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aadmelioraa · 4 years

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Take Two

A Happiest Season Abby x Riley fic (2.4k, T)

It had been one year since Abby had left. One year since they’d called it quits. One year since their engagement was over.

And now it was Christmas time again, only this time Abby was more alone than ever.

She’d been on a few dates since they’d broken up, but no one had stuck around. Probably more her fault than theirs. It had been good to get back out there, but it still hurt to remember how things with Harper had ended.

It was a pretty big shock at the time, but looking back it had been a long time coming. Abby and Harper were on different paths and it just wouldn't have worked, no matter how much they loved each other.

“It’s not you,” Harper had insisted. “It’s me, and I’m so sorry.”

That was one of the last things Harper said to her.

They’d been talking wedding plans that morning and by evening Abby was packing her bags.

Harper had been so desperate to make her happy since they got engaged, but her constantly bending over backward wasn’t what Abby needed, and it was stressing Harper out. Neither of them was their best self together, not anymore. Rather than bringing them closer, in the end, that Christmas with the Caldwells had exposed too many rifts in the relationship to salvage.

Tagging @mego42 @endlesslychildish @arcane--soul @skittles321

Read the rest below the cut or on ao3

“I want you to be happy without trying so hard to satisfy the idea of me in your head. You’re such an amazing person—“ Abby had started sobbing here, “—but I can't give you what you need either.”

She’d moved out that night. Harper hadn’t accepted the breakup at first despite sort of initiating it. The conversation had lasted for hours, but eventually, she acknowledged the inevitable and left Abby alone for a few hours to pack. John, thankfully just a text away, had helped her drive everything over to his place.

It had been the second-worst night of Abby’s life.

She’d moved to Philadelphia two months later. She’d grown up there, technically, but without her parents, it didn’t really feel like coming home. New neighborhood, new apartment, new job. If that wasn’t proof she could get over it, what was? But when the holiday season came around again a lot of memories, once happy, now painful, resurfaced.

Waking up alone on Christmas Eve that year, in a word, sucked.

Abby was awake at 6:30 am for some reason. She checked her phone. She’d missed two non-emergency texts from John last night after she’d taken melatonin and passed out. He was definitely still sleeping; she’d text him back later.

She made a pot of coffee and stood in the kitchen in her pajamas wondering what she was going to do to keep herself occupied all day. John, who was living with his boyfriend in New York now, had invited her to stay the night and spend Christmas with them, but Abby wasn't sure if she was feeling up to it. She kinda wanted to sit the holiday out completely this year. She opened her phone and jumped aimlessly between the same three apps, then finally forced herself to take a shower.

At noon she decided to get dressed and go for a walk. That ought to keep her distracted enough. She put on jeans, thick socks, and her warmest sweater under her coat and started wandering.

There was nothing quite like Philly at Christmas. Still brash, loud, and occasionally vulgar but now decked to the nines with tinsel. She was glad to have new haunts to discover along with revisiting old haunts.

The snow from the previous day had turned to slush by the time the sun was at its peak, but that didn’t stop the kids in her neighborhood from spilling out into the streets to play football and tag under the grey sky. She waved at her upstairs neighbors and made a mental note to try and get to know them a little better in the new year.

It was a nice enough day. Maybe she’d head to Fairmount Park. Wherever she ended up there were sure to be plenty of frantic people coming to and fro, finishing last-minute Christmas shopping.

A wave of mixed emotions washed over her as she passed by a jeweler. Harper had given back the ring, of course. It was with John for safekeeping. Abby couldn’t return it, but it felt really weird to have it at her new place. Fresh start and all. Maybe someday she’d be ready to sell it. For now, she didn’t want to think about it.

She continued on at a brisk pace, stopping at a street cart for a lunch of falafel which she ate standing over a trash can, then continuing on.

It was after four o’clock by the time she realized how far she’d walked. Her hands had grown pretty chapped, she should probably go inside for a minute. There was a bar up ahead that looked open, and she could definitely use a drink.

It was fairly empty when she entered which made her instantly relax. She sidled up the bar and took a seat, rubbing her hands to warm them.

“Hey.” There was one bartender working, a curly-haired woman wearing a bandana headband, fitted flannel, and impeccable winged eyeliner like some kind of femme Luke Danes. “What can I get for you?”

“Vodka tonic?”

“Not feeling the Christmas spirit today, huh?” the bartender asked, grabbing the well vodka and rimming a glass with a wedge of lemon.

“Not really.”

“Yeah me neither. Anyway, name’s Gem,” the woman said, setting the cocktail down with a gentle tap. “Yell if you need anything.”

She smiled and walked to the far corner of the bar, a towel draped over her shoulder. A tall redhead and a petite girl with shoulder lengths locs raised their glasses at her.

Even if Abby wasn’t feeling it today, she’d picked a good spot.

She’d just started to feel the effects of the booze when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, I thought that was you.”

Startled, Abby nearly dropped her drink.

Riley, Harper’s Riley, slid onto the stool next to her.

“Hey!” Abby said, “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Riley laughed.

“Yeah, I mean—great, great to see you.” Abby couldn’t help from grinning. She probably looked like an idiot but she didn’t care.

“You look good,” Riley said, subtly sweeping her eyes up and down in an appreciative manner.

“Thanks, thanks.” Abby was glad she’d foregone the beanie with the hole in it. “You look good too.”

She really did. Her hair was a little shorter now, though it still framed her face perfectly. Otherwise, she looked exactly the same as when they’d met two years ago. She was wearing a black mock neck sweater and a pair of perfectly tailored wool pants. Her boots had a slight heel, not too high to be practical in an East Coast winter. The hem of her sweater pulled up a little as Riley leaned over the bar, exposing just a sliver of skin. Abby tried not to stare too obviously while she ordered a drink.

“I moved to Philly last month, to answer your question,” Riley said. “Got a fellowship at Kensington, I start in a week.”

“Oh, cool. Congrats, that’s awesome.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Riley took a sip, glancing over at Abby in a way that made her face grow slightly warm. “What have you been up to?”

“Finished the doctorate and got a job as a curator at the PMA. It’s going well. I mean, relatively.”

“Well, look at you!” Riley raised her glass. “Doctor.”

“Doctor,” Abby echoed, laughing, as she knocked her glass against Riley’s.

“Glad to hear that.” Riley took another sip of her drink and paused, mouth pulling to one side awkwardly for just a second.

Abby knew the question that was coming.

“So,” Riley was looking straight ahead into the mirror behind the bar, “how’s Harper?”

Abby grimaced.

Riley’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit…”

“It’s ok! It’s ok,” Abby could feel herself overcorrecting. “It’s been about a year. But yeah, we’re not together anymore.”

“I’m really really sorry, Abby.”

“It’s fine, really,” Abby shrugged. “I mean, if anyone knows how I feel, it’s you.”

Riley exhaled and leaned over the bar, her elbow just barely touching Abby’s. “Yeah, that’s definitely true.”

“So what are you doing in a random bar on Christmas Eve anyway?” Abby asked, ready to change the subject.

“I live up the street, actually. I’m heading to Pittsburgh to see family tomorrow, but that’s going to feel like work, so today I just wanted to relax.”

“Totally,” Abby said, watching as a party of college aged kids spilled in from the street and headed to the high top tables towards the back of the bar. “I’m just taking it easy today, too.”

“Big plans tomorrow?”

“Might see John. I think you met him…when we met.”

“Yeah, I remember John. How’s he doing?”

“He’s really good. Thinks I need to get out more, but otherwise he’s very happy.”

Riley laughed. “I’ve been out exactly three times—wait, no, this makes it four—since I moved here in November so clearly I have no idea what that’s about.”

“You liking Philly so far?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, don’t get me wrong it’s weird as fuck, but it’s got some really great people. The doctors I work with are whatever, but this kind of place has a good vibe.”

She smiled at Gem, who was rolling her eyes as she made Long Island Iced Teas for the group at the high tops.

“You two know each other?” Abby asked, internally cringing at how un-cool about it she sounded.

“I’ve been here three of the four times I’ve been out, so you could say that,” Riley said. “Nice people usually.”

Gem dropped off the tray of Long Islands and brought Abby and Riley another round.

“They tried to order mojitos,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Fucking kids,” Abby said. Riley laughed. That felt good.

Another large group came in, middle-aged couples this time. It had grown dark outside, it must be after five by now.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the conversations happening around them. Old friends were reuniting to the right and left of them, the chatter that filled the air was starting to make Abby feel a little claustrophobic. She shifted towards the edge of her seat, tapping one foot nervously against the floor.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” Riley asked, raising her hand to catch Gem’s attention. “It’s getting a little crowded.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Abby said, relieved. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom.”

She threw a slightly crumpled pile of bills—mostly fives—on the bar and made her way to the back.

By some good luck, the bathroom was free with no line. The space was cramped and not overly clean, and the small black and white tiles that covered the lower half of the walls created a frantic pattern that did nothing to help Abby’s nerves. She exhaled a deep breath, fixed on her own gaze staring back at her from the mirror.

You’re fine. You’re just hanging out with a girl. A friend, even. Stop being so fucking nervous.

She rolled her eyes, annoyed at her own pep talk, then made her way back to the bar.

Riley was waiting with her hat on, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her dark green coat. Her face broke into a smile when she saw Abby returning.

“Anywhere in particular you want to go?” Abby asked.

“Not really,” Riley said casually. “Lead the way.”

“You got it,” Abby said, and Riley followed her outside.

The air was brisk, and snow had just started to fall as they left. There were Christmas lights everywhere, garlands wrapped around lampposts, a tree decked to the nines in nearly every window.

“Philly really gets in the holiday season, huh?” Riley asked dryly, then pointed up at a stuffed orange mascot that hung from a wreath on someone’s porch. “What the hell is that thing?”

“You really are new here,” Abby laughed. “I don’t know if you’re ready for me to explain Gritty tonight but I promise he's worth the wait.”

They continued up Broad Street, gradually making their way away from the noisy crowds. It had started to snow, which helped muffle the sounds of passerby and create a more mellow but still festive atmosphere.

“So, I’m glad I ran into you,” Abby confessed, breaking the silence that was lingering between them.

Riley’s shoulder bumped against hers as she sidestepped a puddle. “I am too. I have to ask though, is it because we’re both members of the Harper broken hearts club, or something else?”

“No, I’ve been trying not to think too much about that,” Abby said.

“Sorry to bring it up again.”

“I mean, it’s kind of unavoidable. That’s not what I meant, sorry. I’m glad because I really liked you when we met, and I kind of regret not realizing that at the time.”

Riley glanced over at her, genuine surprise etched on her face. “I liked you too, Abby. A lot.”

Abby smiled into her scarf and shook her fingers through her hair the way she always did when she was nervous. “Really?”

“Yeah, past tense though,” Riley added.

“Asshole,” Abby laughed, and Riley’s mouth twitched in reply.

They had paused on a street corner. The snow was falling around them in big flakes, Riley’s hair glittering in spots where it had landed and begun to melt.

Riley cocked her head, lips slightly parted, and stepped a little closer. Her brown eyes sparkled in the light of a Christmas tree peeking out of a nearby window.

“You good?” she asked.

Abby hesitated, chewing her lower lip.

“I can head home, if you’re not feel—“

Abby didn’t let Riley finish. Surging forward on her toes, she kissed her.

Rile tasted like the old fashioned she’d been drinking, smoky and slightly sweet. She kissed Abby back, running a hand through the hair behind her ear, and Abby could feel her smiling as their noses bumped together. When she pulled back Abby caught her breath and realized she was grinning too.

“I’ve wanted you to do that for a really long time,” Riley breathed.

Abby laced her fingers through hers and they kept walking. She wasn't feeling alone amidst all the holiday revelry any longer.

“Do you want to grab dinner sometime, maybe?” Abby asked tentatively.

Riley squeezed her hand. “How about now?”

Abby grinned. “Now is great.”

#abby x riley #happiest season #happiest season fic #kat writes

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softballum · 4 years

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So here’s something no one ever asked for. I’ve never written fic in my life, but heres 2k words of my ramblings.

I thought about this all day yesterday and had an idea for a ‘fix it’ for after Monday 1st’s episode. I really thought Ben might actually confide in Callum but I guess not.

Anyway, hope you enjoy if you do read it!!

I’ve Got You

He’s been squeezing his eyes shut for what feels like hours now. The rooms pitch black and for once its completely silent in and out of the flat. Callum can only hear his own anxious breathing and the faint mumblings of the buildings plumbing. The t-shirt he wears to bed offers him no comfort like normal. Its scratching the back of his neck, the stitches feel like they’re burning into his skin. He’d managed a few pints with the lads earlier and was content with how the night had gone. The alcohol would normally make him drowsy, make him yawn till his bones ached and he carried himself off to bed. Right now though, it's like he can feel it buzzing in his veins, angsty to get up from the horizontal position he’s in.

He can’t sleep if he knows Ben is supposed to be next to him. Sometimes he’ll briefly wake up in the small hours of the morning and brush his hand across the mattress. Just to feel Ben’s warm skin beneath his fingertips. Some days he still can’t believe that what he has with Ben is real, that he wants to spend the most vulnerable hours of his day, lying next Callum. He knows he’s overreacting. Ben had let Callum know he’d promised to put Lexi to bed tonight and spend some much needed, quality cuddling time with her. He’ll have let her stay up a little longer so he can read an extra few pages of Lexis favourite fantasy. Unique character voices and all. Or he’s sat having a cuppa with his Mum. Kathy fretting over him with extra cake she’d made for the cafe that morning, knows its Ben’s favourite. It’ll be as simple as that. Nothing for Callum to worry about.

But he knew he got a weird vibe from Ben this morning, shooing him off like that. Ben didn’t want to be a hindrance to Callum making new mates and now he’s avoiding him. He goes to pick up his phone from the bedside table almost knocking it off completely. He squints when he unlocks the screen, the brightness edging on his irritation. He opens up his text conversation with Ben, the glasses wearing emoji in his contact grinning at him. He sees that Ben still hasn’t replied to his earlier message about when he’d be home. He contemplates sending another, starts tapping on the back space with a loud sigh.

“He doesn’t need you checking up on him, you idiot. You ain't his mother” he mutters to himself, scowling at the wall in front of him. But Callum just cares, cares with his whole chest and he hates the thought of Ben avoiding him. After Ben’s confessions and brash words in the middle of the square the other night, things have been a bit…off kilter between them, but it won’t stop Callum from caring about him. He knows Ben still has this hard exterior up and its only being built higher the more he believes he’s not worth Callum’s affections.

Callum jumps when he hears the flat door slam a moment later, startling him from his thoughts. He waits for the increasing volume of Bens feet up the stairs, but they don’t come. Callum lies on his back holding his breath. His eyes darting about the dark ceiling like it will give him the answers he’s looking for. After a few unnerving seconds, the heavy thumps of Ben’s boots make their way on to the landing. Callum open’s the bedroom door with a gentle touch not wanting Ben to think he’s been clock watching his arrival back to the flat.

“Ben…?” He says it so quietly, he struggles to hear it himself. “Ben.”

Ben sees the change in light of Callum walking closer to him out the corner of his eye. Whipping his head up to meet the creased expression on Callum’s face.

“Hi, you alright?” He signs as he speaks. “Lexi enjoy her story yeah?”.

It takes Ben a moment to put it together. He clears his throat, teetering on the edge of nervousness.

“Yeah, she’s great..yeah” he answers, still glancing at Callum’s hands in mid air.

“I text you earlier. Didn’t want to leave you on your lonesome too long if I was out. Didn’t think you’d still be at your Mum’s.” He makes sure Ben can see his mouth move with each word, but even he can feel himself rambling.

Ben’s staring, mouth just slightly agape in concentration but he’s not caught a word. He blinks harshly against the little light coming from the living room lamp. His head is bursting. The ringing in his ears is still ever present and it feels like it’s pushing down on him from above. The pressure is too much. His hands feel cold but his palms are clammy. They’re balled up into fists, shoved deeply into the pockets of his leather jacket. He can’t even feel the pain of his nails digging into the calloused flesh. Hands that not all that long ago were holding a gun, punching some thugs and driving the get away car for him and Phil. He can feel his breathing picking up, leather jacket sticking to the back of his neck, like a bad dream following you around. He knows he needs to put on a show now, best lying performance of his life. Show Callum that everything is as it should be. Take his hand and lead him to the bed they share and at least try and get some rest. He can do that. He can. He’s lied to Callum about dodgy jobs and his family life so many times already, hidden his darkest secrets from him time and time again, it should feel easy. Easier than this. He needs to get away, run to the bathroom or grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Anything to get out from under the careful gaze of Callum. If he’s not looking straight at him, maybe, just maybe he could get away with the facade. But he’s stuck to the floor, his boots suddenly weighing an absolute tonne. He feels nauseous now and the room is spinning, seconds away from being sick. Doesn’t know whether its because of his ears or if the need to lie to Callum for the umpteenth time that week, is finally catching up on him. It was different when it was about Keanu. He could just push and push and it worked, for a time. It’s different now though. He needs Callum, needs him so much even he doesn’t realise. He can’t just push him away anymore, he agreed to be better, but right now he can’t do better.

“Phone Ben? Did you get my text?” Callum’s thumb hovers over his other four fingers, motioning to him.

Ben blinks again. Swallows hard, his throat dry and scratching. Concentrate, he thinks.

“Uhh no sorry. Not picked it up for hours.” Another lie, good. He drags it out his jean pocket ready to chuck it on the kitchen counter, forget about it and got to sleep with his boyfriend and pretend this night never happened. His thumb knocks the lock button though, the screen lighting up the picture of Lexi as his background. There’s a text from his Dad.

“Remember. Not a word to Callum.”

He feels himself choke, throat constricting. His eyes sting and he’s breathing harshly through his nose. He’s squeezing his phone so tightly, the bone of his knuckles could simply tear through the skin on the back of his hand. He’s getting hotter and hotter now, the rage bubbling up underneath the surface. His muscles all cramping up at his frustration. The remaining adrenaline from earlier only adding to his impending outburst.

Callum swears everything is stuck in slow motion. He sees Ben’s eyes focus on his phone, reading the same line over and over again, quicker each time he scans over the screen. Then his expression changes. He’s never seen Ben like this. Vulnerable, upset, cocky, confrontational but not this, he’s never seen him like this. He hesitates to react, doesn’t know what Ben will do or say next. No idea what could have been on his phone to make him like this. Panic starts to set in.

A sharp moment later. Ben lets out an aggressive scream, all his emotions finally coming up to the surface for air. His throat feels like its bleeding but its no match for how his head feels. His phone suddenly rips out of his hand and makes a heavy thud against the fuchsia-coloured wall of the flat, narrowly missing a photo frame. It rattles to the floor, the screen smashed and blacked out. It’s how Ben feels, bashed about and empty underneath it all.

Callums shocked into action then and runs to him, socked feet padding over the length of the living room. Ben’s pacing now. All shadows and amber street light, seeping in from the curtains. His hands grab his ears like he’s trying to pull them off. Huffing through gritted teeth, droplets of spit gathering on his lips. Eyes red raw as he scrunches them as tight as possible, defiant not to let his tears spill over and down his cheeks. Callum grabs his elbows and Ben starts to sob, noises only a broken, young man could make when he can’t carry on anymore. His cries wrack his chest, desperate to get a breath in but his emotions pull him deeper. Callum’s eyes are darting all over Ben’s figure trying to work out what could possible have happened to him and why he’s crumbling in his hands.

