reference to conversion therapy.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

It struck her as odd that it was always in Church that it happened. Like something was taunting her, reminding her of the desire that dwelled underneath her skin right in the hallowed place that she seemed to taint with her want.

That which she desired sat in the pew directly opposite her, and Harrow supposed logically this had something to do with why the situation was becoming such a common occurrence.

She wasn’t really proving her point of it being unavoidable, as her eyes wandered over to the girl’s shockingly short, not even shoulder-length, rust-red hair. The ginger was a dark contrast to the soft blue florals of Gideon’s church dress, which clung to her bust in soft cotton folds, the flowing sleeves gathering at the elbows of her sun-warmed brown arms. As if that wasn’t distraction enough, the pounding of Harrow’s heartbeat in her ears seemed enough to drown out the minister’s - her father’s - reading. 

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

`I hear they’re discussing it in schools even earlier,` Tridentarius’ mother spat out, the other adults around her umming and arring in faux dramatic horror. Harrow’s eyes caught on Ianthe herself, her blond classmate sat primly and unhappily by her twin and her mother’s side. The sallow girl was nodding in self-righteous agreement.

The irony of this was not lost on Harrow, who was firmly separated from the conversation, sipping her after-service tea in the corner. After all, hadn’t it been Ianthe who had initiated that awkward adolescent kiss under the bleachers, their teeth clunking together and both their school shoes slowly becoming mud-covered and soaked? 

What the other had probably dismissed as a moment of experimentation before retreating back into the depths of her repression, and thankfully not spreading the news around their congregation, Harrow had found to be an awakening for a whole host of unexplored, lustful desires in the depths of her subconscious.

If that didn’t prove her theory that she was cursed, she wasn’t sure what would.

‘Foolish looking, aren’t they?’ a rough, casual voice commented, pulling Harrow unexpectedly out of her musings.

‘Huh?’ Wincing inwardly at the complete lack of cognition that she’d just broadcasted, she turned hastily to find Gideon hovering next to her, an entire pack of custard creams in one hand.

‘The perfect twins.` The sneer in Gideon’s voice was palpable, as she gestured to where Harrow’s gaze had just been lingering: Coronabeth and Ianthe. The golden girls of their church - or really, the golden girl and the wet straw of a girl who seemed stuck like a limpet to Corona’s side. They did make rather a sight, it had to be admitted: polar opposites and yet oddly identical, perched there debating the politics of homosexuality.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

Harrow knew Gideon wasn’t in any of her classes, but she certainly seemed to turn up all over school. It was like she couldn’t turn a corner without spotting the red-head in the new corridor, couldn’t pass by the library without spotting her checking out a new textbook, could barely even get to the toilets without bumping into her. It was making her blood boil.

Or at least irritation was the excuse Harrow gave for the heat that pricked her cheeks every time she passed the taller girl.

The blue, feminine skirts of that day in Church were a far cry from Gideon’s usual attire: cheer jackets, skinny jeans, grass-stained t-shirts and scuffed sneakers. The jacket was usually draped around her shoulders, only being discarded for cheer practice itself: something that had Harrow fidgeting awkwardly every time she witnessed it. Gideon never looked pleased to be there, jumping in amusing positions and throwing her teammates in the air, but it was certainly a sight Harrow appreciated - not least for the slight toning visible in Gideon’s bare arms.

It became a habit of hers, walking along the sports field instead of taking her usual, shorter route through the staff parking lot. A glimpse of the cheer practise when it was on, and when it wasn’t - well, one could always use a bit of time to muse over the issue of why she wanted to see this so much anyway.

Then home again it was, to the cold presence of her mother and complete lack of her father: he was likely holed up in his office again, praying or working through papers. 

Harrow found herself spending less and less time at home. The heavy weight of the picture of the Lord on her bedroom wall weighed too heavily on her there, as well as the frigid comments from her mother: putting on weight again, Harrow, grades are dropping, Harrow, Ortus is coming round, Harrow, so go put on your best dress. Not to speak of the few times she messed up bad enough for her dad to reveal himself again.

Then there was the problem of Ortus, of course.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

‘Why do you do cheer?’ Harrow asked, dropping it into convo lightheartedly, like it wasn’t hinged on the most positive thing in her life at that moment. She was perched on the wall outside their youth group, having been cancelled for the week after the hall was somehow double-booked. 

Gideon ran a hand through her hair, which had lost another few inches in length recently (Harrow was beginning to suspect she lopped it off herself). ‘I wanted to do rugby, y’know,’ she shrugged casually, ‘but John wouldn’t have been pleased with that.’ 

The name was said so firmly, so without question, that the stilling off Gideon’s fingers was the only reminder to Harrow of what was so wrong about that.

It was rarely acknowledged that Gideon hadn’t grown up in the Church the same way Harrow - the minister’s daughter, after all - had. But everyone remembered the story: five years ago, the little fiery-haired 13-year-old, grimy and grouchy and having been finally reunited with her Dad. Not that Gideon ever called him that.

There were rumours, of course, none of them ever confirmed. That her mother was a whore, or that she’d been kicked out of her house, that she’d died tragically in childbirth or that she’d been murdered on the streets. That Gideon had been passed from relative to relative until John was located, that she’d grown up in care or that she’d been living in some miserable orphanage before John rescued her.

Harrow didn’t really believe any of them.

‘That sucks,’ she replied genuinely, glancing over at Gideon, who was tugging at the raw edges of her chopped-off hair. ‘You’d make a great athlete.’

‘Thanks.’ Gideon’s smile was half-hearted, wavering, but it was something.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

Harrow kept catching minutes alone with Gideon. Not purposefully, not really, it just seemed - to happen. The warmth that blossomed in her chest every time Gideon sent her a crooked smile was definitely not purposeful, nor was the fluttering nausea that rippled through her when their hands brushed.

None of these seemed avoidable, though, and if Harrow was being entirely honest with herself: once they’d begun, she wasn’t sure she wanted to avoid them.

She lingered after communion, the taste of God’s flesh still on her lips. Gideon appeared pre-occupied, rummaging for something underneath her pew, until the last old lady had shuffled out the door. Then they talked rapidly, sentences spilling illogically between them as they rambled semi-coherently in their scavenged minutes together.

Harrow would sit in the library, her eyes straying from the homework in front of her to the cheer practise outside perhaps a few too many times. Gideon hung around after it was over, waiting for Harrow to make her way down to the field and they’d walk together for the block until their routes home split. 

Somehow they ended up cleaning up together after youth group, sweeping and tidying while exchanging tidbits about their weeks. Harrow tied up her hair and tried to tie up her unwanted thoughts as she did so. The problem with these thoughts, though, was that as hard as she tried, there was some small part of her that liked them.

And it’s much more difficult to remove things you like.

Mutually, it seemed they were avoiding actually spending time together in school. Maybe it felt too open, too far flung from the safety net of Church, too out of routine for the both of them.

Maybe they were scared, and rightfully so.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

It was Gideon who had the idea, but it was for Harrow’s 18th birthday - she was a few months younger than Gideon. It wasn’t hard to distract her dad long enough for Gideon to slip into the vestry, and hasten out again with a rather obvious bulge under her varsity jacket. As she slipped away, Harrow made up some excuse and ducked out of the church. They met up round the back, shoes damp in the grass, and Gideon eagerly clutching a bottle of communion wine. 

They wandered the streets for a while, ended up in a park as the sky dimmed. Settled on the semi-dry arm rests of an otherwise soggy bench, propped their feet up on the seat, and uncorked the bottle shakily.

Gideon immediately slopped some of the dark red liquid down her arm, and Harrow started giggling before she’d even taken a sip.

The taste wasn’t unusual to either of them - they’d sure taken enough of it at communion itself - but the idea of getting tipsy certainly was. It only took a few gulps for Gideon to start humming tunelessly, her fingers dancing dizzily in the air as Harrow took a drink for herself.

She was barely even intoxicated, she knew that. Maybe it was more the idea of it than the alcohol itself that was freeing, as Harrow leant forwards and pressed a messy, red-stained kiss to Gideon’s lips. The humming stopped abruptly.

About to pull away, Harrow felt panic rising in her throat, when Gideon’s hand found a place in her dark hair and the kiss deepened unexpectedly.

It was sloppy, and ended hastily when someone kicked the wine bottle over, and suddenly Gideon was standing up, holding the now near-empty bottle. Harrow exhaled, her eyes wide and dilated, and Gideon reached down with her free hand to grab Harrow’s fingers.

The wine was abandoned on the bench and Gideon murmured ‘happy birthday’ in her ear before she sent Harrow hurrying home.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

The kissing became more frequent after that, though their encounters gained a new level of subterfuge and subtly.

It would be too obvious to make out after cheer practice, after all, and so instead Harrow found herself frequently pressed against the walls behind school, behind their Church, or Gideon’s hands on her thighs as they stopped by a tree in the park.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

The day Gideon explained the truth to her, Harrow had just failed her biology test. At least, if by failed you were to mean didn’t get top in the class, then she had. She felt horrible, remembering the day with this tidbit, which paled in comparison to the secrets her friend - girlfriend - Gideon spilled.

But it wasn’t just a tidbit, really. It settled in her chest the moment she found out, burning a tiny hole like a cigarette, another red hot scar to join the myriad that marred her heart.

Even as they were sitting in a supermarket parking lot, having gone wandering after school ended again, the reminder of her grade seemed to loom over Harrow, shackling her mind. She couldn’t focus on Gideon’s hand in hers, couldn’t focus on the redhead’s soft lips, couldn’t even focus when Gideon’s voice took on a heavy note.

‘She just didn’t want me,’ Gideon said suddenly, and Harrow seemed to be forced back into her body, the words scalding hands pushing her into consciousness. ‘Y’know. She didn’t die or nothing. Just didn’t care once I got older.’

‘Your mum?’ Harrow asked hesitantly, tightening her grip around Gideon’s hand.

Chuckling mirthlessly, Gideon nodded. ‘Yeah. I was shuffled around, for a while - fostered for a couple months, stayed with my nan … with some people she claimed were my uncles, but I don’t know.’ The flat tone she explained this in was shadowed by something else, something vulnerable, and Harrow felt a lump rise in her throat. `They varied, I guess, in quality. And then John found me again.’

Harrow stiffened slightly at the mention of Gideon’s dad. Something was wrong there, she knew that it was.

‘I tried to be happy, I really did, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was only a matter of time before he wouldn’t want me either.’ Gideon glanced at their clasped hands, and a tense awareness grew between her and Harrow. John wouldn’t want his good Christian daughter doing that, at the very least.

‘Oh,’ Harrow forced out slowly, ignoring her every instinct that said to close off, to run, to leave. ‘Oh. Well,’ she continued shakily, ‘if … if it helps, I want you.’

Leaning forward, Harrow found Gideon’s eyes, adding a firm quality to her voice. ‘I really want you.’ Later, As she walked home, the weight of her grades and the reaction that awaited her from her parents sinking onto her shoulders again, Harrow hoped Gideon had believed her.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

After they nearly got caught kissing, Gideon decided they needed a better solution. This turned out to be inviting Harrow round to hers. 

‘It wasn’t hard,’ she explained, ‘you’re the preacher’s kid. John probably thinks you’ll be a good influence on me.’

After brushing off John’s offers of snacks or a board game, they slipped into Gideon’s room and made out gently, quietly on her bed. Her bedroom was messy, to Harrow’s surprise, with abandoned homework and soda cans scattered across the floor. A guitar leant against the windowsill, and a simple wooden cross was mounted over her bed. 

It was refreshing. A stark contrast from Harrow’s neat-as-a-pin room. 

And sure, they had to be quiet, but Gideon had a door and she was happy to shut it. Harrow explored more of the other girl’s body than she’d ever expected, hands slipping under her t-shirt as Gideon palmed her hips firmly, tongue flicking out to nudge Harrow’s bottom lip. Even as the cross on the wall seemed to scream their own sin back at them, Harrow had never felt more content.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

Harrow moved where she sat in the library, averting her eyes from the practising girls on the field below. Cramps radiated through her wrist as she wrote feverishly, eyes flicking anxiously over the homework in front of her.

As much as it pained her to have to give up the sight of Gideon practising, it was essential she didn’t fail another paper. Her shoulder still ached from the aftermath of the previous incident, the shared dregs of a fag and secretive kisses from Gideon having done little to soothe it.

She flicked wearily through the sheets of biology work, foot tapping absently on the musty carpet.

The library was unusually busy: studious people similar to herself scribbling away nearby; a boy and a girl napping on each other underneath the windows; a blonde girl with a continuously growing stack of fiction stories; a short boy drawing in one corner. However, as Harrow hunched over and continued toiling her way through her homework her peers slowly filtered out of the room. So much so, that when she looked up, she found there was only one left - a teacher who Harrow vaguely recognised, tapping away at a computer several bookshelves away. 

What had startled her out of her homework fixation proved to be the exact girl she wanted to see most. Gideon was hovering just inside the library door, hair sticking up damp from a recent shower as she gazed around - looking for Harrow.

As Harrow started shuffling her papers into a neat stack, Gideon made her way over, and Harrow’s breath caught in her throat when she bent over to pick up her bag and felt the taller girl’s firm palm on her lower back.

`We’re practically alone,` she hummed against Harrow’s neck when she stood back up, Gideon’s chapped lips rough against her collarbone.

Melting into her embrace, Harrow tugged the pair fully behind the bookshelf she’d been working in front of, ensuring they were hidden from both the window and the nearby teacher. Gideon bent her against the books, but she barely felt their spines against her, too enraptured by the heat of the other’s lips against her own. The scuffed sleeves of Gideon’s jacket brushed against the crisply ironed cotton of Harrow’s black shirt, and the couple seemed to blend into each other, black and red hair mingling together.

Their routine adapted after that, with Harrow getting more work done and them both enjoying the hasty kissing session afterward. 

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

It was a natural progression into more, quite literally. 

One moment Harrow was sitting practically on top of Gideon, sprinkling kisses on her neck, her lips, her shoulders. Gideon leant into them, fingers running through Harrow’s unusually rumpled hair, before her hands began to wander and the next, her fingers brushed Harrow’s waistband and her mouth found her ear.

`Can I touch you here?` she murmured, breath hot on Harrow’s cheek.

Harrow nodded frantically, her own hands tightening their grip on Gideon’s hips. `Yes,` she clarified eagerly, `yes.` 

Hastily, but with such gentle touch that Harrow arched closer into it, seeking the contact, Gideon slipped a hand down past the waistband of her leggings. The coldness surprised Harrow, the growing confidence of Gideon’s fingers as they brushed along the inside of her thigh pleased her. Leaning down over Gideon’s shoulder, she exhaled in anticipation, chest pressed against the other girl’s.

It was probable that she was already close, the kissing having elicited a tingling in her knickers, though this didn’t counteract the awkward fumbling off Gideon’s hand as she found the trimmed hair Harrow had left unshaved. 

It was soft, and sweet, and admittedly more than a little embarrassing, with hands and legs everywhere. In short, it was both exactly what they’d expected and a complete surprise.

Only a week later, a teacher caught them kissing in the library. 

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

She thought it might be worse than her dad’s normal reactions to her misbehaviour. No screaming, no hitting, no confiscating her stuff. Just cold, unending scorn. Harrow was left to her room, shuffled to and from school by her fretting, unhappy mother, awaiting whatever fate they decided would befall her. 

`No.` Harrow’s voice wavered, her hands clenched in her duvet as she sat up to stare at her parents, eyes stinging. `No. You can’t.`

`There’s no way around it.` Her dad’s voice was brittle, the tension practically visible in the crackling air. `You’re going to get cured or you’re getting out of our house.`

Glancing desperately towards her mum, Harrow dug her nails into her palms. Her mum averted her eyes, looking down instead of at her, and that was when she realised she was alone with this dilemma, and so she made her choice.

✧･ﾟ:───:･ﾟ✧

Harrow was leaving and Gideon was crying. 

`Ortus said I could bunk at his for a while, and he has friends up in London,` explained Harrow, staring at her hands, which rested on the backpack she’d dumped on Gideon’s bed. `I’ll probably end up there.`

Gideon scrubbed at her eyes furiously, nodding slowly. `I don’t know where I’m going,` she whispered hoarsely. `John threatened to send me back to my Nan, but she’s dying now. But I’m not allowed to see you.` 

She winced at the way Gideon’s voice grew and broke, holding back her own sniffs. Reaching out a hand, Harrow gripped Gideon’s wrist in a vain attempt at reassurance. The redhead swiped a thumb encouragingly across Harrow’s fingers. 

`Will you come back?` Gideon asked finally, meeting Harrow’s eyes.

They were unusual, Harrow thought, Gideon’s eyes. Fiery, amber like honey. Unmistakable. `I’ll try,` she replied slowly, `I’ll try to find you, no matter what.` 

Footsteps sounded outside Gideon’s door, and Harrow scrambled to her feet. There wasn’t time for anything, not even a final kiss, as she swung her backpack over her shoulder and went to scramble out the window - the same way she entered.

Gideon was looking up towards John when Harrow glanced back, her eyes veiled by her scruff of red hair.

[mibeau]

[Santai] My Go-To Beaches in Adelaide

Disclaimer: I am no expert in Travel & Dining, everything mentioned is solely based on my personal preferences and experience.

