#remind me to never draw wings again though
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the entity himself ✨
#grian#hermitcraft#hermitcraft s9#my art#ahhh this took forever and a half#but i'm proud of how it turned out! taught me a lot about shading#especially since i wanted him to look like he was made out of stone completely#looooots of looking at statues for references#remind me to never draw wings again though#(i say while shoving my current wip which contains more wings under the pile)
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in sickness, to cherish
foreword: so excited to release this lil’ babe into the world. PTSD and trauma healing is of special interest to me, I hope you enjoy 💖 (p.s. from my limited research I don’t think they would have used a heart monitor for low-risk patients but it is literally integral to my plot so I’m breaking my anachronistic purity rule. soz)
wc: 3k
cw: descriptions of seizure, PTSD + hospital/medical trauma for the whole gang, brief mention of non-consensual drugging, R is referred to once as “Mrs” & “girlfriend”, angst w/ comfort
___
The mounted clock on the wall of the dingy Hawkins Memorial waiting room ticks over to nine PM, a brutal reminder that time (for everyone else, at least) has not, in fact, stopped.
Nine o’clock. As you pace from one end of the plastic chair-lined aisle to the other, you run the numbers in your head, fingers spastic at your sides- it’s nine right now, and Steve was admitted just after six, which means they’ve been running tests for three hours, even though the charge nurse said it should only take one…
”You wanna step outside for a smoke?”
Eddie speaks up from his seat at the end of the row, catching your bleary gaze before you’re turning on your heel again to complete your looping track.
His voice cuts smoothly over the buzzing fluorescents, the old television in the corner droning with last week’s news cycle; it’s enough to disrupt Robin from her half-sleep against Eddie’s shoulder, blinking into consciousness and stretching her stiff limbs as you respond.
“No, thanks.” Your hands slip to the inside of your elbows, squeezing through layers of soft cardigan in a near-bruise, feet continuing the rhythmic pacing. “You can go, though- I’ll make sure Robin comes to get you if anything happens.”
Eddie clears his throat, sinking back into the hard plastic, rings clicking at the armrests. “Nah, I’m good without one. Just thought you’d want a change of scenery, maybe some fresh air would calm-”
“I’m staying here.”
There’s a sharpness to your voice, a rarity- Robin winces, fingers in her lap twisting and fidgeting as she tries to change the subject. “God, Steve’s gonna be spitting mad when he wakes up. He’s the most doctor-adverse person I know.”
Eddie latches on to this with a humorless chuckle- “Stubborn bastard. Wouldn’t let those lab goons go near him, even after last year-”
“Fuck.” The swear comes from the bottom of your toes, even as you swivel on the balls of your feet to loop back in front of your friends; their faces snap to you, a blur of motion as you pass them again- “You’re right. Steve fucking hates doctors. I should’ve-”
Your next breath comes stilted, fingers a vice-grip on your own arms as you pace, pace, pace- “I should’ve treated this like taking a dog to a vet. Crushed up some pills in his food, or something- he never listens to me when I nag him about his hearing getting worse- do you know how many meals, how many glasses of water we share, every day?”
From the corner of your hazy vision, Robin’s gone still and pale, her voice tremulous- “I didn’t mean to imply- this isn’t your fault, you know-”
But you’re not ready to hear that, guilt surfacing like a sick wave, tears pooling, moments away from spilling over, voice trembling with anguish- “Could’ve been so easy, tell him we’re going for a ride, load him up into the passenger seat, he goes to sleep and I could’a passed him right off to a doctor, to someone who could have prevented this-”
Eddie rises from his seat to stand in the middle of your path, hands lifting to soothe and appease, but you’re still in flight mode, like a bird beating its wings against the confines of its cage.
You flinch away from his touch, standing with your back turned to them both, staring out the dark window, unseeing. “You know what Steve said to me? Right before he hit the ground? He said, ‘Don’t panic, I’m gonna pass out, try not to let my hair get too messed up.’”
An edge of misplaced humor draws a dry laugh from your throat. The dark window reflects your own face back- tear-streaked, red veins encroaching on the whites of your eyes- as you shake your head in disbelief. “He made a joke. To try and distract me from the fact that he was about to hit the ground and go all… all spastic-”
Unbidden flashes of memory surge to the forefront of your mind: victims of last spring. Twisted forms snapped at the bone, Max’s arms and legs bent at horrifying angles, plaster casts from head-to-toe, freckled face still and sallow against the starch-white hospital sheets-
A leather-jacketed form in the reflection behind you, Eddie’s hand solid on your back against the shuddering breaths wracking all the air from your lungs. You don’t flinch away this time.
Your beautiful boy. Steve. With his eye-crinkling smiles and sharp wit and gentle heart, stiff as a board in the middle of your living room, eyes rolled back in his skull like a downed deer, unreachable, just three hours ago.
“I thought it was Vecna. It’s been so long but I thought he’d come back, somehow, I was this close to running upstairs and grabbing our Walkman-”
”But you didn’t.” The hand at your back is joined by another at your arm as Eddie pulls you to face him, his gaze locking on your own, brown eyes full of grave compassion. “You heard the nurse. She said tipping him on his side was the best call you could’a made, sweetheart- you saved him.”
”But I didn’t know,” you insist, “I didn’t know that’s what would help, I just did it ‘cuz I was worried he was going to choke on his own tongue-”
“Semantics. You intuited it, then.” One of Eddie’s hands leaves your arm briefly to make a dismissive gesture through the air- “Which, in my book, is all the more impressive.”
Unconvinced, your voice small and tightening along with your chest- “What if this happens again, and he’s alone, this time? What if he’s working one of his three closing shifts a week, without Robin- what if he’s driving?”
You can’t help the spiraling of your thoughts, what-if scenarios jumping in line, each one more horrifying than the last.
Robin rises to stand beside Eddie, opens her mouth- to deny, to comfort, it’s unclear- but is interrupted by a new nurse who’s just appeared in the doorway.
“Mrs. Harrington?”
This snaps you back to earth, a bit, another watery laugh as Eddie takes a step back, allowing you to swipe at the mess of tears on your face before turning to the nurse- “Yeah. As good as, I guess. How’s he doing?”
With a last look at your friends, the nurse leads you down sickeningly-bright corridors while reading from a clipboard- most of it’s medical jargon, your foggy brain struggling to keep up as you stay on her heels.
What you gather, as you’re led to his room, is nothing new- Steve’s had a seizure, likely due to the trauma his brain incurred from the ‘earthquake’ of ‘86, and it’s unclear what triggered it, or if it’s likely to happen again.
“We’re going to keep him overnight, just to monitor his condition.” The nurse stops at a door labeled Room 202, hinges squeaking as she pushes it open. “He was really lucky, this time. Must’ve had a good guardian angel looking out for him.”
Heart thrumming thick in your throat, you almost ask the nurse to wait, to give you a second- maybe a quick bathroom break to splash some cold water against the tear-tracks, or even an extra few seconds to pretend at being stoic- but she’s already ushering you in with a kind smile.
The nurse pulls the door shut, and you’re left alone with the boy in the bed.
He looks exhausted, dark circles pulling at the soft skin below his eyes, which are full of relief, trained on you as you approach.
“Hey, there’s my girl.” There’s a scratchy quality to Steve’s voice, on its way to being lost.