“Ben. Its okay, I’m here. What is it? Whats wrong?” His subconscious is using his police and army training to keep his voice as level and calm as possible, feeling anything but.

Ben continues to cry hysterically, his shallow breaths echoing in the small space of the flat.

“Ben, please? Please let me help you. Tell me. Whatever it is”

There’s silence for a split second and Callum thinks he’s imaging all this, but Ben’s body is still trembling under his hold.

“I can’t do this” Its barely a whisper and Callum wonders if Ben even realises he’s spoken out loud.

“You what?”

“I can’t do this Callum. I can’t. I can’t do it.” And shallowly, for a moment, Callum thinks he’s talking about them. But that’s not Ben, he wouldn’t be upset like this, he’d act the hard man and pretend he’s only being that way for the protection of Callum. No, this is different.

“You can’t do what Ben? Whats happened.” He trails his hands up to the back of Ben’s, still gripping on to his ears. He tries to gently prise them away from the sides of his head. If he can’t hear or look at Callum, he can’t communicate and Callum needs Ben to know he’s there for him.

Ben slowly glances up, still huffing in short pants. His face is blotchy red and wet from his cries.

His hair is all over place, in tufts from where he’s been grabbing at it in frustration. Callum thinks he hears his own heart shatter when he finally sees his face, Ben has never looked this broken before. Callum thinks if he lets go of the sides of his head now, he might just fall apart like fine china. This is not a Ben he’s ever seen.

“I can’t Callum” he repeats.

“Cant what Ben!?” Ben can see it from Callum’s expression what he’s asking him but that’s the only way he can tell.

“I can’t hear Callum.”

“What? I know you can’t hear Ben! What are you on about?” Ben concentrates on Callum’s lips through his blurred vision.

“No Callum.” He hiccups out a broken sob. The words are right on his tongue, but its like a bad taste in his mouth. He just wants to swallow and get rid of it, but what else can he say. He takes another second, the air between the two of them fully charged. Callum just stares at him in anticipation.

“I’m deaf. I can’t hear you. At all.”

The floodgates open then and Ben is back to harsh, violent cries. His lips curling in and his eyelashes soaked with thick tears. Callum holds on to him, his mouth hanging open in shock. Ben crashes into him, head straight into Callum’s chest, balling up the cotton of his t-shirt in his hands, holding on for dear life.

Callum just holds him. Wraps one arm around Ben’s back, the other cradling the back of his head, fingers brushing through the short hair there in an attempt to soothe his boyfriend. He stumbles a little with the sheer amount of weight Ben is pushing on him. Can feel his chest tighten too, his vision becoming blurred as a stray tear rolls its way down his flushed cheek. He’s scared, scared for Ben and what this means for him. But Ben’s strong, they’re strong and Callum will do anything to see him through his.

He dips his head so his mouth meets the crown of Ben’s hair. He presses a small kiss there, silent and soft.

“Shhhh.” He hushes. “I’ve got you Ben. I’ve got you.”

#ballum #ballum fic #ben mitchell #callum highway #eastenders #ben x callum #meg writes

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mychemicalficrecs · 4 years

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alpha gerard/omega frank? love this blog btw :)

Thanks! I found this for you...

Alpha Gerard/Omega Frank

And The Autumn Moon Is Bright by wordslinging, 10k, Mature. "So...what, am I a werewolf now?"

you probably couldn’t see for the lights (but you were staring straight at me) by endlessnighttimesky, 3k, Teen And Up Audiences. The wolf knows. It always does. It's just a matter of getting Frank to realize it, too.

Wolf Verse by kyOMG, 20k, Mature. Frank had never really fit in. He worked a shitty job and had no friends. He hated his life. Then a strange, beautiful man appeared at his door Halloween night.

Full Moon by Spnislife666, 5k, Explicit. Frank Iero is just a normal guy until a werewolf bites him and claims him as his omega. He is forced to live with the werewolf Gerard Way who is his mate. Read the tags.

The Sun and the Moon made the Stars by unorthodox_anthology, 2k, Not Rated. Gerard doesn’t know how long in his wolf-skin he spends there, just watching the boy in the water with the pups. They’re splashing around in a bend, knee deep in clear water, spraying water at each other whilst the boy stands at the edge, ankle deep with a toddler on his hip. The group is drenched from the waist down, hide skirts speckled with water and skin sparkling in the dewy sun. A strip of silken skin is visible through the draping skirt, brown skin dotted with ink, and Gerard has never wanted something so much as he wanted this boy, this beautiful being of sun and light and forest leaves that circle his head in a crown.

Werewolf 'verse by orphan_account, 5k, Explicit. "Frank knew he was due to go into heat soon...this heat, however, was early."

Fun and Games by paeifs, 1k, Explicit. Everything was all fun and games until Frank went into heat early.

Collar of Affection by ChemicalPunkSongwriter, 4k, Explicit. After Frank is claimed by his mate Gerard, everything seems to be perfect. Sure, Gerard can be a little possessive, but that's not a problem. Especially when they go camping in the woods for the full moon.

The Saviour Of The Broken by MyChemicalFallOutBoyRomance, 17k, Not Rated. Frank Iero is an Omega not looking for a mate. Gerard Way is an Alpha looking for a Beta to fuck. Their meeting is almost accidental but it makes a huge impact on them both as they both realise exactly what they have been missing.

The Only Hope For Me Is You by MyChemicalFallOutBoyRomance, 19k, Not Rated. Gerard Way is a broken Alpha. His Omega died and he filled the void with alcohol. Of course his brother is concerned and loves him, even when Gerard takes an instant disliking to Mikey's new Omega friend, Frank. Turns out though, Frank is the one person Gerard really needs.

Press Play by frnkxo, 325 words, Explicit. Part of a sex tape is discovered and watched.

And So We Found Each Other by frnkxo, 7k, Not Rated. When taking the trash out after work, Gerard finds something digging around in the trash behind the dumpster. Luckily, it wasn't a rabid raccoon or a serial killer. Unfortunately, it was a very, very pregnant Omega. And of course, Gerard is too nice to leave him out in the winter, so he lets him spend the night at his apartment.

i wanna hear you sing the praise by theomegapoint, 1k, Explicit. The rest of it is nice too, Gerard guesses, but the marathon sex gets exhausting after a while and sometimes Gerard would rather have this: Frank above him and shaking with the effort of keeping himself up, almost crying with need and want.

Untamed by Hangmans_Radio, 26k, Explicit. Nolite is the best heat suppressing drug on the market. It's the only one available that can be taken daily and without a break. Frank has spent so many years suppressing his heat cycles that he doesn't realise what's happening until it's too late. That he's working in a hotel full of Alpha's is less than ideal, but right when he's ready to give himself over to the first man who tries, Gerard Way comes to his rescue. But if Frank thought he was getting him that easily, he's about to get a nasty shock.

Omega Bliss by HeadRubEnthusiast, 7k, Explicit. The omega rolls his eyes but can't blame him. Gerard is much older than Frank, a good ten years. While this is nothing considering the long lifespan of a wolf blood, the end of prime mating age for a high ranking alpha like Gerard is rearing it's ugly head. He met Frank a little late in the game, as most pairs bond when omegas hit their first heat around sixteen. All of Gerard's litter mates already had their own packs by now, and Frank feels his shame and anger second hand.

Into the Shadows by patheticpunk, 8k, Teen And Up Audiences. Frank didn’t know what to except on his sixteenth birthday, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Promise? by Spun_The_Stars, 1k, General Audiences. The wind blew past Frank, ruffling his tangled gray fur. The omega had been wandering the forest on his own for several months, his pack just a blur in his mind. He faintly remembered the screaming and loud bangs, the unfamiliar smells, the fire. Most of all, he remembered running until his paws were scraped and bleeding, and his lungs were desperate for oxygen, that was when it all came crashing down. He was alone.

Frerard ABO's by DestielSnot, 18k, mostly Explicit. [A series of short fics]

what i want to say (never gonna leave you alone) by theomegapoint, 1k, Mature. “Okay,” Gee says, easy and willing like all Frank has to do is ask. “I don’t have equipment for that, though, so you’re gonna have to wait until I can call a friend.” “Equipment? Come on, Gee.” Frank falls backwards on the bed, exasperated. “How hard is it to stick your hand in me?” “Trust me,” Gee says, “We’re gonna need equipment.”

Sleepover by patheticpunk, 7k, Teen And Up Audiences. Frank can’t help but be scared of Mikey’s alpha older brother.

Let’s Mix It Up A Little by orphan_account, 686 words, Explicit. If Gerard could only tell you one thing about his mate, Frank, it would be that he was not like other omegas. Despite his size, almost everything about him seemed to at least scream beta. Like the fact that he was loud, brash, and straight to the point. This being said, maybe Gerard should’ve expected it when Frank asked to fuck him.

whatever will be by sweetchems, 4k [WIP], Explicit. Frank Iero is hardened. Frank Iero is cold-hearted. Frank Iero doesn't spare anyone. That gets you nowhere. And yet, when a man is thrown at his feet swimming in debts and begging to be spared... He softens.

Hold me close, tonight. by frankieisarat, 1k [WIP], Explicit. Frank and Gerard have been claimed by each other for months now, and they finally bond in the den in the corner of the garden.

Birthday celebration (Please read it) by Sp00k1eJ1m, 3k, Mature. legend of a family curse that affects the alphas. Gerard is an alpha but is willing to suffer through the insanity until the 18th birthday of someone special.

#frank/gerard #frerard #fic rec list #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #omegaverse #alternate universe

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chapitre7 · 5 years

Text

Rebirth.mp3

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

Radio/Broadcast AU

Inspired by Welcome to Night Vale

Happy Halloween/Wei Ying’s Birthday ❤

Read on AO3

No one knows how he does it. He drives occult enthusiasts mad, while young adults breathe his every word with the passion only lost souls who are desperate for escapism are capable of. His shadow and name have been a passing figure in mystery, horror and cheap literature for years already, and grandparents speak of him in low voices when the power goes out and the children are scared of the dark but paradoxically hungry for fear.

“Good evening, citizens of Yiling.”

The voice reaches the earbuds of the willing, no proper channel, no hyperlink to follow. But he’s there, he’s always there when the moon is bright, maybe not even full, and the air is crisp with the smell of rust. Everyone knows it comes from the Burial Mounds up north, where nothing lives but leafless trees and the decrepit building of an old radio station.

And him.

“This is the Yiling Patriarch with news from the Cultivation World.”

The skeptic are firm believers that he’s just a teenager with moderate to decent hacking abilities and too much time on his hands, yet they can’t help but listen in, waiting deep into the cloudless nights.

“At this month’s grand conference, the great five sects discussed the recent disappearances in Yunping city. Heavy was the burden on Yunmeng Jiang, whose brash Sect Leader has yet to succeed in defeating ghosts with the power of his temper.”

The listeners chuckle at the fictional antihero, a constant pariah in the Yiling Patriarch’s episodes. It never fails to disturb them, however, that the man is willing to dwell into recent occurrences without respect for the living. The authorities have no lead to follow on the case in Yunping but there he is, spinning tales about immortals who exorcise evil and save the world. How convenient it would be. How wonderful.

“The young Lanling Jin sect leader, ever eager, suggested flaunting his fortune in spiritual traps, which almost earned him a whipping from the legendary Zidian and ended the conference right there, as in previous occasions. But even though he means to solve the case on his own and recover some face before the Cultivation World, sect leader Jiang still brings no new clues to the table, which begs the question: how capable are the great sects in this age anyway?”

The Yiling Patriarch laughs away from the microphone, and his voice appears to echo, which is irrational, for how could he be in a place that echoes and still broadcast such a clear stream? His listeners lean forward, as if they’re his confidantes, listening in to a secret.

“Do they not wonder why the lotuses of Yunmeng look so pink this time of the year?”

His voice is closer, much closer, as if his lips are about to touch the microphone, their ears. The message makes them shiver, something crawling up their skin, not the sultry voice of the urban legend, but something else, unpleasant, sticky.

“Masters of Gusu Lan, play your songs to the lake closest to Yunping and rise them, rise them up, so Qishan Wen can shoot their arrows and immobilize these lost souls, and finally Qinghe Nie shall pluck the biggest lotus of the lake and carve their saber through her broken, resentful heart.”

They can practically see his smile, wide and feral, when he says, “Now, was that so hard?”

Oh, if they were real, they’d hate him. How easily he always cut through their conundrums, how he always spoke the solution like a detective who could so easily see the culprit through his myopia, with his hands taped to his back. Of course he can, he’s the puppeteer of the show, and there are no sects, no resentful ghosts.

But if there are also no wizards and no fights for glory in our present either, just the cold, harsh reality of days following one another and the crushing weight of responsibility upon our shoulders, how hurtful it is to imagine the honorable sects and their immaculate robes with a black-clad jester who mocks them for an audience?

There’s a tap against their ears, the Yiling Patriarch demanding attention.

“But dear citizens of Yiling, who can blame the sects for their confusion in this modern world? Thousands of years ago, times were simpler, resentment was simpler, death was simpler. Now there are so many small deaths, the death of character, the death of trust, the death of connection, each building resentment into a kind of core. Can you feel it? Did you feel it recently?”

His listeners nod, you nod, thinking of that colleague who spoke behind your back, your partner who complained about one of your habits, that relative you can’t stand but that you’re forced to smile at during family reunions. The Yiling Patriarch hums and the listeners close their eyes, readying themselves.

“The elders of Gusu Lan believe in purifying their bodies and mind, they believe in cleansing and rest, and they have tomes upon tomes of songs to deal with the illnesses of the soul. I believe they’re just as full of shit as the other sects and that there’s not one of us who’s free from resentment. But the songs... After millennia fighting blood with blood, they help me remember different times.”

The Yiling Patriarch inhales next to the microphone, and the next second, the notes of his flute flow through the stream, soft like a breeze, calming like a mother’s touch. The legend says that his flute Chenqing could raise the dead to fight against the corrupted, and even now, in our modern world, when we listen to his lullaby with our smartphones, the moon shines a little red, inviting, so inviting to the beasts inside us. His tune pierces through resentment and pulls us forward, as though physically, with his very hands. It’s an elegant melody. Romantic, even.

Ah. Is that where his heart is today?

“It’s been a year since the young master has been hot on my trail, Yiling.” His laugh is young, joyful. “He almost caught me in Yunping during the conference when I was distracted. Our tirade has been going for how many years now? I admit I’ve grown tired of it already. Tell me, second young master Lan, don’t you get tired of following me? Have we not chased each other across the globe enough, yet you still want me to pay for my crimes? It’s a new era, and I’m still way ahead of you all. Shall we not see eye to eye and go on night hunts together? Do you hear me, Lan Zhan?”

The Yiling Patriarch breathes against the microphone, close, so close, voice low against one’s ear, seductive like a kiss. And after beating resentment, what could take its place, if not romance?

“Beautiful, honorable Light-Bearer. The moon looks auspicious for us tonight. Don’t you want to come with me?”

A series of knocks sound in the background, instantly followed by the Yiling Patriarch’s intake of breath. His listeners hold still, having never heard an interruption to the broadcast before. It was always a piece about a conference, then a piece about the human condition, followed by a song and a personal anecdote. The young master Lan was mentioned plenty of times as an example of excellence where the other cultivators fail, although, by the old tales, he’s his very nemesis, the light to his shadow, the bringer of his destruction.

But there are knocks, and the Yiling Patriarch’s gleeful surprise.

“He’s here? Though I’ve secured myself behind a wall of charms and spells, he’s reached me?”

He sounds exhilarated, as though he finds happiness at the prospect of dying.

The listeners know. We can hear the longing at the edge of his sentences, read between the lines of his faux poetry. If the Yiling Patriarch has lived for thousands of years, then the Light-Bearer has lived just as long, for the sole purpose of him.

Of course it’s impossible, as there are no such a thing as immortals. They must be lovers role-playing to a wide audience, capturing us like a cheap romance book, ready to fall into the saucy bits.

“Yiling, remember to let spirits rest and to cultivate a kind heart. And if we never speak again, be patient with the cultivators of today, who have their hands full of young minds who have lost themselves. To all the sect leaders, stop relying on my broadcasts to solve your problems and cooperate with one another instead of measuring your egos in your conferences. And sect leader Jiang, stop frowning so much or your face is getting stuck that way.

I don’t know what awaits me on the other side of that door, but the moon is high and the spirits are abound, and my hands tremble with the wish to play a duet.

Above all, Yiling, remember...”

You can hear his smile.

“No dogs are allowed at the Burial Mounds.

Good night.”

He doesn’t cut off the broadcast. You can hear his steps fading away, and the sound of a door creaking open. There’s a new voice, the calling of a name, long known and long treasured, and echoes of movement, of breathing. You think it’s a struggle, that the Yiling Patriarch has finally met his demise, until he lets out a drawn-out moan.

Some listeners cringe, others hold their headphones tighter against their ears. Either way, you think you’re listening in to something personal, something you’re not supposed to. But the Yiling Patriarch is an exhibitionist, and the broadcast marches on.

There’s no such things as cultivators or immortals or ghosts.

But the crimson moon is high in the sky, and it’s the kind of night where the spirits are out and eager to play.

>Repeat 10_31_2019_-_Rebirth.mp3?

#The Untamed #Mo Dao Zu Shi #fanfiction #Wangxian #Lan Wangji #Wei Wuxian #Alternate Universe: Radio

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fuckblizzardbearlover · 5 years

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Why ppl who think the writers dont know exactly what they are doing with Sylvannas are dead, completely and utterly wrong: a Thread

from the official overview

“ The Broken Machine The machine of death is broken, and players entering the Shadowlands will find the realm of the dead in disarray. In the natural order of things, souls are sorted and sent on to an afterlife realm appropriate to the lives they lived, but now, but over the past few years, all souls who have perished—including the innocents slain at Teldrassil—are being funneled directly into the Maw. The Shadowlands are starving for anima even as the Maw continues to grow from the glut of fresh souls. Sylvanas has been seemingly perpetrating acts to bring about great amounts of death and destruction. In partnership with the Jailer, they have been working toward a common end for some time. “

so, i’m sure this will be one of the first things we learn in Bastion. or whereever.

emphasis mine.

past few years...BFA...Legion....ok thats a pair... So what if it is not exactly a few (3 ). Draenor sylvannas didnt have anything to do, But in MoP she didnt balk at causing death at Siege of Ogrimmar or Theramore and, in the Cataclysm she wiped out 3 cities. Catacylsm is the expasnion after wrath. After she died

From Sylvannas Windrunner: Edge of Night

“What did it matter if another corpse filled his vacant throne? Sylvanas Windrunner had her vengeance. The vision that had driven her and her people for years had finally been realized. And not a single fiber of her desiccated, animate corpse cared where the world went from here.It was over now. A part of her was surprised she was even still around, without his lingering presence always tugging at the back of her mind. She backed away from the throne and slowly turned to survey the cold gray world all around her. Her thoughts returned to that place of bliss, her half-remembered glimpse of what lay beyond. Home. It was time.