Adelaide is a beautiful, petite, laid-back city that I once called home.

Lovely people. Relatively convenient and safe to walk from one suburban to another, even at night. Yes, I have once walked from Mile End to North Terrace, after 10 pm. Cos, I missed the bus and it was too cold to wait.

I lived in a suburban, about 20 minutes away from the CBD, by car. One of my favourite things about Adelaide's beaches is the fact that they’re so accessible for day excursions. You'll discover quaint towns and breathtaking coastal views — Adelaide's sandy shores and ocean waves are practically unavoidable! Once a student, I mostly travelled by bus, trams, and occasionally, trains. Within the hour you can find yourself mingling in Glenelg, honing your swimming skills at Semaphore or simply lounging by sunset in Henley.

Being a typical Malaysian, I usually ever use sunscreens only during sports or bathing in the ocean. But here, please, please. Apply sunscreens whenever you go out! Especially during Spring/Summer. On top of the dry weather, the heat hits differently, so I adopted irreversible freckles. (I even used lip balms all year round as my lips will be chapped).

For this article, the tentative will be directed from Adelaide CBD. To chill & unwind, here are the beaches I visited the most:

1. Semaphore Beach (Postcode: 5019)

Long, wide and bordered by low dunes, Semaphore Beach comes alive as the warm weather arrives.

■ Driving time: About 25 minutes ( ~ 14km)

■ Bus Ride: roughly 1.5 hours (including walks)

Take Bus number 157  [Largs Bay] at Stop T2 Grenfell St - South Side. Hop off at Stop 44 Military Rd - West Side.

■ Best for: 

Adelaide Annual Kite Festival

Vitamin D - Walks, Swims, sunbaths

Gatherings & Picnics

Thrifting

Affordable fresh, scrumptious, big servings of Fish and chips. (And other deep-fried items)

Visitors and locals will set up spots on the sand and explore the grassy foreshore, or perhaps to fish/crab off the pier. The Annual Adelaide International Kite Festival is hosted over the Easter Long Weekend, gives me joy and makes me feel giddy. It is not as big and festive as Pasir Gudang International Kite Festival, still, it is fun and pleasant to attend. The Semaphore Jetty is the best place to see the kites flying.

To me, Semaphore is more than just a beach attraction. Seems quiet, yet it is a whole town with so many “little” things to discover. Do you love food, culture and heritage? You will enjoy your visit here. Although the buses do not stop right next to the beach, the long walk towards the beach is fulfilling. Strolling on the Semaphore road, you will pass by many interesting eateries, random shops and friendly locals. I often do thrifting here: better options and values in comparison to the OPs in other suburbs.

One of Semaphore's major attractions will be its beautifully preserved Art Deco buildings and of course, the Semaphore's 1920s Palais. Originally constructed as a bathing pavilion, many consider this iconic property as the perfect spot for a delightful pub lunch, over the mesmerising sunset.  

My routine was getting food from nearby eateries and sitting on the grass near the Time Ball Tower. Basking under the sunny day and breezy weather, I savour the vinegared barramundi & chicken-salted chips and simply enjoy chatting with friends or bird-watching. (Watch out for the poops!) Many times, I caught on Malaysian families having picnics here. Thanks to the wind-whisperers carrying the tantalizing “scents” of homemade nasi lemak and chicken curry puffs or the tunes of elders converse in Manglish.

Then, I’ll take a walk by the shoreline. I would say the water here is clearer than Henley’s and Glenelg’s. It is common to have neighbourhood houses near the beaches, but, in Semaphore, the houses are literally across the road. I imagined the family community here was tight. I’m easily touched by kindness. As you take the steps off the foreshore, right next to the jetty, I found a net of many tools/toys for anyone to play with and build sand castles. There is a notice reminding us to have fun and be responsible, and return them in fair conditions! (Something along those lines)

2. Glenelg (Postcode: 5045)

If you're looking for the easiest to access, and the closest beach to visit, choose Glenelg Beach.

■ Driving time: About 20 minutes (~ 9km)

■ Tram/Bus Rides: 50 minutes to 1 hour (Including Walks)

Take a Tram ride to Glenelg from Rundle Mall. Hop off at Stop 27 Moseley Square

Take bus number H20[Glenelg] from Stop T1 Grenfell St - South Side. Hop off at Zone B Colley Tce - West Side (3-min walk)

Take bus number 265[Marion] from Stop A3 King William Rd - East Side. Hop off at Zone C Colley Tce - East Side (3-min walk)

Take bus number 168[Glenelg] from Stop B2 Pulteney St - East Side. Hop off at Zone B Colley Tce - West Side (3-min walk)

■ Best for:

Many shop&dining options

Sunsets

Beach Sports

Other seasonal activities such as open cinema and festivals.

At any given time of the day, it is always bustling whenever I go there, all year round.

The tram ride will take you right next to the Moseley Square. You’ll be standing right on the sand within a minute or so! There is also a plentiful supply of picnic areas, playgrounds and other family-friendly activities. There is something for everyone here. Away from the ocean, you’ll find a mix of quality stores: cafés, restaurants, dessert shops, surf and clothing boutiques, and many more ~

I usually go there for desserts, sunsets & movies.

3. Henley Beach (Postcode: 5022)

Getting off the bus, you will witness Henley Beach’s flat sands.

■ Driving time: About 20 minutes (~ 12 km)

■ Bus rides: 40 to 50 minutes (Including walks)

Take Bus number H30[West Lakes] from Stop B1 Pulteney St - East Side. Hop off at Stop 29A Seaview Rd - West Side (6-min walk to the beach)

Take Bus number H33[Henley Beach] from Stop B1 Pulteney St - East Side. Hop -off at Stop 29A Marlborough St - South Side ( 1-min walk to the beach)

Take Bus number 286[Henley Beach] from Stop T1 North Tce - South Side. Hop -off at Stop 27A North St - South Side ( 5-min walk to the beach)

■ Best for: 

Sunsets

Leisure walks, Swims

People-watching - Surfers, Fishers etc

Crabbing

The shoreline stretches as far as the eye can see, with plenty of space for laying out your towel. Perfect summer’s beach scene in mind. If you're seeking a “luxury” experience, the esplanade is surrounded by many upscale shops, cafes and seafood restaurants. These were never up my alley and were never my purpose for going there.

Heading to the esplanade, you will first be greeted by the Henley Surf Life Saving Club. Compared with Moseley Square in Glenelg, personally, in the evening, the lighting here is far more charming and soothing.

I initially went there for some alone time and a quick dip after work. Then, I fell in love with the sunsets. The esplanade walk is also a popular exercise option for cyclists, joggers and walkers. There are so many seats and lounge areas for everyone to sit down comfortably. Hence, it is common for me to travel to Henley Beach just to catch the sunsets!

I enjoy my walks along the jetty and see the catches of the day (by other people). Especially crabs. Oh, it is common to see a fish guideboard on the jetties of Adelaide beaches. So, you can somewhat anticipate what you might catch on!

Stopping by The Halal“Diner” halfway through the bus ride is a must. They specialised in fried chicken, but the visit was the highlight of my trip because they served one of my favourite AB menus! (Second best to Yiros House on Rundle Street) Unfortunately, I forgot both the names of the shop & the suburban. :(

All the beaches mentioned have swim-worthy waters and great jetties for fishing/crabbing.

I’m not a surfer. But, if you are an avid surfer, people usually go to Moana Beach and Aldinga Beach for a solid break almost year-round. Also, for more picturesque views of South Australian beaches, travel a little further and discover the top five Fleurieu Peninsula beaches: Southport Beach, Blowhole Beach, Second Valley, Waitpinga Beach and Port Elliot.

North Terrace campus is in the perfect position to explore many of the city’s best beaches. You’re just an easy tram, train or bus ride away from relaxing by the ocean.

Not sponsored -- Get a world-class education, a supportive environment and amazing facilities. If given the chance, you should consider studying at The University of Adelaide! (recommended for Science courses. For Humanities, maybe can also consider the UniSA?)

Happy Travelling peeps!

[nyxthejinx]

𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 - 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐭. 𝟐

A/N: Woah there, I must admit I wasn't too inspired but at the same time I was? Ask my 7am brain lmao. Anywayss, maybe it's not how you imagined it but I caved and wanted some ruthless reader who doesn't take anyone's shit. For those who're looking for a pacific/civil confrontation... 👀 who knows

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏. | 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞.

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: When they take everything from you, you can either rebuild or steal in turn. You make the easier choice and watch your past go down in flames. Along with your brothers.

𝐓𝐖: Angst with no comfort, graphic description of violence (reader clutches Diluc's face and slightly jabs his neck with a knife ops), slight swearing, let me know if I'm forgetting anything.

𝐅𝐭.: Diluc, Kaeya, Dottore (mentioned) (all platonic ofc) - GN!Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k

𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨: I'll let it burn - Kanaya

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠, it shouldn’t have gone this way.

You shouldn’t have returned to Mondstadt clad in Fatui uniform, its emblem sitting mockingly on your hollowed heart. You shouldn’t have looked so comfortable with Dottore by your side, quiet and firm in a way you’ve never been.

You shouldn’t be looking at them as though they were the monsters here, not when those you’re siding with who killed your father and started this domino of excruciating suffering.

But Diluc left you, by what right was he expecting something different?

By what right did he gawk with such horror at the scars he left?

Diluc knows his faults. Knows all too well what eroded the remnants of his heart in the past three years. He’s familiar with the flames of shame and regret, with their relentless torment. They’re the only ones he's never subdued to his will, flames that his vision can’t reach. 

And yet, who could imagine that the fire he set three years ago, in a stormy night, would've raged into this?

That he would have ruined everything, everything with his own hands.

He should’ve imagined it. It was only the beginning.

“Well, what do you think of my work?” You asked, nestled at the top of the statue’s hands in the plaza. It’s almost like you prefer looking at your nails than spare them a glance, as you dangle your legs, careless of the fall underneath. “It took me three years of preparation, you know?”

Diluc doesn’t doubt it. The size of your work extends to the entire city. A net of withered small lamp grass and dead vines dripping incendiary oil and spangled with pyro slime charges crawls amongst the streets and up the houses. 

Everything culminates there, in the square: the plants climb up the structure like a grotesque floral dress, and right in its hands -where you’re sitting- they weave further together in a singular, deadly fuse.

You hold a match in one hand.

He feels like clutching his heart. 

Diluc wonders if this is how a heart attack feels, a slow and atrocious implosion that never ends. A handful of daggers that stab deep and writhe like devils in front of a god. A choked flame that tries to escape its unavoidable destiny 'til the last wisp.

And yet these examples seem far from fitting, not even the brightest genius would be able to describe such pain.

Your ex brothers stand petrified right in front of the statue, the bard's music and citizens' joyful choruses a distant memory now that it's covered in dead plants.

Diluc doesn’t understand how Kaeya is keeping such a straight face whereas his strength barely prevents his body from crushing under the thick, oppressing atmosphere.

He feels so weak in front of you.

"[Name]!" Kaeya’s shout breaches his eardrums and Diluc's unsure whether his brother is screaming out of desperation or to be heard "[Name] think of this, this is not what you want! We can talk about it, fix-"

Your thunderous laughter cuts through the frigid breath of the night, hysterical, laced with a poison only you can withstand without decaying. You laugh and laugh like a broken record, to the point where you can’t sit straight anymore and lean back in the statue’s hold.

You laugh so loudly, but he's never heard an emptier sound in his life.

"Oh, really?" You ask breathless after what feels like an eternity, as you dry your tears from your hardened face and caustic smile. A ghost of what you once were. "Tell me, what do you know, you fucking traitor?"

Kaeya flinches.

"I don’t think you’ve been there enough to know how the story goes. It's beyond repair.” You sit again, stoic, your legs dangling as if nothing at all had happened.

You draw out a dagger from the sheath strapped to your leg and start playing with the tip. Uninterested, bored in their actions and words. “You see, your brother killed me, that night."

Kaeya’s brave face falls at that. He snaps his head to the side, stares at Diluc with an intensity that burns a hole through his eyepatch. He's not stupid, he's more than capable to put together the pieces he's been given.

How kind of him to doubt your words, though, even in face of the bare truth.

"...Tell me they're lying, Diluc." He begs with disarming honesty. "Tell me they're lying please."

But Kaeya's imploring gaze falters when his brother diverts his eyes to the ground. 

Diluc never thought he could break what was damaged already, but apparently there's an abundance of pieces that are yet to be broken.

"Oh no, he’s telling the truth." You beat him to answer. "Diluc Ragnvindr killed his sibling and left the body in the mud, in the middle of nowhere. ‘I’m not your brother, you’re not my sibling. You’re dead to me’ and blah blah.”

You grimace at the memory. "You had fun, didn't you?"

Then you push yourself off the edge.

Diluc's heart clings to his throat at the sight of your free fall. He's ready to sprint, catch and hold you tight to his chest, beg for forgiveness until his soul leaves his body, but a gust of cold wind slows your descent in a show of eerie grace.

Only now he notices the anemo delusion hanging from your waist. A false promise of freedom, just like the one Dottore made you all those years ago.

Or maybe you consider it a true freedom, as long as they're not in your life?

"You're the 'Darknight hero' and the 'Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonius.'" You spit the words violently, as if they were poison. But you seem so fragile, drained, while your figure becomes clearer with every step taken. And so do your scars.

Your eyebags are as deep as the night and your muscles so taut they could break any moment. "You're the heroes around here. Who cares about your... Silly mistakes? No one."

Diluc can't breathe.

"Well I do, because I am your mistake."

Diluc feels like he's dying.

"They haven't seen the behind the scenes of this... Little show you've put on. And they don’t want to." You go on, a couple of metres separating you three. You point at them with your dagger again, and only now Diluc realises it's your mother's stiletto, as it shines under the moonlight.

Crepus gave it to you after you snuck out secretly for the umpteenth time and got hurt in a dangerous, unprotected area. He chose to teach you, rather than ground you as a punishment, because 'it would be impossible to snuff out that untamed spirit of yours, and also a crime' in his opinion.

You’ve always worn it, but never tried to defend yourself that night.

To think of the catastrophe you're all facing now that your father is dead. He might be rolling over in his grave.

"That's why I say that even the good guys deserve a punishment from time to time." 

A wave of elemental energy suddenly quakes the ground. It morphs into chains, tight like nooses and cold like death. They cage the brothers' limbs and necks, forcing them to their knees. Diluc can't help but notice the familiarity with your father's technique, as his body thrashes in vain.

It makes it a little more painful.

You ignore Kaeya completely just like he did that night, as you inch closer to Diluc’s frame. Your visage is so peaceful compared to everything else, to this hell of a situation, to your clearly overexerted body. Your eyes flat, devoid of that very same fire your father encouraged to feed.

You've gone somewhere he can't reach, and it kills him though he feels dead already.

"What did he do to you…?" He's mumbling absentmindedly, not even sure who he's referring to. And you laugh in response, as if he just told you the best joke ever. As if you were drunk and couldn't do anything but laugh and laugh and laugh at your own madness. 

"Him? Oh, no no no no, Diluc. Don't even try." Your hand glides through your hair, now dyed, he notices. The typical Ragnvindr red choked to death just like your soul. "The Harbingers have shown me much more kindness than you could ever."

Then you're gripping his jaw and his eyes widen at the strength behind your grip, his movements frozen as the blade of your dagger presses under his chin. "They taught me the pursuit of revenge at its finest level."

Diluc doesn't speak a word. He can't. He's not able to. He side-eyes Kaeya, not even sure of what he's looking for in his brother's crumbling face, in his slumped figure. In the resignation pooling in his eye. Resignation for what he helped create with his noncurance. For what is lost. 

Seeing the last fragment break destroys Diluc a little bit.

"Eyes on me, you pathetic piece of shit." You yank his face, pressing the blade harder enough to break his unfairly immaculate skin.

A rivulet of blood streams down the length of his neck and Diluc’s sure you’ll skin him alive right then and there. But he looks at you in the eyes, no matter how impossible it feels.

That’s what he owes you.

"You took away everything from me," His shoulders sag. "And I'd dare to say you have nothing left either." His back bends under the weight of your words. "Dad died," He swallows endless bitterness. "Kaeya is nothing more than a sad, lonely survivor paying for only part of his mistakes…" He holds his breath.

"But you still have a home, in this miserable, wretched city of yours, don't you?"

Diluc thinks he just died.

"We gotta fix that, right?" His head falls forward like a withered flower as soon as your hand leaves his face, the bruise of your hold marking his skin. He feels another gust of wind and he knows what you’re about to do. 

"What kind of show would it be if we didn't play the final act properly?" Your voice echoes from above, so ephemeral it sounds from an ancient past, or a forgotten dream.

But it’s just a nightmare.

"Enjoy."

And you let the match fall.