You were doing really well, no crying or anything, before he spoke. But hearing him, paired with the awful sight of a medical cord wrapping around the width of his broad chest, has your face crumpling in an instant.
“Oh, shit. Aw, honey. C’mere-” Steve reaches for you, halfway to sitting up off his supporting pillows, and you quickly close the gap, sitting near his hip on the bed.
“No, hey- stay down,” you chide through the tears, pushing at the shoulder of his white hospital tee. “Don’t put any stress on your body.”
“Cut the stress, she says,” Steve grumbles, leaning back against the stack of pillows but compromising by pulling you in closer. “My baby’s crying, and she tells me no stress?”
His left palm slips over your cheek, thumb swiping away tears, while his right hand- IV taped flat over the back of it- slides to rest on your waist.
”Gonna tell me what’s wrong, hm?”
Under different circumstances, you’d laugh at his question- christ, where did he want you to start: but with that amber gaze so full of empathy, desperate to fix what’s making you sad, you’re stripped raw with sincerity.
”I was just- I was so scared, Steve-”
Steve pulls your face towards his, needily, a breath away from begging for a kiss before you lean in for one.
He tastes salty, like sweat and tears, lips plush and softly seeking against the seam of your own. Between the kisses, he’s mumbling apologies, “sorry, so sorry”, broken by the need to be as close to you as all the medical gear will allow.
There’s a soft noise from the back of his throat, and you pull away just enough to bump your nose into his, hands running up to push through the soft strands of his hair.
Steve practically purrs under your touch; you’re careful not to disturb the tubing wrapping around the length of his chest, leaning your weight into his shoulders instead.
A vein of hilarity spikes as you remember Steve’s last words before he went under: and here you were, fingers pulling at his dark roots, breaking his one request. When you start to giggle, Steve’s eyes pop open, baffled, hair sticking up at the ends when your fingers leave his hair. Both hands now squeezing at your hips, he feels left out of the joke- “What?”
“I just- nothing. Never mind. I’m really glad you’re okay.” It’s the truth. You frame his lovely face with your hands, kissing his forehead once before sitting up fully. “I don’t wanna fight about it here, okay? Let’s just focus on you feeling better, and then-”
“See, now, wait a minute-” Steve holds up a finger to interrupt. “You don’t get it. I’ve been hoping and praying for hours now that my pretty girlfriend would come in here just so we could have a good fight.”
He tweaks at the skin of your hips (with the IV-hand, so you can’t just smack it away, dammit), smiling up at you far too dreamily for someone reclining in a hospital bed.
Settling against the length of Steve’s torso, your arms cross over his stomach just under the tubing as you start, carefully- “You know, Max had one of these- when she was in the hospital?”
”Yeah, you’re right.” Steve’s hands worm their way under both your cardigan sleeves, seeking out the comfort of skin like a magnet- “Think it tracks heart rate. Or something.”
“Mm-hm. And… you know how she had to go to physical therapy three times a week? For, like, half the school year?”
Steve’s thumbs swipe absently at your wrists, a line pinched between his brows, trying to piece together your angle. “…yeah?”
“Takes a lot of time, to heal from something like that.” Your eyes drop to his chest, throat swelling with the effort of holding back a sob. “And I’m just- just thinking of all the times you might be alone, and how we could have prevented this, and-”
“Hey, hey, hey- shhh…” Steve soothes, shaking his head. “Honey, it was inevitable, okay? Nothing we could’a done. The doc told me this shit can happen, like, years after a big event. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Fighting against the wall of emotion that makes speaking harder, you return his head shake, desperate for understanding- “But you can’t promise that, baby. You had a seizure- an actual, medical emergency, and… we don’t know if it’ll happen again.”
With a purposeful straightening of your spine, you state, resolutely: “I want a different promise.”
Steve presses the crown of his head back into the pillows, melodramatic, resurfacing with a tsk. “So stubborn. What promise you want, then, huh?”
”I want you to promise that you’ll see a doctor- a real one. A head guy. Not some… family medicine quack.”
Steve grins, charming even while unusually pale- “I love it when you talk medical, really gets me going-”
He decides to bail on the rest of that sentence when he sees the flare of irritation on its way to real anger in your face, raising both hands in appeasement- “Okay. Hey- I promise to see a real head doc. I don’t intend on putting you through this again.”
WIth a sigh, you surge forward again, mumbling “Thank you” into Steve’s lips, a kiss of relief and gratitude. Best news you’ve heard all day.
His groans vibrate through you, hands running down the length of your side, near the bottom of your cardigan; you squeak at the intrusion of his cold palms on the bare skin of your waist but they warm quickly, and you’re willingly distracted as his tongue presses against the seam of your lips.
Perhaps not exactly hospital-appropriate, but as it’s been an evening full of adrenaline-filled panic and heartache, you figure some making out might be a good cure for the both of you.
“Won’t scare you like that again,” Steve says, lips already pink and spit-slick, intense and breathless as he clings to you between kisses- “Gonna be okay. You saved me, angel. Love you s’much…”
Your hand, previously resting on Steve’s knee, automatically slides up at his words, notching into the soft expanse of his inner thigh over the thin sheets- “Love you too, so much…”
A bright, electronic noise jolts into frantic beeping- the monitor that Steve’s hooked up to is loud enough to startle you into sitting up.
There’s no time to process or even rearrange yourselves before the nurse from earlier bustles into the room to glare at the machine’s screen; best you can do is a swipe across your mouth, hopefully hiding any evidence of moments-ago spit-swappage as you stammer out, “Um, yeah, sorry- h-he was trying to sit up and that set it off, I guess…?”
Steve lies placid and amenable against his pillows, giving the nurse a gold-medal grin, which unfortunately does nothing to allay her suspicions.
“Uh-huh.” The monitor alarm is stopped short with the press of a few buttons, and she gives Steve a sideways look, clipboard tucked under her arm- “You ready for your other visitors, Mr. Harrington, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Bring forth the party, Patricia.” Steve folds his hands behind his head, wincing when his IV gets bumped but covering it with a wink.
Nurse Patricia leaves. You cover your heated face, mortified- “Oh my god. She probably thought I was giving you a handjob or something, jesus, Steve-”
He’s outright laughing at you now, unable to help it- “Come on, no she didn’t. And even if she did…”
Steve is momentarily distracted, frowning down at his chest, following the monitor’s line to the machine; you watch through cracked fingers, his face lighting up, triumphant. “See, I bet if we unplug it from the wall same time as disconnecting it from here, we might be able to fit a handy under the radar, after all!”
Robin and Eddie enter the room just as you’re swatting Steve’s shoulder; over your subdued and mildly horrified laughter, he groans in faux-pain: “God, you two got here just in time. She’s beating me up for no reason.”
As Eddie settles into the plastic chair under the opposing wall’s window, you scooch down the mattress, patting the side closest to Steve with an encouraging smile at Robin.
She takes the seat, appreciative, her clammy hand slipping into yours for support as she addresses Steve: “Y’know, if you did this to get out of doing inventory this weekend, you could just say so.”
“You caught me, Robs,” Steve says, thumbing over her knuckles fondly. “Finally gonna join my conspiracy to make Keith’s life hell?”
You’re about to cut in, emphasizing that no one else should be making any hospital visits, when a metallic screech has the three of you on the bed whipping around.