.............

She longed for it. A return to peace. The work she had begun in the forests of Silvermoon was finally complete with the death of Arthas. ,,,,,,,,,,,

...........

She could feel no cold, only a dull ache. She would feel nothing soon. She already felt her spirit reaching a place of calm for the first time in almost a decade. Her weight shifted toward the edge of the drop. She closed her eyes.

.......................

"There are so many!" he barked, falling silent as she raised a finger. "We have only two dozen rangers up there," he said, his voice now a whisper. "They cannot survive that!" Sylvanas didn't turn her gaze away from the dark mass of shambling corpses crushing its way closer to the river ford. It was the height of the Third War, and hours away from Silvermoon's fall at the hands of Arthas's army.

"They merely need to delay them as we fortify the Sunwell's defense," she answered, her tone measured.

"They will die!"

"They are arrows in the quiver," Sylvanas said. "They must be spent if we are to win this."

She was brash. Empty? No—a fighter. She had a warrior's heart.................

Before her waited a grotesque, quivering mass of corpses, their armor piecemeal, their bodies broken, the stench unimaginable. Their plaintive, desperate gazes reminded her suddenly of children. They disgusted her. But their need empowered her. "The Lich King falters. Your will is your own. Are you to be outcasts now in your own land? Or do we embrace the cruel cards fate has dealt us and retake our place in this world?"

.........

These poor people: peasants, farmers, priests, warriors, lords and nobles… they hadn't yet come to grips with what had happened to them. But for somebody—anybody—to assure them that they belongedsomewhere was electrifying.

--------------------------

Already he'd come to embrace his situation, referring to humans as if they were a separate race; she made a mental note to make use of him.

.........

"The humans will serve their purpose," she answered, her mind already calculating. "They believe they are liberating the city. Let them fight on our behalf and spend themselves for our gain. They are"—she stumbled upon an analogy she'd used before—"arrows in our quiver."

The heaving mass of undead clapped and coughed and hacked gleefully in assent. Sylvanas regarded the whole mob coldly. And so are you, she thought to herself. Arrows I will aim at Arthas's heart.

................................

No more would she be the vengeful leader of a mongrel race of rotted corpses. Her work was done, and her long-denied reward awaited her

...............

“"Your people will perish!" said the dark-haired Val'kyr.

.Sylvanas thought about her people. They had come far from their decimated origins, the yearning, confused mob of fresh corpses huddled about the ruins of Lordaeron's wrecked capital. The Forsaken were truly a nation now: a fetid, gore-caked, hideous mass of lifeless husks, skilled in combat, devastating with the arcane arts, and unhindered by fetters of morality. They had been honed into the perfect weapon. Her weapon. And they had struck the killing blow for which she had built them. She cared nothing for their fate."Let them perish!" Sylvanas cried. "I am finished with them!"“

........................

She saw only darkness.

And then she felt—truly felt, for the first time in a long while. She recoiled. In agony.

Here she was, her spirit once again feeling whole, only to feel it suffer. To feel once more, only to feel abject pain. Cold. Hopelessness.

Fear.

...................

There were others in the darkness. Things she didn't recognize, because nothing so terrible could exist in the world of the living. Claws tore at her, but she had no mouth with which to scream. Eyes looked at her, but she couldn't look back.

Regret.

She sensed a familiar presence. Recognized it. The taunting voice that had once held her in its grasp. Arthas? Arthas Menethil? Here? His essence rushed to her, desperate, then shrank away in horrified recognition. The boy who would be Lich King. Just a scared little blond child, reaping the aftermath of a lifetime of mistakes. If any part of Sylvanas's soul were not at that moment torn and tormented, she might have even felt—for the first time—the slightest glimmer of pity for him.

Now the others had her. Surrounded her. Gleeful, tormenting, tearing at her consciousness, delighting in her suffering.

Horror.

This was to be her eternity: the endless void, the dark, unknown realm of anguish.

....

"Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady, queen of the Forsaken… you may walk with the living again through the sisterhood of the Val'kyr. As long as they live, so too shall you. Freedom, life… and power over death. This is our pact. Do you accept our gift?"

.....................

This was her only way out. But she didn't want to give her assent out of fear. She waited until she felt something more. A fellowship. A sisterhood. Sisters. Separate, they were all trapped. But together, they were free… and with them, she could postpone her fate.

.............................

"I was once like you, Garrosh," she answered, her voice quiet and steady, loud enough only for the warchief to hear. "Those who served me were tools. Arrows in my quiver.

......................

What he saw was a great black void, an infinite darkness. There was fear in those eyes, but also something else. Something that terrified even the great warchief.

"Garrosh Hellscream. I've walked the realms of the dead. I have seen the infinite dark. Nothing you say. Or do. Could possibly frighten me."

The army of undead that surrounded and protected the Dark Lady was still hers, body and soul. But they were no longer arrows in her quiver, not anymore. They were a bulwark against the infinite. They were to be used wisely, and no fool orc would squander them while she still walked the world of the living.

------------------------------------------------------

Now, look at the description for the Maw

“ This horrific prison houses the most vile and irredeemable souls in existence—ones deemed by the Arbiter to represent a threat to the Shadowlands if left free. Ruled by the enigmatic Jailer who none have ever seen—at least none have seen and lived to tell—the Maw inspires nightmares and legends even among the denizens of the Shadowlands. No one has ever escaped this vile place, and any foolish enough to venture there are never heard from again. “

-------------------------------------------------------

So This short story was written before cataclysm launched in 2010. NINE years ago.

So yes “dur Blizz are bad writers that made sylvannas do a 180 and become evil for no reason”

NO. This was the biggest piece of characerization Sylvannas ever got outside of warcraft 3 The Frozen Throne. it establishes that she was a cold person more than willing to treat living people as objects to satisfy the needs of their military and their people. It emphasised MULTIPLE times that i highlighted that she HATED and was disgusted by the forsaken. ANd i emphasised at least twice that She has been using patriotism and their need for someone to care about them as a way to MANIPULATE them. And that was how she was. SHe didnt care about any of them They were just a tool to be used to kill Arthas. and with him gone she was ready to die.

The problem was she was ready to die because she HAD ALREADY DIED. we learn with the SHadowlands that good souls go where they are treated well, and even strong souls are treated well. but Where to evil souls go? either the maw or to the vampire place. She had died and started to enter the good place, Bastion no doubt. as a good protector of the innocent. but Arthas pulled her out and made her a monster

BUT SINCE THEN she became even more of a monster. She let her people embrace hatred. she allowed slavery and torture of prisoners for the sake of destroying life. she thought of nothing but how to USE and ABUSE people in order to get vengence so SHE could get her REWARD.

She became a “most vile and irredeemable soul”. So when she died her soul went to the Maw where it suffered with dark evil souls like Arthas’

and did getting rescued by the valkyre fix her outlook? No . she still saw her people as nothing. but she knew the horrors she’d face if she died, and so she viewed her people as a BULWARK against that.

But whats REALLY interesting is that I think Ion wasnt being completely honest . The lore says that “No one has EVer escaped the Maw of Souls”... however we know that we will do so. And we know that No one has been there. so how can anyone KNOW that no one has escaped. What if they just kept it a secret.

What if the Jailer started to, for whatever reason, decide to take over the afterlife. whether it was personal ambition or seeing the rest as redundant. And he saw this elf soul ESCAPE him. the only one to ever do so. By that Valkyre taking her place. The Valkyre are allegedly created by the souls of hte denezins of bastion, the angel people. So between having a connection to the lich king, guardian of the connection to the Shadowlands, and the fact that they are denezins of the shadowlands.. or were... it makes sense they might have had the power to rescue a soul from the Maw.....with the added help of the soul taking her place.

I emphasised other parts to because i think its important. the Valkyre USED to be denizens of the shadowlands. but supposedly Changed by the lich king. The valkyre emphasised it WASNT just a bond of sisterhood but a bond of hte Valkyre. I think in order to save her from the maw they basically had to enchant sylvannas to magically register as a Valkyre, and thats how they ‘made the switch”. so to speak.

Now remember what happened in Legion? She got a special lantern from Helya, the original Valkyr, who is a master of Death, trapping souls and creating dimensions And who has reason to hate Odyn who has his own form of afterlife?

So it seems to me that Sylvannas gained the attention of the Jailer when she was the first one to escape. and the fact that she escaped by utilizing Valkyre magic, but she wasnt bound to the ethos of most of the denizens of bastion. I think shortly after her original death she was contacted by him, possibly through the valkyre and they started their pact.

Ion said that Sylvannas does not have a master, she’s doing things for herself. However that doesnt mean that, just cus the Jailer isnt controlling her doesnt mean he might not be manipulating her.

Jailer starts to usurp the souls. Sylvannas, afraid of going to the maw. begins rampant death, in order to kill enemies and create a massive army of forsaken to use against any force that would come for her. This rampant death gains the attention of those in the afterlife, including the Jailer who gets more souls do to it. somewhere between Cata and the start of legion he contacts her. When vol’jin is dying he uses his influence to get Vol’jin to name Sylvannas warchief.

She uses her new power to go wherever she wants, which she uses to find Helya, another god of death who has a unique power. Realm magic. using the Lantern, Sylvannas uses the valkyre to send it to the jailer who cuts off the other parts of the afterlife, making it so ALL souls go to the maw. then now that the world threat is over, and she doesnt have to worry about dying herself, she uses her position of power to sew as much death as possible to feed her ally. with the ultimate plan of them destroying the natural order of life and death. She gets to be free of him and lets those she deems worthy live free. all others get to be the Jailer’s victims. no more souls wasted on the ‘good’ after lives or regeneration. no more foolish living to ruin a perfect, deathless world.

its all coming together.

#sylvannas #long post #sylvannas windrunner #world of warcraft #world of warcraft spoilers #wow spoilers #wow #warcraft

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alternislatronemhq · 4 years

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Congrats, Jenna, you have been accepted to AL for the role of Alecto Carrow (FC: Victoria Pedretti). Jenna!!! Wow, so excited that you’re picking up Alecto! She’s such a badass and I can’t wait to see her on the dash. Your biography of Alecto really draws out this character that’s so often one dimensional in this world. I think she’s going to add a lot of conflict to the gorup in the best way possible. EEp I’m PUMPED! Please send in your blog (no sideblogs for first characters, please) in the next 24 hours and be sure to take a look at our new player checklist. Welcome home (once again), we’re so excited to have you join the family!

OOC

name — jenna age — 20 pronouns — she/her timezone — gmt+10

IC Overview

name — alecto carrow age — 25 gender — cis female sexuality — bisexual patronus — non-corporeal, but it would take the form of a vulture. boggart — her brother lies dead at her feet, her parents standing above him, somehow more vicious looking than they are in reality. “it’s your fault,” they sneer, as alecto notices the blood on her hands.

IC In Depth

personality traits — ( + ) dedicated - though she may be dedicated to the wrong people and causes, Alecto is dedicated. If she decides she wants something, she will go after it with everything she had, and she won’t rest until whatever she wants is hers. Maybe it comes from the deep sense of entitlement she’s been raised with, or her insatiable need to be acknowledged and appreciated. ( + ) headstrong - Alecto has her opinions, and she won’t be swayed on them. She also will make them known, loudly, and publicly. She’s not a complete idiot, and has learnt to kept some of her more… unsavoury opinions under wraps since the end of the war, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t still believe them. ( + ) loyal - Though Alecto rarely gets close to people, those she decides she trusts have her undivided loyalty, especially to her brother. She also has a strong loyalty to the Dark Lord, still trying to find a way to bring him back even years after his defeat. ( - ) ruthless - This goes hand in hand with her dedication, Alecto will stop at nothing to get what she wants, including hurting ( or even killing ) people to get her way. ( - ) brash - She can be incredibly rude, overbearing, and obnoxious. She asserts herself over everyone and anything she believes to be beneath her, and often comes across quite poorly. ( - ) vicious - Alecto is a shark raised by sharks, you don’t grow up how she did without earning teeth of your own.

character biography —

Alecto Carrow was not a wanted child, this much has always been abundantly clear.

The marriage of Alecto’s parents was not one born of love or affection, but of duty. They both hailed from affluence, highly-regarded pureblooded families, and shared values typical of such a background. The sole purpose of their marriage was to produce an heir and perpetuate their bloodlines, nothing more, and nothing less. Only a year after their marriage, they had succeeded in this endeavour with the birth of their son, Amycus. He was exactly what they had wanted in a child; he was the perfect pureblood heir. Unfortunately, he would not be the only child the couple would sire.

Alecto was not expected. The exact nature of her conception remains elusive to this day. Some speculate that Alecto came into existence one night after her parents had a little too much to drink at one of their parties, falling into bed together before they could think about the consequences of what they were doing. They never wanted a second child, let alone a daughter, but, nine months later, they were one again at St Mungo’s awaiting Alecto’s arrival. Unlike her brother, Alecto was born screaming, demanding attention from the very moment her lungs were able to draw breath, turning her face red and angry with the effort of it. Maybe that’s where they got her name from – unceasing anger. She didn’t stop crying for almost a full day.

She was brought home from the hospital the next day and instantly thrust into the arms of awaiting nannies. To the Carrows, children weren’t something that required a lot of hands-on attention, they weren’t something to be cared for or raised carefully. They existed solely to preserve their legacy, and as long as they were capable of that, the rest of the day-to-day maintenance could be seen to by household staff. Alecto’s father had a job at the Ministry which kept him exceptionally busy, and her mother never worked, instead spending her days out fraternising with her peers and climbing up the social ladders of pureblood society. They paid little attention to Alecto, leaving her mostly neglected in her nursery, save for curious visits from her older brother, wanting to catch a glimpse of his new sibling.

The Carrow household was cruel and cold, and with their parents rarely around, Amycus and Alecto came to rely on one another. During her childhood, Alecto’s only solace was in her relationship with Amycus, despite both of them inheriting many of their parents’ less desirable qualities, the siblings had a close bond. They genuinely cared for each other, though they often had strange ways of showing it. There were few people who could truly understand the childhood that Alecto had experienced, and fewer still who could understand Alecto, but her brother has always been the closest. Alecto idolised her brother, she wanted to be just like him, and she his was the only direction she would follow without question.

Lessons for Amycus and Alecto began very early in life. Lessons on what to say, when to say it, and who to say it to. They were trained to hate anything that was different to them – and hate, Alecto would. Perhaps, had she been raised differently, she would have become a far more kind and empathetic soul, but, then again, this is perhaps a slight exaggeration. Something inside of her may have been broken from the beginning – she accepted the hate-filled ideas her parents presented her with. She accepted the prejudices, the fact that she was simply better than everyone else. That, because of the blood that ran through her veins, she deserved to have the world grovelling at her feet.

While Alecto took to her lessons of cruelty and superiority like a moth to a flame, there were other lessons she didn’t take quite so well to. For the most part, Amycus and Alecto were raised identically, but, as they grew a little older, their paths started to diverge. Amycus was the male heir, he was trained to carry the Carrow name with pride, while Alecto was taught to rid herself of it as soon as possible. Her parents intended for her to marry a nice young man ( preferably one from the shortlist of candidates they’d had picked since her birth ) as soon as she was of age – Alecto herself had different ideas.

The two years between Amycus leaving for Hogwarts and Alecto doing the same were two of the loneliest of her life. She became aware of how quiet their house was, without her brother in it. Her parents ignored her even further when Amycus wasn’t around, when she wasn’t sticking to him like gum to the bottom of a shoe. She tried her hardest to please them, but eventually realised that doing exactly what they wanted wasn’t working. So, like many neglected children, Alecto reached the conclusion that negative attention was better than no attention at all. She had always tried to tone down aspects of her personality to appease her parents, but Alecto wasn’t the porcelain doll they always wanted.

She was sent off to Hogwarts at eleven, and it was a breath of fresh air. She was sorted into Slytherin, like her brother before her, and quickly established herself within the cohort with her good looks and her strong opinions. It certainly helped her that she bore the same last name as her brother, who had already amassed a number of allies in the Slytherin dorms, simply adding his sister to his posse once she arrived. She was loud and unapologetic and gained herself a rather unsavoury reputation – but people couldn’t help but be enthralled by her. Much like at home, much of the attention was negative, but it was attention, and she would take it.

Though she always had a certain charm, a magnetism to her, Alecto never really played well with others. Her parents wanted her to be beautiful, charismatic, but submissive – capable of pleasing the sons of their friends. Submissive was the real problem. Even during her childhood, Alecto had cunning and ambition to rival the greatest of Slytherins, she was callous and brash. She met any attempts at courting from young men with a sneer, as she matured, she decided she found far greater pleasure from the physical relationship than an emotional one. Alecto was not at all like what her parents expected her to be in this regard, and they never made their displeasure a secret.

The war was something Alecto had always been ready for. Her parents had believed it was inevitable, that they would need to fight to rid the world of muggles and muggleborns once and for all, to ensure that only purebloods remained. They trained their children to believe the same. Alecto knew that she would one day need to fight, that she would be thrust into war. Her father insisted on special training to ensure she would be of use to their master – dark magic was something she became intimately familiar with when she came home for summers during her school years, training to withstand the cruciatus curse, to counter dark spells, to wield them herself.

While rumours of war that swirled around during her final years of Hogwarts set most people on edge, they simply invigorated Alecto. Amycus had already graduated, he was already doing his part, and Alecto desperately wanted to do the same. Though she had given up on winning the affections of her parents a long time ago, she wanted to please the Dark Lord, she wanted Amycus to be proud of her, and she wanted to do what she believed was the right thing. She grinned with maniacal glee as she received the dark mark – and if she saw her parents smile as she did so, she never mentioned the fact.

What she hadn’t been prepared for was losing. At the tender age of twenty, Alecto had never really known what it was to lose. On October 31st, 1981, she found out – and she didn’t like it. Nobody had anticipated that the Dark Lord would fall, least of all Alecto. Her parents immediately went into damage control, trying desperately to restore their name before the hammer fell. Their children wouldn’t be so lucky. It had been Amycus who suggested that only one of them needed to go to Azkaban – Alecto had first imagined it would be her, but Amycus took the fall for the both of them, accepting his sentence and insisting that Alecto keep herself out of it, to keep serving their master while he was away.

Not only had everything Alecto ever believed fallen apart, she’d lost her brother and her best friend, and, if his life sentence was to believed, she might not ever see him again.

Alecto had still been living with her parents at the time, but when she returned home after Amycus’ trial alone, she endured a wrath she could have only imagined up until that moment. It didn’t matter that it had been Amycus’ idea for her to walk free – they were furious that their male heir was to go away while they were given Alecto as, what? A consolation prize? Though she was fairly certain they’d calm down eventually, Alecto took the first opportunity she could to leave her parents’ house and get out on her own. She managed to secure herself a position at the Ministry, and has been doing her best to provide for herself in the years since her brother’s arrest. She may not be living the life they imagined for her, and they may vocalise their displeasure whenever she sees them, but it simply spurs Alecto on.