Y'all had fun being arsonists when the game was released, huh? And now look what happened

DON'T copy/repost my work. REBLOG instead! ©nyxthejinx

[bratz-kitten]

ASTRO OBSERVATIONS PT. 7

gemini and pisces placements are similar in the sense that geminis are able to see things from all perspectives, while pisces are able to empathise with people who have all sorts of different perspectives. pisces placements... be careful with over-empathising with the people who hurt you to the point where you’re understanding why they did it and you start excusing their actions. gemini placements... be careful with seeking the multi-layers and million different perspectives in everything and everyone to the point where you’re driving your own mind insane and you don’t know what your opinion is anymore because you hyper-analyse so much. too much of a good ability becomes a curse.

people with venus-mars aspects have a talent for making people who hate them fall in love with them 💋

moon in the 11th house natives tend to attract friends who get into scandals. moon in the 10th house natives tend to be the ones who get into said scandals. it’s a PERFECT FRIENDSHIP

capricorn placements have a talent for knowing how to make things last. they want to prolong the enjoyment they get out of something for as long as possible, which is why their hobbies, friendships and relationships tend to last a lifetime... hedonistic sluts

since both the 7th house and the 11th house rule fandoms, celebrities with a 7th house or 11th house neptune can attract fans who view them as angels who can’t do nothing wrong — because of this, those celebrities rarely take accountability for their mistakes, since people keep pushing the “but they’re perfect :(“ light on them

pluto conjunct ascendant natives always come off as very serious during first impressions, no matter how approachable and inviting they strive to appear.

sun and moon in the 10th house people may feel as if they’re always exposed to the public eye, they can’t get away with keeping things secretive. others always notice whatever they want kept on the low. this can be especially frustrating if they notice that others aren’t exposed to the same kind of scrutiny that they are for simply existing

lilith in pisces bitches have a natural talent for appearing like angels even in situations where they are 100% guilty. it’s very easy for them to put on their vulnerable, lost puppy act lmfao, which triggers others’ protective instincts. they may be able to cry on cue when people call them out on their bullshit, making them feel like THEY’re the shitty ones for confronting the lilith native... it’s insane

lilith in the 12th house natives may feel as though the themes of lilith are trapped in their psyche, at the core of who they are and those themes become unavoidable for them — they’re always there, lurking in the shadows, becoming the center of their nightmares

people with mercury in the 1st house can feel veryyy threatened and defensive when someone possesses knowledge in an area that they don’t, it’s like it hits them right on their biggest fears. they often either try to “one-up” the other person in an attempt to heal their broken ego or shut down altogether in insecurity. it’s imperative that they work on developing a strong sense of self-worth because they can be extremely prone to comparing their mental skills to those of other people.

people with personal planets in the 12th house may feel as though a lot of their artistic drive is stifled by their lack of energy. like... in the mental realm there’s a lot going on and it’s incredible, but then you pick up a pen to actualize your visions and you feel exhaustion immediately overtaking you. it can feel like there’s a lot to your psyche that feels inaccessible to you not because you don’t want to explore it, but because you have yet to restore the energy to dive deep into it. this can be especially noticeable if there’s absolutely no 5th house energy in the chart

people with jupiter in an earth sign love being surrounded by greeneries in their home; they may take a lot of enjoyment out of taking care of plants, gardening, cooking and stuff of the sort. it makes them feel more grounded, independent, and even healed. they also LOVE scents that connect them to nature like the scent of grass and the ocean.

air mercuries can be very beware of strangers, they can feel offended when their friends make them socialize with someone they don’t know and it can take a hot while before they trust the person enough to lower their defences a bit. they need to know it’s safe before expressing their usual sexy eccentric selves in front of someone new. on the other hand, aries placements can also hate being introduced to new people through their friends but it’s mostly because they’re very territorial over them, and can’t stand the thought that this new person can hurt their friendship in any possible way

meanwhile, it’s probably an earth or leo/sagittarius mercury introducing new friends to the group. they’re so fucking good with people and it shows in how they make people feel welcomed so easily, it’s like they “take” the person in and adopt them into the group. they can’t stand seeing someone being treated like an outcast because they know how it sucks to feel rejected, so they’ll try their best to make you feel included

while on the subject of people who hate seeing others be treated like an outcast because they know how it feels like to be rejected: SCORPIO RISINGS. bro. people underestimate how chill they can actually be. if they see you being left out, they’ll approach you with no fucks given and do anything in their power to make you feel comfortable. they do so well in group settings.

and while on the subject of scorpio risings... i have a scorpio rising friend and he goes thru it on the daily. he often complains that people are always suspicious of him and that they seem repulsed by him, strangers on the street will stay tf away from him. and it’s so heartbreaking because his personality is so friendly and welcoming and it doesn’t at all match his intimidating appearance. scorpio risings have this energy that not many people can handle, others feel either really drawn to them or downright scared of them because of the “danger” element they seem to carry in them

i know two people who are both scorpio suns and libra moons and they look the exact same, even though they have different risings. brown, deep-set eyes, coarse dark hair, naturally tanner skin tone — and they have the same style as well, using lots of band t-shirts and dark clothing. scorpio energy is always so noticeable wherever it is i swear, it’s like it takes over the rest of the chart

gemini moons are what yall claim gemini venuses to be. like, seriously... have you ever met someone with a gemini venus? they don’t need constant stimulation or else they’ll get bored and cheat. not in the slightest; actually, they’re often incredibly loyal and crave longterm, committed relationships. if anything, they need stimulation outside of their relationship in the form of a good, exciting career and hobbies so that they don’t get too addicted to their partner and to constantly analysing every aspect of their relationship. gemini moons however, tend to have multiple partners throughout life and they often feat deep commitment. they can be huge players imo, IT’S THEM YOU SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT!

sagittarius placements are so... tactile? like, they love to touch things. when they go to stores and stuff, they’ll start holding everything that catches their attention— it’s like they can only decide if they want to buy something after thouroughly exploring how it feels, the texture and the energy that the object gives them through touch. and they talk so much with their hands. it makes me so anxious like bitch you aren’t selena gomez, i promise you that you CAN keep your hands to yourself

taurus placements are so weird to me, i can’t understand them. it’s like they’re afraid of exploring their own depths, which in turn makes me unable to explore them. okay, how do i put this... it’s like they have this preset idea of who they are and after deciding so, they’re unwilling to let go of it. “i’m the stable friend who’s here for everyone even when i can barely take care of my own self” and then that’s who they are: the people who are a steady rock in the lives of others, taking care of everyone. and then they refuse to change even after getting hurt. and then, it’s like... well, you can’t just be that. you are a human who contains multitudes, but i don’t think you give yourself enough credit on how layered you are. that fear of changeability, that need to be the one stable thing in a world full of unpredictability will only damage you in the end, because you won’t get to fully experience life’s greatest pleasure: knowing yourself. becoming your own best friend, exploring every layer that there is to your being. i think you deny yourself of that experience because you fear that, with self-learning comes self-growth which leads to transformation. and you fear transformation because you don’t want to change for the worst. but like... transformation is necessary and with that comes adaptability + flexibility, which are things you could greatly benefit from.

scorpio venuses can be so pessimistic— and when they’re in a dark mindset, it’s so difficult to pull them out of it. it’s so difficult to get them to see the good in difficult situations, and to help them believe that it gets better. but even if you don’t believe me, i’ll keep telling you; it does get better. you’ll get through this.

jupiter in the 4th house is an indicator of food having been an amazing part of your childhood; there might’ve been a lot of feasts and you could’ve had a parent who loved to cook. being well fed might be a huge concern for you now; you might get sick easily when you’re eating fast food and non-traditional plates.

mercury square uranus is an extremely difficult aspect to have because, in your earlier years, you might’ve felt dumb or like there was something wrong with your intelligence because you might’ve found school difficult due to it’s structured nature that didn’t fit with the way you like to learn things— you need to learn in an interactive way that piques your interest. your anxiety and any traumatic experienced that you faced could’ve heavily impacted your school performance. you might’ve had an ease with learning but then, when it came to doing the written tests, you couldn’t perform to the best of your abilities. either way, school might’ve been a source of a lot of stress and difficulty.

mercury square pluto can have some weird manifestation where, like... you suspect things but you always suspect the wrong things. i’ve met a few people with this aspect and all of them were extremely suspicious of the most random things who were literally normal and innocent. this aspect can cause a lot of chaos to one’s interpersonal relationships because you might find yourself suspecting your loved ones in the weirdest circumstances due to your trust issues, which in return causes them to lose trust in you + the want to confide in you because you keep questioning everything they’re up to WHEN THEY’RE NOT UP TO ANYTHING IN THE FIRST PLACE. probably the most frustrating thing that can happen with this aspect is when you always suspect what you shouldn’t, but then, when sketchy things are actually happening that should be questioned, you don’t bat an eye to it. omfg it drives me insane

moon conjunct the ascendant can make someone have a very delicate appearance that gives others the impression that they need to handle you like fine china or else you might break. my mother has this at a very tight orb and whenever i bring people over, their first impression of her is always “she looks so frail”. the native might be extremely sensitive to every minor inconvenience which brings a lot of frustration to them, a feeling that they can’t control their reactions and inner turmoil. it can also suck when you don’t want to be depicted as the victim but then that’s the way everyone perceives you. the native might have very expressive and shiny eyes, and they can cry easily. it’s very difficult for them to hide their emotions.

your jupiter sign can signify where you feel an overflow of energy. jupiter in cancer may feel like you have an overflow of nurturing and protective energy towards your loved ones, with a lot of intuition and need for introspection. jupiter in leo can make you feel like you a talent for self-expression and dealing with others, being overly dramatic and prideful at times, and with a huge drive to have fun. jupiter in virgo can feel an overflow of perceptive qualities, with a huge amount of self-awareness and also awareness of your surroundings, ability to constantly analyse and a constant strive for perfection (which btw is impossible since perfection is unattainable and you’re a human being who makes mistakes and that’s completely fine. stop finding flaws where there aren’t none).

[phantomrose96]

King

cw: heavy angst, non-canon character death, violent imagery, emetophobia

It’s pretty long, so heed the Read More.

...

Bakugou is sitting in the police station.

Time isn’t moving forward with him. It has a hand over his mouth holding him back, holding him down, beneath the surface of the unreal waters which suspend him. All sounds reach his ears muffled. The phone ringing, and the station hand answering. Chatter, officers exchanging details, Bakugou winces at the utterance of the word “explosion”. None of it is real. None of it can be happening to him.

He jangles the handcuffs on his wrist, and this attracts the weary attention of the station hands. The cuffs aren’t necessary. He is not going anywhere. He sits, and he stares forward, and his ears ring.

Bakugou has fucked up. Bakugou understands for the first time in his life the sensation of fucking up beyond repair. He is watching dreams evaporate in front of his eyes, staring forward unseeingly at the pallid white floor tiles around him. His eyes trace their lines. He does not see them. They are not real. He is not real. He has fucked up. He has fucked up.

Behind his eyelids, a single image burns. It is branded into his eyes. The scorched wick of a torso lingers there, shifting to a negative impression of itself with each blink. A torched wick, balanced on disembodied legs, falling forward. Falling forward. Falling forward. Falling forward again with each blink. It’s a sight he has no way to unsee.

His heart rate picks up. His breathing comes faster and shallower. He says nothing. He has fucked up. He has fucked up, and he can never fix this.

Because he is still, and because he is silent, no one pays him any mind.

…

A man walks into the precinct. He is just a bit portly, immaculately dressed in a suit and tie. He shrugs off the tweed overcoat, leaving just vest and undershirt and tie, and hangs it with familiarity on the coat rack by the entrance. He lifts his bowler’s hat in greeting, and overlapping responses greet him from the precinct office. “Fujimori” is uttered, affably. He extends a hand, and several workers shake it with a smile. A joke is cracked. A chorus of deep belly laughs follow. The man with the bowler’s hat – Fujimori – calms his mirth and asks one of the officers about his kids, and when the idle chatter ends, he asks where his client is.

Fingers point toward Bakugou. Fujimori lumbers over, with a confidence that reminds Bakugou of lions, his face at ease. Fujimori lowers himself to a squat so he is eye level with Bakugou.

“I’m Hiroji Fujimori. I’m a lawyer with U.A. You’ve had a hell of a day, huh, Katsuki Bakugou? Why don’t I help get those handcuffs off and get you home for some rest?”

Bakugou looks up. He hears the words, but his ears are still ringing, so he clearly has not heard them correctly. It sounded like the man said he was going home.

“Home?” Bakugou asks.

“Well, the U.A. dorms. Under protective custody but, I promise, you won’t even notice.”

“I’m not going home,” Bakugou responds. He isn’t sure it’s his own voice speaking, or his own lips moving.

“Oh? Got somewhere else you’re headed?”

“Jail.”

Fujimori lets out a deep laugh, the kind that rumbles his whole body. He fans himself briefly with the casefile in hand. “Right. Right right right, no one’s given you the run-down. Ease back those shoulders, son, you’re not headed to jail. Chin up! Try for a smile. This isn’t my first rodeo.” He offers a nod back to the officers. “Ain’t that right?”

There’s a chorus of agreement. Bakugou is looking, but not processing. His mind hangs on “not headed to jail.”

“…When am I going to jail, then?”

“Hopefully never! Not very becoming of a U.A. Hero to be doing time, hmm? Come on. There’s a car waiting out front for you. Let’s gather up your stuff and get you home. Bet you’re dying for something more comfortable than this chair, and these cuffs. Hell, I bet you want nothing more than a night in your own bed right now. Poor boy,” and Fujimori angles his head over his shoulder, “just how many hours have you lot kept him all tied up here, hmm? A touch reprehensible.”

Fujimori is wrong. Bakugou is not thinking about his bed or rest or sleep. Nor is he concerned with how many hours he’s been sitting at the precinct – though it’s been several. He has not thought about those things because time has not restarted. Because there is no future of his to consider with a bed and rest and sleep, not with the unfixable thing he’s done.

Bakugou says none of what he’s thinking. He’s uncharacteristically uncapable of trying. So he silently stands when Fujimori motions him to, and follows as Fujimori takes him back to the precinct desk, where Fujimori strikes up another amicable conversation with the officer in possession of the keys.

…

Back at the dorms, Bakugou showers off the smell of flesh that isn’t his own. He crawls into his U.A. bed for what he is sure is the last time. Hours pass staring at the ceiling, until Bakugou slips into dreams which play back his own last calamitous explosion to him a few dozen more times.

…

Fujimori is waiting for him the next morning, parked alongside the grass outside with the dew brushing along the footboard of his Mercedes. He is wearing a different suit today, a darker one, and he is holding two steaming cups of coffee, one which he offers to Bakugou. Bakugou takes it, though he isn’t sure why. The feeling of heat soaking into his palm is abhorrent.

“How’d you sleep?” Fujimori asks. His attendant opens the back-left passenger door for Bakugou. Bakugou stares. He does not answer, and he does not get in. Fujimori continues. “We’ll just be headed into the office for a few hours this morning. Some of my colleagues would like to meet you and hash over some details from yesterday. Might ask you to sign a few papers, if you’re comfortable with that.”

Fujimori gets in the back-right passenger door. The attendant takes the wheel. Once settled, Fujimori cranks up the AC and fans himself with the documents in his hand. He motions for Bakugou to get in as well. This time, Bakugou complies. Fujimori leans over and shuts the car door for him.

“You said you’re a U.A. lawyer?” Bakugou finally asks. He grips the coffee too tightly in his lap. He’s wearing his U.A. uniform, with the pants hitched up correctly. It’s what he was ordered to wear.

“Sure am. Going on 20 years this September. Y’know, I’ve got a son a little bit younger than you. HUGE fan of the U.A. Sports Festival. I get tickets and bring him every year. You were his top-ringer, favorite by a mile. Your victory over that Todoroki kid—

“Stop.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop.”

“Ah, sports festival a sour subject with you, son? As I recall you did end up restrai—”

“No. Stop being so casual. And friendly. Like this. Sports festival. Sports festival?! Like that’s ever going to matter again!” Bakugou’s voice builds toa  crescendo, pent up horror spilling from his mouth like a faucet. “It’s cruel, don’t you think, to make me talk about U.A. like I’m ever coming back.”

“Hey now, the way I see it you’ve still got another two full years at that school before they’re done with you.”

“If you think that then you don’t know what happened yesterday. What kind of lawyer are you who doesn’t even know—”

“I know your case file forward and back, son. I’m no amateur. In fact, I’m very very skilled at what I do.”

“Then you know that I k—”

“—Calculated an unwinnable risk, and acted under extreme duress, and fear for you own life, in the face of a paralyzingly dangerous situation. And I know that your actions were necessary to ensure the safety of yourself and all others in the area.” Fujimori raises his own coffee to his lips and drinks from it, leaving the both of them to ruminate in the whir of the A.C. “An admirable and heroic act, with a tragic but unavoidable outcome.”

Bakugou feels colder, in a part of himself untouched by the A.C.

“…It wasn’t like that,” he whispers.

“I assure you it was, boy.”

The car blinker clicks on. They hang a left. Bakugou fixes his eyes out the window, watching the world spin by him. There’s an anger like solid ice encasing his heart, the kind he cannot act on, the kind that paralyzes him in his seat, the kind he’d only felt once before – when All Might lost his power for him – that Bakugou had vowed to never feel again.

Self-hatred. Ice instead of fire. That is what makes it so paralyzing.

“…Why are you representing me?”

“Because U.A. requested that I do.”

“And why would U.A. care? This wasn’t a U.A. mission. This didn’t have anything to do with them.”

Fujimori turns and offers him a warm smile. His face is disarming, and gentle, and grandfatherly, and he extends a hand to pat Bakugou on the shoulder.

“Come now, I think you’re a sharp enough boy to figure out the answer to that question.”