Eddie’s managed to crack the barred window- judging by the sound, it hasn’t been opened since the 70s. He freezes with all the attention, then speaks around the cigarette clenched between his lips, suave again- “Pardon the interruption. Anyone else care for a smoke?”
Everyone in the room blinks at him, in various stages of disbelief; Steve starts laughing, first, which gets Robin going, and eventually you, too, until Eddie’s grinning around the cigarette, lighter halfway to his mouth as he chuckles- “Well, can’t say I didn’t offer…”
Robin makes a comment about nicotine fumes, which quickly devolves into her and Eddie fiercely bickering.
The elevated chatter of your friends fades into the background as Steve takes your hand atop the sheets, head tilted to get you in his line of sight again- love you, he mouths.
Love you, too.
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I reckon it is widely accepted that Crowley and Freddie Mercury were, at the very least, besties, sometimes lovers, sometimes had a fling or dated. But I have feelings and headcanons nobody asked for that I have to share.
They met while Freddie was still in college. Freddie saw Crowley, drew a quick sketch of him and got up and gave it to Crowley. "I promise I will draw you a better one, dear." He never did, but Crowley still keeps the drawing and miracled it to always look like just made.
Crowley never really liked Mary Austin. He didn't like her when she was Freddie's girlfriend and always found a way to inconvenience her. He still doesn't like her, especially after she put Freddie's belongings up for auction. He liked Jim Hutton, however.
Freddie kissed Crowley first. It was after a rehearsal of one of Freddie's early bands, Crowley was giving him his feedback. Freddie just leaned in and kissed him. He avoided the demon for the following two weeks as he was confused (he still hadn't realised he liked boys) and felt embarrassed.
Even though they were both adamant that there were no feelings involved, they both deeply cared for each other. Neither would admit it, saying they were only friends who (more than) occasionally hooked up, but they both knew there was more. However, Freddie fell a bit harder even though he knew Crowley wasn't in love with him. It did hurt a bit, but he was eventually fine with it.
Freddie actually knew about Crowley and Aziraphale being a demon and an angel. Crowley told him one night while they were both drunk and then Freddie remembered and asked him. Crowley tried to deny it, but Freddie insisted so much that in the end, he decided to tell him everything as he knew Freddie wouldn't tell anybody. And he never did, he treated this like his own secret.
The first time Freddie saw Crowley's eyes, Crowley thought he would be scared. But Freddie just said: "I know they're snake eyes, but they remind me of my cats. And what a lovely colour, darling. Yellow's my favourite, you know?".
Crowley ranted A LOT about Aziraphale to Freddie. He was always going on about how much he hated his being a goody-two-shoes, how infuriating his constant reminding him that he was actually a good person and how the fuck can 6000 years be too fast? Freddie just smiled because he knew. He could see how much Crowley loved that angel. It broke his own heart, because he knew he could never be loved that much, but never said a word.
Freddie did write a lot of songs about Crowley and Aziraphale. Obviously Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, but also Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Somebody to Love and many more. Spread Your Wings is specifically about Crowley and he knew. But what Freddie would never tell anyone, a secret that he brought to the tomb with him, is that he wrote Love of My Life and You Take my Breath Away for him. (told you that Freddie was in love, my poor baby suffered too much in his life).
Freddie taught Crowley how to play the piano.
Crowley auctioned for some of Freddie's belongings. He got some kimonos, some handwritten sheets and his piano. He couldn't let anyone else have it.
Crowley never really left Freddie's side. He was always that mysterious, dark and handsome man showing up especially when Freddie needed someone. People eventually accepted it as part of Freddie's charm as he was always so secretive about his personal life.
Freddie let himself be vulnerable only around Crowley. Just as Crowley took off his glasses with him, Freddie allowed himself to cry only those times in which they were alone. He cried in Crowley's arms so much when his illness was worsening, when he was scared of how much he would have suffered. One night it got so bad that Freddie was basically begging Crowley to end his suffering and Crowley had to perform a miracle so that he could sleep. Neither brought it up ever again.
When Freddie died, Crowley was there with him. He gave Freddie just enough life to allow him to say some words. "You promised me you wouldn't come," Freddie told him. "I'm a demon, I lied" replied Crowley with a broken voice. He then sat on the bed and stayed with him until the very last moment. Aziraphale was there too. He followed Crowley without telling him because he felt he needed him. Aziraphale took away Freddie's suffering so that he could go without pain.
That same night, Aziraphale tried to persuade Crowley to stay at his library because he thought Crowley needed a friend. Crowley refused, hopped on his Bentley and drove away. He parked in front of his apartment building and found a used packet of cigarettes and an old pair of sunglasses that belonged to Freddie in his car. As the radio passed Love of my life, he couldn't hold it anymore and burst into tears. He cried hard, really hard. He felt a familiar hand on his back but didn't look and didn't ask. Aziraphale never said anything either and didn't leave until Crowley stopped crying but before he could be seen. He remembered how much it hurt and didn't want Crowley to grieve alone.
Master post: here
#I am deeply sorry for the last ones#Or maybe I'm not that sorry#I just love the idea of them together for a while#I mean Freddie and Aziraphale have some things in common#And Aziraphale would be friends with Brian May#Good omens#good omens headcanons#crowley#good omens s2#good omens#good omens 2#aziraphale#ineffable idiots#ineffable husbands#freddie mercury#crowley angst#good omens season 2#queen#good omens spoilers
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At Tea Time
Inspired by this lovely little drawing of Fuyumi and Satoru by @lwx-xx
Oneshot [Here]
He keeps reaching up to stop it from tugging at his hair, but never seems to manage much else but more tangles. He doesn’t hate having hair this long, but it sure as hell is tiresome. He has no idea how girls can stand it. It’s not even that long, just enough to graze his shoulders and irritate him every time he turns his head. No matter how much it annoys him though, he refuses to cut it. The look of rage and disgust whenever his father sees him is enough to have him put up with it.
Gojo hides a smirk of amusement. There’s no way that guy doesn’t have decades of smothered homosexual urges, with the way he gets so personally offended whenever his eldest son so much as puts a dress on.
Really, Gojo’s just doing this for his benefit. If Endeavor could just embrace his own gayness and stop with this quirk genomics scheme, they’d all be better off. He snickers into his hand. The thought of Endeavor in a dress was so hideous he almost wanted to make it into reality.
“Nii-chan,” Fuyumi whines, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Yumi,” he replies easily, picking up his little plastic teacup. “Aren’t you supposed to pour me more tea?”
She gasps in horror at the thought of being a poor fantasy hostess, and hastily leans over to splash more juice into his cup. Gojo didn’t really mind playing tea party whenever Fuyumi asked, including dressing up in whatever outfit Fuyum insisted on for him and procuring various sweets for their game, but he drew the line at using actual tea. A four year-old was more likely to scald them both than pour tea into a cup.
Truth be told, Gojo has no idea what you’re even supposed to do during a game like this. Fuyumi seems to have a plan in mind, so he’s just winging it. Maybe it’s just his adult mentality, but it just seems awfully boring. Fuyumi just pretends to be some old-fashioned Victorian lady asking about the weather and playing at being an adult. Why would anyone want to be an adult? Gojo honestly can’t fathom it.
It’s about as weird as having a sister in general— especially now that she can talk and play games and follow him around ceaselessly. The only reason he’s even here indulging her at all is because she’d cry if he left to fuck around with the neighborhood kids.