Alecto believes that the Lark Lord will return one day, and she intends to be the one to bring him back. She has been searching far and wide for any trace of her father, detailing her expedition in her letters to her brother. Of course, she has no idea where to begin. Her ‘search’ is more of a vague exploration, hoping against hope that she will stumble upon something. She’s trying to prove to herself, to her brother, to her parents, and to her peers, that Amycus made the right decision – that she’s better off on the outside, that by avoiding arrest, she can make use of herself and help bring back the Dark Lord. To Alecto, it’s almost like a race, and she thinks she’s vicious and scrappy enough to do what it takes.

She just hopes Amycus really did make the right decision.

plot ideas —

Amycus | Honestly, her relationship with her brother is probably the closest thing that Alecto has to a healthy relationship, and that’s saying a lot. The pair are still deeply dysfunctional - Alecto craves the validation she never received from her parents from her brother, and would literally follow him into hell. Letting him be imprisoned after the war was something that was incredibly difficult for her, so I’d love to explore how she’s been coping without her big brother’s guidance. She’s managed to get herself a fairly decent job and an apartment on her own.. did she ever really need him in the first place? I’d also love to see Amycus as a playable character in the future ( perhaps Alecto could even be involved in his breakout from Azkaban… hint hint ), to explore their dynamic properly, as well as how it has changed in the years they’ve been separated. Death Eaters | Alecto is on a quest to bring back Voldemort, and this probably isn’t a secret to anyone who she believes to be sympathetic to her cause. Of course, she doesn’t want any help because she wants the entirety of the credit for herself, but that doesn’t mean people aren’t curious about what exactly she’s doing ( please can somebody call her out on her stunning lack of progress? ). I’d also like to see her interact with some of the less loyal Death Eaters. She’s big on dedication and loyalty, and if she feels that there’s traitors in their midst, Alecto will not hesitate to make this known… or exploit it for her own gain. Ministry | Alecto works as an Obliviator for the Ministry. She’s not so stupid as to go around telling everyone that she’s an active supporter of You-Know-Who, but for anyone who was part of the Order ( or with any common sense ), it’s not hard to figure out where her loyalties lie – her brother is in Azkaban for being a Death Eater, and her parents are active pureblood supremacists. I’d like to see her trying to keep up appearances at the Ministry, interacting with former Order members or even muggleborns… how much will it take for her to crack?

extra —

mock blog / pinterest / playlist

extras that didn’t fit in the bio:

Parents. Alecto’s relationship with her parents has always been strained, however, over the last few years it has become even more so. They have made little secret of the fact that they would prefer Alecto be rotting in Azkaban than Amycus. Alecto doesn’t see them very often, and when she does, they’re trying to pressure her to marry a nice pureblood man before they’re all gone, or making her feel even worse about Amycus’ imprisonment. She still has a great deal of respect for her parents, but she knows they’ll never have a great relationship.

Residence. Alecto lives in a small apartment not far from Diagon Alley. It’s quite lavish, more than she should be able to afford with her salary, but she had considerable financial assistance when buying it… her parents couldn’t have her living on the street, could they?

Occupation. Alecto works as an Obliviator for the Ministry. She’s always been quite skilled with charms ( though she usually uses her skills for evil rather than good ), and her father had always told her that having a job at the Ministry was a good position to be in ( well, he’d said her husband should have a job at the Ministry, close enough ). She doesn’t enjoy having to interact with muggles… but she does enjoy robbing them of their memories.

Romance. Alecto isn’t one for commitment, but she learnt young that her looks were a powerful weapon, and one she wields expertly. She likes to toy with people, and she’s not fussed about anything so trivial as gender ( blood status is the only thing that matters to her ). She’s never considered herself bisexual, much less put a public label on it, but if she gave it any thought, that’s probably the conclusion she’d arrive at. She’s never told her parents about her relationships with women, and has no intention to.

#al:accepted #alecto carrow #harry potter rp #hp rp #marauders era rp

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shanastoryteller · 7 years

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Hi, I absolutely love your gods and monsters series and I especially love the way you've treated Hera in it (always thought she got a bad rep for no good reason). I know you're super busy, but would you ever consider doing one about when she finally leaves Zeus?

(recommended reading for context: X, X, X)

Olympus has fallen.

It’s marble columns lay cracked andbroken. The sun doesn’t pass over it anymore. Hestia’s fire pit has been emptyand cold for decades, with nothing left on the mountain to fuel it.

Olympus has fallen, yet Hera and Zeusare still there.

Ares has tried talking to his mother.He long ago gave up any hope of trying to save his father, but Hera isn’ttouched by madness like Zeus is. All that keeps her there are her oaths ofmarriage and loyalty, all that chains her to the crumbling remains of what theyonce were is her marriage to Zeus, who will only be convinced to leave Olympuson a funeral pyre.

Ares begs. He cries. He does anythingand everything he can to convince his mother to leave, but she only touches hisface with cold hands and presses her cracked lips to his cheek. She won’t leaveher husband.

She won’t be moved by him. So he hasto find someone she will be moved by.

He’s down in the underworld, where hespends so much of his time now. Persephone is often there as well, but she onlysmiles at him, is never angered by his presence in her realm or her husband’sbed.

(“You worry too much,” Icarus tellshim, early on when they are both young and fumbling and in love with the same man.“She is not a jealous woman. Hades loves us all – he simply loved her first.”)

But it is neither Hades nor Persephonewho he seeks today. He goes to the edge of the underworld, ever expanding and changing,because it is where she likes to be best. “Hecate!” he calls out, “I request anaudience.”

There’s a shiver in the air, and thegoddess of magic stands in front of him. He doesn’t know what to think of her,the woman who’s so close to his lover and who raised his brother. He’s neverbeen able to find a title that fits her quite right.

“Ares,” she greets, “to what do I owethe pleasure?”

“Staying by Zeus’s side is killing mymother,” he says. “I’ve tried to get her to leave, but she won’t listen to me.”

Her lips quirk up at the corners.“Listening has never been her strength. What do you expect me to do about it?I’ve tried to get her to leave Zeus before. I failed before, and I will failagain.”

“I know. I don’t want you to talk toHera. I want you to talk to Hephaestus,” he says

Hecate’s eyebrows rise. He’s managedto surprise her. “If he won’t listen to you, why would he listen to me?”

“I haven’t tried asking him,” he says.“He doesn’t believe anything I say of our mother. He’ll believe you.”

“And what makes you think I haveanything positive to say of her? She’s a petty snake – she’s lied andmanipulated and outright killed to get what she has.”

“Yes,” Ares says. “And what does shehave?”

Hecate smiles at him.

Hephaestus is startled to discoverHecate in his kitchen. She rarely leaves the underworld. “Aunt,” he says. It’swhat he’s called her his whole life. She’d always refused the title of mother.“Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” she says, and he snaps toattention. “Hera rots away on Olympus for loyalty to a man who has never showedher the same devotion.”

“How is that my problem?” he snaps,stung. Hecate has never brought Hera up to him before. He can’t think of whyshe would do so now.

She grabs one of the apples from hisfruit bowl and bites into it. She looks at him thoughtfully as she chews. Hecrosses his arms and glares. She swallows and asks, “Have you really notfigured it out yet? I raised you to be smarter than this.”

“Speak plainly.” It’s something hesaid often in his adolescence. Styx used to just try and drown Hecate when shebecame cryptic.

“Hera is your mother. She bore you andher blood runs strong in your veins.” He’s about to snap at her again when shesays, “But you are not a son of Zeus’s blood, and he has never been able toforgive you for being a child of his wife but not of him.”

His legs are mostly metal, but hestill loses feeling in them and has to grab for the edge of the counter.“What?”

Hecate’s eyes go distant. “She was sodesperate for a child when she had you. So young, all things considered.”

He sits down across from her, “Tell meeverything.”

Hephaestus is reeling even as heclimbs the crumbling, ashy remains of the once great Mount Olympus.

Hera has always seemed unbreakable tohim. As cold and perfect as marble, a mother in name only who tossed him to hisdeath when he was only a few hours old.

It was all a lie.

She went against her very nature as agoddess to conceive him, something she’s never done before or since. Shecarried him and bore him alone, and fought against Zeus to save him when bloodwas still slick between her thighs.

She gave him over to Hecate to protecthim. He grew up in the underworld not because he was something forgotten anduseless, but because he was cherished. He was raised in the underworld to keephim safe, not to keep him away.

She gave him his name, gave him hislife, and has loved him silently all these years.

He could have grown up on Olympus,could have grown up with her. She would have cared for him as fiercely as shecared for Ares. He could have grown up with Ares, could have known his brotherwhen he was small and straining towards freedom, wouldn’t have met him for thefirst time as a brash adolescent sneaking into his volcano.

If it weren’t for Zeus throwing himfrom this very mountain when he was only a few minutes old, he could have grownup with a real family.

He loves Hecate. He loves Hades. Styxwas his best friend growing up.

But it’s not the same. And it’s notfair.

Hera is beautiful,even as she’s dying.

Her hair ispiled on top of her head in intricate curls, and her dress is silk. But she’sso thin it looks as if even sitting on her throne tires her. She’s too pale andher skin is bruised, her eyes sunken.

Zeus laysslumbering in his throne beside her. He swings from mania to exhaustion withnothing in between.

“Hephaestus,”she says. Even as the rest of her body deteriorates her eyes are as bright andsharp as ever. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He falls tohis knees in front of her, and her eyes widen. “Staying here and clinging to apower that doesn’t belong to us anymore is killing you. It’s time to leave.”

“I am thegoddess of marriage and family. As long as my husband remains here, so shall I,”she informs him, head tilted arrogantly so she can stare down at him.

“We aren’tthe gods of anything anymore,” he says, “not really.”

She looksaway from him and her lips twitch like she’s not trying not to smile. “No. Isuppose not. But I am still a wife, and with my husband I will stay.”

“Thegoddess of marriage and family,” herepeats, “What of Ares? Of Hebe?”

“Hadeslooks after Ares. Hebe is fully grown, and has been for many centuries.”Something he can’t explain passes over her face. “Someday, all children mustsay goodbye to their mother for the last time. None of us are exempt from that,not even gods.”

He placeshis hands on her lap, palm up. She blinks, looking rapidly between his hands andhis face. He can’t remember if he’s ever touched her before. “Hera of theHeights, of Argos, of the Mound. Hera the cow eyed, white armed goddess ofmarriage and of family. Hera, queen of the gods.” He flexes his hands, and sheslowly places her cold hands in his. “Mom.You once saved me from death by Zeus’s hand. Let me do the same for you now.”

She becomesimpossibly paler and tries to yank her hands away, but he doesn’t let her. “Whatare you – I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let go of me!”

“Hecatetold me. She told me everything.” He kisses her knuckles. “Leave this mountain.Leave Zeus. Come with me.”

She looksto her slumbering husband, a mere shadow of the man he used to me. “I love him.”

“You hatehim too,” he says. “Denounce your status as a goddess and come with me. Mom,please.”

“It wasalways such a thin line between the two with us, between love and hate,” shesays, still looking at him. “He’s mine. I chose him, and I made him choose me.I did this, to the both of us. I should stay.”

Hephaestuspresses her hand to his cheek, and her gaze finally skitters back to him. “I’myours too. Ares is yours. Hebe is yours. Don’t die for you husband. Live foryou children.”

“You’venever cared about me before,” she says. “You shouldn’t bother. Just because Ididn’t throw you down this mountain doesn’t mean I’ve ever been a mother toyou.”

“Maybe thisis our chance then,” he says, “maybe this is our last chance to be something morethan strangers. Come with me, and be something other than Zeus’s bride andqueen.”

She’s toosickly to walk. Hephaestus carries her down what remains of Moiunt Olympus inhis arms. When they’re halfway down the skies open and ligntning crashes downaround them. The claps of thunder aren’t loud enough to drown out Zeus’sanguished screams.

Hera hidesher face in her son’s shoulder and weeps.

Hephaestus’smetal legs don’t hesitate or miss a step the whole way down the mountain.

Olympus hasfallen.

Only Zeusremains.

gods and monsters series, part xx

read more of the gods and monsters series here

#gods and monsters series #hera #ares #hephaestus #zeus #hecate #greek myth #greek myths #greek mythology #mythology #i wrote most of this at work i'm so tired #i'm so excited for this long weekend i'm going to sleep so much #sjhphotography #asks

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nighttimelights-prompted · 7 years

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Oh jeez, I didn't actually think I'd win. Okay, uh, if it would be okay, the big four skelebros finding out that their s/o (humanoid) actually had like, huge feathery wings, +they wore a big cloak to hide them? They can fly w/ them, and all that jazz

(i do love that about raffles - chance is a fickle thing, but wonderful at the same time! this is an interesting prompt - i haven’t spent too much time considering the implications of such a person in the undertale/au worlds, so i’ll interpret it as best i can as my mind tends to very naturally consider the implications thereof.)

(in any case, congrats on winning the raffle - i hope you like it!

UT Sans:

You shouldn’t underestimate someone like the classic Sans.

Truth be told, your wings were aching for how long you had been hiding them - nearly two days straight now, without a moment of being able to shake them out of your cloak. Thankfully it had it’s own magical properties that completely sealed in your wings, even for a passing gust of wind that may lift it - but the sensation was pins and needles as time dragged on, and if you could feel every feather in them every one of them would all be aching. But at last, Sans had fallen asleep in the field near on the blanket laid out for you and your friends’ picnic, and the others had disappeared in the forest, looking to play a game or gather wood - or both.

Your shoulders were on fire, your wings just longing to catch an updraft and stretch out, just for a minute, then you would be good to tuck them away again.

… Sans has been a light sleeper for a long time yet, though.

So when he felt the strange hitch in magic near him, even something so low and nearly unnoticeable, it woke him up. He would’ve ignored it… if not for the sudden soft fwump of your unfurled wings catching that first beat of free air.

His eyelights disappeared as he watched you spiral into the sky, effortless and joyfully light in your movements.

Granted, you nearly fell out of the sky when you looked back down and caught him staring at you, but still.

He has so many questions, and while he may wait until a more private time to ask them, you won’t get out of them for long. In the end, he’s intrigued, and once he guarantees all is well, he’ll realize his infatuation has grown only stronger. It won’t be long before you’ll find yourself figuring out how to take him out on flights in secret, both of you feeling the most free you’ve ever been while gliding under the clear night sky.

(the rest of the skelebros under the cut...

UT Papyrus:

He was really just trying to be hospitable.

You were always wearing that cloak. He caught you on longer days spent together rubbing at your shoulders, a distant expression of discomfort on your face - and then other times you fiddled absently and insistently with the clasp, as if you wanted nothing more to take it off and relax. He wanted that for you, too! The way your face lit up whenever you were at ease around him, that delightful laugh of yours that had his magic betraying his adoration across his cheekbones, the sharp way your mind worked out puzzles and riddles with him - he loved it most when you felt welcome and at peace, so surely he could relieve you of that cloak, at least in the safety of his home.

Granted, you always refused when he offered… but still.

That’s why he’s the Great Papyrus - he’d find a way to put you at ease, one way or another.

Yes, even if that way happened to be sneaking up on you while you were at the stove, with a grace and stealth completely unbefitting a seven-foot-tall skeleton. Before you could react, his fingers had easily slipped around you to your front, undid the mechanism of your clasp, and he slipped your cloak off with the graceful flair of a matador.

He promptly was sent flying into the living room by the nearly violent explosion of your wings into reality.

You screamed at the sudden sensation and almost sent spaghetti flying right after him - but horrified realization dawned over you just as quickly, and you took several steps forward to check on him - but were stopped by the instincts of countless years of hiding.

Thankfully Sans wasn’t home, because as Papyrus recovered and jumped back to his feet and anxiously hovered without approaching in turn, it quickly devolved into a shouting match of mutual worry and love and horrified apologies.

Of course, Papyrus is in no way upset at this revelation - he understands your reasoning all too well, and while he desperately wants to shout to the entire Undernet about this wonderful new thing he found out about his s/o, he’ll keep your secret the safest it’s ever been with another soul.

… Also, I hope you like getting your feathers preened, because it won’t be long before Papyrus handily claims the sole right to massage your tense wings and gently check your feathers while you stay at his house.

UF Sans:

To be honest, your secret wasn’t much of one for long with Red. If you’re his s/o, you both lean heavily towards loving physical affection, at least in private - and you quickly figure out that with both of your trust issues, if you want to make this last, you’ll need to come clean about this. Perhaps you were friends for a long time first before caving into your attraction for him (and vice versa), perhaps not - but either way, you armed yourself with your resolve and feelings for him and managed to pull him into seclusion in his room one afternoon.

He started out with his usual dirty flirting, and tempted as you were to put it off just one more day, you were able to step back from him with the reassurance to him that… well, stars above you cared for him, and if he trusted you enough to let you so deeply into his life, then you were damn well going to do the same.

Your fingers flipped undone the mechanism of your clasp, and your cloak fell to the ground. Your eyes closed as relief and tension momentarily bled out of you and your wings unfolded into reality, still bent to avoid knocking anything open, but spread enough to span more than half the room.

When you finally felt brave enough to open your eyes, you caught Red staring at you, hands hovering half-outstretched, his eyelights burning a bright crimson that matched the softer glow of his cheekbones.

… A full, painfully silent minute later, you had to be the one to speak up first.

It all ended up coming out as if pouring from a spout that you had simply broken off, his ongoing silence and unreadable but not outright discouraging expression making it far easier to simply reveal more about your history and at why you were hiding - and why you were revealing this to him now, accidentally turning into you tripping over yourself as you confessed just how strongly you trusted him-

He finally cut you off, his face blazing crimson in a way that didn’t at all match his serious and conflicted and adoring expression. He’d simply pull you into a hug, his hands skating over your wings for a moment and drawing a shiver down your spine.

… After a bit of time that simply devolved into exploration, he’d ask a few simple questions about it, but just to round out his knowledge and satiate (for the moment) his building curiosity. He knows too well the need to hide everything that could mark you as vulnerably different, though, so he’s got your back in ways you’d never even dare to consider asking.

If anyone tries to blackmail you… well.

They’d turn up missing soon enough.

UF Papyrus:

He’d held a respect for your mysterious refusal to remove your cloak the entire time he’d known you. Even at your first meeting and his brash attitude, a part of him begrudgingly felt admirably towards your standards on your appearance in that facet.

Once you’re his s/o, however, he finds the curiosity simply eating him alive. He has standards, though - and damn, you respect his penchant for the black and red and spiky, so he can’t quite put himself up to demanding you take it off to satiate his curiosity - really, he’s never seen you without it, and even he has removed his signature red scarf around you on the heated occasion…

… Well. That doesn’t mean he won’t tail you once he figures out your scattered weekly sessions to disappear into the woods. You never go at the same time, and never by the exact same route, but always for hours on end, and always with a notable relief in the buildup of tension in your shoulders and back upon your next time seeing Edge.

He is nothing if not sharply observant - even as loud and harsh as he is, there aren’t many details that escape him. So even if this doesn’t have to do with your strange cloak and a few other odd pieces of behavior, he’ll at least figure out what you’re doing out there in the forest, for better or worse.

It actually takes him several weeks’ worth of attempts to track you the full way - you nearly caught him the first two times, and a few more following that you simply somehow managed to lose even him.