…

Bakugou leaves the office numb again. His memories of the incident feel hazier now. They feel less his own. He’s been asked to hold on to someone else’s construction, to coddle it in his mind until he believes it is his own. He needs to sew it back into himself. And forget his own memories. And move on.

Six hours have passed since he walked into the conference room with Fujimori, met with a half-dozen other lawyers whose names and faces all escape him now. He’s been asked too many times to describe the villain’s face, to describe man’s dress and his expression and his body language. Bakugou no longer trusts any memory he has of face, and body, and dress, and name.

Bakugou does not remember what, precisely, the villain said to him. He does not remember how he said it or why. Or how the villain had used his quirk, or how many times, or how close to Bakugou. Bakugou knows with certainty the villain had smashed him into the pavement, because it is that white-hot rage he felt in response that is seared into the memory behind his eyelids, like an after-image in the wake of an atom bomb.

The missing details, the absent paint strokes in his memory, have been helpfully filled in for him. Bakugou has been informed by the half-dozen lawyers that the villain had attacked him first, and with such bloodlust and such aggression that Bakugou had acted purely, and only, in defense of himself. Bakugou has been informed that the contusions to the back of his skull, documented at the police station, and the abrasions along his arms and legs and back all constitute intense physical trauma, from the villain who struck first, against Bakugou who had every reason to fear for his life.

Bakugou has been informed that the villain was a scoundrel, a lowlife, a man with a record and no family and no ties to the community.

Bakugou ruminates on all these new elements he’s been told to graft into his memory, as the car vibrates beneath him and Fujimori makes idle one-sided chatter on their ride back to U.A. All these memories meld together, such that Bakugou cannot pick apart what is his own, and what is not. He stares into the blood-red setting sun over the horizon, and he realizes he never will be able to.

There were no witnesses. There were no cameras. The only other man, who might otherwise have had the chance to defend himself, is dead.

…

Bakugou showers again. He already showered this morning. Bakugou tells himself it is because he’s been out all day. He doesn’t let himself consider what about the outing has made him feel so unclean.

So he doesn’t think about it, and he scrubs off the phantom lingering smells of burnt flesh from his body, and towels off, and changes into sweats. Alone in his room, with the blood red of the setting sun eking through his window, Bakugou considers going right to bed. His eyes shift to the clock beside his bed. It’s 5pm, and he hasn’t eaten yet today.

Bakugou stands, indecisive, and moves to the door.

When he opens it, he sucks in a sharp breath. Todoroki is standing at his doorway, leaning ever so slightly against the wall, his appraising eyes roving once over Bakugou before he straightens up entirely.

“Move,” Bakugou says.

“Where did you go with Fujimori this morning?”

Bakugou balks, only for an instant. He shoves past Todoroki, and sets his focus on navigating to the dorm kitchen. “Who?”

“The lawyer. I saw from the window. You were talking to him. You got in his car. And you’ve been gone the whole day until now.”

“What do you care?” Bakugou picks up his pace. Todoroki matches it.

“Because it’s Fujimori.”

“I don’t know what that means. Fuck off and leave me alone.”

“What did he want with you? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fuck off.”

“Tell me.”

Bakugou stops cold and whirls on Todoroki. He feels his hand twitch, but he thinks better of it.

“It’s from my work study. It��s confidential. I can’t tell you, and I wouldn’t tell you anyway. We’re not friends. You don’t demand things from me. Fuck. Off.”

Bakugou takes off again.

“Fujimori…” Todoroki trails off. He hustles to keep himself in lock step with Bakugou, flanking him, refusing to be shaken off. “Just tell me why it’s Fujimori then.”

“Again, I do not fucking know what that question means. Why the fuck do you expect me to know anything? Do I look like a lawyer? Go bug Deku, you clingy piece of shit.”

“Did I hear my name?”

Bakugou rounds the corner, Todoroki in tow, and he finds himself face to face with Midoriya. Midoriya has one eyebrow quirked, hair wet from his own shower, grasping a glass of water in his hands. Midoriya’s eyes flicker between Bakugou and Todoroki.

“What… are you two up to? Uh, something fun?”

“Good.” Bakugou grabs Midoriya by the shoulders, lifts him, and spins halfway around in place. He plants Midoriya back down as a human divide between himself and Todoroki. “Deku’s here. Go bug each other.”

Midoriya looks back and forth between Bakugou and Todoroki. Worry creases his brow. “Um, okay? Is there something you wanted to talk to me about, Todoroki?”

Bakugou glances for a fraction of a second at the kitchen, and curses under his breath, and turns in place, and shoves past Todoroki and Midoriya. He stalks back to his room, where he slams the door shut and locks it. He throws himself onto his bed and buries his face in his pillow, not bothering with the lights.

There’s muffled chatter in the hall. There are footsteps pattering overhead. There is a world outside his room that has spun on without him.

The question ‘why Fujimori?’ sits like a rock in Bakugou’s chest, and he rips the pillow out from beneath himself, pressing it over his head completely.

It’s fully dark now. Bakugou has no intention of moving from bed.

It is 5:07 pm.

…

Bakugou remembers very few details from the incident, anymore.

His memories are more like wispy embers, and they burn, and they flash-ignite without warning. He remembers heat, humidity, sapping sweat dripping down his hairline and curving along his nose. Heaving breath like a swelling knife wound in his bruised chest cavity. The viscous wetness of blood mingling and running in spider veins down his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, where it painted his teeth and tasted coppery on his tongue.

He remembers rage, white hot, swamping his mind. He remembers uproarious indignation that anyone could fell him like that, crack his head open on the concrete like that, knock the air from his lungs like that, make him taste his own blood like that. He remembers his every breath being a wheezing effort. He remembers the sun searing him, blisteringly bright, when he could manage to pry his eyes open to the spinning sky above. He remembers a ringing that stole all sound from his ears.

Bakugou no longer knows anything past that. His memories aren’t his own. The ones that were are overwritten, or buried, deformed beneath the crushing weight of denial. But he hadn’t meant to. He knows he hadn’t meant to. It has to be that he hadn’t meant to.

A slamming at his door tears him from his hazy half sleep. Bakugou sits bolt-upright, and his heart is slamming in his throat.

“Yo, dude, you get dinner yet? I haven’t seen you like all day. What’s up?”

Bakugou blinks, bleary-eyed, and the clock at his bedside swims into view. It’s 8:47 pm.

Bakugou lays back down. His every nerve remains on fire.

“Go away, I’m sleeping.”

Bakugou can sense the hesitation at the door.

“Alright,” Kirishima answers, and his voice is careful. “Catch you tomorrow then.”

…

In the common area, Kirishima walks in with his fingers threaded through his loose hair, his motions agitated, and he falls onto the couch beside Midoriya.

“Yo, hey, Midoriya, you know Bakugou pretty well, yeah? Do you think something’s like, up with him?”

Midoriya looks up from his phone. Iida, sitting on the adjacent couch, slams his book shut with entirely too much force. “Bakugou had an excused absence from class today! I can confirm this, if you are worried he is shirking from his student duties.”

“Nah nah – I mean – maybe that’s part of it, I dunno. But it’s not just that he wasn’t in class but like, I haven’t seen him at all today. And I tried to go bug him just now but he shut me out.”

“Bakugou goes to bed early,” Iida continues.

“I know he does but like. I dunno. It’s different. It’s kinda reminding me of how he acted after Kamino.”

“I saw him earlier today, but just for a little bit,” Midoriya answers. “Todoroki was talking to him, then he told me to talk to Todoroki.”

“Why?”

“Um, I don’t actually know. Do you know, Todoroki?”

“I don’t know,” Todoroki answers from the floor, where he sits leaning against the couch Kirishima and Midoriya occupy. After a moment of silence, he adds in, “But it’s something bad.”

Kirishima straightens, couch springs straining beneath him. “What do you mean bad? What do you know?”

“He was with Fujimori.”

“Who’s Fujimori?” Kirishima asks. All eyes remain pinned on Todoroki, not a flash of recognition in anyone else’s face, not even Iida’s.

“He’s a U.A. lawyer.” Todoroki fidgets. “He’s… a specific kind of U.A. lawyer. I saw a lot of him, when I was very young. After Mom went away, I saw a lot of him, pretty much every day.” Subconsciously, Todoroki raises a hand to skim along the uneven skin of his left eye. “Dad was his client.”

“Oh, um, I met a couple U.A. lawyers after we rescued Eri.” Midoriya shoots a quick glance to Kirishima. “Me and Kirishima both. Bakugou’s doing a work study right now. Maybe it’s like… maybe something like Eri happened.”

Todoroki shakes his head. “You and Kirishima have not met Fujimori. Whatever U.A. lawyers you talked to, they weren’t Fujimori.”

“What makes you sure?”

Todoroki lingers in the silence. His lips part, but he says nothing immediately. He thinks long and hard on the words hanging behind his tongue. There’s a twitch along his mouth, some repressed fidget of hostility that comes slowly burning into his eyes.

“I’ve been told not to talk about Fujimori. My father has told me not to. But… I think I don’t care what my father told me.” Todoroki pushes off from the couch he is leaning on, settling toward the center of the carpet and turning in place, so that he completes a circle made of himself, Kirishima, Midoriya, and Iida. “I might still get in trouble with U.A.… But maybe I don’t care about that either.” Todoroki pauses. “Fujimori… Fujimori is a monster. Scum, the lowest and most disgusting sort of person humanity has to offer—no, not humanity. Calling human would be too generous. He’s a weapon, not a human.”

Midoriya scoots a fraction forward. His body leaks with uneasy tension. “And he’s… you said he’s someone who works for U.A.? U.A. hired him?”

“U.A. would be sunk without him,” Todoroki declares coldly. “And Fujimori… does not get involved lightly. And he would never be involved in the Eri mission, because U.A. wasn’t at fault for anything bad that happened there.”

“I…” Midoriya fidgets again, waxing uncomfortable. “I mean, um, not all the details of that mission were made public, you know. It um… that mission didn’t go as planned. I mean, I don’t… I’m not blameless, I think, for the things that went wrong.”

“Me neither,” Kirishima cuts in.

“Sir Night Eye—”

“I know Sir Night Eye died,” Todoroki responds, chillingly flat. His eyes appraise Midoriya once-over. “Did you kill Sir Night Eye?”

“No,” Midoriya answers. “Why would you even—”

“Then Fujimori was not your lawyer.”

Silence fills the room. A palpable dread sets in over them, like a blanket of fog, clammy and cold to the touch.

“What… do you think Bakugou did?” Iida asks.

“Something as bad as my father did to me and my mother,” Todoroki answers, and he does not hide the personal condemnation from his voice. “Or worse.”

…

Bakugou wakes at 6:15 am to another message from Fujimori. It requests Bakugou meet him outside once more. No dress code is specified.

Bakugou appears wearing the sweats he fell asleep in, leery eyes meeting Fujimori who stands along the same dew-swept section of street beside the U.A. dorms. Bakugou shifts furtive glances up and to the dorm windows, face racked with tension.

“People can see us from the windows,” Bakugou comments, curt.

“Does that worry you?”

“Yes. Todoroki knows you. Why the fuck does Todoroki know you?”

Fujimori lets out a good-humored chuckle. “Ah, Todoroki’s boy. Figures he may not be too fond of me.” Fujimori adjusts the suspenders digging into his shoulders. He is more casually dressed today. “Well then – here’s some excellent news for you: this will be very, very brief, so brief you don’t have to worry about being spotted with me.” Fujimori curls a smile, wide and self-satisfied on his flushed red face. “Would you like to hear another lick of good news?”

“What?”

Fujimori extends a hand, low and firm, an invite to be grasped and shaken. “All charges against you have been dropped. You’re a free man with a clean record, Katsuki Bakugou.”

Bakugou does not take Fujimori’s hand. He doesn’t so much as move. He feels as if the ringing in his ears is back. He feels again as if he’s misheard.

“…There hasn’t been a trial yet.”

“You’re right about that. We nipped it in the bud before it even reached that stage. That’s a fantastic development, because trials have their way of dragging their feet. For years, sometimes. You’re a fortunate young man.”

“How?”

“Hmm?”

“How did the charges get dropped?”

“Well I just compiled your case is all. Argued it before the district judge and the chief of police over a nice batch of chamomile tea I brewed early this morning, and they’re both exceptional, bright, reasonable men of conscience. Not one person in that room wanted to see a U.A. star’s future snuffed out before it could even begin.”

“I killed—”

“—And there’s a few weeks off, being offered to you too, courtesy of the U.A. President Nedzu himself. He wants you to take the time you need to heal from this trauma. There’s a therapist too, under U.A.’s direction, that we’d like you to meet with daily. Sorry, that part’s non-negotiable. But she’ll be good for you. You’ve been through a lot for a boy so young. Everyone just wants to see you succeed.” Fujimori steps closer, and he rests a heavy hand on Bakugou’s shoulder. “And most importantly, the events from that day are under gag order. No word of this will ever reach anyone outside that precinct or outside U.A.”

“The villain…”

“Pardon?”

“What happens to him now? With his—with the—with what’s left of him. …What happens?”

“That’s not for people like you or me to worry about. You, especially, my boy. Just focus on the happy news.” Fujimori retracts his hand, and he lumbers back toward his car. There is no attendant this time. He opens the driver’s side door and glances back to Bakugou from overtop the car. “There will be a few more meetings in the coming weeks that you’ll have to attend with my colleagues, and a few more things for you to sign, and just a few attestations. But no one will ask anything difficult of you from here-on out. The hard part’s over. Quite luckily, this may be the last you see of me.”

Fujimori tips his hat once more, and disappears into his car with the tinted windows. It’s nice—the car. It’s exceptionally too nice, and too proper, and too clean for a man like Fujimori.

The engine revs. Fujimori vanishes along with the car at the next left turn.

Bakugou is left alone in the cold clammy morning air, with the sun wicking at the grass-top dew drops mingling with the cuffs of his pants.

Time restarts for Bakugou.

Now, and only now, Bakugou feels the passing wind against his cheek, and the wetness at his ankles, and the cadence of songbirds characterized by their punctuation through time. Time is moving fast again, with him in the stream, spinning dizzyingly forward.

Fujimori is right, this news is good news, Bakugou understands that. There’s a future in front of him again. A hero path ahead of him. He can carry on. He can graduate from U.A. He can become the #1 Hero. He can surpass All Might.

Bakugou’s memory stirs.

He is stricken with the image of two eyes looking back at him, gray and befuddled, panicked and unsure. They are eyes which belong to a head, a head with belongs to a body, all atop legs too scattered to know where to run. The image is a quivering bit of prey in front of him, cowed into a quaking revolting shell. It is a thing filled with regret at the sight of the rage it spurred from Bakugou by daring to slam Bakugou into the pavement first.

Bakugou remembers pulling the pin from his gauntlet. He remembers doing it with revelry. He remembers the sweet, nigh-intoxicating high, the euphoria that came with the sense of complete command, absolute control, unchecked power, the drive to win, to win, to win.

He remembers the lock and jolt to his shoulder, now. The eruption of searing heat. The explosion ringing in his ears. And the quaking, shivering thing of prey, in a moment of panic, darting directly into the blast, when all common sense dictated that it should have darted away.

Bakugou now remembers the blast erupting into black smoke, with a smell so wretched on its wind that Bakugou had buckled on spot. Bakugou now remembers the feeling -- suddenly greasy, suddenly unclean with the blowback of the blast, suddenly sticky dripping sapping wet with—

Bakugou remembers the torched wick of a torso – with full context now, he sees it. Suspended in time. Atop legs that should not stand.

Alone now in the cold morning air, alone outside the U.A. dorms, Bakugou buckles at the waist. He doubles over, falls forward like the image so seared into his mind. He moves forward in time with the dismembered legs, both his knees and its knees hitting the ground. Bakugou’s palms strike the dew-strewn lawn, his legs sink into the wetness. He holds himself up a moment, on arms too trembling to command, with a heartbeat too slammingly loud in his ears, and he loses his stomach contents into the grass below.

…

Bakugou is in class that same day. He does not take any of the offered leave, even when Nedzu appears at his dormitory door that morning at 7:30, even when Aizawa pulls him aside at the classroom entrance to ask, in as few specifics as possible, if Bakugou really intends to be here.

Bakugou confirms both times that he’s fine, and that he’s going to class, and that he doesn’t want them to mention anything to do with this ever again.

In class, he pretends to not see when Kirishima tries to catch his attention. He pretends not to feel the cold lick of malice from Todoroki’s eyes probing his back. Hardest of all, he pretends not to notice Midoriya’s pleading look, that detestable, abhorrent disarmed expression of weakness and worry so characteristic of him.

…

The partners are presumably random, but Bakugou stares on with disgusted certainty that Midoriya’s been intentionally assigned to him for sparring practice. Each pair of students has been spread about in sparring rings around Ground Beta, ample room given between each location, such that no quirks, and no voice, could carry between any two. Only the loudspeaker affixed to the Ground Beta building issues commands to each group.

The round starts.

Bakugou squares his feet, crouched slightly, hatred burning cold in his eyes. Midoriya meets his gaze, and squares his own feet, and raises his own hands. A silent few seconds of tense nothing passes between them. Bakugou’s gauntlet-less hands itch.

“Dodge!” Bakugou barks across the makeshift arena.

Midoriya loosens his footing a fraction, confusion crawling back into his face. “You haven’t attacked me yet.”