“Do you— do you like the tea?” She stutters out, trying and failing so terribly to affect a refined, lady-like voice that he almost falls into laughter again.
“Yeah, it’s great.” He takes a sip and plays along. “Not as good as the cake though.”
He’d gone all the way to the bakery in the next neighborhood over for it. The obaa-san behind the counter had gushed over how cute it was, for a little girl to be running errands for her mother. Gojo hadn’t bothered to correct her.
Fuyumi wrinkles her little nose at him.
Gojo sighs, and affects a very snobbish voice; “Yes, ojou-sama, the cake is really quite delicious. My compliments to the chef.”
Fuyumi bursts into delighted giggles. At four years-old, she has little to no grasp on formal speech, so she instead subjects Gojo to using it at her behest. It occasionally reminds Gojo of his unfortunate true childhood as the young master of an estate, where everyone demurred to him in such a manner, but he can ignore it easily enough when he’s trussed up as a girl playing tea party to appease his little sister.
He sighs again. “May we please cut the cake now? I’m feeling rather famished.”
“Yes, of course!” Fuyumi nods eagerly. Then she stares at the cake with a perplexed expression. Gojo quickly reaches over before his four year-old sister can attempt wielding a knife.
//
He stops playing tea parties, and all of Fuyumi’s other favorite childish activities deemed too effeminate by his father the year after, when the man decides he’s old enough for ‘real’ training. Fuyumi’s despondent about it for weeks, but there’s really nothing Gojo can do about it. Fighting with his father over it would just cause more tension in their already untenable household, and by then Fuyumi has a willing victim in little Natsuo, who’s finally toddling around on his own.
He’s not sure why he’s remembering it all so fondly now, when at the time he’d found it all quite the chore.
Fuyumi liked all the things little girls liked; playing dress-up as princesses, playing house, making fake tea parties and playing with her assortment of dolls. Gojo had mainly been bemused and distantly fascinated by it all, having never had a little sister before, but still found indulging her to be tedious. He’d done it anyway, mainly out of pity. She’d been such a lonely kid.
“What is this?” Eri asks him curiously, holding up a very familiar teapot.
Earlier, Fuyumi had dropped off the rest of her old clothes and toys that had been squirreled up in the attic, looking rather nostalgic as she’d handed over the plastic bin to him. She’d stayed for dinner and doted endlessly on Eri, who seems to be slowly but surely warming up to her, but with work tomorrow she’d left soon after, before Gojo could even start going through the bin.
“That’s a teapot, Eri-chan. It’s for tea parties.” He crouches down next to her, rummaging through the unsorted mess of toys and clothes. “Have you ever played tea party?”
She blinks at him, brow furrowed. She slowly shakes her head.
He laughs, as he unearths one of the matching teacups from the set. “Is that so? Well, why don’t we play before bed then?”
He uses real, lukewarm chamomile tea in a half-hearted attempt to have Eri in bed at a reasonable time. This promptly proves to be a lost cause, as Eri gets terribly excited over the whole affair as he sets up a fake tea table with flowers and cake and all of Fuyumi’s fake plastic servingware, and dresses them both up in something appropriately frilly. Somehow, wearing an entire fake wig of hair is a lot less uncomfortable than a little bow. They even get the cat involved, dragging him into her room and outfitting him with a generously sized bow he immediately hates. He still has no idea what the hell you’re supposed to talk about during these little fake tea parties, so he instead just teaches her how to sing Anti-Hero. Eri loves singing along with him, even if she has no idea what she’s saying. On the downside, this means she knows far too many curse words and unknowingly sings an awful lot about sex, but on the bright side her English pronunciation is improving by leaps and bounds.
“—at tea time, everybody agrees—”
Gojo glances up as he hears the door open, smirking widely as Hawks catches sight of him and almost face plants into the carpet. It’s been a while since he’s put on his ‘Toru-chan’ look, hasn’t it?
“I stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror,”
Hawks fumbles with the door, but eventually makes it into the room with a dazed expression. He’d told the blonde he didn’t have to ring the doorbell every time he came over and could just let himself inside, yet still Hawks looks a little hesitant about whether or not he’s allowed to intrude.
Gojo winks at him and beckons him over as he finishes up his little sing along. “It must be exhausting, always rooting for the anti-hero~”
Eri’s voice trails off in an offkey warble as she looks up and sees Hawks. She’s still shy about singing in front of others.
“Hi,” he says with a smile, holding out a teacup to the winged hero. “Want some tea?”
Hawks looks a little mystified, settling down on the floor with them. “Uh— sure? What are we doing here?”
“Playing tea party, of course!” Gojo answers, cheerfully.
“Right,” Hawks agrees, taking the cup so Gojo can pour him some tepid and terribly oversteeped tea. “And… what is that, exactly?”
“Eri didn’t know either,” Gojo laments, chuckling. “Let’s just say you learn a lot of interesting things when you have a little sister.”
“Oh. Is this a game you used to play with Fuyumi-san?” Hawks trails an appraising eye down his outfit; the blatant approval in the hero’s gaze almost has him blushing a bit. “I think I like it.” He purrs.
Gojo rolls his eyes, glad the wig is covering his reddening ears. “We’re princesses. You can either join us as a princess or— or you can be the butler, I guess.”
Hawks raises a brow. “No prince charming to come and rescue you from the evil dragon?” He jerks a thumb up at Meow in the corner, the dragon in question, who looks miserable in his bowtie.
Gojo turns his nose up. “We don’t need one of those. We can save ourselves.”
Hawks laughs. “That’s how it is, huh? A butler is fine, then. Devoting my life to making sure you’re always left satisfied… I’m on board with that.”
Gojo coughs weakly into his cup. He definitely doesn’t remember his tea parties with Fuyumi leaving him this flustered.
“Just drink your goddamn tea,” he hisses at the other man, shoving a slice of cake in his direction.
Hawks snickers under his breath, but gamely complies.
--
lol not a Swiftie and no hate for her at all but I usually don't like her songs at all, but I recently discovered Swiftie rock/punk covers...
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—KAIROSCLEROSIS | TEN (FINAL)
Pairing: Wednesday Addams x OFC/Fem!Reader
Summary: Everything comes to settle in the aftermath. You're healing and Wednesday takes the time to consider what she's experiencing until she picks it apart in a way she can tolerate it. You are hers, though. That is for certain.
Warnings: softsoftsoftsoft. so soft. Wednesday is soft. cuddling. happy ending. healing. bantering. did i say soft? crying it's so soft. satisfying aftermath. the nickname bet comes to an end. soft in case you were unaware.
Series Masterlist | Library Blog | AO3
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Note: book 1 has come to an end! Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this series <3 Sequel is on it's way along with some oneshots! series masterlist has been re-edited with info.
Part Nine
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Kairosclerosis: Noun. The moment you realize that you're currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart, and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it's little more than an aftertaste.
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Wednesday sits beside your hospital bed, quietly reading Goody's spellbook. The only noise is the sound of your quiet breathing and the steady beeping from the machine that monitors your heart rate.
The spellbook is coming in handy already. Wednesday has just discovered a better remedial salve—one that should actually speed up the healing process. Once Enid arrives, Wednesday would be free to go and gather the ingredients she needed. She would need some honey from Eugene's bees, and she recalled a plant in the greenhouse with the pulp she needed.