It was nighttime, the week he finally followed you for the full hour and a half you trekked into the woods, the week he finally caught you step into a clearing halfway around the mountain, far from any other sentient soul -

It was nighttime when he saw your cloak slip to the ground, when he saw your wings unfurl under the washed-out light of the moon and stars, when he saw you crouch down for just a moment as your wings shook out, fanned - and when he saw you take to the skies.

For nearly an hour he watched you, disappearing on occasion in low banks around the safe side of the mountain, only to return and circle high, high above, free and unrestrained in these moments you stole for yourself.

You nearly decked him in the ribs when he cleared his throat behind you after you landed.

The following moment, as you caught your fist before it made contact, as you watched his brow ridge draw upwards, as your wings fluffed up in horror and instinct, you thought you could truly feel your soul drop out of your own chest.

… He didn’t mince words, in the end, asking you several questions, which you found yourself nearly shell-shocked answering as plainly as he asked them. Your mind caught up quickly enough, and you knew that it was make or break either way - he’d either accept all this, or you’d be on the run… again.

After just ten more minutes, you found yourself once more silently staring at Edge. You had crossed your arms, and were holding your ground, despite your racing heart - you knew him well at this point, knew how many decisions and options and outcomes he was thinking through at breakneck pace as he returned your hard gaze.

When he reached out and took your hand, you forgot how to breathe.

When he slowly, so very slowly, lifted your hand to press your fingers to his mouth in a semblance of a kiss, you felt your chest constrict with the sudden flood of far too many feelings.

He smirked then, a devilish look to his flashing gaze, and said that he always knew you were more than most fools bargained for.

US Sans:

It might’ve been a bad idea to pass out on the couch with him after a long, late night of watching a certain old sci-fi series that he had been unable to come across Underground.

You were both the cuddly sort when it got down to it, and ever the gentleman as he was he had provided you with blankets and pillows and the most absurdly wonderful and gentle scalp massages you had ever experienced - so it was only natural that you’d end up so comfortable as to fall asleep, your head tucked just perfectly near his collarbone, his arms wrapped around you as you both nestled closer in your dream-ridden states.

You were both rudely awoken when your wings flared outwards - promptly shoving you both off the couch with the force of their reappearance.

As it turned out, Blue was apparently inclined to fiddle with whatever kaid within hands reach when he slept… including your specially-made clasp.

So there you were, straddling Blue with your hands planted on either side of his head, your wings flared in instinctual search for better balance. His eyesockets were wide, his bright blue starry eyelights trained on you with a bewildered fierceness you were certain neither of you were expecting at this hour, or this situation -

He blushed slowly cyan as you blushed a deep red of your own.

So very, very slowly, he lifted his hands. You had plenty of time to move out of the way, and you knew he intended it as such - but you remained willingly frozen as he relaxed just a tad more and his arms shifted just that little bit more…

You shuddered as his fingers slid down your feathers. You bit your lip and colored a little more at the look on his face as his eyelights searched your expression for any pain, any sign of discomfort - but he found none, and with a small, encouraging forward shift from you, he gently continued his exploration.

The words of adoration and praise, so soft, gentle, and private, had you burying your face into his shoulder as his deep chuckle ran further thrills through you.

At his almost surprisingly gentle questioning, you began to explain your background, and how you had to hide them, and the nature of your cloak - his attention never wavered from you, and as you talked he continued exploring your wings. You paused on occasion, redirecting or instructing him, and by the end of your explanation he felt like an expert with his soothing touches to your ever-tense wings.

He swore he would keep your secret - and with the twinkle in his eye, you had a definite feeling that you were facing a future where an incredibly cunning skeleton was going to find increasingly clever ways to help you spread your wings in private, with his careful eye and hand to provide every kind of support you could dare hope for.

US Papyrus:

He’s anything but inclined to push you on revealing whatever it is you're hiding, honestly. He has his own secrets, far too many to be healthy, but as you respect his he respects yours - it’s clear you have no ill intention through the bright way your soul shines, so he trusts you well enough.

… You realize, though, that even as his s/o… things won’t develop further unless you both place further trust in one another. And while you desperately want to know what it is that haunts his nightmares and hides behind the darker shadows of his gaze when something threatens the few things he cares about… well, you won’t push him without showing him that you are as open with him. But you also aren’t entirely willing to bare yourself without reciprocated trust.

So one day you offer him a deal as you’re about to head home.

You want to be closer - yet you know you’ve both got your reasons for what you hide. So… if he’s willing to share some of his past and what affects him so strongly, you’re willing to do the same.

His eyesockets go wide, and you give him a tired grin, expecting that bit of mild disbelief. Still, you give him a peck on the cheek, and tell him that you’ll see him tomorrow either way - no hard feelings.

He texts you a little after midnight, asking if you’re free to talk.

He appears at your door and knocks the moment you send off your positive response. You go through your traditional knock-knock routine, breaking just a bit of the anxious tension that flared in you all over again - and if you were reading him right, eased him a little too.

You took his hand when he ended up standing in your entryway, vaguely at a loss for how to continue. With ease you led him to your room, and sat yourself cross-legged on the mattress - a quirk of your brow and your lips drew a huff of a laugh out of him. He joined you then, his back meeting the wall as he settled in and tucked his hands back into his hoodie pocket.

You tilted your head slightly as you considered him, curious about what was running through his head…

Your mind made up, you lifted your hand to your cloak’s clasp. You hesitated for just a moment, softly warning him that what you’re about to show him is… unexpected, at best, but to not freak out or anything. He nods, just the once, an uncharacteristically serious set to his tired face.

You undo the clasp, and unfold your wings.

Well, truthfully, you only partially unfold them - while your room was tactically set up to allow you to walk around like this, the sheer span of your wings was certainly enough to be intimidating, and that was the last thing you wanted.

You waited, expecting an ongoing silence for at least a little bit as he reeled, or prepared to drill you for hiding something like this-

What you didn’t expect was his near-immediate “holy shit.”

Your own eyes widened nearly as much as his sockets. Within a moment, you were laughing so hard you were bent double.

Of all reactions, this may have been the best you never could have seen coming.

It took you another minute, particularly because Stretch had ended up blushing and laughing on his own at his slip - but you got your laughter under control and were able to give him a short explanation of what… what it was all about.

He listened intently, the faintest trace of a blush still on his face. At last, he asked a few questions - just a few, ones that you felt like he had been weighing the entire time you talked, but there was a promise of deeper exploration to come.

Afterwards, he opened his arms to you - no demand, just an offer, should you choose to accept it - and you do. Grateful and relieved and fighting a slight giddiness from the wave of emotions, you returned his embrace easily, the pair of you ending up mostly laying down as you laid half over him with your wings comfortably folded. Tentatively, one of his hands stroked your wing - eliciting a pleased sound from you, and a relieved one from him.

Another few minutes passed... but slowly, slowly, he began telling you of the source of his nightmares.

SF Sans:

You… weren’t actually officially Spike’s s/o yet when he found out.

You had known him for months by the night he invited you back into the workshop he kept at home. Against so very many odds, you had become incredibly close to one another - the fact that he was at last inviting you back here, somewhere you knew only a few other living souls had ever been allowed, said as much.

He walked you around the room with absolute ease, explaining a few of the different tools, machines, blueprints, even some of the strange books marked with ancient languages and even a few runes you recognized-

When he picked one up and flipped to an open page as he spoke about an ancient language that worked through words of power and intent, and one in particular that acted as a powerful sealing and illusionary spell, you froze. He showed you the page as he stepped to your side, his arm brushing against yours.

The rune on the dark, aged parchment perfectly matched the engraved pattern on your clasp.

He said nothing more, simply meeting your gaze with an unreadable expression as your focus slid to him.

Several moments passed, the eye of the storm meeting the slow balancing of the scales.

Finally, your breath returned to you, and you sighed, a small, rueful smile playing at your lips as you shook your head. Your gaze went to the cracked door, and back to him - with a simple wave of his hand and the spark of purple magic the door shut and locked. You nodded, then turned and faced him fully, taking just a step back.

Your hand hovered at your clasp for a moment as you considered him - he simply stood there observing you, and despite his measured expression, you knew him well enough to be able to catch that eager, curious spark to his eyelights - a puzzle nearly solved, a number of suspicions nearly tied together, and most importantly… a wary but present trust, even as he looked ready to snap a release on his own magic should the need arise.

With practiced ease, you undid your clasp.

You’d be lying if you said the shock that froze his confidently easy posture didn’t provide you some slight pleasure.

In just a few sentences as he stood frozen - this clearly not quite what he had been picturing - you explained your circumstances, your need for secrecy… and you left unsaid, but so very clearly presented, the measure of staggering trust you had just laid in him.

His gaze returned properly to your own at last. He then closed the small distance between you both, the tension only growing more thick -

His arm scooped around your waist and his other hand tipped your head back slightly as he pulled you close and kissed you for the first time.

To say that you responded well would be… an understatement.

Eventually, you ended up spending hours in there, talking more in depth about all manner of details on both your sides - the depths of his research was staggering, providing all new facets of consideration for a background you had never truly been able to explore for your own safety.

All the while, his hand held yours, your fingers intertwined.

SF Papyrus:

He had just taken an actual bullet for you.

Anti-monster resentment and outright violence was on the rise, and one human faction in particular was growing in its boldness as it took to hunting down not only monsters but the humans that associated with them. Russ had tried to push you away for a short while, plainly stating that it was for your own good, but you had validly argued back that you were friends with other monsters anyways, and had no intention on changing your behavior just because of the danger of a particularly violent group of assholes. He had taken to escorting you whenever you wanted to go out, if you were willing to have him - and if not, you had a feeling he was doing so anyways.

Tonight you were returning home from Muffet’s, a little too drunkenly on both your parts to safely teleport, and - well, what mattered is that now you held Russ in your arms, a strange fluid that matched the golden color of his magic oozing through his shirt from his ribs. The humans had been readily chased away by the blinding beam of concentrated magic he had shot from whatever the hell that dragon-like skull had been.

But stars, Russ was looking worse and worse. He told you to go, that the humans would be back soon, and he could hide himself away for now. You swore at him and told him to shut it, frustrated affection marring the effect.

It was only a few more seconds of delay before you made up your mind. You certainly couldn’t haul him anywhere fast enough walking - but…

Your hand grasped the clasp of your cloak. Consequences be damned, you would at least get him somewhere someone could do first aid. You met his gaze then, and told him to trust you - that you’d get him to safety.

With your clasp undone, you unfurled your wings.

Russ swore long and low under his breath, and whispered something about the ‘real angel’. You were blushing a bit, but chalked up his rambling to the effects of pain.

After a bit of struggling and a hushed apology for jostling him, he was on your back, and you were holding him as tightly as you could. With a few beats of your wings you were in the air, shooting high into the sky with a handful of updrafts, banking on safety in the obscurity of distance as you swerved to angle towards your destination.

Despite the circumstances, you couldn’t help but smile and flush a little deeper yet as Russ managed to whisper a few scattered words of adoration while you soared through the night sky.

#undertale prompts #undertale imagines #undertale #underfell #underswap #swapfell #ut sans #uf sans #us sans #sf sans #ut pap #uf pap #us pap #sf pap #the skelebros find out their s/o has wings #i hadn't really considered this general scenario type before so this was a neat challenge!#hope you enjoy #left the implications of s/o with wings largely up to imagination heh #yes-virtualcollectorpeace

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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, JEM!

You have been accepted for the role of LUKA MRAVINSKY with a faceclaim change to Francisco Lachowski. I’m screaming because our bratva group is nearly complete! Jem, you breathed aching life into Luka. Your application was a culmination of highs and lows -- of crescendos of joy and sorrows. It was a beautiful thing, to watch you deconstruct Luka then put him back together again -- pulling him apart while making him whole. You captured his voice, his motivations, his contradictions, and his commonalities. There was a depth there that I was hoping would be captured, and you did it in one fell swoop. You’ve killed us with Luka’s tragedy, his sorrow, his potential for redemption or damnation. All in this singular application. How you managed to fit the whole of (arguably) Ravka’s most tragic pyro, I’m not entirely sure. And for that, I thank you. I can’t wait to see him unfold on the dash! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Jem!

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/her.

AGE: 23.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: I live in EST, and I’d say I’m about a 6 or 7 in terms of activity! I’m always able to plot and respond to messages a few times a day, and I try to crank out replies every day or every other day.

TRIGGERS: OMITTED

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: Y’all already know: alexanderrallis (active), cygnusblck (inactive), and thesaintofsin (inactive).

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Luka Alexei Mravinsky.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? Luka, Luka, Luka!!!!!!!!!! Oh, Luka. To be frank, Luka sort of snuck up on me, and I bounced around between a bunch of different characters before finally settling on this sweet, sweet Sankt. When I first began writing Luka’s app, I was a little stuck, and I didn’t quite knowwhat to do with him, how to interpret him. And it was a bit frustrating, to be honest—trying to solve Luka, who, at the time, seemed so unsolvable to me. But I couldn’t let him go, I really couldn’t, and so I kept studying him and learning him, and here I am, utterly in love with Luka Mravinsky. I think I initially struggled so much with understanding Luka’s composition because his composition is incredibly complex. In many ways, Luka is an anomaly—a haphazard bundle of contradictions that shouldn’t be, but is. He’s soft and gentle and kind, but he’s also damaged and tortured and miserable, and for all his altruism, he has a tremendous capacity for destruction—and that was all a little difficult to navigate at first. How do you decode a character who aches for tenderness but was bred for cruelty? A character who wants desperately to be a Sankt but whose curse has damned him? I don’t think you can decode a character like that—I really don’t. I was searching for some Luka-esque inspiration material and discovered this little gem, and it all sort of just clicked for me—Luka can’t be known, not really; he can be learned, but never fully known, never truly mastered, because he hides—from others, from himself—and I think Luka was written in such a way that he can never be definitively decoded. Like a sad, lovely Frankenstein, Luka is a monster of creation, not a monster of origin—he is a product, a result. Half of his parts are missing, and the ones that aren’t missing are foreign—unfamiliar limbs and organs that do not belong to the sweet-natured boy who played in the trees and picked wildflowers for his mama and stole scraps of food from the dinner table for the horses and sat on his papa’s soldiers like a boy-king. The sum of Luka Mravinsky is this: no heart, no smile, wrong hands, wrong head. He left his heart in his village, buried it between the corpses of his mama and papa and left it to rot in the dead soil of the graveyard he’d erected—a shrine to his monstrosity. He left his smile in a chasm of memories stowed away somewhere between his ribs—an endless loop of crisp spring mornings spent in the garden with his mother and cold winter nights spent reading the Istorii Sankt'ya near the hearth with his father. His hands are all wrong—they ache in perpetual want of blood, of sin; they were made to destroy, and Luka was made to restore. His head is all wrong, too—it urges him to do things he ought not to, to indulge in the embers that smolder between the lines of his hungry palms, to stop fighting his nature and bow to the inferno he’s neglected to stoke for so long. So much of Luka is lost, and so much of Luka is not Luka, and so much of Luka is dead. It’s no wonder, then, that the boy knows so little of himself (angel, Sankt, darling); it’s no wonder, then, that the boy hides what little he does know of himself (monster, killer, demon). In short, I’m not certain Luka knows who he really is anymore, and if Luka doesn’t know who he is, how can anyone else? Once I was struck with that idea, everything else just sort of fell into place beautifully, and I became enamored with the prospect of exploring all of the parts (present and absent, belonging and foreign) of Luka Mravinsky. And maybe he’ll recover some of his old parts, and maybe he’ll discover some new parts, and maybe he’ll reconcile with some of his wrong parts. And isn’t that such an incredible creative adventure—to be able to take a character and learn and unlearn and relearn of the parts of their makeup until you find the right combination? He’s so stunningly complex, Luka, and so heart-achingly tragic. A benevolent destroyer, an otkazat’sya-loving otkazat’sya-killer, a lamb in wolf’s clothing, a beautiful boy steeped in tragedy, a tragedy steeped in beauty. He, a Grisha, a god, envies the mediocrity of humanity, aches in want of death, in want of relief from the curse of the Small Science. A lovely, frightening boy capable of lovely, frightening things. Feared by those who know of the monster that razed an entire village to ash; pitied by those who know of the sad almost-Sankt who tirelessly fights his nature, growing paler and hungrier and more tired each day; scorned by those who know of the fair-weathered Grisha who moons over otkazat’sya like they’re something to be admired, to be treasured. Nothing makes my muse sing like navigating a character that’s full of contradiction and complexity, and I think it would be an incredible creative journey to try to put Ravka’s very own Humpty Dumpty back together again (if such a thing is possible, of course—poor Luka had an awfully great fall).

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND? SAD SOLDIER BOY: A CAUTIONARY TALE Like calls to like, and the damned call to the damned, and Valerian Petrov calls to Luka Mravinsky. Luka’s heart beats in threes: once for Shona, once for Arsen, and once for Valerian. He doesn’t think he remembers how to love, not anymore (he was very young when he last loved, a spritely boy whose mother kissed him often and whose father praised him well)—but he remembers (only just) how to be tender, and so he shares his tenderness with his brothers. Arsen has never been a particularly amenable recipient of soft things (he’s sharp-tongued and sharp-toothed, and he has too much blood in his mouth to know the taste of tenderness) and matters of sentimentality don’t seem to appeal to Shona, not much and not often. Valerian, though—Valerian isn’t tender, not really; he never was, not even before he was robbed of his Juliya. But he’s tender with Luka, as tender as men like Valerian can be. Arsen prods Luka tirelessly, always eager to provoke him, to summon flame, and while Shona tolerates Luka’s gentle disposition, it’s clear that he’s not too terribly keen on it. But Valerian—brightly-burning, jagged-edged, wildfire Valerian—has expressed to Luka on more than one occasion how very fond he is of the sad soldier boy’s stark oddities—of his quietness and his tenderheartedness. He’s always been tender with Luka, Valerian, but Luka fears that his pseudo-brother has razed his own capacity for tender things. Passion has given way to lifelessness, love has given way to grief, tolerance to impatience, and tenderness to cruelty. Grief—it’s a death Luka knows well. The hero of Ravka has fallen, baptized by atrophy, stricken from legend to tragedy, from god to broken-hearted boy. Luka has been treading the brutal current of grief for years now, and so he’s learned well how to navigate these waters. But Valerian is drowning, and Luka fears that his lungs are filling too quickly with too much water, too much grief. He needs a lifesaver, Valerian—not an anchor, but abuoy; someone to keep him afloat, to teach him how to swim in waters as treacherous as the Unsea—and who better to school Valerian in the ways of wading than the sad soldier boy who’s been swimming in the channel of grief for a lifetime? Luka has never saved someone before. He’s well-acquainted with the ways of damnation, but redemption? Salvation? Foreign concepts. Alas, Luka cannot and will not stand idly by and watch grief make a pretty tragedy out of Valerian Petrov the same way it made a pretty tragedy out of Luka Mravinsky. If anything good is to come of Luka’s tragedy, let it be this: the cautionary tale of the sad soldier boy. Woe to all who follow in his steps.