“Well get out of the way before I do!”

“If you attack me, then I’ll dodge.”

“Well you better! Because I’m telling you to dodge!”

Midoriya blinks. Bakugou remains rooted in place. In a split second, Midoriya has bounced from his spot. He winds back a kick, the shimmer of green iridescent veins spawning like stream rivulets down his thigh, down his leg. He closes the distance between them, and Bakugou only stares back wide-eyed as Midoriya’s shin connects with his jaw.

Bakugou stumbles, face smarting, a white-hot lick of rage exploding like a cannon from within his chest. The anger swamps his mind and drowns all thought and leaves him only with the livid, licking, untamable desire to fire back.

He thrusts a palm out, arm locked in tight at the elbow, immaculately drawing Midoriya into his line of attack. Midoriya’s eyes go wide, but he is still in the air, still falling, and won’t get the chance to course correct until he hits the ground. Bakugou has the shot.

Bakugou does not take it.

Time slips around him again. Leaving him behind, knocking him at the ankles, as if he is standing knee-deep in a stream to which he does not belong. The force threatens to make him stumble. He simply stands, hand extended, the promise of an explosion sputtering behind his palm.

Midoriya lands, and Bakugou has left himself wide open.

Midoriya doesn’t take his shot either.

“Do you want to… maybe call off the fight, Kacchan?”

“No! Attack me again!” Bakugou yells, hand thrown out harder, though nothing bursts on his palms.

“I…” Midoriya hesitates. He looks around, and he lets the rivulets of power bleed away from his arms and legs. He loosens his footing, stands taller, lets the tension ease out of his body.  “You know, um… After we rescued Eri, I couldn’t really do much of anything for a few days. I couldn’t even use my quirk without having to focus way too hard on it.”

“I don’t care about your stupid mission. Attack me! Attack, you damn nerd!”

“Is it… something like that for you too, Kacchan? …Is it something worse?”

“Mind your own damn business! And get out of the way before I fire at you!”

“Todoroki isn’t being too kind with his guesses. …Kirishima refuses to believe what Todoroki has to say, if that makes you feel better. But I think I know you a bit better than Kirishima, actually, and I’m not sure what to believe.”

“What makes you think I give a single shit about what Icy-Hot thinks? Or what you think?”

“Are you allowed to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“…How bad is it? The thing that happened?”

“’How bad?’” Bakugou mocks. “Not at all! Zero! Nothing! Everything got resolved this morning. Nothing’s happening. There’s nothing more to it. You can tell that to Todoroki, and tell him he can keep his prying eyes the fuck off me cuz there’s nothing more for him to see. And you can fuck off for good measure too.”

“Everything got resolved… because of Fujimori?”

“We’re still fighting. Shut up and dodge! Attack! Do something!”

“Because – what Todoroki said – is that’s what Fujimori does. He makes problems go away. No matter what. By whatever means necessary. That he’s U.A.’s ace in the hole. That U.A.’s spotless track record – its perfect reputation – for decades…” Midoriya trails off. Bakugou falters at the sight of Midoriya wiping at his own cheek with the heel of his palm. “Stupid of me, huh, Kacchan?” Midoriya says with a bitter laugh. “I just assumed U.A. put out perfect heroes, all perfect heroes. That every pro from U.A. was like All Might. That every pro from U.A. just… could never do anything wrong. I idolized all of them. Every single one of them, for being perfect heroes. I thought Endeavor was a fluke… I wonder how many Endeavors U.A. has made?”

Bakugou lets out a strangled noise. He thrusts his right palm out with force, and he fires off a blast that lights and catches, erupting outward, hurdling toward Midoriya. Midoriya dodges it with hardly any effort, a simple step to the right and the blast does not so much as lick him. Midoriya doesn’t bother striking back just yet.

“What about you, Kacchan? …It wasn’t as bad as Endeavor, was it?”

“No—it—aggh! I told Icy-Hot it wasn’t even about me. My work-study—it’s just because my work study—”

“With Moonshot, yeah?” Deku curls a hand. He lets a wick of electric green static burst in his palm, which whips his hair with its ebb and flow. “Your work study is with Moonshot right now. Moonshot’s office is small. She only has herself and three sidekicks, and none of them are U.A. graduates. You’re the only person from U.A. working there.”

Deku strikes. His attack clips Bakugou’s left side. Bakugou bears it, not so much as a noise escaping his lips. He side-steps, ducks, and slams Midoriya beneath the ribcage with enough force to knock the wind from Midoriya’s lungs.

“You always think you’re helping, you damn fucking nerd. You’re not helping! You’re just prying into shit that doesn’t concern you. It’s over. It’s done with. And I can’t talk about it anyway! So shut up, before I make you shut up.”

Midoriya pulls in a few wheezing breathes. He coughs, and straightens, and speaks along a rasp.

“Actually… I don’t even think I’m trying to help, Kacchan. I want to help you. I always do. You know that. …But I’m afraid this might be something I can’t help with, or can’t bring myself to help you with, if Todoroki is right.”

“Icy-Hot knows nothing. He’s full of hot air and conspiracy theories, and it’s none of his business. Whatever he thinks happened is wrong, and he should shut the fuck up about it.”

“Are you sure he’s wrong… King Explosion Murder?”

“Shut up.” Bakugou’s palms crackle, and he squares his feet again. “Shut up and di--… Shut up and fight me.”

Bakugou doesn’t wait for a response. He throws himself right into the fray, with the one and only goal of firing his explosions off in quick enough succession to prevent Midoriya from getting another word in.

…

“Sensei! Sensei Sensei!”

Aizawa pauses at the sound of pounding mechanical feet hitting pavement, the rumble of vibrations shaking the ground, and fence, and rubble near Ground Beta. A wetness has stirred in the air, the threat of an impending thunderstorm.

“Iida, I was just coming to collect eve—”

“There’s a fight! Uh—well of course there are fights as this is a sparing match exercise but there is a fight which is not part of the designated sparing activity I mean! I’ve come to report an incident of student violence which I witnessed! I saw it happen and promptly came to find an authority figure and luckily you’re right here but I request you accompany me back to the meeting grounds where—”

“Who?”

“Bakugou, and—”

“Midoriya,” Aizawa concludes.

Iida shakes his head, frantic, spinning on spot and motioning Aizawa to follow as his suited legs take off once more. “Not Midoriya! Todoroki…”

Aizawa falters, and then he picks up his pace to match Iida. He steels himself, and it takes no longer than 20 seconds of threading through rubble for the two of them to round the corner, and enter the scene which had already announced itself with the rising cacophony of voices from 30 feet out.

With a split-second glance, Aizawa gleans three immediate pieces of information from the gaggle of 19 assembled students standing at the center of the training ground. 

One, that Bakugou has been knocked down to the pavement, soles of his shoes, seat of his pants, and palms of his hands flat to the ground, left cheek split and leaking blood, with a creeping redness threatening to swell many times over in size across the breadth of the wound. 

Two, that Midoriya has grasped Todoroki from behind, his arms looped up beneath Todoroki’s armpits and locked in place in a forceful attempt to restrain Todoroki, who’s lashing against the hold. 

Three, that Todoroki’s right fist is split and bleeding, and he is staring down at Bakugou with the spark of murderous intent in his eyes.

“Tell me what you mean by ‘It’s been resolved’. It’s over? Meaning Fujimori already— What did you get away with? I think I know. I think I know what you did. So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me what that scumbag let you get away with.”

Bakugou says nothing. He raises his left hand to his cheek, pressing lightly. A heavy raindrop falls from above, landing with a patter on his cheek.

Todoroki pulls against Midoriya. “Answer me!”

“Todoroki!” Aizawa shouts. He marches forward, eyes alight with his quirk activation, though there is no need for it. Neither boy has used his quirk.

“This bastard’s been meeting with Fujimori.” Todoroki thrusts a hand out, index finger extended, sharp in its accusation as he turns bodily to Aizawa. “And whatever he did, he got off scot-free this morning! He’s bragging about it!”

“Todoroki. That’s enough.”

“He needs to tell us!” Todoroki challenges. A rumble of thunder affixes itself along the end of his words, as if chorusing agreement. “How can we be comfortable calling Bakugou a classmate until we know?”

“Midoriya, you can let him go. I’ve got this under control.” Aizawa’s eye flicker to Midoriya, who blinks, and hesitantly releases his arms from Todoroki.

Todoroki looks between Aizawa and Midoriya, his confidence wavering. “Sensei, you know who Fujimori is. You have to know who he is. You’ve been at U.A. long enough.”

“Yes, I know who Fujimori is. He’s a U.A. employee. Not a villain.”

“Then you don’t know who Fujimori is.” Todoroki counters. He thrusts both hands out. “He’s the reason my mom—he’s the reason my dad—he’s the reason I—” Todoroki catches himself all three times, unable to, or perhaps forbidden from saying more. 

He backtracks, calms himself, a glint of desperation lighting in his eyes. Todoroki turns in place, bodily facing Bakugou once more. “Just defend yourself. Just tell me what happened. If you’re innocent then clear your name, and just tell us what Fujimori wanted with you! Why can’t you do that? Why?”

“Todoroki that is enough. This is not like you, and it is not acceptable,” Aizawa growls this time. He stalks forward, using himself as a means of separation between the boys, and he grips Todoroki by the shoulder. “I think you’re letting your personal feelings get in the way of common rationality. My office. With me. Now.”

Todoroki appraises Aizawa, and then his eyes go wide. A few more heavy drops leak from the blackened clouds above. They plick across Todoroki’s face, riding his expression, loosening with shock. 

Todoroki opens his mouth, and the energy has been sapped from his words.

 “…You know. You know what it is, don’t know? You’re part of this. You really are okay with this.” 

“Not another word until we reach my office, Todoroki. If you defy me, I’ll consider it grounds for suspension.” Aizawa turns in place, and he surveys the rest of the class with deathly cold eyes. “Midoriya, Iida, take Bakugou to Recovery Girl’s office. Everyone else, get back to the dorm. I don’t want to hear a word about this by tomorrow morning, understood? The threat of suspension extends to all of you.”

There is a palpable unease in the air that rides along the rumble of the clouds. The rest of the students nod, Uraraka and Asui with a prick of tears at the corner of their eyes. Wordlessly, Iida extends a hand for Bakugou to grab, and lifts him from the ground. 

Kirishima throws one last worried look in Bakugou’s direction as the skies fully open. The class is caught in the downpour, the scenery effaced by a thick sheet of heavy rain. The three boys vanish from view, and Kirishima raises an arm overtop his head for cover, and he joins the others headed back to the dorm.

…

Class begins wordlessly the next day. No one dares to mention it, but everyone has noticed Todoroki’s empty desk. The threat of suspension, of following in Todoroki’s footsteps, cows everyone into compliance. Bakugou sits stiff in his own seat, his insides too mangled, his dreams too riddled with his haunting memories playing on repeat to afford him more than a few moments of uninterrupted sleep the previous night. He feels full of cotton, his stomach in knots, his brain too much a hazy mess to make sense of what’s unfolded. His jaw has swollen, hot to the touch.

Aizawa enters, his face blank and tired. He shuffles a few papers and greets the class with a monotone Good morning. Most voices echo the greeting back, but quieter, mumbled. Only Iida seems to muster the energy for a proper greeting. The downpour from the previous day has lightened, but not vanished. It plicks against the muted gray windows, sealing in the atmosphere.

“The bin for your English essays is now on the front table. Present Mic says you may turn them in any time between now and Friday. Late submissions will not be accepted.” Aizawa shuffles the papers in his hands. “Also, we have another announcement.” Aizawa nods to the doorway. Faces turn.

Shinsou stands at the entrance, face drawn into a bit of a grimace. He rubs at his neck and looks away. “Um… Hi. I’m Hitoshi Shinsou. Some of you already know me.”

No one answers him, because the class already knows Shinsou, and they’re all weary of what answering him may lead to. On a different day, friendliness might have won out over fear. Today, no one can muster the optimism.

“He’s transferring into 1-A starting today. Please extend a warm welcome.”

Silence beats around them. Iida manages a clipped greeting. A few more students nod. Bakugou watches it all unfold from his hazy fog.

Shinsou is no more lively in his acknowledgement of his introduction. He looks away, hoisting his bag on his shoulder, and shuffles down the aisle. He reaches Todoroki’s seat, and places his bag atop it, and sits down.

Midoriya’s chair screeches backward. He is standing, his face a mask of concern. “Uh, Sensei, Shinsou, um, that’s Todoroki’s desk. Todoroki sits there.”

“Todoroki has decided to transfer to Shiketsu High School, effective today,” Aizawa states simply. “Sit down, Midoriya, and raise your hand in the future if you wish to speak.”

Bakugou feels the ripple through the air. The potent unease. The prickle of disbelief that comes in just the form of a few slipped gasps, a few wide eyes swinging to Todoroki’s seat, and then swinging over to him, as if staring at him may reveal the answers they’re never allowed to know.

The haze in Bakugou’s brain won’t let him think. It’s made worse by his own shock, and his own disbelief, and his own gnawing discomfort in his gut when he looks over, and finds Todoroki absent from his seat.

It’s Kirishima’s pained eyes that he accidentally meets in the process.

“Bro… what’s happening?” Kirishima leans across the aisle. He speaks as quietly as he can for someone suppressing shock. “Please man, please just tell me it isn’t anything bad. Tell me Todoroki was wrong. Please dude. Please, I just gotta know you didn’t—”

“Kirishima!” Aizawa barks from the front of the room. Kirishima goes stock-still, spine stiff, head snapping forward to face the teacher. Aizawa turns to face the board, and he grabs a piece of chalk, snapped at the midpoint, and begins to write textbook page numbers on the board. “Not another word on the topic. I thought I made myself clear yesterday, or would you like to be an example?” Aizawa turns, and lifts an eyebrow in Kirishima’s direction. Kirishima, white in the face, shakes his head. “Good. I didn’t think so. Now be quiet. Class is starting.”

[lumosinlove]

PREVIOUSLY ON RELIC KEEL:

We get our first glimpse of Finn, who is still in Saint Clair orphanage. Finn has worked out that Crucio is being given to the orphans because it allows them to see their families again and makes them want to stay at Saint Clair so they can keep receiving it—even if it means reliving memories every day that are not their own. Finn doesn’t want that at all, and he’s been in solitary for the last week because he refuses to eat, realizing that the drug is mixed in with the food.

Luke is struggling with his mother, who seems to be delighted that Luke’s father is gone. She has completely transformed into a woman Luke doesn’t recognize, offering him alcohol, and wanting to get rid of Luke’s father’s things. Luke escapes her words, retreating to his father’s study where he can take Crucio and re-arrange the events in his own mind, making it so his father never got taken away.

Remus and Sirius, at James’ house for a movie night, have an awkward exchange in the kitchen. Remus wants to ask Sirius if he wants to go sailing with him, quickly realizing the unexplainable but seemingly unavoidable crush he’s developed on Sirius, but they get interrupted by Saint.

Saint asks Remus to help him sneak into The Hogwarts History Museum, where Remus is working for the summer, but when Remus refuses, guesses he has to take matters into his own hands.

Saint finds Luke on the grasses with the others, watching a movie. Luke wants his father’s watch, which Saint stole, back, but Saint refuses. Luke can’t believe Saint has never seen many movies, but rudely puts it up to Saint’s “fucked childhood.” They argue, and it just makes Saint quietly angrier. Saint thinks more deeply about it than he lets on, though, reflecting on people’s need to control things—a need that Crucio plays on. Saint leaves, but not after stealing the keys to Luke’s car, deciding he can control things a different way—with ancient gold from an ancient pirate ship, perhaps.

Sirius follows Saint out of the house. He can tell that he’s more on edge than usual, that he has been ever since Logan arrived. Saint won’t tell him what he wants from the museum, though—a treasure map to the Voldemort. Sirius is hurt. He’s angry at himself for liking Remus. Both Sirius and Saint, it seems, have a hard time distinguishing pity and friendship.

Leo and Logan are waiting for Saint so that they can all go to the museum together. Leo asks about Finn and finds out that Logan and Finn are in love, that they’re everything to each other. It stings Leo’s slowly developing feelings for Logan.

Remus and Sirius go to the history museum to try and thwart Saint and find out he’s working with Logan and Leo, and that they’re all after The Voldemort. Saint confesses he’s trying to help Sirius, to Sirius’ surprise. Leo wants to finish his father’s work. Logan wants Finn—but no one seems willing to help him bust Finn out. When they find the drawer where the map should be kept in the museum’s archive room, however, it’s gone, having been taken out on loan by Luke’s father, Victor Deveaux. Victor and Luke loved the tale of the treasure, too. Perhaps it has something to do with Victor being sent to jail.

They go to Luke’s house where Saint climbs through Luke’s bedroom window. Saint studies a sleeping Luke, a strange, unexpected constant—a brooding, rude, beautiful one, that is. And oh, how Saint hates letting things surprise him. Saint wakes Luke, who has taken Crucio, and plans to use his father’s watch as leverage to get Luke to help them find the map.

~

*****cw: mentions of drugs, mentions of use of drugs, mentions of past deaths, mentions of past abuse, mentions of blood*****

~

part vii

Luke’s father was standing over Remus’ shoulder, flickering as the Felix wore off, and it was really fucking with Luke’s head.