A particularly deep breath draws Wednesday's attention from her book. Her head tilts slightly over as she peers at you. Your eyes are closed, unaware of anything as you slept on. You had to be put on your stomach so that your wings could rest without anything touching them.
The reopened wounds had to be stitched back together and then bandaged, which the doctor noted would have to be for two weeks and frequently changed. Wednesday was merely waiting for you to be discharged, and she could take your healing into her own hands. The nurse earlier had received a scathing glare when she was not delicate in changing your bandages yesterday, causing your brows to furrow as you slept on.
Morons, Wednesday vehemently decided then. They couldn't be trusted with you.
"You should wake up soon," Wednesday says, even though you never reply. She doesn't even know if you're listening. "It's much too sunny without you."
"Wednesday," Enid sighs as she walks into the room, a new bouquet of flowers in her hands. "Why are you up again? You're supposed to be resting too. You got stabbed in the arm!"
"This is hardly anything," Wednesday raises her brow as she closes the spellbook and puts it back into her bag. "It honestly hurts more when I punch Pugsley."
“You mean when Pugsley punches you?”
“No.”
"Still," Enid frowns, looking over her roommate. Despite only having been two days since the ordeal, Wednesday threatened the hospital staff to discharge her mere hours after she got cleaned and fixed up.
You could barely tell that Wednesday was injured by the way she continued wearing long sleeves, tidy braids, and lack of reaction. The only visible sign was the bandage she had to wear over her temple.
"Fae will be upset if you refuse to rest and heal when she wakes up." Enid looks over to you, biting her bottom lip. A part of her wants to cry at how banged up you looked. She knew—could smell how much blood there was that night. But now you really looked broken with the machines hooked up to you and the red-stained bandages wrapped over your wings.
It was worse than when Eugene was in the hospital last year.
Wednesday looks at you once more as she prepares to leave. Your back rises and falls with each steady breath. "Then I suppose she'll have to wake up if she wants me to even consider listening to her grievances against me."
Walking out the door, Wednesday doesn't spare you another glance as she walks down the corridors. The nurses give her a wide berth, the lights flickering as she walks.
A room comes up as she makes her way to the stairwell. There are two police guards posted outside. As she passes, she looks into the window and sees a lanky boy with messy hair and gauze bandages wrapped around his eyes and head. He's completely unaware.
Wednesday smiles sinisterly.
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"Miss Addams," Weems greets as she puts down her fancy fountain pen, gesturing for Wednesday to come closer.
Wednesday wordlessly takes a seat, her face impassive.
They stare at each other for a long moment before Weems lets out a long, tired sigh. She pinches the bridge of her nose before she looks at the macabre girl.
"How are your classes going?" Weems asks.
Wednesday looks unimpressed as she lets out a dull "Fine."
"I hear you're taking class notes for Fae when she wakes up," Weems smiles then, and Wednesday narrows her eyes.
"Only because Enid's writing is so cacographic that it'd be more legible if it was put through a shredder."
Weem merely chuckles, rubbing her temples. "The reason I've called you to my office is that the investigation is finally coming to an end." Weems folds her hands together on the desk in front of her. "I know you've given the police your statement, but I thought I'd get the event recounted by you myself."
"I've assumed you read the report?" Wednesday asks, her chin jilted slightly.
Weems nods.
"Then you already know what happened. I will not be changing my story," Wednesday raises her brow. "She was kidnapped. I found the clues to where she was and the fact that Henry was the culprit. When I arrived, she was unconscious and chained to the table, poisoned with a draeconium potion."
Wednesday watches as Weems's hands tighten slightly.
"Henry gave his unremarkable sob story before we engaged in combat. The noises woke her up, and she freed herself before she defended us against Henry."
"I noticed you weren't very descriptive in this area in your report," Weems points out.
"Everything she did was something only a high lord's daughter or a night faerie would be able to do, so I will keep it to myself. The police are welcome to come and try to get an answer out of me," Wednesday's eyes glint as she gives a sharp smile, "but at their own risk."
Weems gives a wry smile and waves her hand for Wednesday to continue.
"Henry's desperation to attack us and gain the upper hand led him to strain his eyes and lose consciousness. At that moment, Enid and everyone else barged in as they finally escaped his mindscape. We all made our way back here to get medical help."
Weems stares at Wednesday after the girl finishes recounting the story. "I see," the principal says evenly after a moment. "And that was what happened? Henry lost consciousness and you left him there immediately after?"
"Yes. I wasn't going to go out of my way to bring back a kidnapper and our attempted murderer," Wednesday shrugs.
"He could have died," Weems emphasizes pointedly. "Which would've been another death here at Nevermore two years in a row."
"His failure to kill us both is his own fault. He should deal with the consequences of it himself. The authorities were able to get them, were they not? I hear he's resting in his own guarded room." There was a telling smirk on Wednesday's face.
"Yes," Weems's voice is hard. "Though I'm sure you know the guards are useless, considering he no longer has eyes and can't use his gift anymore."
"I heard rumors around the hospital," Wednesday's face was indifferent again.
"Wednesday," Weems sighs. "This was a disaster. Henry Morrison Sr wants to further investigate the disappearance of his son's eyes. He's convinced that they were surgically removed and considering there was only you in this situation that was conscious, he wants to press charges against you."
"Is he an absolute moron?" Wednesday raises her brow. "Is he not aware of what his son attempted to do?"
"Yes, well—"
"I encourage him to try to press charges against me with the lack of evidence he has. This case would be so laughable, I wouldn't even need to hire legal help with how guaranteed my victory is."
"Yes," Weems cuts in before Wednesday can say anything else. "And I told him as such."
Wednesday sharply looks at the principal, her eyes full of suspicion. She has no doubts that Weems knew she had gouged out Henry's eyes. After all, she had timed it perfectly for the authorities to arrive on time before he could die.
The optic nerve was completely severed to ensure his psychic abilities could never manifest again, and then she fed his eyeballs to the fish in the river as she rowed her way back.
"I have informed Mr. Morrison Sr that back in 1956, there was a similar incident where a psychic had over-exerted himself, resulting in his eyes bursting and it seemed that may be the case here." Weems's eyes seem to search for something in Wednesday, but it doesn't seem like she's looking for the truth. "There's no proof indicating otherwise. With that, Henry Jr is expelled, obviously."
"Will he be going to jail like Tyler?" Wednesday's quick to ask.
"Well, considering only one student attacked—no, I'm not counting you as you foolishly went after Fae alone—it's not enough to warrant having the academy file charges—"
"Of course," Wednesday hisses disdainfully. "We wouldn't want to potentially harm the school's impeccable reputation—"
"—That being said," Weems cut in forcefully, giving Wednesday a stern look. "As Fae's guardian, I am personally filing charges. I'm quite confident Morrison Sr will want to accept the plea bargain when we meet next week, lest he wants a long, grueling court battle where I will drag his family name through the mud."
Wednesday went quiet. She doesn't apologize, but there's a mild look of respect in Wednesday’s eyes. Her eyes flicker down and then back up. "Why did you want me to recount the report if the investigation has obviously concluded?"
Weems gathers the paper on her desk, shuffling them to line up. "I merely wanted to hear the events in your own words, as the police will still want Fae's matching statement when she awakens."
Wednesday stares on.