FORGIVE ME NOT Luka is a creature of passivity, a being of indifference whose once-bright passion and once-brighter heart atrophied from lack of use a long, long time ago. But Aarvas Rai summons passion from Luka as easily as the Tidemaker summons waves. Of course, the sort of passion Aarvas invokes is certainly not the kind of passion anyone with a will to live to wants to be on the receiving end of. With Aarvas, gentle Luka is not so gentle, and kind Luka is not so kind; he is hotheaded, and cruel, and brash, and bitter-tongued. Arsen practically dances with glee whenever Aarvas sidles up to Luka, for the Tidemaker has a knack for inciting the ugliness in Luka that Arsen has been trying to pry from the tenderhearted boy for years now. A sinner forged in fire and a Sankt forged in water were never meant to be fast friends, surely, but the blind, consuming animosity that buzzes between the two Grisha goes beyond elemental polarity. Who does this righteous pseudo-Sankt think he is? Preaching redemption, promising salvation. Sanctimoniously hailing the Small Science as a holy relic when he should be condemning the pitiable curse. The road to hell is paved with odinakovost and etovost, and the only fate that awaits Grisha is perdition. That Aarvas Rai has crowned himself savior of all damned Grisha is laughable. They share the same curse, he and Aarvas, abominations of water and fire, and to glorify the Small Science, to laud Grisha as heroes of the new world—it’s blasphemy. Luka is irredeemable, and he seeks no salvation, no decree of absolution from the Sankts. He wants Death’s kiss, and he wishes to wait for smert in solitude (misery doesn’t love company, it seems). But Aarvas is persistent, and stubborn, and mad, and even sad soldier boys have their limits. Tread carefully, Sankt Aarvas—do you know what happens when you push an already-broken boy to his breaking point? Do you want to find out?

GLUTTONY, THY NAME IS GRISHA He’s a glutton, Luka—all Grisha are. It’s easy to forget that sweet, soft-spoken Luka once turned an entire village to ash; it’s easy to forget that gentle, quiet Luka was once so gluttonous, so eager to taste flame and soot, that he ignored his parents’ warnings like Adam ignored God’s warnings and danced with fire like Adam danced with Eve. It’s easy for you to forget, maybe, but it’s easy for Luka to remember. He remembers every day what he did all those years ago, how he surrendered to gluttony, how he fell prey to temptation; how the fire bewitched him, enchanted him, spellbound him. He’s an inferno, Luka, always burning, burning, burning, and he tries—oh, he tries—to smother, smother, smother, to quell the flames that lick at the barren wasteland of his ribcage and gnaw at his ash-laden palms. He fights this battle from dawn until dusk, each day, each night, always trying to temper himself, to douse the fire that refuses to die. He’s always rigid, always clenching his fists to keep those damnable hands of his from playing with matchsticks, always disengaging and dissociating from those around him to eliminate the catalyst of emotion. He’s a glutton, an addict, and try as he might to rehabilitate his nature, a wildfire is a wildfire is a wildfire—they must consume, or die; there is no happy medium for wildfires—no ending but death. Luka’s regimen of restraint is uncharacteristic of an Inferni, and his rather un-Grisha-like behavior is bound to draw someone’s attention, be it the Darkling’s disapproval, his peers’ judgment, or the Ravkan court’s suspicion. After all, what use is a boy of fire who refuses to play with fire? What use is a gun with a broken trigger? Wildfires must eitherconsume or die, and so, too, must Luka. Fair-weathered Grisha don’t fair well in Ravka, I’m afraid, and It’s only a matter of time before someone forces Luka’s hand in the matter. Soon, he will have to make a choice: surrender to his gluttony and reconcile with fire and flame, or perish. What’ll it be, Mravinsky? Live a sinner or die a Sankt?

HUNTED Luka’s loyalty to his bratvas is true and steadfast, but he is not truly beholden to anyone. He is too much a monster to owe fealty to otkazat’sya, and he is too full of self-loathing to owe fealty to the Darkling, soverennyi of Grisha and champion of abominations. As it stands, he is exclusively loyal to Valerian, Arsen, and Shona, but there are, unquestionably, Grisha and Ravkans alike who have their sights set on Luka Mravinsky—namely, Luka Mravinsky’s knack for razing villages. If wielded properly, he’d make for an extraordinary weapon, no? His brothers would never use him as such, but others certainly would. Rhea hunts him, and while the she-wolf is certainly the most transparent of all of Luka’s suitors, he suspects she’s not the only one waiting in line to have a go at making a proper weapon out of the Inferni. Best wishes to the fools who seek to wield Luka Mravinsky—you can’t break what’s already broken, you can’t tame what can’t be controlled, and you certainly can’t win over the heart of a brokenhearted boy.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE? Likely not, but if you admins felt strongly about using Luka’s death as a plot device, I’d certainly be open to it! (Do it for the Angst™.)

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE: “Luka.” His mothers warnings were always gentle, never stern, and even in her admonition, her maternal love shone—a bright, dazzling thing full of honeysuckle and sun. A small flame leapt from his thumb to his forefinger, dancing about like a riotous storm. He was good-natured, Luka, and obedient, too, for the most part, and so he yielded to his mother’s call, a soft “mama?” springing from his upturned lips. “Dostatochno, moya lyubov.” Enough, my love. The flame flickered once, twice.

“Luka.” Like a lark, Arsen always sings, even when they’re being cruel, but their song is rougher today, a little more exasperated than the sweet, lilting serenade Luka has grown accustomed to. A faint breeze sweeps across the Summoners’ Pavilion, and Luka is grateful, for the chill smothers the heat in his palms some, and he feels anchored once more. Arsen makes a sound of impatience, and he reaches into the bag of flint hooked onto the belt of his kefta, crooning, “Bolshe, bratva.” More, brother.

Instinct bade him to play a little more, burn a little more, destroy a little more, but his mother bade him to stop, and so he stopped. Or he’d meant to—he really had—but some wildfires cannot be quelled, and some hungers cannot be sated. It began with a single wildflower. His mother loved wildflowers, and she would’ve been sad to see her sweetling lay waste to a thing so lovely if she’d lived to bear witness to her would-be-Sankt’s mighty fall from grace. He willed the flame to jump from pink petal to pink petal, from corolla to stem, and he watched with morbid, Icarus-like fascination as fauna fell and turned to ash. It was the first lovely thing he’d ever destroyed, but it would not be the last.

Instinct bids him to bend to Arsen’s will, to indulge in his true nature, to stoke the fire he’s too long neglected. But to trust one’s instincts is to trust oneself, and Luka pities anyfool who deigns to trust Grisha. His instincts betrayed him all those years ago, and he’s since abandoned reliance on intuition, instead favoring the instruments of restraint and control, suppression and solitude. It’s safer this way. But it’s also agonizing this way, and his body aches and groans in protest, angry at being denied nourishment time and again. Hunger gnaws at his stomach, and his hooded eyes are so eclipsed by shadow that he’s beginning to resemble the Unsea. Such is the price to pay for monstrosity; such is the price to pay for penance.

The first lovely thing he destroyed was a flower; the second was a freckled girl named Irina. She was sweet-natured and sweet-toothed, and she was always cold. Her home was near the meadow of wildflowers Luka often played in, and what first consumed one wildflower next consumed a dozen of them, and then hundreds of them, and then the homes surrounding them. Like dominos, lovely flowers and lovely girls and lovely homes fell victim to the ravenous monster forged in the embers of Luka’s palms, and he watched with anguished, Atlas-like horror as home and hearth fell and turned to ash—a blazing pyre of one man’s sins, a monument to one monster’s savagery, a graveyard for one boy’s ghosts.

Arsen sighs, and it’s a mean sound, but Valerian, from across the Pavilion, pins them with narrowed eyes of daggers, and Arsen is almost immediately tempered. To Luka’s left, he sees Iskra, who’s dancing so intimately with flame that you’d think the girl and the element were age-old lovers. She speaks the archaic language of inferno, takes to flame like the stars take to shine, and she’s effortless in her art, a master of that which cannot be mastered. He isn’t sure if envies her or admires her or hates her. To his right, he sees a small crowd of Tidemakers and Squallers alike, and they watch him with a peculiar mix of pity and contempt. Sad soldier boy, they lament. Broken Grisha, they sneer. Pitiable Sankt, they sigh. His traitorous hands ache in want of liberation, but Luka is captive to the ghosts who haunt his barren ribcage, and he will never permit himself the privilege of freedom, not ever again, not even in small doses. He looks to Arsen, and then to Valerian and Shona, and he marvels at how lovely they are. The first lovely thing he destroyed was a flower; the second was a freckled girl; the last was his his family. He will destroy no more lovely things. And so he smiles, faintly and apologetically, and exits, leaving Iskra to her fire and his fellow Grisha to their judgment and his lovely brothers to their loveliness.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

Of the four bratvas, Luka is the least troublesome, but certainly not the least capable of trouble. Kinder than Arsen and gentler than Valerian and quieter than Shona, he’s often mistaken for a wingless seraph, a pitiable, impressionable boy who falls victim time and again to the whims of his bandit brothers. And although Luka is kind, and although Luka is gentle, and although Luka is quiet, he’s also wicked, and whip-smart, and dangerous. He’s less inclined than Valerian and Arsen to incite trouble, surely, but he makes a fine bratva nonetheless—always using his pretty eyes of melancholy to deflect suspicion; always using his sad birdsong to cajole victims of Arsen’s tongue and Valerian’s fists (sometimes—at Arsen’s insistent bidding—using his sad birdsong to lure prey for Arsen’s tongue and Valerian’s fists); always using his intellect to talk his brothers out of trouble. He’s lovely-looking, Luka, and no one ever expects lovely-looking things to be capable of anything but loveliness. And lovely he is, and kind he is, and gentle he is, and quiet he is. But boys of fire always burn—it’s all they know how to do; they burn, and burn, and burn. Lucky for Ravka that Luka Mravinsky drowns in misery each dawn and each dusk—pain makes for a handy leash.

Misery burgeons in darkness, and so, too, does Luka. It’s only fitting, then, that what’s outside matches what’s inside: shadows. He’s always swathed in shadows, Luka, bathed in the dreary dusk of tragedy and the moonlight of melancholy. His eyes are always rimmed with dark crescent moons—a result of his negligence, surely, for he does not stoke the inferno stowed in his palms as often as he ought to, and it shows. Rawboned, dark-eyed boy of shadows, hide your fires; let not light see your black and deep desire.

Luka is relatively neutral in matters of politics and prejudice. He holds no particular grudge against the Ravkan court, and he doesn’t subscribe to the overarching Grisha axiom of human inferiority—and why would he? Luka is a well of self-loathing, and he aches to be ordinary, to be human. He thinks himself cursed, thinks otkazat’sya lucky, and so the only ill will he feels for humans is this: envy. He remains neutral in all areas regarding the disparity between otkazat’sya and Grisha, and he has no stake in the game of politics. Because of the brotherhood he shares with Shona, he’s also quite accepting of those who hail from lands outside of Ravka.

Ravka is a treasure trove of secrets, a shrine of gossip and hearsay. Among the well of rumors that spill from lips to ears in Ravka is the great tragedy of Luka Mravinsky. He was a mystery to them at first—a sad, soot-covered orphan boy plucked from the bedlam of war. But mysteries never remain so for long, and soon, tongues were wagging about the pyro who started the great fire, wiped an entire village. “Angel smerti,” they hissed. Angel of death. “Smert kosoy,” they whispered. Reaper. And he’d been certain—so certain—that the three boys he’d learned to love as well as any monster could would hiss the same, whisper the same; leave him to perish in the hearth of his own flame. And he’d been wrong. Every cruel whisper aimed at Luka was met with a crueler barb from Arsen’s crueler tongue, and every mean hiss at Luka’s expense was met with Valerian’s meaner fists. Shona followed in suit, and soon, residents of the Little Palace (and the Grand one, too) learned not to whisper or hiss about Luka Mravinsky, for to do so was to incite the wrath of fire and storm. To this day, most who live in the Little and Grand Palaces know of Luka’s story, but few discuss it plainly for fear of the three hellhounds that follow the sad soldier boy around like guard dogs.

Because of his consuming fear of losing control again, Luka has learned to depend less on his powers than other Grisha, and he has, in turn, committed himself to the study of hand-to-hand combat. His fellow Inferni wield flame with much more precision and ease than Luka, to be sure, but there are few Grisha who can best Luka in the training room, where the use of Small Science is forbidden and Grisha must rely on fists and reflex. To maintain constant restraint, Luka trains and meditates religiously, for he finds that exercising the most human and most base parts of himself keeps him grounded (and keeps the monster in him at bay).

Much in the same way that Luka has learned to depend on hand-to-hand combat so as to relieve his dependence on flame and fire, he’s also taken to academia. Every hour spent avoiding the Summoners’ Pavillions was, in turn, spent in the Grand Palace’s library, where Luka read voraciously and studied even more so. Because of this, he’s certainly one of the more intellectual Grisha. He’s well-versed in Grisha theory and militant strategy and is able to speak Kerch, Suli, Shu, and Fjerdan as fluently as he speaks his own mother tongue.

Of course, his excellence in academia and combat training have yielded an obvious deficit in his ability to summon and wield fire. Despite his great capacity to wield flame (as is evidenced by his burning of an entire village), his obsessive need to retain control and his reluctance to call to the fire that betrayed him all those years ago make for a poor Inferni. He can’t summon nearly as well as Arsen can, and he can’t wield half as gracefully as Valerian can. Many other Etherealki sneer, call him weak-willed and bare-boned, a broken Grisha who’s about as useless as otkazat’sya. They’re wrong, of course—Luka Mravinsky might yet be one of the greatest Inferni Ravka has ever known if only he’d embrace his nature. But he’s got no qualms about the sneers and whispers, really. Better a broken Grisha than a monster.

Luka has a tattoo on his left bicep that reads: XCIII. It’s the population of his mother village; the number of people he killed, the number of ghosts that have taken up residence in his hollow body.

Luka has crossed the Unsea many times, perhaps more than any Inferni of his age. Those who don’t know him might call it a grab for glory, but those who do know Luka know that he cares nothing for glory. He has nothing to prove, and his dreams of earning the title of ‘Sankt’ have long since perished. Those who don’t know him might call it a quest for redemption, a voyage to do enough good to make up for all the bad he’s done, but Luka thinks himself irredeemable; to try to pay penance for the 92 lives he stole is, he thinks, a fruitless quest. Why, then, does the almost-Sankt so readily volunteer to travel the Unsea? Why not? Men who have nothing to lose are dangerous creatures, beings of fearlessness who know not the confines of survival or self-preservation. They call him fearless, courageous, bold—but he doesn’t care what they call him. He’s not fearless, or courageous, or bold—he’s dead, a ghost among the living. Perhaps it’s luck that he’s not yet been made a victim of the Unsea; perhaps it’s penance, a sentence of purgatory that manifests in the flush of his cheeks and the stubborn beat of his heart. Or perhaps he’s escaped the clutches of the volcra because the ghastly beasts feed only on the living, and Luka is only half-alive, too hollow to feast on. *All headcanons are, of course, subject to player discretion!

EXTRAS: You can find a mockblog for Luka here! MBTI: ISFJ. ASTROLOGY: Pisces (February 24th). HOGWARTS HOUSE: Hufflepuff. MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good.

ANYTHING ELSE? OMITTED

#raraccepted #accepted: luka

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literallyjustanerd · 7 years

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In His Eyes (Chapter 2)

Well, here I am again. Since I’m desperate for validation Since I’ve kept writing this, I thought I may as well post the rest of it so far. So, even though nobody asked for it, here’s chapter two!

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 2584 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

After another week of solitude and self-contained angst, Warren's reluctance had begun to wear away. Not through any fault of his own, of course – he had kept up his rough and unwelcoming exterior as much as he ever had. The students at the school were just far too damned persistent with their kindness. Inch by inch, little by little, Warren found himself getting comfortable around a few of the students his age. Admittedly, they all had their irritating quirks, but then, Warren imagined he must not exactly be a delight to be around, either.

It started with simple, little things: meals, mostly. He would come down to breakfast and sit silent and solemn with his bowl of cereal or slice of lukewarm toast, and the group would move to join him. At first he stayed stubbornly silent when they tried to start up a conversation, but as the days wore on, the temptation to throw in a contribution here and there grew too much to bear. He would never say so in so many words, not even to himself, but deep down he knew that he enjoyed their company, found their gossip and their laughter to be a comfort. This morning, Warren fills his bowl with cereal and milk, and sits at a table near to the window, watching the room and picking out the group he has come to count on. Like clockwork, they rise, and Warren quickly suppresses the urge to smile – baby steps, he scolds himself, don't get ahead of yourself.

"Morning, Warren," Jubilee says cheerfully, setting her tray down next to Warren's and sitting down. Warren bobs his head in response. Jean follows suit, then Scott, Ororo, Peter, and finally, Kurt. But unlike the others, Kurt does not join the chorus of greetings, sitting down silently on the edge of the table. His eyes raise, hesitant, and he smiles meekly at Warren, who can only blink back, face neutral. "The Professor says we can try the Danger Room again this afternoon, if we get through everything we have to do today," Jubilee grins, tearing her piece of toast, laden with far too much jam, in half. "Why do you always sound so excited when you say that?" comes Scott's unimpressed reply. "You know it's never as cool as you make it out to be. All they ever make us do is kiddie stuff. It's basically gym class." Jean rolls her eyes, and Warren watches her formulate a reply as she gulps down a mouthful of juice. "They can't exactly let us act out a fight like the one in Egypt straight up," she says dryly. "This is still a school, you know, they have to put our safety first. Work us up to that level." "Then maybe they shouldn't call it something as misleading as 'the Danger Room,'" Ororo counters, and Peter's voice jumps up in agreement. "Yeah. Maybe something more fitting. Like, 'the nursery,' or 'the lame room where nothing cool ever happens.'" Warren rolls his eyes with the others, and plays along with the conversation from the background, as he usually does. His thoughts drift when there is a lull in the chatter, and almost subconsciously, he twitches his wings, tentatively reaching them out and away from his body. Though all too soon, a deep stab of pain in both appendages snaps him back to reality.

For weeks in that infirmary, he'd been completely featherless – they had had no choice but to remove all the razor-sharp metal for how much it was bent, and how much it had already sliced into him in various places. And when finally, his feathers had begun to regrow, he was surprised –pleasantly, he thought, though he wasn't sure– to see the plush, pure white plumage cover his wings once more. Those who had seen him told him they liked it better that way. They said it was more natural, and more fitting of the 'Angel' moniker which Jubilee had insisted on keeping around when she'd heard about it. He had to admit, it was much more comfortable this way. Though that didn't make up for the fact that it still hurt to move them more than a few inches. Hank had said that the pain was normal. Trying to fly, or even to stretch out his wings before they had properly healed was like trying to walk on a broken leg. Which, as he'd seen during Peter's recovery, was not exactly a good idea. Still, the idea of attempting to use what had once been his most prized possession tempted him. The stiffness in his wings, the cramped sensation was akin to what he felt when he sat in one position for far too long, only far, far worse. His heart throbbed with a need to feel wind through his wings; whistling between his feathers and whirling under each swoop and circle. Freedom seemed so close now, so painfully within his reach as it hadn't been for months upon months, and yet every time he ventured to grab it, the pain brought him back down.