“Some fellow treasure hunters,” his father said with one of his soft smiles. “Sounds fun.”

“Sober up,” Remus’ voice filtered in. “What makes you sober up?”

“I’m not drunk.”

Luke watched Remus just shake his head at him. His father’s flickering frame was looking closely at Saint, who was picking up everything in sight.

“We both know what you are,” Remus replied. “Now, come on. Coffee? Anything I can do without waking your mom up.”

“She’s not going to wake up,” Luke rubbed his eyes. “She takes these—sleeping things, I don’t know.”

“Well—“ Remus hesitated. Behind him, Luke’s father flickered out.

“I’m fine,” Luke said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re bargaining, remember?” Saint held up Luke’s father’s watch again. “Tell me about your father, Deveaux.”

Luke blinked. “What?”

“Well, Lupin’s already told us a little. You, him, and your treasure hunting days.”

Luke looked at Remus, who looked half-guilty and half-curious. “You mean—like when we were kids?”

Luke didn’t want to tell them about the time he had spent with his father in here, just the two of them, fantasizing about gold and pirates.

“We were at the museum just now,” Remus began slowly. “Your dad loaned out a map…it’s of the Cradle. Of a, what was it, a trading post?”

The tall, blond boy standing in a corner nodded.

Remus looked back to Luke. “Have you seen it? Here?”

“A map?” Luke scrubbed his hand over his face again. “What fucking time is it?”

“Oh, he’s swearing,” Saint said as he opened another drawer. “He’s back.”

“Fuck—” Luke clamped his mouth shut. He turned away from Saint and fully towards Remus. Sirius and another dark haired boy were standing near the blond one. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Treasure?”

Remus winced. “Like the Voldemort.”

“The—what? He was never serious about that stuff,” Luke replied. “It was just for fun.”

“And yet he takes it upon himself to acquire an ancient document,” Saint piped up from behind him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luke said again over his shoulder.

“Um—“

Luke looked towards the blond boy, who had taken a hesitant step forward.

“I know what it looks like. My dad had a copy.”

“A true father’s affair,” Saint mumbled.

“What?” Luke asked for what felt like the one hundredth time.

“If we could just look around—” the blond began.

“You come here at ass o’clock in the morning to look around may dad’s study? For a treasure map that your dad has?”

“Used to have,” the blond’s eyes went colder. “His version was lost with him and his boat.”

Luke swallowed, eyes drifting away from the other boy’s blue ones. He looked back to Remus. They used to spend hours playing pirate when they were younger. Remus looked like he was remembering those hours, too.

Luke only had to blink for that golden-edged memory to mingle with the hours Remus had held Luke close in Luke’s bed, letting Luke soak his t-shirt through when they’d taken his dad away.

“Why do you think my dad has it?” Luke said now. “What do you mean loaned?”

“We went looking for it at the museum just now,” Remus explained. “Well—not not we. Saint stole your car—”

Luke looked back at Saint. “I’m aware.”

Saint flashed a smile.

“—and went with Logan,” Remus pointed to the somber looking brunette, “and Leo,” the cold-eyed blond, “to more or less, God, break into the museum archives. If they’re going to find the treasure—which, in my opinion, they’re not—they need—”

“A map,” Luke said, then scoffed out a laugh. “You guys are fucking crazy.”

Remus ran a hand through his hair. “Look, none of this was my idea, but your dad’s name was on the loan card. If it’s here, it's here, and then they’ll take the picture they need and we can all leave. I mean, shit, I have work at seven tomorrow morning, guys.”

Luke let out a long breath. He was tired, from being woken up and from the Felix, and he frankly wanted Saint to stop messing with his father’s things.

He nodded at Remus. “You can look around. And I will. The rest of you, don’t fucking—” he snatched one of his father’s fountain pens out of Saint’s hands. “touch anything.”

Saint just tiled his head defiantly. Luke couldn’t help but hold his gaze for a moment, remembering waking up to those syrupy eyes and feeling—he didn’t know what. Like he was standing on the edge of the Howler cliffs, above a storm-warmed, rough ocean. Saint’s hand had been in his hair, and it had been ever so gentle, unlike the rest of him. His words were tough, and, from what Luke could tell by his own jabs at Saint, so was his skin. He guessed a kid didn’t grow up the way Saint had without at least a little armor—Saint was practically drowning in his own.

As if Luke could talk. Luke looked away and gestured towards Remus. “Let’s get this over with.”

Luke opened drawers and cabinets. He looked through stacks of paper and under dressers. He checked the den, even, just in case, but there was nothing. Everything was orderly—and even more, the police had taken so much. Any paper they could get their hands on. His mom wouldn’t tell him what they were looking for, and neither would the lawyers that occasionally came to the house.

But there was no map.

Luke began to double check, if only at Remus’ insistence, but he was at a loss. There were only so many places—

“What’s your birthday, tweedle?” Saint said suddenly.

“What does that have to do—” Luke began as he turned, but his words died in his throat when he saw Saint.

Luke’s father had had the old map of Hogwarts framed and hanging in his study ever since Luke could remember. He knew its markings as well as he knew the island as it was today. Saint had it tilted to the side, revealing a sliver of sleek steel. A safe.

“I told you not to touch anything,” Luke said breathlessly. He hadn’t known about that safe. He’d stared at that map a thousand times and he hadn’t known. Did his mother know? The lawyers?

“I bet you one of Leo here’s best breakfast sandwiches that the map’s in here,” Saint replied, nodding to the frame. “Little bit of an X marks the spot, don’t you think? Now,” Saint reached for the painting and unhooked it smoothly, setting it on the ground to reveal the neat square metal sunken into the wall with a dial in the center. “Tell me your birthday.”

“Why do you think the combination is my birthday?”

Saint rolled his eyes. “Because you’re his son. Fathers do that. Don’t they?”

Saint asked the last part like he was trying to be sure, but wasn’t.

“January first,” Luke replied.

Saint hummed as he leaned in. “New year, new you, huh?”

Luke just swallowed dryly as he listened to the dial tick. It felt so loud in the room that was now holding its breath. It felt like it lasted forever, but, finally, the safe opened with a gentle click.

“Damn, Saint,” Sirius said softly.

“I know, I’m so good,” Saint said, and made to push the door open when Luke pushed forward and grabbed his hand. Saint’s fingers were warm in his own. Saint raised an eyebrow.

“Like you said,” Luke still felt breathless. “I’m his son. I’m doing this.”

Saint raised his free hand in surrender until Luke let go, and he backed away. Luke faced the safe. He felt the Felix in him all over again, though it was long gone. He felt his father, smelled his cigars. Luke reached for the door, too aware of the four pairs of eyes on him, and pulled it open.

It was relatively empty. There were papers that looked like they had once bound money, but lay ripped and lifeless now. There was a case of expensive cigars.

And there was an envelope with Luke’s name on it.

“There’s a letter,” Luke said faintly, picking it up. “For me.”

He looked up at Remus, and Remus nodded.

“Like the clues he would leave us?” Remus said quietly.

Luke went for the seal—only to have it snatch out of his hands.

He looked up, eyes wide, and found the unfamiliar brunette—Logan, Remus had said—staring back at him, at all of them, with wild green eyes.

“Logan,” Leo said, voice filled with surprise. “What the hell are you—”

But Logan just backed up towards the door. There was a familiar click, and the flame of a lighter appeared in his other hand.

“Hey—” Luke stepped forward, panicked, but Saint’s palm pushed against his chest.

“Don’t,” Saint said softly, for Luke’s ears only.

“That’s mine,” Luke snarled, shoving Saint away.

“Yeah, well I have something I want, too,” Logan snapped, and then looked at Saint. He held the flame closer to the envelope. “You want to know what this says? Then—”

“So do you, Logan,” Saint said. “You need that money. You know you do. The Carrows know it, too.”

“You owe me something first. I want Finn.”

“I don’t owe you,” Saint replied evenly. “I don’t owe anyone. That’s kind of my general idea in life, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Logan faltered, and the flame slipped close enough to the envelope to make smoke trail, but when Luke stepped forward, Logan took another step back. He looked small, framed by the grand desk and leather chairs. Small and scared.

“You left us in there,” he finally whispered, and Luke thought he heard Saint’s breathing stop and hold, like a punch to the gut.

“He was seven years old,” Sirius growled, and Luke didn’t know what they were talking about, was done waiting.

“Do you know the last time I talked to my dad?” Luke said, voice raising. He glanced upstairs, careful of his mother despite her pills, and dropped it to a deadly whisper again. “He’s not allowed calls. Not until the investigation’s over. This could—” Luke hesitated at putting his wildest, most desperate hope into words. “This could prove he’s—”

“Do you think I give a shit about the last time you talked to your daddy?” Logan snarled just as harshly. “When’s the last time I talked to mine? Oh. Right.”

“Please,” Luke heard the word rip out of his throat before he could help it, but Logan wasn’t even looking at him. Logan’s eyes were on Saint.

“Help me get Finn out. The windows are barred now. There are alarms, I’ve seen them.”

“I didn’t use a window,” Saint replied.

“Then show me how you did it.”

“You won’t be able to get in the way I got out.”

“Then do it for me.”

If Luke was begging, so was Logan.

“Fuck, I’ll help you,” Luke shouted. “Just don’t. Please. My father—”

“You don’t know shit about Saint Clair,” Logan snapped, then looked back at Saint. “We both know where he is. Why I haven’t seen him. Saint—”

“All right,” Saint said, voice calm. His brown eyes reminded Luke of stormy seas, ruddy with stirred up sand. “All right, Logan. Just don’t burn the letter.”

“Promise,” Logan said.

Saint laughed, cold and clear. “What has a promise ever meant to either of us? I said I would. Take it or leave it.”

There was a terrifying moment in which Luke worried that the letter would go up in flames anyway. That he would never know what his father had wanted him to have, wanted him to know. He didn’t know Logan, didn’t trust him.

The lighter clicked off and Logan held out the envelope. Luke took it and gave Logan a shove towards the door for good measure.

“Get out,” he said. “Get out of my house.”

“What does the letter say?” Logan replied firmly. “It could be about the map.”

Luke laughed, and it rang a close twin to Saint’s in his own ears. “You should have thought about that before you held it hostage for your orphan friend.”

Logan took a step forward, mouth opening to protest, but Luke was bigger than him, stronger and taller. He met him chest to chest.

“I said get out.”

“Logan,” Saint sighed. “Listen to him.”

Leo stepped forward then, a gentle hand on Logan’s fiery frame. Logan simmered for another moment, but let Leo lead him from the room, lighter still clutched in his fist. Remus followed them with a whispered, I’m sorry that Luke barely heard.

He faintly heard Saint say something to Sirius, who followed Remus.

Saint, the only one left in the room now, looked at Luke steadily. Luke expected some sort of joke, or a snarky remark about the desperation Luke had shown—something he tried to never let slip through. He didn’t care what it was. He just wanted to be alone, to have this room feel like his father’s again. Instead of a crime scene. Instead of a lead, or a pin-point on a map. Just his father’s familiar room.

Instead Saint tossed him something that shone—his keys.

“Let us know, if you want,” Saint said simply, and held the gold watch out. Luke took it with shaking fingers, watching him go.

Then, he looked down at the letter, at his name in his father’s familiar scrawl. He peeled back the seal with a lump forming in his throat.

~

Remus’ steps slowed to a stop when he saw who was waiting for him at the end of his dock in the five-AM light.

Sirius had his flip-flops beside him, his feet dangling over the edge into the water, the Wolfsbane rocking gently in the early morning waves to his left.

“Sirius?” Remus called, more so that the first thing Sirius felt wasn’t the shaking of his footsteps than anything else.

Sirius jerked around, startled either way, and scrambled to stand.

“Hi,” he said. “Or, morning.”

“Morning,” Remus laughed a little, glancing at the boat. “I…is this you taking me up on my offer?”

Sirius ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Ah, well, I’m here to say sorry about last night. Dragging you into it and all. That wasn’t fair of Saint, but he’s…I don’t know what he is right now. I usually do but…not this time, I guess.”

Remus nodded, trying to buy himself time to figure out what to say. He stepped onto his boat and took a rope in hand, just for something to do. To hold onto. Sirius had spoken the words plainly enough. There was nothing about Saint and himself being together, but Remus still sensed some sort of intimacy that wasn’t quite friendship, just as he had at the museum.

“It’s okay,” Remus said. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

Sirius’ smile was a small, relieved one. “I guess so. Still. He was on some sort of mission. He still hasn’t told me anything, so.”

Remus leaned back from stowing his phone and keys securely in a hatch. “He doesn’t seem like the type of person you can really get things out of.”

“That’s true,” Sirius laughed, and it was easier this time. “Anyway, I’ll let you…I just wanted to say.”

Remus wanted to ask again, if Sirius would come with him, but Sirius was already backing away and so Remus just nodded.

“Thanks.”

He turned after he said it, breathing in the ocean air and trying to still himself, to let the familiarity of his boat and sails wash over him. He would find someone. Maybe they weren’t Sirius Black. Maybe they just weren’t here. Maybe he’d fall in love on the water, or in a classroom, or—

“Can I?” Remus heard Sirius say, and turned to look. Sirius had stopped half way down the dock.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Take you up on your offer?”

Remus smiled, even if his hope at Sirius’ words paired with the thought of Saint made his heart a little tender.

“Of course you can,” Remus said.

Sirius jogged towards him with a grin of his own, but he paused before he stepped onto the Wolfsbane, looking down. Remus wondered for a moment if it was the gap over the water, but Sirius had said he sailed, too, he’d said—

Remus understood. He unmoored the nose. “Get that rope back there if you finally want to do something other than watch.”

Sirius jumped to unknot the rope with ease, and then stepped onto the waves beside Remus, using one of his feet to push them away from the dock. Remus let them drift a moment, feeling for the wind. It was quiet for now, but he could see rougher waves out past the point.

“Is it just yours?” Sirius asked as he watched Remus with the tiller.

“Yep, birthday present,” Remus patted the side. “My baby.”

Sirius smiled. “It’s a beautiful boat.”

The wind began to pick up as they got farther from the land, pushing towards the open water. Remus’ heart seemed to pick up with it and, glancing at Sirius, who looked contemplative and—well, beautiful—Remus didn’t think it was merely the sea’s doing.

Remus had never thought too much about Sirius Black. Sirius had been there one day, gone the next, and in the run-ins at James’ house once Sirius had started working there, he had been a suddenly handsome face. Grown into himself and strong from his outdoor work. In turn, Remus always became suddenly awkward around the boy who obviously didn’t like Gods. He and James poked fun at each other, he and Luke were downright hostile, and Remus didn’t know where he fit in.

He hoped the water and the Wolfsbane would do some talking for him, and maybe some listening, too.

They didn’t speak as they began to fly. The pontoons skimmed the waves and the wind would have snatched their voices away, but Remus swore he heard Sirius laugh.

Sirius knew how to sail, too. He breathed it all in, just as Remus did, and they worked together, balancing and pulling and leaning out to trace their fingers along the water’s surface. It felt as warm as a bath against the cool air.

Remus didn’t let them go too far out, he had to be back, but he would have. He would have sailed right to the horizon with Sirius without looking back.

As the wind died down, as they turned around, Remus felt something different. Like a wind change between the two of them. They grinned at each other, flushed with it, and as the wind cut down more, as they past the point, Sirius’ turned self-conscious but it didn’t disappear like before.

The boat settled into a glide towards the shore. Remus let his feet dangle in the water.

“So, the treasure,” Remus asked, because Sirius looked hesitant to talk, sitting there soundly on the other side of the boat. “Do you think it’s real?”

“Fuck if I know,” Sirius replied, and Remus laughed. “But if Saint thinks it’s worth it…I’ll try to go along with it.”

Remus nodded, taking that in. Saint. The mention of him slowed his heart back to a glide along with the boat. Remus cleared his throat and Sirius looked back at him from the horizon questioningly.

“What was that thing with—Logan? I mean, you don’t have to tell me but…”

Sirius took a long breath. “Logan has someone, Finn, inside Saint Clair. Finn helped him escape. And I don’t know if it’s guilt that’s making him help to get Finn out, or something more, but…Saint's the one who can help.”

“Because he escaped.”

Sirius nodded. “Right.”

“Is it complicated?” Remus asked. “Like, is he worried he won’t be able to do it twice?”

Sirius shook his head. “It’s not complicated.”

He was silent for a moment, and Remus didn't want to push him. He waited, seeing if Sirius would continue.

“Saint walked right out the front door,” Sirius finally finished, and looked at Remus. “I think he’s worried because it wasn’t a grand escape, even if he tells it that way. Even if he makes it seem like he climbed walls or something. He’s worried because…because it was a fluke. Sometimes there are doors you can’t walk back through.”

Sirius said the last sentence heavily, as if he had a door of his own. Remus guessed that maybe everyone did.

“So, what’s he going to do for Finn and Logan?”

Sirius just shook his head again. “I have no idea. But I’ll help him in any way that I can.” Half a smile raised Sirius’ mouth. “If he lets me.”

~

“No.”

“Tell me,” Sirius demanded. Saint just rolled his eyes and popped a sweet potato fry into his mouth.

“Tell us,” Dorcas cut in from her place beside Marlene.

“Right,” Sirius said. “Sorry.”