"I'm dismissing you for the day," Weems says as she puts the papers back on her desk. "I'm rather tied up with things I cannot put off, and I have a meeting in half an hour. There's a car waiting for you at the gates."
"Why—" Wednesday starts to ask, but she can feel her heart thudding against her ribcage almost painfully, and she relishes in it.
"I have let the hospital staff know you'll be arriving to check her out on my authorization. I have already handled her discharge papers over the phone earlier. Listen to me for once and arrive before the police do," Weems says, dismissing Wednesday.
Wednesday gets up and walks out of the office briskly. She begins to walk towards the gates outside but stops. Turning towards her room, Wednesday first goes there and picks up the fuzzy black blanket, folding it neatly together, then draping it over her arm. She grabs a single grape lollipop from Enid's desk before she takes the shortest way to the front gates.
The ride feels tediously long, and Wednesday snaps at the driver to drive faster. It barely comes to a stop before Wednesday gets out and walks through the hospital doors. She doesn't make herself known to the front desk receptionists and takes the stairwell up and down the memorized pathway to room 316.
The door is already open, but there's no noise inside. There's a moment when Wednesday's heart drops at the lack of noise. Wednesday's used to feeling miserable; it brings her comfort and joy now even to feel so. Occasionally, she'll feel a type of misery she could live without.
Wednesday's never been aware of how un-miserable she wants to be as she approaches your door.
The moment Wednesday steps in, her face doesn't change at all. If anything, she looks more dispassionate than usual.
But she blinks.
"Hi, Wednesday."
You've probably said it hundreds of times now. You've said it in the same tone over and over, but Wednesday suddenly feels like it's better than any music she's heard. It even sounds better than Pugsley's screams.
You're smiling at her. You look tired with the bags and dark circles under your eyes, but you're alive, and you look so—Wednesday clenches her jaw—hers. You just look like hers. Franz Kafka said it best: you are the knife she turns inside herself.
"You are so cruel, Wednesday. I wake up to make your world less sunny, and you bring me only one grape lollipop? Rest assured you'll be listening to the grievances I have against you."
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"We should get up soon, I need to apply your salve."
"Can't you just apply it like this? You did yesterday."
"Need I remind you how long it took and in the end, I had to get up to get to the places I couldn't reach."
"I think I can stretch my wings further today. You might not have to get up."
Wednesday sighs at your mutterings but leaves it be. You'll probably be more agreeable to moving in an hour anyway.
Your body is a steady weight on top of hers, and you radiate a warmth that Wednesday thought would make her uncomfortable with how cool her body normally is. But it just makes everything tepid, and Wednesday finds she has a penchant for it.
Your head rests against her chest, and you once commented how eerie it was that it was such a slow and quiet heartbeat, like she might as well be dead. The words were entirely flattering.
Wednesday stares at the ceiling; she knows you're slowly falling asleep again. The past two weeks, you've been rather boring as all you can do is rest, but Wednesday finds it gives her a lot of time to think.
Her story has slowly been changing—it has been ever since she's grown closer to you. Between the mysteries and the morbidity of everything, her main character seems to be experiencing something else too.
Wednesday thinks about what it means to her and comes to an utterly disgusting conclusion.
She's happy.
It's so repugnant that Wednesday constantly sneers at herself. She has no desire to expand on it, but she'll catch herself thinking of useless things. It dampens the happiness into something Wednesday's also unfamiliar with, and she can't decide which is worse.
Wednesday's fingers trail over the arches of your wings, feeling the bone just underneath the soft feathers. Your wing twitches, but you say nothing. She continues her exploration of her wings, careful over the wounds that are still slowly healing but have been much better with the salve she created using Goody's spellbook.
Your wings start trilling when Wednesday reaches further toward the middle. The skin is thinner there, but the feathers are lush and thick.
"Tickles," you mumble, your brows furrowing but not opening your eyes.
Wednesday glances down at you before she pulls the blanket up higher. "Come with me to my manor on the next Parents' Day."
You let out a big yawn, ruffling your feathers with a small shake. "Are you sure?" You mumble, still sleepy.
"My mother invited you."
You hum. "Sure, it'd be nice to see where you live. I think I'll want to have dinner with Larissa on Friday night, but I can leave after."
"We'll go together on Saturday morning."
"'kay," you mutter sleepily.
There's a lull in silence again, and Wednesday feels discontentment in her chest. She wonders if you can hear it as you lay over her heart.
Wednesday clears her throat. "I have thought of a moniker for you."
She can feel you smiling.
"Oh?" You say amusedly, but you continue to lay there with your eyes closed. "Let's hear it."
"I believe we should just stick with Fae. We've already gone on too long, and there'd be no point in changing it now. Even if other faeries came to this school, there's still only one Fae. You'd merely confuse everyone with a new alias."
You let out a laugh then, shifting in Wednesday's arms. "It took you six months to come to that conclusion? Did you even come up with anything else?"
"Nothing that I would allow anyone else to call you," Wednesday huffs with annoyance, still cursing her father's passed-on nicknaming abilities.
"Why not?"
Silence again. Wednesday seems to be debating her discontentment before she says, "you are mine."
It's so simple, the words and the way she says it.
You finally open your eyes as you lift your head to look up at Wednesday, who is resting against the headboard of your bed. She looks at you as if challenging you to say otherwise.
"So, we're dating?" You tilt your head.
"Yes," Wednesday says with finality but also looks pained at the frivolous words and then sighs. "I never thought I'd be capable of wanting someone like this. I don't do feelings but all you make me do is feel things I have to research later."
"What kind of words?"
"Ridiculous words that I'm convinced are fake," Wednesday deadpans. "Regardless, I don't do feelings, but the idea of not experiencing more with you is unbearable."
"You're mine then?" you say, and it's more of a statement than a question.
"I am," Wednesday confirms.
You let out a soft laugh, and Wednesday tilts her head.
"I never thought I'd ever have anyone to call mine," you say with a quiet smile. "I have very few things, Wednesday. I promise to treat you very well."
Wednesday nods once, her fingers tracing over a feather. You lift yourself higher with your hands, coming face to face with the grim girl, your nose brushing against hers. She was so serious looking.
"I discovered last year that I'm capable of evolving," Wednesday says quietly, her lips brushing against yours as her hands rest on the small of your back. "It's inequitable how much you've affected me."
You smile widely then, your lips parting in a huff of laughter. They're so ridiculous. Really, you're made for her, and she's made for you. "Wednesday, you've changed me since the day I laid my eyes on you." You kiss her, and the only noise in the room is the sound of your wings gently fluttering with excitement and Wednesday's stolen breath.
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"I believe I've come up with an acceptable arrangement of your epithet," Wednesday declares. "I'm owed your phone number."
You don't even look at her as you blindly reach for your phone on your desk, too comfortable to move from lying on top of Wednesday as you cuddle.
Wednesday watches you fiddle around on your device before her phone in her sweater pocket vibrates.
She pulls her phone out and sees there's a text from you.
(xxx)-xxx-xxxx: save this number 😗
"What is the meaning of this?" Wednesday asks, her voice low and dangerous, but you seem unbothered.
"You have my number now?"
"You had my phone number this entire time?" Wednesday feels something brewing inside of her, and it's mainly murder.
You nod, still lying on top of her with your eyes closed. "Enid gave it to me after the bet was made."
"Why?" Wednesday demanded.
"Because I asked for it?"