When the others leave to get ready for class, Warren takes himself back to his room, wondering how he will waste his time away until lunch, when he can use the excuse of hunger to be among people once more. The same routine takes place in the hours before dinner, and once that too is over, the boy retreats to his room. Kurt watches from just by the door to the dining hall as Warren stands, somewhat reluctantly, from the table. Almost subconsciously he notes that, as usual, Warren is the last one to leave, yet also the quickest to do so. Another student passes in front of Kurt, obscuring his view, and when he cranes his neck to see the table again, Warren has vanished, and Kurt is left staring at his now empty seat. An hour after everyone is asleep and the main lights have been turned out, in a moment of weakness, Warren creeps from his bedroom down the hall and downstairs to the largest living room in the mansion. The ceiling is high: high enough that exposed beams line the space below the roof with enough room in between for someone to fit quite comfortably. Silence surrounds him, the furniture of the living room no more than slightly differing layers of grey upon grey in the dark. Warren takes in a breath, and the sound fills the whole room. His eyes remain trained on the beam directly above him, lit just slightly more than the rest of the room in the weak moonlight from the window. Just one wingbeat, he coaxes himself. Just one, and you'll be up there. Moving slowly, diffidently, Warren forces his wings out, wincing through the searing pain. As much as he pushes himself, he can only manage to extend them halfway, but that, he thinks, might just be enough. Steeling himself, as he knows this part will hurt much more, he clenches his fists, and beats his wings towards the ground. For one, glorious moment, Warren can feel himself lifting, rising, the outline of the beam coming closer. His heart soars, but just as quickly, it plummets through his stomach when he realises he will not make it. Trying to move his wings, he finds that the agony now is far too much to bear, and instead of gliding gracefully to his target as, he scrabbles for the length of timber, just barely managing to get a grip strong enough to pull himself up and prevent himself from falling to what would have been a very unpleasant landing. Panting heavily, with his chest beating furiously after the close call, Warren leans to his side on the support beam that sits perpendicular to his perch and drags a hand through his mess of blond curls. He curses himself, curses his own arrogance and brashness, and tries to push aside the voice asking just how he planned to get his smart ass down, thanking the gods that at least nobody had been present to witness his humiliation. Though halfway through this thought, as he surveys the ceiling space around him, his eyes lock with two glinting yellow orbs in the corner, and he almost falls backwards off the beam before his mind clicks and his shoulders slump even further.

"Kurt," he says simply, the word coming out shakier than he had meant it. "Warren," comes the uncertain reply. Neither boy speaks, and Warren watches the yellow globes flick in and out of existence as Kurt blinks. Finally, Kurt moves, and though Warren squints to see him, he can make out nothing but Kurt's eyes until he settles directly next to Warren. Kurt breathes, and then, so does Warren. "You were trying to fly?" "Yeah." "…That was stupid." "Yeah." Warren thinks he should say more, feels compelled to fill the strange silence, and in the absence of anything fitting, he forces something out. "I thought I could make it up here alright," he says, looking downwards at the 30-foot drop below him. "But Hank said you shouldn't–" "I don't care what Hank said." Kurt pulls his knees to his chest, movements steady and unhesitant. He is at home up here, that much is apparent to Warren, much more than he himself is. "It must be hard, not being able to fly like you used to," the boy muses, keeping his voice low. Warren nods, and for a moment wonders if Kurt can see the gesture in the dark, but just as quickly makes the assumption that, with those eyes, he probably can. "What about you? What are you doing out here?" he asks. "I like to come out here alone sometimes," Kurt answers. "I think better at night." "Yeah, well. Guess it's right there in the name, huh?" Kurt gives a half-hearted laugh, one that leaves Warren unsure if he has just crossed some sort of line. But Kurt speaks on, so he pushes the question from his mind. "Back when I was with the circus," he begins, "I would only leave the camp at night. With my skin, I'm almost invisible in the shadows. It was the only time I could be out and not fear being seen by people outside the circus." "So what if you were seen?" Warren shrugs, though even as the words leave his mouth, he knows the answer. Kurt's breath shakes as he inhales. "They thought I was a demon," he says. "I was hunted."

The word hangs in the air, thickening the tension between the two. Something about the way Kurt speaks hints to Warren that although he has practiced these words many times in his head, he has never before said them out loud. There is a small part of Warren's mind that tells him to say something sympathetic, to apologise. But that part of him is small, and withered, a mere echo in the background of a sullen, hostile cavern. "How long had you been fighting in that cage before our fight?" Warren is grateful to Kurt for changing the subject, and shakes himself back to reality, forcing his throbbing wings shut to they rested flat against his back. "About three months. But while I was there I lost track." "How did you get there?" "I was on vacation with my parents in France. I went out one night after a fight with my dad. I– I just wanted to find a place I could stretch my wings for a while." He falters, the words giving away and his many insecurities flooding back in. He waits for a few seconds for Kurt to tell him to continue, but there is only a calm, patient silence. Given enough time to gather himself, Warren begins to feel the strange compulsion to continue. "I thought I was alone out there, but apparently not. I circled around a field for a while, and the moment I touched back down –bam– I was knocked out. Next time I woke, they were forcing me into the cage." Something is immediately different when he finishes speaking. The air tastes different, feels different in his chest. It surprises him how sudden it is, how refreshing to have the words out of his head. "I'm so sorry," Kurt breathes, heavily. "Those people… they have no morals. No sense of human dignity."

Kurt watches Warren nod vaguely, eyes glazed with tears he would never let out, and feels yet another pang of empathy for this complicated boy. He doesn't expect it when Warren speaks again, addressing him directly this time. "And you? How did you wind up in that hellhole?" Kurt shrugs in self-deprecation, as though any story involving that horrible place could be mundane. "The circus I grew up in treated me well. I was a gymnast." "Which explains all the jumping and swinging." Kurt cracks a droll smile and nods. "Yeah. It was nice there. But then one day, the ringleader was bought out. The new owner was… not so nice. He wanted me to stay on, but only as a… what's the English word… a sideshow. A freak." "And then what happened?" The words are out of Warren's mouth before he can think about them. "When I refused, he decided I was more trouble than I was worth and sold me. That is how I ended up in that cage." The small part of Warren's mind steps forward, presses him, wants him to say the words that have lined up at his lips. When he realises he won't do it, can't do it, a pit opens in his stomach that makes him curl in on himself. Why not now? he demands of himself, digging his fingers into the skin of his chest. There couldn't possibly be a better scenario than this. Then, with more resignation: Why not ever?

"Would you like me to help you down?" Kurt's voice is jarring to Warren, and he almost doesn't hear the question at all. "Hm? Oh, right. I guess I'll have to get down sometime." "Touch me." "What?" Kurt chuckles. "Touch my skin. That way I can teleport us both down." "Oh. Right. Of course." Warren reaches out, but hesitates, hand stuttering to a stop. "It's okay," Kurt assures him. "It might make you feel a little sick, but it's over quickly." His fingers twitch, still resisting, but he forces himself to lay a hand on Kurt's arm. Before he can ask when Kurt is going to do it, Warren is on the ground once more, dizzy, staggering backwards and just barely keeping his feet. The teleporter laughs at this, and despite himself, Warren's lips pull to the sides in a feeble smile. "Wow. That was… that was a trip," he breathes. "You get used to it. It's like blinking, only you move." "I think I'll stick to actually moving for now." Kurt nods, and Warren yawns deeply. "We should go to bed," Kurt says finally, and Warren doesn't fully understand the pang of resistance in his stomach. "Yeah, I guess." "Goodnight, Warren." "Night, Kurt." Warren turns around, takes a step couple of steps, and Kurt, after watching for a moment, is about to teleport himself back to his room when Warren speaks again."

Hey, uh, Kurt?" He ventures. "Yes?" "…Thanks." Kurt smiles. "You, too." The blue-skinned boy disappears, and this time, it's Warren who is left to watch as the wisp of smoke dissipates in the space he had been.

#i know i'm sorry please just humour me #i love these idiots so much #drabble #nightangel #in his eyes #kurt wagner x warren worthington iii #kurt wagner #nightcrawler #angel #archangel #warren worthington #warren worthington iii #x men #x-men #xmen #x-men: apocalypse #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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ofsilverevents-blog · 7 years

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DATE: March 19th TIME: 1PM LOCATION: Palace Gathering Hall

No one sees it coming, the end of the world.

ORION CALORE stands before the crowd of people gathered once again to hear his voice cascade over the people of Norta. They’ve been waiting not for what feels like years, the women having been told from birth that this moment was to be the one they were raised for, the one moment in time that they had to shine, even if they spent the rest of their life in the shadows. They crowd together, shoulders knocking against shoulders as they all push and shove, desperate for a good view of the new Flame of the North.

“ People of Norta, I come before you today to announce what exactly it is that Crownstrial will consist of. ” There are murmurs, of course, little things spoken in hushed tones under a person’s breath; some that whisper devotion to the new king and some that whisper he’s filled with pure madness, a kind of idiocy that only a young man can have. “ There will be three trials that contestants must not only complete, but succeed in. They will fall under the categories of body, mind, and heart, none of which will be easy. Some contestants will win one category, while others may defeat them in another. Whoever does best in all three and also wins the hearts of the people will become my partner under the weight of the crown. ”

He pauses then, unsure of whether or not he has more than he wants to say. His half-sister, EVELINA NOR, gives him an encouraging smile from her place at the front of the crowd, one that says You’re doing great, Ri. Don’t worry. She’s always been a flower girl, nothing like the snake that surround her.

It’s glorious, for a few moments, a king taking in the gazes of his people. But then it is not.

He cuts his speech short, a man willing to leave his people playing more and more guessing games. ORION CALORE is just beginning to walk away from his podium when it happens. His back is turned, feet carrying him down the stairs and away from his people when two enormous flashes go off in quick succession, their timers just out of sync. He is surrounded on all sides by guards before he can even realize that they have been attacked.

Suddenly EVELINA’S smile has faded from her face, the bomb hidden inside of the king’s podium having gone off only inches away from her. In an attempt to save their best friend. NARCISA WELLE dives towards the baseborn daughter, only to doom them both to a dark fate.

ADELINE CALORE and her lady-in-waiting, ROMILLY GLIACON, are blown backwards from their place at the edge of the stage, the bomb having gone off a few feet in away from them. CALDER GLIACON sees the both of them fall from their place upon the stage, watches as each of them falls from grace backwards into some state of oblivion where he can see neither. There are too many faces between them for him to see where they’ve landed ( Damnit, he knew he should’ve been standing closer. ). Instead he finds the hands, usually so tender and full of a intentional kind of gentility, of NYSSA SAMOS wrapping around his own forearms like a vice grip.

JACALYN BLAKE and PORTIA BARNES stand behind the stage, watching in horror as those they serve are blown back by the impact. The impact strikes them too, but Portia is hit harder than Jack, her head knocking into the floor and her body limp. She is alive, but wounded, and Jack rushes to her side before a searing sensation stops her from helping further. Her back feels as though something is clawing its way out, and she screams, terrified and in pain. She falls to her knees, and the sight spurs GALEN DEAN from the fringes of the room, unharmed but concerned for her as most in the vicinity focus only on the royals. There is something strange about the bones around her spine, something unnatural, and it becomes apparent that the bomb is not the only unexpected event of the day.

None of them have ever know such terror.

MELODY WALSH had been bringing out more pastries to decorate the ever decadent tables when the flash of light came, followed by a deafening crack of red and yellow flame that seems to engulf the place the new king had once been standing. Perhaps by chance, or perhaps the fate’s have dug their hand’s into the situation and thrust like souls together, CALISTA EAGRIE finds herself in the arms of Melody, having been thrust into the other girl with the force of the blast. There is dust on her face and ash in her lungs and she is blinded by the smoke in the room.

THELONIOUS GRECO, half-deaf ( as, it would seem, are so many others ) from the blast, does not hear KASSIOPEA NOLLE shouting for him from across the gathering hall. They’re all desperate to know why this has happened, but the time for running was now, not for questioning, and so she runs from the room, plowing directly into AREUM MARINOS who has clearly by struck by the blast, her body covered in wounds from flying shrapnel. THELONIOUS, instead of searching for his comrades, finds himself preoccupied with saving everyone nearest to him. He happens upon a battered SURIEL ARVEN, who collapses into Theo’s arms, his leg unable to carry his weight any longer. They both are trying to make their way through the destruction when none other than NICOLAUS LARIS stumbles into them, desperate to grab onto Theo’s other side. He misses, however, and crumbles to the ground where he hits his head on a broken piece of cement.

He was dead on impact.

Meanwhile, OCTAVIAN RHAMBOS is drawn away from the crowds trampling and into a side hallway, one just adjacent to the gathering hall; he thinks it is meant for servants. Low and behold, he finds none other than DIEM HYNSON struggling to lift rubble off of a young red boy -- TATE WHITCOMB, whose pulse is slowly petering out into dead silence. There is a moment where he pauses -- does he run and save him self, or does he stay and potentially face the wrath of another bomb? In the end he resolves himself to step forward and help this red girl save her compatriot.

There’s slice cutting its way across EIRA JACOS’ clavicle, making its way from the base of her neck to her shoulder, as she goes in desperate search of her betrothed. In a rush to find him among the chaos, however, she runs right into the unwelcoming arms of RAHUL PROVOS. Gracelessly, they both fall to the ground, RAHUL crying out has their shoulder makes some kind of snapping noise when it hits the ground

In the end, there is only destruction. There, among the rubble and decay, sit three lost souls. EMORY and LEIRA OSANOS cradle their mother, still gasping for breath as wooden fragments ravage her abdomen, not a single blood healer in sight. It would seem they’ve all been whisked to the side of the king, who must be protected at all costs, apparently.

But perhaps the worst of all is MARIUS CALORE as they hold in their arms the weight of a soul who met its maker the moment the bomb went off, EVELINA CALORE, a flower trampled, never to grow back. First they lost a father, and now a sister. How were the people to take the Crown seriously when they kept dropping like flies?

In all the chaos, no one sees the little red girl with a can of red paint in her hands, staining her fingertips with crimson retribution. She pulls a paint brush from her smock and in huge letters upon the stage where Orion once stood, she paints these words:

WE ARE COMING.

A guard tackles the little thing just as she puts the final dot at the end -- a promise of worse to come. They’ll say it was the Scarlet Guard, this act of terrorism, a radical and callous act of bloodshed. If only they knew how wrong that was.

Everyone has scattered, it would seem, running through the castle like rabid mice, like the vermin their attackers know they are. There are countless wounded, so many that there is no way the skin healers will be able to get to them all in time, especially not as guards usher silvers into the bunkers beneath the castle; skin healers are in short supply, and they can only be in one place at a time. The dead are all around, mother’s and father’s, children, friends -- everyone has lost someone, something that binds them to happiness.

If someone would just squint through the smoke and the flames, they would see a smile, a devious, devastating little thing. They lurk in the shadows like the master puppeteers they are. While everyone runs around frantically, like birds with their heads cut off, the others standing outside in the gardens, safe from the flames in the warm embrace of sunlight.

A red boy runs up to his masters, his chest heavy with the weight of dead souls and falling ash.

“ Did the Flame survive? ” she questions, her head tilting downwards to meet the eyes of her servant.

“ Yes, my Lady; he cut his speech short. ”

“ No matter, ” she begins, the twist of her mouth saying she would have preferred him dead. There is nothing brash about the woman standing there now. She stands, spine straightened, her deception like poisonous belladonna in the hands of fate.

“ The little king is rapidly running out of luck. ”

The event will be from March 19th to March 26th.

It will begin at 1PM Eastern with the characters having just gathered in the hall.

Additional information can be found below the cut.

Hello members — As you have read above, this is an event that effects everyone. Anybody who liked this post should be mentioned somewhere above, as well as any New Bloods (who must be present for their abilities to trigger), but if not send the main a message and one of us admins will make sure to edit your character in. Additionally, if you did not like the post mentioned and you now want your character involved, send us a message and we’ll come up with something for you. A couple of things that need mentioning:

NEW BLOODS HAVE ALL BEEN TRIGGERED. A post with a list of those characters abilities will be posted separately later tonight.

There are many people who died during this attack, but in canon we’ve only killed LADY OSANOS, EVELINA CALORE, NICOLAUS LARIS, and NARCISA WELLE. If you would really like, you may message the main and ask permission for a parent and / or servant of your character to have undergone some serious injuries as well.

Dates for this event may be tagged anytime from MARCH 19th to MARCH 25th. Flashback threads of course may occur, and threads may be played out from previous events, but any new starters should occur within these dates.

Starters can be anything from your characters during Orion’s speech about Crownstrial, to the bomb itself, or your character in the bunkers below the castle where the guards have ushered (almost) everyone.

This attack was not the work of the Scarlet Guard, but they are currently the most likely suspect. This should be a hot topic for discussion.

If your character was mentioned as having injuries, the exact extent to which they are injured is entirely up to you as the mun.

We’ve done our best to more or less place all of the characters into pairings for what is going on during the bomb, and therefore would love to see these interactions played out either on the dash, or your may do it in a chatzy if you wish -- we just ask that you post a final script to the dash so that we can read and enjoy!

#ofsilverevent

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whispering-sumire755 · 6 years

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Loving Without Time To Love At All | (Explicit)

Pairing: Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy

Summary: After he's gone back and time and stopped Voldemort from ever beginning, Harry is left one day before his actions cause him to cease to exist. -.-.- [Or: The one where Harry Potter hugs everyone.]

Word Count: 2,910

A/N: Fuck, I don't know. I did a thing? I love any and all of you who read this, hugs to the gorgeous unicorns who like, glomps and kisses to the amaze-balls brave ass motherfuckers who reblog. You're all beautiful and I don't deserve any of you. -.-.- [PS: If you have a Prompt for me leave me an Ask ;)]

Lily Potter has never seen war, neither has she seen her beautiful, lovely son with long hair, and she had seen him just yesterday when he'd visited for dinner. Now he stands before her, in her house, and he looks so very different than the son she knows, the one she'd raised. His hair curls and settles unruly around his shoulders, just past his waist. He has eyes like molten metal for all that they are usually bright and open like the sky. He looks haunted. Why does her baby boy look this way? Distant, cold, broken, rough jagged edges discarded for something as strong as can be mustered when you pull yourself together by force of will even when there's barely anything left.

And why is he looking at her like he's never seen her before in his life? Like she's something he could kneel before and worship? Like she's something long since lost? What's happened since she last saw him? So many questions, normally she'd ask them all, expect an answer and a smile, but she can't. She's too terrified of the answer.

"Your hair is longer," she says instead, because she knows she at least should say something, for all that she's at a loss for words. He takes a shaky little breath, and then he's on her, holding her in his arms like she's the most precious fragile thing he's ever touched, and she really has no idea what to do about that. So she hugs him back, she pretends not to hear the broken whimper or feel the little shiver, and she hugs him as fiercely as she can as she tries to think pleasant thoughts.

She had never thought she'd be willing to raze the Earth, to kill thousands of innocent people if it meant destroying the right one. But right now she feels particularly murderous, and she thinks she'll need to reevaluate exactly who she is later, because she's sure that if she knew who made Harry like this within the span of a day she'd tear their throat out with her teeth, never mind the taste.