“Saint,” Marlene sighed. “If you’re not going to tell us, it’ll make us think you have no plan at all.”

“Who invited the God?” Saint said airily.

“My girlfriend,” Dorcas scuffed the back of his head.

“Not for long she’s not,” Saint replied, and at Dorcas and Marlene’s expressions, waved a hand. “Come on. She’s going to college, Dor, you’re not…don’t tell me you haven’t talked about it.”

“We—” Dorcas began, but flushed and closed her mouth. Sirius glanced at Marlene, whose eyes were firmly down towards her burger.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Sirius sighed.

“I’m not, I’m just telling everyone what to expect.”

“Saint,” Sirius leaned forward. “How are you going to get Finn out of Saint Clair? You said last time—”

Saint cut in quickly, “I say a lot of things to you that are just for you, Black.”

“Well, I don’t know what to do with what you said,” Sirius replied. “Come on. Please. Is it because you don’t know? Is that why you won’t say anything?”

Saint stayed quiet, looking down at his food. “I know. We’ll just have to see if it works.”

“Saint,” Dorcas leaned forward and Saint turned his palm up for her hand. He knew they were trying to help. “Babe, we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“You mean you want to make sure it’s not too insane.”

Sirius nodded. “That, too.”

“Can’t you just rest assured that I’m doing this for myself, too?” Saint said. “I’ll get Finn out, Logan will calm the fuck down, and maybe Luke will let us know about the treasure.”

“Who gives a fuck about this treasure?” Dorcas said harshly.

“It probably doesn’t even exist,” Sirius added.

“You want off this island, like you said? Then you give a fuck.”

Sirius began to shake his head. “It’s not—” he said, but Saint pushed on, voice raising.

“We’ll get Finn out, we’ll get Luke’s help, we’ll get the map, we’ll find my mom—”

Saint stopped talking, frozen by the words that had ripped out of him of their own accord.

Sirius, Dorcas, and Marlene’s eyes were wide. Pity. The word seemed to hang in the air.

“The treasure, I meant,” Saint managed. “We’ll find the treasure and…”

“Saint…” Dorcas said, and when he looked at her…Pity. “Do you know where she is?”

Saint was furious with himself for the slip. He was looking for Sirius. He wanted the treasure for Sirius, he didn’t need it for himself. He didn’t need anything, especially not people who left. Not his mom, not Sirius.

“I don’t need help with Saint Clair,” Saint said and pushed his chair back, leaving them staring at each other across the table.

~

Saint hadn’t let any of them come. He didn’t want anyone here to see him tremble and shake at doing the one thing he had always promised himself he would never do. The one thing he didn’t think he could do.

But, thinking about it, the trick wasn’t getting out. Anyone could walk out the door. The nuns needed it that way, for business. For the appearance of normalcy. The real trick was getting inside without being let in. The way to keep secrets, after all, wasn’t keeping everyone out. Walls begged to be breached. The secret was to filter the truth. Let people see half, a quarter, or different parts at different times. The trick was getting in to see the whole picture.

Maybe Saint was half of Saint Clair, keeping his cards close to his chest.

The offices. He needed to get the the offices, and then he needed to get to Finn. In and out—just not through the door this time.

“What’s the plan?” said a voice just behind him, and Saint closed his eyes.

Sirius.

“I told you not to come,” Saint said.

“And I told me yes,” Sirius parroted. They rolled their eyes at each other even as Sirius rested a gentle hand over Saint’s where it was clenched over his own knee. They crouched beside each other, staring at Saint Clair in the darkness. It was two in the morning, maybe a little past it now, and Saint wanted everyone to be asleep.

He looked towards the chimney. It was wide and old fashioned. It would be too hot for them to be using it tonight.

“Jesus Christ,” Sirius sighed, following his gaze.

“The windows are barred. The doors are alarmed. I’ve cleaned that thing, I know it’s big.”

“Yeah, everything looks big to a seven year old,” Sirius countered.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“And getting out?” Sirius asked.

“Alarms don’t go off if you open the door from the inside. There’s a kitchen door around the back. We’ll use it. We just have to get in.”

Sirius nodded slowly, and then asked, “Your mom?”

Saint pressed his lips together. He needed to get to the office, and then to Finn, and then out.

He started forward towards the drain pipe, just like on Luke’s house, and didn’t look to see if Sirius was following him.

~

Marlene didn’t like seeing that contemplating look at Dorcas’ face. Dorcas was chewing on her lip, eyes staring at the movie playing on Marlene’s laptop, but she was somewhere else entirely. Marlene put her pencil down at wiggled her toes, which were in Dorcas’ lap. Dorcas blinked and looked at her.

“Don’t listen to Saint,” Marlene said. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

But even saying that ate at her. Marlene thought of the acceptance email, of California and Berkeley, buried in her inbox right now. Tell her, said everything inside, but Dorcas already had that look on her face. The worrying, I-want-everything-that’s-good-for-you-regardless-of-what-it-means-for-me-or-us look.

Marlene didn’t want to see that look. She’d seen it the first time her father had banned her from seeing a Salazar girl. They had been fifteen and Dorcas had offered to stop, and Marlene had kissed the idea right out of her mouth, right out of existence.

This was different. She couldn’t kiss college away. She didn’t want to. But she also wanted Dorcas, and California felt far, far away.

Dorcas chewed on her lip some more, then rubbed a soothing thumb over Marlene’s ankle. “We haven’t really talked about it, though.”

“I know,” Marlene said softly. She pushed herself up and set her sketchbook aside before reaching over to close the laptop, cutting the actor off in mid-sentence. “I guess I’m sort of…avoiding it.”

“We are, you mean,” Dorcas offered her a small smile. “I…I know we said we wanted to just have our summer, and I do want that. But I think I would feel better knowing what you think. About, you know…about when you do start hearing back.”

Marlene looked down as she whispered, “I got into Berkeley.”

A short sucked-out sound of silence filtered in between them for a moment. Marlene looked up.

“I should have said,” Marlene sighed. “I know I should have. I just…”

“Sweetheart,” Dorcas sighed, and then Marlene was pressed back onto the bed, Dorcas’ hard kisses bringing a hot blush to her cheeks. “That’s amazing.”

Marlene hummed against Dorcas’ mouth, a sad-happy sound, and wound her fingers into her hair as Dorcas kissed along her jaw. “It can be as amazing as it wants, but it’s really far away. And you like it here, and—”

“I like you,” Dorcas said, and pushed herself onto her forearms so she could look down at Marlene. “Marls, the question about us was never a debate about you following your dreams and going to college, just like you want. The question lies with me. I don’t know how to pull off following you yet, but I’m working on it.”

Marlene looked up at her and felt tears join the heat within, felt her voice wobble. “I’ll miss you. I want you to be safe, and I want you to be with me.”

Dorcas’ kiss was softer this time. “Me too.”

Marlene enjoyed it for a moment, relief bubbling in her chest, until Dorcas began laughing into her mouth.

“Maybe the boys will find that treasure and give me a piece of it.”

Marlene laughed, too. “God, if that’s our best option…”

They wound tighter together, snuggling down into Marlene’s quilt. Dorcas pressed her forehead against Marlene’s.

“Whatever I can do, I’ll do it,” Dorcas said. “I want you, wherever we are.”

Marlene just kissed her again.

~

Sirius was noisier on the climb than Saint would have liked, but they made it to the slanted roof without trouble, standing on its apex to stare down into the soot-dark.

“Is this really going to work?” Sirius whispered.

“It could.”

“Why not climb the fence? Maybe that door is open.”

“Too loud.”

“Why didn’t you let Logan come with us?”

Saint huffed out an annoyed breath. “Because if this goes wrong, what Finn did was for nothing. If this goes really wrong, at least there would still be one of us on the outside who knows what it looks like inside,” Saint stared out at the trees and bit of coast they could see by moonlight from here. “One of us who doesn’t return every night, that is.”

Saint went down the chimney first, one step at a time. The stones and rusted iron rungs provided easy enough footholds, they just had to hope no one was having a midnight cup of tea when they reached the bottom. He looked up once, blinking through the fine grit of ash that seemed to hang in the air, at Sirius’ face, the silver moonlight like a halo around his dark hair.

And Saint kept climbing down. He went slowly, listening hard. If someone was down there, they’d hear him, and then he’d hear them, and he could scramble back up the chimney and out of sight. Once he was down, however, who knew what they would do to keep him that way. He could practically taste the heavy sleep of Crucio, and his stomach rolled against the images it brought back. The many different families—fathers, siblings, and mothers. So many mothers that he didn’t even know which had been his own anymore.

He hated them for it. He hated them for thinking he wanted that.

Saint’s trembling foot slipped on the last hold and he tumbled out, only barely withholding a cry as the log holders scraped heavily across his side.

“Saint,” came Sirius’ harsh whisper from above him, and Saint waved a hand beneath the flue to show he was okay, then pushed himself up from the now ashy floor, gripping his side.

He knew this room too well. He knew it through the over-active eyes of a five year old. He knew it through the only slightly more alert gaze of his seven year old self.

It was smaller than he remembered. Shabbier than it had seemed then, with its hard couches and children’s books, its desk by the window that still held a letter opener that he had eyed a few times, wondering if he could fight his way out like heroes did in the books he read. Now, he willed all to stay quiet as he walked over and picked up the dull knife. He hated the sight of it.

Sirius came after him, more smartly, landing feet first.

“You could have fucking impaled yourself,” Sirius whispered.

“I didn’t, though,” Saint said, and looked at his ribs. The cuts stung, but the bleeding didn’t look too bad, just enough to dot uneven lines across his t-shirt.

Sirius lifted his shirt to see, and passed a careful thumb near the worst of them, his other a familiar weight on the side of Saint’s neck.

“Let’s go,” Saint whispered.

“Wait,” Sirius said, and turned Saint’s gaze gently to meet his own.

“We don’t have all the time in the world,” Saint began, but Sirius just shook his head, silencing him.

“Listen to me,” Sirius whispered. “All right? Just this once. Just listen to me.”

Saint closed his eyes briefly. “We don’t have time to talk.”

That only succeeded in bringing Sirius’ other hand to his cheek. “If something goes wrong, you just run.” Sirius reached down and took the knife, setting it back on the desk. “Don’t think about me. They can’t keep me.”

“They’ll give you to your parents,” Saint warned.

“I don’t care,” Sirius said. “They can’t keep me. They could try to keep you and I won’t let that happen.”

Saint looked up at Sirius. The only person he could ever remember caring. Saint didn’t like that a side effect of being cared about was caring back, didn’t like that risk…but he liked Sirius.

“You’re leaving anyway,” Saint said. “It doesn’t matter where I am.”

“I never said that and you’re wrong.”

“But you will say it.”

Saint turned away, keeping a hand laced with Sirius’ to pull him towards the dorms. He knew the words sounded accusing and regretful, but he only half meant them that way. Sirius deserved to go.

Sirius didn’t respond. It wasn’t the moment, and they needed to listen for other things.

The dorms came up on their left. Boys to one side of the hall, girls to the other. Saint paused, looking in.

You’ll sleep here with the rest of the boys, Sebastian. Be a good boy and make your bed every morning and you’ll get a treat with breakfast. Chocolate milk, how does that sound?

“Was this you?” Sirius whispered, and Saint shrugged.

“I slept all over this place,” Saint breathed to Sirius. “I’d sneak into the other dorms, the attic, the reading room. I was just…” Saint turned away, unable to stand the softly rising and falling chests of the boys within. “I was just trying to find a place where I felt like myself. Maybe it wasn’t the place, though.”

Maybe it was the dreams. Maybe the drug.

“Maybe it’s just me,” Saint said.

Grimmauld was the closest he had ever gotten, the most settled he’d ever felt. He loved the ocean, and his gold draped vanity, and Sirius always beside him. But there was still—something. A misplaced, tweaked something inside of him that was feeling around in the dark for a comfortable position. Saint didn’t even know what he was looking for, but he did know that it was too dark to find it right now. Sirius had been the first gleam of bright, a pin-prick of a star, a friend, a lover, and a safe place. But stars weren’t a moon or a sun. He needed light to see.

“Let’s go,” Saint said. “This way.”

They walked the halls carefully, listening after nearly every step. Saint knew that the nuns slept at the other end of the house, but that they woke to check in on the children. He couldn’t remember when, though. With the Crucio, his young age, and the late hour, the nights had felt the same and endless. He’d shuffled around like a small ghost, trying to escape the unfamiliar dream-faces. They’d only caught him a few times. A slap on the wrist. Solitary.

That’s why he nearly jumped when they heard the first footsteps. He was seven again, haunting this place and being haunted in return. Saint froze, eyes on the bend in the hallway.

“Here,” Sirius whispered, and together they ducked into a room—the offices, Saint realized—and behind the open wooden door. They huddled together, barely daring to breathe as the footsteps got closer.

“Sirius,” Saint breathed, and didn’t realize he was trembling again until Sirius’ arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Shh,” Sirius hushed him.

The footsteps passed right by them, towards the kitchen, Saint realized, and Sirius pressed Saint against him more tightly, no doubt feeling the dry pants that his breathing had turned into. They would be caught. They would be seen. Saint hid his face in Sirius’ neck.

Don’t be a waste of space, boy. Line up, after number six, come on.

He took up too much space here.

Try that again, Sebastian, and you know what happens.

Saint hated that name. He couldn’t remember who had given him that name. His mother? The nuns? What was a name if it was just a number, too? A way to keep track of him. A way to tell him what he was. Orphan boy. Five. Six. Seven. Abandoned. Good. Bad. Asleep. Awake.

Go to sleep now, there’s a good boy.

The hall was silent again and Saint felt Sirius’ embrace ease, felt his hand running soothingly along his spine.

“I’ve got you,” Sirius said the words so quietly they were barely words at all. “Let’s just go. Let’s get out of here.”

“Finn,” Saint rasped.

Saint looked up and saw the protest in Sirius’ eyes. It was wrong of Logan to make you come here.

“I told him to stay away,” Saint said softly. “I needed to come. I needed to come and get out again.”

Saint needed to get rid of some of this damned dark.

Saint pulled away from Sirius carefully and peaked around the door with a dry swallow before walking over to the cabinets. Records. They weren���t in alphabetical order, though. They were numbered.

Saint fingered his cross, looking towards 1-20.

7.

He traced a finger over a key hole dejectedly, and tried the handle anyway. Locked.

“Saint,” Sirius breathed. “Your mom?”

Saint shook his head, clutching his necklace. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t know you wanted…”

“I don’t,” Saint snapped. “Let’s get Finn.”

The door to solitary was one that Saint knew well. It was a normal door, and the room beyond was a normal room. It was the memories that made it unbearable to see. Almost every kid Saint had known knew what it meant to be in that room. Alone, the wallpaper flowers withered, the bed turned cold, and the ever-changing family members flickered through your mind without anything to counter it. No reality. There was a glass window with the shade pulled. Saint hesitated for a long moment before lifting it up.

“Finn,” he breathed.

Finn’s red hair was fiery against the white bed spread. He was asleep, and Saint swore he could see Finn’s eyelids flicker from here.

Saint wrapped his fingers carefully around the door. The trick was getting in to see the whole picture.

Everything in Saint Clair felt locked from within. Everything in Saint did, too. It had taken years of wandering around at night for Saint to discover that he could open more doors than he had thought. He was still trying doors eight years alter.

The hinges didn’t so much as squeak, and Saint felt like a ghost again.

“Don’t let this close on me,” Saint whispered to Sirius. His voice shook and just one of his feet just barely breaching the threshold.

Sirius held the frame fast and shook his head, leaning forward to press a steady kiss to Saint’s forehead.

Saint crossed the small room in two slow steps and knelt beside the bed, the motion making the punctures on his torso ache. He pressed a hand to Finn’s cheek and stroked a gentle thumb across the freckles on his skin until Finn stirred.

“Bash,” Finn murmured, eyes barely open.

“Hi, Finn,” Saint said softly and gathered Finn into a sloppy sitting position. “Let’s get you out of here, huh? See if you’re worth all of this fucking trouble.”

“Crucio,” was Finn’s only half-spoken reply. “They make it.”

And then Finn went limp again in Saint’s arms.

~

All Logan could taste was sour guilt, despite the heaven Leo had placed on a plate in front of him not too long ago.

For Saint. For Leo. For the letter and even Luke. For the map. The treasure. The Carrows.

Finn.

His heart ached with the thought of seeing him. Of holding him.

“Why weren’t we allowed to go with him?” Logan asked Leo for what he knew was the tenth time, but he couldn’t help it. “I asked him to help me, not go for me.”

“It’s easier to get one person in and out than two?” Leo said. He was puttering around the small kitchen, had been for the last hour, and the entire house smelled like sugar and cinnamon now, replacing the herbs, lemon, and chicken. He didn’t look at Logan when he said it.

He hadn’t looked at Logan much at all since the night at the museum.

Logan watched him taste a bit of what looked like frosting and wet his lips.

“Are you mad at me?” Logan whispered.

Leo’s restless hands paused. Logan watched his chest rise and fall once.

“I’m not mad,” Leo said finally. The heat of the oven had fluffed out his hair. “I mean, I’m not sure if we reached a dead-end or not…and you could have told me you were going to do that. I said I would help you, didn’t I?”