"Then why make the ridiculous bet? Did you enjoy listening to such brainless suggestions?"
"I told you," you smile. "I only make bets where I'll win either way. I wanted you to come up with something and win to give you the excuse of asking for my number. If you didn't, then Enid was already giving up and about to suggest we stick to Fae the next time it got brought up. I would've texted you after the bet was over."
Wednesday stares down at you, and she bores into the side of your head and plots silently.
"You are detestable, but I respect your strategy and deception. Although, regardless of the fact you are mine will not save you from my revenge."
You finally look up at Wednesday's unimpressed stare and smile at her.
"Threatening me with a good time again, are you?"
END
EPILOGUE 1
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Hope you enjoyed the series! :)
I will be opening up a temporary taglist of 50 people to be notified when the oneshots and sequel is up! Comment or reblog on this post only to be added (pls don't send to my inbox bc i will miss it 💔) you can still always follow my library blog for notifs @missmonsters2-library
#wednesday addams x reader#wednesday addams imagine#wednesday x reader#jenna ortega x reader#wednesday addams fanfiction#wednesdayedit#wednesday addams x you#mm: my fics
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All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XI
Find Part I here :)
Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.
Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3
Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere
Lucien tried but failed to settle the racing and unsteady beat of his heart.
Like the quick rhythm of hummingbird wings, Lucien could feel his own pulse fluttering softly in his throat. He was unsure of what to expect, what he might be forced to face once again within the walls of his childhood home. The unknowns created a deep sense of dread in his bones, the weight of his own anxiety unbelievably heavy.
Music could be heard, low and lovely, as Lucien led Elain with unhurried steps towards the looming oak doors just ahead of them. It was near haunting, echoing strangely along the empty stone corridors.
Elain walked close to Lucien’s side, each point of contact with him leaving a searing mark. Her arm was hooked through his, her shoulder pressed against him.
Lucien glanced at her briefly. He had thought Elain was devastatingly beautiful from the moment he had laid eyes on her, she was even more so in Autumn colours. The emerald fabric of her dress had a stunning effect on her eyes, darkening them by a few shades so that they looked like earth after a storm. He found that there was something regal about the way Elain held herself, that if she set her mind to it she could convince anyone that she had been born to rule.
Still, Lucien was worried. He did not trust his father, and he trusted his brothers even less. Eris had made it glaringly obvious that Elain’s well-being did not matter, considering he had brought her to Autumn. If anything happened to his mate, Lucien knew he would never be able to forgive himself.
As though she could sense where his thoughts were going, Elain brought her other hand up. Slowly caressing Lucien’s forearm in a gesture meant to comfort, Elain did not look at him before once again taking hold of her skirts.
Lucien’s shock was a shooting star, brief and fleeting. He was still finding it hard to believe that it was Elain’s choice to come for him, that she had considered his life worth the risk of her own.
“Any advice?” Elain’s question was soft as she tilted her head and turned to look up at him. It cut through the music, drawing Lucien’s focus instantly. They had not spoken since the moment they had left their shared suite, Lucien’s hand had been shaking with tiny tremors after having placed the comb in Elain’s hair.
Still walking, Lucien looked into Elain’s dark eyes, captivated. He had to remind himself that she was almost a stranger to him, and yet he felt as though he had always known her.
“I have a whole lifetime’s worth,” he offered her a crooked grin, unsure of what exactly he should tell her.
Elain looked up at him through her long lashes. “Seeing as we don’t have all the time in the world,” her lips tugged up in a small, amused smile. “Try and keep it brief.”
“No matter what anyone in that ballroom says, don’t let it get to you.” His grin faltered at her raised brow, and he wondered how he should phrase his next words so that they made more sense. “They’ll all be testing the waters, seeing if they can get a rise out of you—and me. Don’t let them.”
“Isn’t Autumn fire?” Elain asked, "I would have thought everyone’s emotions were raging.” She blushed suddenly, her cheeks turning a deep scarlet, and she quickly turned to look straight ahead.
Lucien continued to look at her, not wanting his gaze to fall anywhere else. “Just the opposite,” he shook his head, tearing his attention away from the pale column of Elain’s neck. “Our emotions, our reactions, even our flames…” Lucien shrugged, “everything must be tamed.”
Elain hummed in understanding, falling silent as they approached the ballroom.
Lucien glanced at the guards stationed by the entrance, searching their faces, trying to see if he perhaps recognized them. On a phantom wind, the doors swung open, revealing the already filled and busy hall. The music grew louder, the sound of the string instruments full of longing.
Elain pressed closer to Lucien’s side, clutching at his arm tightly. So no one else could hear, Lucien leaned down so that he could whisper. His lips were close to the arch of her ear, not touching her, but he could have sworn that he felt her shiver.
“Don’t worry, Elain.” He murmured, her heart beating faster. She seemed to have stopped breathing as soon as he finished his sentence.
Her name.
Lucien still rushed to reassure her, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He meant the words more than he had meant anything else in his long life.
Her eyes wide, face tilted like she was his lover, set on placing a kiss on his jaw, Elain nodded. “I know,” she breathed, eyes locked for a moment before they both turned to look ahead.
Together, arms linked, a united front, they entered the room. Elain nearly stumbled, and Lucien tightened his grip on her arm, pausing. He waited, allowing her the opportunity to carefully take in the scene before them.
Looking like a forest, nearly a canopy, waves of High Fae dressed in the various colours of falling leaves gracefully walked along the floor of the ballroom. The incessant thrum of mingling, gossiping, rose above the sound of the music as everyone waited for the arrival of the High Lord.
The sun had fallen, and no light came in from the arched windows that spanned the entire length of the walls. The shimmering chandeliers and the countless fireplaces were lit instead, casting flickering shadows that drew Elain’s attention. Lucien noticed that the musicians had been set up near the table strewn with refreshments and pastries, on the large room’s farthest side.
No one turned to stare, but Lucien could feel eyes on him and Elain. He must look so different to them, and Lucien was struck with the sudden realisation that every faerie here would know his past, regardless if they personally knew him.
It was a terrible relief that Elan was unaware of Lucien’s history, he thought, and that as a result, she would have no expectations of him.
“Well, if it isn’t little Lucien Vanserra,” a female voice spoke from behind him, one that he easily recognized. Fighting the urge to wince, Lucien stiffened as he felt slender fingers trace along his back. He felt as Elain did the same, her spine straightening although she did not turn to see who had approached them.
Instead, Lucien flashed his practised courtier’s smile. “Lethe,” he said, her name rolled off his tongue sharply, familiar.
“Lady Lethe,” she corrected, her answering smile was all poison as she stood in front of them. Light brown hair pinned away from her face, falling in a long straight sheet to her waist, Elain’s eyes tracked Lethe’s every move carefully. In a decision that could only be considered a slight, Lethe did not look at Elain, did not acknowledge her presence. “I have lands to my name now.”
Lucien bowed his head in an apology of sorts. “You have my condolences then, for your husband,” he added. Knowing Lethe, she had probably orchestrated the whole thing, killed the elderly fae she had married and taken everything he had owned after his death. That, at least, Lucien could admire.
Lethe’s pout was dreadful, hardly sad, Lucien observed. “I’m terribly upset by it,” she gestured to her black skirts, the colour of mourning. Flames flared in her eyes. “May the blessed wind take his scattered ashes to only the loveliest of places.”