James doesn't really know what to make of his son showing up at his office in the middle of a workday, and is about to tell him to 'Bugger off, I'll see you at dinner, I have work to do,' until he sees his face and is stopped cold. He's an Auror, he's seen eyes like that, normally on much older agents, normally on the faces of people who drink the days away and scream the whole night through and never ever forget a single terrible thing they've seen but smile and say they've survived all the same, even if no one else has. Even if no one else would want to. Seeing eyes like that on his son is more than heartbreaking.

And it should be impossible.

So he does the only thing he can do. He goes right up to him and asks what's wrong, what happened? Harry just gives him a ghost of a smile and says: "I saved the world, dad."

And he looks like he really did. In fact, he looks like he did far more than that. And then James has an armful of Harry Potter, no real answers despite the one given, and no idea what to do. He wonders exactly how much it would cost someone to save the world, and then he wonders why it had to be his son who did it, and then nothing else matters because Harry is shaking and making wet little whimpers into his shoulder.

He hugs him back, because of course he does.

If he's in the middle of his workplace in full view of all of his peers with wet eyes and lips reed-thin from terror and anger, no one mentions it, and no one reminds him of it later, after Harry's left.

Sirius Black has not seen his godson in a fortnight, not because he didn't want to per se, but because they both led rather busy lives, and Harry wasn't one to show up at his shoddy, dusty little apartment. Always saying he needed a better place if he wanted the company, though the words were never said with heat. So, imagine his surprise when Harry apparates in with very long hair and better posture and a dim smile that speaks of a strange loyalty Sirius doesn't remember ever having earned.

"Padfoot," Harry says in greeting, though he has never called him that before, and the word sounds heavy, like it means more than the breath it took to say it. Harry looks like he's been through hell, and Sirius has no qualms telling him so. Harry just throws his head back and laughs. It's a laugh Sirius has never heard before, and he wonders why it reminds him of rain. Bright green eyes sparkle when they meet his, and then he's being hugged with a strength he had no idea his godson had even possessed.

It feels warm and scared and sad and just as heavy as the appellation he'd used earlier. Sirius wonders at the sudden urge he has to go into battle for this boy, and hugs him back with the same rib-bruising enthusiasm, although it takes both their breaths away.

It's much more peaceful than it has any right to be.

Harry Potter was an intelligent peer, and someone they cheered for during Quidditch matches simply because he played for their team, but he wasn't necessarily a friend, and tonight is date night. Suffice it to say both Hermione and Ron are very confused, and a little more than irritated when he knocks on their door. They invite him in anyway, or at least Hermione does, and when Ron gives her a look of incredulous exasperation, she gives him a shrug like she's not entirely sure why she did it either.

He looks them both up and down, like he's checking for injuries, for scars. He searches their eyes like he's looking for pain, or familiarity. The oddest thing is, maybe that's exactly what he was looking for. He's a strong presence, stronger than he ever was in school, and he shares space with them like he's known them for years, like it's his right to worry for them. Somehow the whole thing shocks them both into silence. He gives a curt nod after, like he's happy with the results of his silent interrogation of their souls, and it really does feel like he's seen their souls at this point, and then does something else entirely unexpected, he asks about the twins.

Ron gapes for a moment or two, and then reluctantly tells him they're fine even when he'd expected himself to say 'None of your business twat, fuck off'. Hermione smirks, because now she isn't the only one catering to a man neither of them know, neither of them should care enough to talk to. Especially on bloody date night.

Harry just grins, and there's something like mischief in his eyes, like he knows exactly the kind of people the twins are, like he knows just how much trouble they're getting into right this minute and is absolutely delighted that they're in good enough health to get into it.

Then, he does something even more preposterous. He hugs them both. He hugs them like he's been hugging them forever and there's nothing at all wrong with it. Like it's not even the least bit disturbing.

Ron squawks, but his body, almost against his will, leans into it. He wants to punch Harry, and he wants to cry, and he feels a bit like he's coming home when he breathes in wildflowers and winter and dust. He doesn't understand any of it. Doesn't understand how his unerring possessive streak is awkwardly absent when Harry lets him go and turns to do the same to Hermione. Doesn't understand why his cheeks are wet and he desperately wants to tell Harry to stay, because he knows, he just knows Harry is going to go, the bloody idiot.

When Harry leaves and Hermione's face crumples into tears, and her fists curl in frustration, he holds her and he doesn't ask why. Neither of them knows why. It just hurts a little too much, and their hearts are a little too full and a little too empty at the same time, because that was a stranger.

That was their friend.

And now he's gone.

Draco had an [un]friendly rivalry with Potter during their stint at Hogwarts, and despite a few hormone induced wet-dreams, was perfectly fine never seeing him again. Honestly, he really thought he never would. Still, there he is, in all his glory, leaning his hip against Draco's desk in an oddly relaxed, cat-like manner. None of the lights are turned on, but the window behind him is leaking moonlight around his head like a halo, and his eyes are gleaming in a meaningfully heated way.

Gone are the glasses, the arrogance, the innocence, and the shortest, most unattractive hair he'd ever seen. His hair is gorgeous, now, long and tangled and smooth and, he thinks, soft. Harry used to be tall and brash and loud with everything, but, now, he looks contemplative, humble, he makes himself smaller like he thinks something will attack him if he's bigger than he ought to be in spirit or in space. It's so very different that Draco is left wondering what made him that way. What, or who, rather, changed that strong unbreakable boy and turned him into a man who is... Broken? Broken but alive, survived, strong. This strength is different than whatever strength he had before.

Draco imagines this is the strength of someone who has killed to get out on the other side with breath still in his lungs. That bright shiny novelty of someone who has never killed or used cunning or had to steel himself for the worst despite everything is gone, replaced with honor, and prayer, and hope that probably tastes more bitter than the blackest coffee. Draco does not know Harry Potter, and is not someone who normally gleans so much from just one glance, but as soon as he looks Harry in the eyes, he understands him more than he's ever understood anyone in his entire life.

Maybe it was all just in his imagination. He kind of wishes it was, though he already knows it wasn't. Because Harry Potter looks like a soldier who left his soul on the battlefield and he's looking at Draco like maybe Draco can lead him back to it, and that is frightening, because that shouldn't be Harry. Never was Harry.

Harry moves away from his desk to take a step closer, says nothing, face unreadable.

"What are you doing here Potter?" Draco asks, standing his ground, although there shouldn't be anything intimidating about the way Harry silently stalks another step closer.

And then another.

Draco swallows with a click. Feels heat curl in his gut. Wonders if this is some sort of spell. Wonders if turning the lights on will break it.

Another step, and Draco's mouth goes dry. He decides the lights can stay off.

Two seconds later and his heart is in his throat while Harry is inches away from him, their breath mingling, making what little air there is between them warm and damp.

The kiss isn't entirely unexpected, but time stops for it anyway. It isn't chaste. It isn't calm, or small, or wanton. It's meaningful, it's desperate, and wet, and violent, and teeth and copper and tongues tangling while Harry presses flush against him and wraps his arms around his neck and moans in a deep, throaty way. Draco can't help that his hands end up in Harry's hair, or the pleased noise that escapes him when he finds, hey, it really is soft.

He'll never remember how they managed to get to the bed, or how, when their clothes disappeared. He's glad for it, however it happened.

"Draco," Harry pants, whines, directs his fingers to a very delicate place, and spreads his legs wide. Draco doesn't suppress the shiver that comes at the realization of what he's asking for, or the rush that comes with the realization that, yes, they really are doing this. Harry mutters something under his breath as he writhes under him, and Draco is suprised to find his fingers suddenly lubricated.

He didn't even use a wand.

That should not be as hot as it apparently is.

"Is this what you want?" Draco asks with a smirk, sliding one finger in, carefully, slowly. He teases it in and out, making Harry groan, wiggle helplessly, try to fuck himself onto the intrusion, gasp a plea when Draco removes it. "You want me inside of you?"

"Always," Harry sighs, brushing strands of pale blonde hair back with nimble fingers. He's looking up at Draco like... like Draco is everything he's ever wanted, like he's joy, and hope, and happiness, and family. Like he's more. Draco freezes, his breath hitching, because Harry's smiling at him now, and that smile is so helpless, hopeless, sad, and in love that Draco really thinks he might cry.

"Harry," he breathlessly, tremulously, says, in a wet voice that tells him the tears are already falling. He can't stop them. He can't stop this. He can't stop any of it. Harry shushes him, pulls him in for a kiss that only lovers should share, slow and languid and full of futures that have yet to be lived, the unspoken promise that they will be, together. Draco finds himself kissing back, giving, taking. He finds himself allowing this, and wanting it.

They kiss while his fingers open Harry up, and they moan, and they writhe, and they grind together until they're both desperate, clinging to each other.

"Please, please, Draco, please," Harry begs in-between intimate kisses and whimpers and ragged breaths in the dark. Draco hesitates for one more second, thrusts into Harry's prostate one more time, and then he's exchanging his fingers for his dick, and Harry is smiling at him like this is the most beautiful, wonderful thing he's ever experienced in his life. Draco really has to agree.

It's slow, saccharine sweet, and filled with kisses and throaty sounds and more than a few tears. There is more emotion here than Draco could ever properly express out loud, because there just aren't words for this. It feels like making love, like breaking apart with no intention of putting yourself back together again. Harry's legs are wrapped around his waist and his hands are running up and down his ribs, leaving tantalizing little scratches on his back. Draco's arms are bracketing his head, and they're both moving against each other, lips sliding, not exactly kissing anymore, just sharing space, like they can't fathom any part of their bodies not touching.

When Harry comes, clenching, shivering, trembling and sweat-slick, Draco can't help but following right after, leaping off of the precipice without abandon. The pleasure ripples through him and leaves white-hot sparks crowding out his vision. When they're done, sated and sticky, he moves to get off of Harry, to get something to get them both clean, but Harry, however boneless his orgasm made him, manages to tighten his grip.

"Stay," he says in a small shiver voice, "stay with me, please, stay, stay," he's chanting, begging, and Draco thinks that if he leaves him like this right now, Harry might just shatter. Fragile as glass. Suddenly getting clean doesn't matter at all.

"Okay," he says, kissing away salt from Harry's cheeks and wanting fiercely to protect this man from every harmful thing in the world. "Jesus, Harry, okay," he says again, and lets himself go loose in the embrace of his lover, who just accepts all of his weight like it's nothing. He falls asleep to the feeling of a smile pressed against his temple, and heat around his body, and a tinny, coppery, little "Thank you," that makes his chest ache in ways he can't even comprehend.

When he wakes up, he's clean, his sheets are clean, and the only thing left that tells him it wasn't a dream is the taste of salt and cherries and snow still on his tongue. But he knows, knows with a surety that makes him want to weep or to kill, that he will never see that Harry Potter again, for all that it took one insane, romantic, lust-addled night to fall completely in love with him.

He groans into his pillow, and swallows back the new tears that form, not for himself, but for a man he's beginning to think no longer exists.

He has no idea how right he is.

Still, never would he allow himself to be called anything but a man of action.

Harry, a Harry who has never seen a cupboard under the stairs or a scar on his forehead or a battlefield full of corpses, is more than a little bemused at the sight of a dolled up Draco Malfoy with a bouquet of flowers in hand. The flowers are apparently for him, along with an invite to a date that's even more surprising than that one time one of his students accidentally turned his desk into a thousand bees. Very angry bees.

Harry doesn't really know why he finds himself saying yes.

But he does.

#drarry #harry x draco #draco malfoy #harry potter #time travel #fanfic #fix-it fic #au

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nikotortorella · 6 years

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“we are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheelsof injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.”

in this small transparent small town, tomas fiorello was a fresh-faced, respected rookie officer. his only career goals were to serve and protect this community; while someday becoming the sheriff of this quaint town. if he was a lucky man, maybe he’d settle down after seeking out a beautiful wife and aide her in squeezing out a few kids. these were just a few aspirations the man shared amongst his comrades and he never expected to find love in this wicked dangerous world.

that’s when he realized he spoke too soon.

isabella fiorello was the sort of woman who can enamor an entire room with just one glance. everyone adored the woman and she never entertained enemies. how could she? those attractive lips, always spoke words of kindness. those lovely eyes, always sought out the good in people. that slim figure was always there to share food with the hungry. that beautiful amber hair was there to let children run their fingers through it as she comforted them. her poise - well that was the most comforting thing about her. it reminded men that they’d never walk alone.

she was the one.

the woman who hung stars in his eyes and made him see reason when there was none. loving her would never become obsolete. that’s when the officer decided to chase her to the ends of the earth; ultimately winning her hand in marriage.

“there is an innocence in admiration: it occurs in one who has not yet realized that they might one day be admired.”

brandt was the singular child born unto tomas and isabella fiorello. as their son, he was born into a circle of colorful warmth and tender love. this was how every child should be welcomed into this world. it made him feel special. maybe even untouchable.

as he grew into his features and took his first steps, brandt developed a close relationship with his father. he admired him on so many levels and that was expected. how was his father not cool? the man was a police officer! someone who tackled crime and protected those who couldn’t help themselves.

sadly, others (especially adults) struggled desperately with fiction, demanding constantly that it conform to the rules of everyday life. they demand to know how superman can possibly fly, or how batman can possibly run a multibillion-dollar business empire during the day and fight crime at night? what was humorous about this topic of conversation was that it was obvious to even the smallest child: it’s not real.

there was no such thing as a damn superhero! the closest thing we’d ever experience to an actual superhero is that of normal hero. someone like tomas fiorello, who patrolled these streets at night and protected this town from those who wanted to see it burn. that was the kind of person that brandt could emulate and truthfully, he wanted to.

“if you have a wife and she dies, do you stop saying that you have one? or are you always married, even when the other half of the equation is gone?”

it’s the saddest thing one could experience in this world.

he remembered watching as his mother took her last breathe in the hospital. her untimely end coming far too soon and robbing them from a lifetime of memories together. brandt remembered how incomplete he felt and how depressing it was to watch his father weep. this wasn’t fair = then again when was life ever fair?

the funeral was worse and he remembered how he felt as the coffin was lowered into the ground. it hit him hard. he’d never be able to see her again. not in person.

his father squeezed his hand; reminding him to stop whining as his free hand smeared the tears from his eyes. brandt was no fool. his father was drunk and the smell of whiskey radiated from his pores. this was not the man that raised him. the man who made him feel safe, secure, and proud.

tomas fiorello was broken and there was nothing that brandt could do to fix him.

“the human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. what’s left of kisses? wounds, however, leave scars.”

brandt was the teenager that everyone gravitated towards. his presence easily reminded others of his mother. her grace, her kindness, and her looks. in some ways, one could easily think that her presence was felt here upon this hallowed ground.

he was after all her spitting image.

unlike his mother - his optimism was beaten down by his father. maybe it wasn’t right to remind the drunken man of the woman who had passed away so soon? it was inhumane to think that someone once so proud would hurt their son; however there were a few scars that proved such dangerous accusations were possible.

thankfully, brandt had friends who kept him sane and level-headed. then again, maybe friends weren’t the right term? these boys were like brothers to him. individuals who were like-minded and balanced him out in the right ways. hell. they didn’t even mind that he was a bit whimsical and benevolent.

it was the support system that he needed; especially when his initial framework fell apart. they’d never realize how thankful he was and mostly because he was too proud.

“for what it’s worth: it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. i hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you find you’re not, i hope you have the strength to start over again.”

they had to be kidding?

it took him almost a month to realize that they weren’t fooling around. his friends wanted him to become a police officer and serve beside them. the trio was really considering on making a big move and showing everyone that they were wrong about them.

most importantly - they fed his ego.

this was brandt fiorello’s last chance! he could become a police officer, make his drunk-bastard father proud and truly make a difference in this world. it was a scary transition but with some support from his friends - he could achieve this.

so he enlisted.

then he graduated.

lastly, brandt fiorello was fired.

along with his friends.

“so we can’t start a fire. we can’t fly. we can’t create a force field. we are the most bullshit superheroes.”

he liked the night.

without the dark in their miserable lives, they’d never see the stars. or the cosmic justice in the works. when the three boys were fired from their jobs, they were forced to consider the many reasons as to why this transpired? it could have had something to do with brandt accidentally cuffing himself to a pole; or the one time his friend punched their captain in the face and the other wrecking a police cruiser.

they were decent cops - rough around the edges - but overall decent.

what they hadn’t counted on was brandt’s father coming into the station and asking that all three officers be terminated. they also didn’t think the man’s word still held so much power and that’s ultimately what ruined them.

speaking of cosmic justice - tomas fiorello died. one month later from liver failure. brandt didn’t take this so hard. not like he took the death of his mother. eventually the man he once admired; was merely gone and all that he would take from him was the scars created by his abuse.

brandt did put his great mind to work though.

he decided to use his newly obtained police officer skills to create a private investigation firm with his best friends. the kind they made movies about! where agents were paid to follow cheating husbands around and find those who had gone missing. oddly enough, business was good in madison cove, texas.

and it appeared that he became his own personal hero.

FRIENDSHIPS

brandt has lived in madison cove, his entire existence and everyone seems to know his parents. his father was once a respected police officer; while his mother was an activist who nurtured those around town who were less fortunate. most know brandt as a failed cop (due to his father) and now he’s a private investigator. he’s sort of a troublemaker but most of his pranks and jokes are in good fun. he’s a grown adult who always wants someone to help him; even with the simplest of tasks. bran is also the sort of person who will accept almost anything as normal, especially once it’s been explained to him. by nature - he’s extremely positive, bubbly, and loves constant positive feedback. he’s the sort of friend whose emotionally clingy and will always find a way to make someone socialize with him. he’s usually very naive and can be exceptionally warm. however - it’s not uncommon for him to be brash or moody. he loves this life and though his youth was somewhat troublesome; he’ll attempt to make the most of any situation. he’s just that that chill man whose sometimes led into some risky trouble and has way too much fun for a responsible adult. there will soon be a request about his friends.

ROMANCE

bran can find happiness with any lover. gender doesn’t really stress him out and he’s always been attracted towards personality. looks aren’t really important to him and he’d rather focus on someone’s heart in the end. maybe that’s his very naive nature at work? anyone who dates him - will need to be ready for a full force commitment because he needs validation in almost anything that he does. he’s always sought approval from those he’s closest to and sometimes that can get messy? maybe that’s why his relationship are a little complicated and he tends to avoid them. brandt likes to think he can control his emotions and act in others best interests but that’s not always true. all he wants is passion, excellent sex, and many cuddle sessions. there are no future romances planned for him. however - the drama is always fun!

EXTRA

it’s very possible that brandt has made his fair share of enemies. as a terrible ex-cop and now a private investigator; he’s been involved in many conflicts. he’s had a many of fist fights, someone stole his handcuffs and used them against him, and he’s exposed the secrets of others. also during his youth - he was sort of troubled and his friends got him involved in some risque situations. nothing that caused much harm but it’s still an annoyance. in addition - it would be neat to write out some private investigator scenarios. if any writer has any ideas; feel free to suggest them to me!

#c: brandt fiorello #application

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