“I needed Ba—Saint,” Logan replied. “But I also…I should have told you. And I shouldn’t have made Saint go. I just want…he’s my family. Finn is my…”

“I understand why you did it,” Leo cut in softly. “I probably would have done worse if I thought that there was something that could save my dad.”

That just made Logan feel even smaller, sitting at the table. Leo glanced at him, gave him a tight smile, then went to the sink and began scrubbing dishes.

“Hey,” Logan said, then rose and strode over to Leo. “Hey, let me clean up.”

“I just need something to do,” Leo said shortly.

“Me, too.”

They stood, their shoulders pressed together. Logan washed. Leo dried. He slipped cinnamon rolls into the oven and then returned. They kept close to each other at the sink and it felt…so normal. Like a home. Leo felt like a home.

“I never really thanked you properly,” Logan said into the now more comfortable silence. “For letting me stay with you. And—I just want to say, and now with Finn…I understand if you want us to leave. I mean, three’s a crowd.”

“You’re welcome here,” Leo said quickly. Logan watched his throat bob. He was looking away again. “You should do what feels best for you, but you’re both welcome here. Just—”

Leo paused, and Logan found himself suddenly desperate to hear what he had to say. He knew he hadn’t been friendly all the time. He knew he’d been selfish. Leo had been nothing but kind. He was funny and warm, teaching Logan how to weld two pieces of metal, talking about the latest book he was reading while he whisked batter and handed Logan different new recipes he was trying out.

Finn would like Leo, Logan thought, and glanced towards the door. Maybe he was about to find out.

“Never mind,” Leo said, and flashed a smile.

Logan went to protest, but then his phone began buzzing madly on the table and he all but lunged for it.

~

Luke stared down at his father’s handwriting.

Luke, it began. And then there was a name.

Pascal Dumais.

There was no mention of himself. There was nothing. Luke had thought this would make him feel better, make it easier. Only, now, he was frustrated to the point of tears. He couldn’t seem to ease the lump that was lodged in his throat. He clutched the paper in his fingers hard enough to tear, willing something else to appear on it. He thought of Felix.

“Well?” said a voice from his window.

“Oh—” Luke flinched, surprised, then cursed at Saint, who was stretched out on his window sill. “Come on. Are you kidding me?”

Saint’s mouth twitched up in a smile, but it was strained. He was sitting awkwardly, tense rather than his usual languid posture.

“What’s wrong with you?” Luke asked hesitantly, trying to discreetly wipe at his face.

“What isn’t?”

Luke spotted the blood between Saint’s fingers and rose. “You’re hurt.”

“I fell down a chimney.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No.”

Luke blinked. “That’s how you got into Saint Clair? And you climbed to my window?”

Saint pulled himself all the way through the window with a soft groan and Luke walked forward, hands hovering near Saint’s shoulders, unsure if he should help.

“The orphan?” he asked instead, then at Saint’s sharp look, “Finn?”

“Sirius is bringing him to Grimmauld.”

“What’s Grimmauld?”

Saint sat down heavily in Luke’s desk chair, hand still pressed to his side. He had what looked like soot on his hands and face. “A place.” He picked up a book. Jane Eyre. “Didn’t take you for a romantic.”

“You’re bleeding all over my room.”

“Lucky you.”

Luke tucked the note into the pocket of his shorts. “Fuck—come here. Jesus.”

He walked into his bathroom and jammed the light switch up, looking back when Saint didn’t follow him. “Come here.”

Saint rose, still holding the book. “I am coming!” Saint quoted, head tilted in a way that made his neck look long. “Wait for me! Oh, I will come!”

“Very funny,” Luke sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a reader.”

“Why?” Saint said as he stepped out of the darkness of the bedroom and into the yellow-lighted bathroom. His brown eyes took on the soft yellow, too, and he leaned forward as he pushed himself up onto the counter carefully. “Because I don’t buy my books and,” Saint looked down at the book, flipping through it. “Write all over them like you do?”

“Because you didn’t go to school,” Luke said with a raised eyebrow as he ducked for the first aid kit beneath his sink. It was good to have one near during the lacrosse season—or it used to be.

Saint rolled his eyes. “You Gods and your single paths in life. You’re all stupid.”

“Then why are you here?” Luke asked as he unlatched the kit.

“Because this is the last place anyone would look for me,” Saint replied. “And you’re mean.”

“Mean? Are we in seventh grade?” Luke scoffed as he wet a towel in the sink. “I don’t know if it’s healthy to want to be around people who you think are mean to you."

“I just don’t want to talk about it,” Saint said. “And that’s all Sirius will want to do. And I don’t want to. And we don’t have this shit at Grimmauld.”

“Is that where you live?”

Saint just set the book down and reached behind himself to tug his shirt over his head. Luke tried not to stare at Saint’s smooth, light brown skin. He swallowed, busying himself with the bandages and the wet towel again.

“For all the breaking into places you do, maybe you should invest in some band-aids,” Luke said, and glanced down at the finely woven muscle on Saint’s ribs, at the red edges of the slashes. “If you flinch too much, you’re doing this yourself.”

Saint smiled. “Mean.”

“Fuck off,” Luke said, out of reflex, and then pressed his lips together. Saint laughed and then hissed as Luke pressed the towel to the cut.

They were close like this, Luke leaned in to dab the blood away, and then dot it with disinfectant, all while Saint’s muscles jumped beneath the palm he had steadied low on his belly. He could feel Saint watching him, and remembered waking up to those eyes. Saint’s hand in his hair.

“How did you do it?” Luke said into the small space between them. “Get in and out.”

“The chimney.”

So, he was serious.

“What did the letter say?” Saint asked.

Luke glanced up at him warily, but wiped a hand on his shorts before fishing the letter out of his pocket and handing it over. “Do you know who that is?”

Saint read it quietly, and then met Luke’s eyes. Luke was stuck there, pinned like a tack in a map, marking the place to be.

“Yes,” Saint said, and smiled brightly. “I know exactly who this is.”

[cowboyified]

ooooh, could i combine two of those prompts? "these clothes are ridiculous" with "where's your sense of adventure?" otherwise, just one of those! :) thanks

The town is still accepting visitors when they arrive, the grassy parking lot full of eight-seater SUVs and minivans with stick figure family bumper stickers. The squeak of the car door turns a dozen longhorn heads from the paddock beside the makeshift lot, chewing grass languidly while they watch Sam and Dean organise themselves.

"Two people have died and they're still open. Talk about priorities." Sam tucks his Taurus into the back of his pants.

Dean's rummaging through the trunk for supplies, salt and holy water and split tipped bullets. There's something possessing the animatronics.

"Can you believe Bobby never took us here as kids?"

"The salvage yard is three hours away, I don't think he would have survived the road trip, let alone the babysitting,"

Knowing Bobby, he would have planted his ass in the saloon and let them off leash, two outlaw brothers strolling into town ready to wreak havoc. Babysitting is probably not the right word for it.

"You're not taking the Colt," Sam asks disbelieving, as he watches Dean tuck the long barrel into his waistband.

"Dude, it's thematically appropriate."

A woman in period-themed skirts greets them at the door, informs them it'll be twenty-four dollars for adults unless they want to stay the night in the hotel and Dean's eyes light up comically, elbows Sam in the side.

Sam forks over cash for the room. It'll be easier to do their job after dark, anyway. Dean is grinning like he can't keep it off his face and Sam's is quietly amused, figuratively patting himself on the back for finding a case so catered.

If he knew one of the conditions of entry was costume hire he might have hesitated.

"These clothes are ridiculous," Sam says, running his hands over a cheaply made bandolier with fake spray painted, foam bullets.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Dean says, already strapping a holster to his waist, forgoing the shelf of plastic Peacemakers for the real deal.

His brother doesn't go overboard this time, gives the serape rack a wide berth. He picks an embroidered vest, tightened around the back in a way that does something to his waist. Worn over a cotton shirt, buttoned down three or four inches. It's all still terribly gaudy, but that's pretty unavoidable.

Sam lets Dean pick him a hat.

The town is honestly impressive. All original buildings, schoolhouse with desks, undertakers with a coffin lined porch, blacksmiths and horses hitched to posts where children can sit on their backs for a dollar. There's a guy performing lasso tricks in front of the white clapboard church at the end of the street.

The animatronics say their recorded lines, move in jerky mechanical shakes and Sam has to restrain himself from tugging the kids back by the collars of their shirts, installing a rope fence.

They eat in the authentic nineteenth century train carriage slash diner and wait for the sun to set so they can start the real work.

Their room is bed and breakfast style, wrought iron bed frames and crocheted quilts that look scratchy and uncomfortable. Dean unbuttons his vest, unbuckles his holster and drops it on the bed.

Sam's smiling at him from the door and Dean looks back at him confused. They'd drunk rotgut whiskey with their arms pressed together, leant heavy against the bar of the saloon and Sam has always been susceptible to impulsive decisions after being around his brother in a good mood for extended periods of time.

"You alright there, cowboy?" Dean asks him, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

Sam covers the distance, bats the hat off his brother's head and kisses him.

[juniperboyu]

Shika fucking owns a transphobe

 Shikamaru uses they/he pronouns. Some of his subordinates don’t get it. He explains begrudgingly. (special thanks to @superdragonoftheeast for helping me edit this fic) 

Shikamaru wasn’t the type to start arguments. Everyone in the village knew this about them: ever since they were a child, they would much rather stare up at the sky than waste their time on battle training, or pick fights with kids over who was the strongest in their class.

  Sometimes, though, fights were unavoidable. They had learned this lesson when they fought Hidan to avenge their sensei. That fight, they knew, was justified. After killing such an honorable man, Hidan deserved to die. Some fights, however, were less justified. Shika tried to stay away from these types of fights, but sometimes they just couldn’t help themself. This was the case when, early one morning, one of their subordinates timidly walked into their office. “Shikamaru…” the ninja began. Shika didn’t bother to look away from the window, instead jerking their head to the chair in front of their desk. “Shouldn’t you be on a mission?” “Yes, well - my team was supposed to leave today, but we had a question,” the shinobi looked as if he was trying to pick his words carefully. “We were digging through some old files for research, and we found some reports from missions you went on. Sir, have you always used they/them pronouns?” Shikamaru took a deep inhale. They began to rustle around their pockets, trying to locate a cigarette. As they lit it up, they responded, “is that a problem?”

“I-I mean…” the shinobi grew flustered, “...a-aren’t there only two genders?” 

“You think so?” This was enough to make Shika finally turn away from the window. “You’re telling me that guys like Orochimaru identify as male? You’re willing to look me in the eyes and say that when Orochimaru possessed that Grass shinobi’s body all those years ago to sneak into the Chunin exams - that that was a man.” Shikamaru was now staring down at the shinobi, his brow furrowed.

 “Th-that’s an exception-” 

“And Pain? If he showed up in a female body, what pronouns would you use? Or if Sasori showed up controlling a female puppet?” Shikamaru paused, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “That’s the thing about gender: it’s not binary. Seems like you’re a little slow to understand that.” 

“But-but it’s based on your physical sex, right?” The ninja questioned, exasperated. Shikamaru just chuckled. 

“Dead wrong, pal. You see, gender’s just what we make it to be. We raise male ninjas to be strong shinobi, and female shinobis to be caring kunoichi. D’you think that those traits really depend on what parts you’re born with? Or clothes - do you think babies come out wanting to wear skirts or pants? Do you think they give a damn because they’re born with one part or another?” When the shinobi failed to respond, Shikamaru continued. “Exactly. Gender isn’t all that complicated. The villages categorize these dress codes and ways of acting under the guise of physical sex. They assign pronouns to these aspects and say that we’re born with a specific gender, but in reality, it’s got nothing to do with what we're born as. It’s got to do with how we feel. And some of us choose to live outside of those categories.” 

“But they/them pronouns can’t be u-” Shikamaru was no longer listening; instead, he was rustling around in their desk. When he sat back up, he  held a small manual in his hand. 

“Are you familiar with this?” They asked. 

“O-of course, it’s the ninja handbook.”

“Page 16, section 8. “If a team member’s life should ever be at risk during a mission, one should not focus on saving their partner but instead on completing the mission.”” Shikamaru didn’t even need to open the book, instead simply tossing it onto the table. “Does that ring a bell?”

“Yes,”

“And does “one” sound like multiple people?”

“N-no, sir.”

“And tell me, what pronoun is used to describe this “one”?”

“The book says “their,” sir.”

“Case in point,” they sighed. “They/them pronouns are used widely when describing a vague person whose gender is unknown. People only take issue with it when they’re being used to describe something known. It’s annoying.”

“I think I understand,” the shinobi gave a brisk nod. 

“Not everything needs to be comprehended in order to be respected, you know,” Shikamaru leaned back in their seat. “Sometimes you just need to shut up and use the correct pronouns for people. Do you have any more questions for me?”

“N-No, sir.”

“Good, now get out of my office.” They gestured towards the door, a small smile creeping onto their face. “And if anyone else has questions like that, you handle them. Answering stuff like that all day is too much of a drag for me.”

[iced-blood]

The Aftermath of Conquest.

In honor of The Bestest Boy™’s birthday, I gift upon you Dragon Dad.

For @thejanestofdoes​.

“I half-expected you to be one of those guys who, like. Rents out a theme park or something for a kid’s birthday. Hires a full circus, or his favorite band, or something … y’know, extravagant.”

Seto rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat; even a cheap, plastic lawn chair looked like a throne when he used it. “I’m rich, but I’m not stupid. Gestures like that are hollow. They cheapen everything. If he grows up used to the idea that the world will bend to his every whim, excitement will cease to exist. Could I pay Tom Kenny enough to dress up as the Ice King and ‘crash’ the party? Maybe.”

Something crossed Seto’s face, and Yugi had the sudden idea that this was a new concept, and that the elder Kaiba liked it more than he wanted to admit.

“But of course you won’t do that. You want to teach him that he has to earn his way.”

“Nonsense.” Seto waved dismissively. “This isn’t about earning. It’s about what will actually mean something to him when he eventually looks back on it. He’s four, Yugi, he’s barely going to remember this day. Even if I did rent out a theme park or buy him a pony or commission a fucking statue or whatever, is he actually going to care? What do you remember about your fourth birthday?”

Yugi chewed on his lip. “… Mama says I was real insistent on carrying my own cake to the table after dinner. I tripped on the carpet and faceplanted into strawberry frosting. I cried. My uncle Satoshi laughed so hard he had to go to the hospital. I don’t remember any of it, but the rest of my family does.” He blinked. “I guess that proves your point, doesn’t it?”

“Mm.”

The back gardens of the Kaiba Estate were more than lavish enough for a party, anyway, especially since Kiko had roped the entire house staff into setting up games and attractions not unlike those found at any given state fair. She was currently manning the whack-a-mole, while Roland took up his shift in the dunking booth.

“When Mokuba looks back on today, he’s going to know that the people here cared enough about him to make something special for his first birthday party. These aren’t professional. They aren’t to code. I had to rebuild basically everything just to make sure nobody would break their damn necks. But there’s heart in this, to use your grandfather’s pandering nonsense. He’s going to remember that he’s loved. All he would ever know if I showed him pictures of an empty Six Flags is that I’m rich, vain, and stupid. He’s going to know that well enough from experience; he won’t need to be reminded.”

“Wait. First birthday party?” Yugi blinked. “He’s never had a party before?”

“Attempting to convince my fa — my predecessor,” Seto cleared his throat just a bit too loudly, “to throw a party for a toddler was one of the most catastrophic failures of my life. He quite literally threw me out of his office.”

Yugi flinched.

Then it was Seto’s turn to flinch as a sharp, keening wail assaulted their ears.

Mokuba sat huddled on the grass, clutching his leg, having tripped over a skipping rope and sprawled flat on his face. Even from here, Seto and Yugi could both see blood dripping from the boy’s knee.

Before Yugi was halfway out of his seat, Seto was three strides out from his; but by then, Joey had already swept up to the boy from where he’d been haunting the snack table. He squatted down and immediately started placating the young Kaiba; his voice, usually so loud and boisterous and unavoidable, was soft and melodic.

“Hey, hey-hey-hey … what’s up, there, little dude? Whatcha do? C’mon, c’mon, lemme see. Let’s see.” Mokuba, sniffling up a storm, eventually removed his hands. Joey hissed. “Ooooooh. That’s a rough one. Looks like a dragon bite.” He hunkered back on his heels. “Hey! You never told me you fight dragons! Are you a knight?”

Surprise and confusion waged war on Mokuba’s little face, and all at once he forgot that he’d been crying. “Me? Knight? Wif armor?”

“Yeah!” Joey grinned that infectious grin of his. “Man, you gotta wear armor when you’re fightin’ dragons. They’re tricky, y’know.” He plucked up the rope and waggled it around. “Looks like you scared ‘em off and made ‘em leave their tail here. Y’know what that makes this? A trophy!”

“Trophy,” Mokuba repeated solemnly.

Joey nodded. Then he stood up. “Oi!” he called out, looking Seto’s way. “You got some armor anywhere, there, Kaiba? Gotta make sure the kid’s equipped! Who knows what might come crashin’ his party next time?”

Seto looked … stunned.

Utterly and irretrievably flummoxed.

Then he said: “… I think I have just the thing.”

He headed into the house to fetch a first-aid kit.

This isn’t where I expected this piece to go, but y’know what? I can dig it.