“Despite whatever ordeal you have been through, I’m glad to see you look well.” Lucien maintained his friendliest smile, an ember of truth in his statement. “You look well, lady, untouched by time and lovely as ever.”
“So kind,” a knowing smile graced Lethe’s sharp features, looking more like she was scowling. “You’ve certainly changed,” her eyes were the colour of dried blood as she took him in, “much more handsome now.”
Lucien felt jealousy shoot through the bond, a rare possessiveness on Elain’s part as she elegantly cleared her throat. Nose in the air, chin held high, she cast a long look at Lethe, drawing the other female’s attention.
With a small sniff, Lethe faced Elain fully. Much to his mate’s credit, she did not back away, matching the noble’s attitude.
Lethe tilted her head, a predator. “Seems like your pretty mate agrees.”
Without missing a beat, Elain responded, voice measured and unbothered. “My mother always said I would marry for beauty.”
Lucien was glad when someone clapped a heavy hand on his back, knowing exactly who it would be before he saw. When it came to Lethe, Kai was never far. Fixtures of his childhood, the two courtiers were his eldest brother’s closest friends.
Lucien had not seen either of them since his exile, and had avoided both Lethe and Kai even if he had been in the Autumn Court on behalf of Tamlin. Eris had trusted them both, not only with his own life, but with Lucien’s as well. Lucien wondered if that was still the case, if Eris was capable of maintaining any type of friendship.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Kai said, voice loud. “Good to see you, Lucien.” His smile was friendly and sincere, a clever trick to hide how dangerous of a male he truly was. He had always been kind to Lucien, kinder still to Eris, but his reputation in Autumn was one of cruelty. He offered Elain a deep bow, looking up at her with eyes the colour of dead leaves.
Elain dipped into an elegant curtsy, releasing her hold on Lucien’s arm. “Pleasure to meet you,” she offered, never taking her gaze off him.
“Pleasure’s all mine, lady,” with the full force of Kai’s charming smile on his mate, Lucien had to fight the urge not to snarl.
Kai was unbelievably lovely. Dark brown hair fell in loose curls to his shoulders, eyes an even darker shade were framed by sharp brows. He was dressed well, simply but no less flattering, his tan skin near glowing with whatever power he had inherited from his Spring Court mother.
Lucien’s jealousy was ridiculous, considering he had known the male for decades and did not even think Kai was interested in females. Elain pressed closer to Lucien’s side, her hand gently circling his lower back, a lover’s caress.
Kai tracked Elain’s gesture before he turned his attention back to Lucien. “Have you seen your brothers?” He asked, brow raised, Lethe next to him.
“Which ones?” Lucien responded, although he was fairly certain Kai was looking for Eris.
Kai shrugged his broad shoulders, a frown tugging his full lips down. “Any of them, I suppose.”
“Eris came before us, the rest I couldn’t say,” Lucien felt Elain’s unease as she stood on the tips of her toes, attempting to look over everyone’s heads. She was probably searching for Cora, Lucien concluded.
“We’ve yet to see him,” Lethe offered, her nose scrunching in distaste.
Lucien opened his mouth to respond when a sudden hush fell over the large crowd. The musicians came to a natural stop, ending their song beautifully, just as the High Lord and Lady of Autumn gracefully made their way into the room.
His father was handsome in a jacket the exact shade of fresh blood, striking with the small golden crown on his head. His mother walked at Beron’s side, face serious, as they both paused on the area cleared of furniture and nobles in the middle of the room, the dance floor ready.
“Tonight,” the High Lord’s voice boomed, “we celebrate the return of my youngest son.” A glass of wine, a red so deep Lucien nearly flinched at the sight, appeared in his father’s hand. Beron’s smile was sharp as glass as he raised his hand in Lucien and Elain’s direction. “And we welcome his lady, Elain Archeron of Night.” His father took a small sip of wine, indicating he was nearly done, his speech rather short so as not to take away from the festivities. “You and your mate have my blessing, Lucien.”
Elain smiled shyly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear that was both endearing and modest. Already she had fallen into her role perfectly, playing the game of courtiers and nobles well.
The musicians played a cord, settling themselves as they prepared for the first dance of the evening. All eyes were on Lucien and Elain now, waiting, expecting them to take part.
“Might I have this dance?” Lucien said softly, allowing every ounce of his longing to drip into the question, loud enough for those around them to hear.
Lucien could imagine the whispers, travelling swift as a wildfire in the ballroom, all the nobles talking behind their hands about him and Elain.
As Elain’s eyes locked with his, Lucien saw no uncertainty in her gaze. She playfully knocked her shoulder into his, a small laugh escaping her, embracing her role as his betrothed. “Do you even have to ask?”
Lucien raised his hand, offering it to Elain. Delicately, her fingers traced his palm before she comfortably set her hand in his, a blush staining her cheeks. She smiled timidly up at him, sparks clear as daylight between them.
As Lucien and Elain walked to the dance floor, Lucien hoped no one could sense their shared unease, hidden behind their false smiles.
#acotar#a court of thorns and roses#lucien vanserra#elain archeron#autumn court#beron vanserra#elain and lucien dance in the next one i promise#forgive me I don't how to correctly estimate where my own plot points should go lol#elain archeron x lucien vanserra#elucien#elain x lucien#thank you for reading <3#ashes writes sometimes#all you have is your fire
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Watchers - Evo, ATUS and Fandom
It's very common to see people blame ATUS for the way the fandom sees the watchers now but... How much did it actually come from there?
Wings (and statues):
Although the depiction of Watchers specifically having wings does exist in ATUS it's very clearly originated from Evo itself as Grian was once left a statue of what Grian called at the time "an angel lady" who had wings Grian was tasked with burning down (they represented his greed)
You can see the EVO symbol in glass above the statue.
Even though the statue isn't exactly stated as representing a Watcher it's not really stretch, specially since the statue appears to have a obsidian staff, the same obsidian the Watchers used to cover Grian's chests.
Puzzles and riddles
Evo originated. All it's presence in ATUS comes directly from Evo. The only change might be the inclusion of stained glass windows depicting Watchers. Although I wouldn't jump to conclusions if someone right now decided to draw Watcher Grian stained glass art as it's a very common trope in general with God-like beings. Very much brought by Catholic representations if angels, saints, Jesus and the likes.
Masks
This one is one I can safely say, if you see fanart like this with a mask that isn't see through with the Evo symbol it almost certainly came from ATUS. Variants with a blindfold instead of mask might be inspired by this too. Even if the artist isn't exactly aware.
Eyes
Very nuanced topic. For startersthe name Watchers automatically inspires the idea of eyes. Of being watched too. But there's more options.
Evo never explicitly represents the Watchers with eyes.
ATUS does it a little bit. At one time when one of the masks is taken from a Watcher (that isn't Grian) they're face is shown to have a lot of eyes. However this isn't the full "wings and whole body are full of wings". Not even "Void with eyes" you now see a lot too in fandom.
I have multiple theories. The most obvious is Biblical accurate angels. Lots of wings, circles, eyes in the whole body, these are almost certainly angel originated.
Now the idea of being able to watch everything could've come from a lot of places. Even some Magnus Archives influence can be here (even if some minimal)
I will say the Watcher in ATUS are a bit disappointing in the "all seeing" department. They can sense some things but they aren't that powerful or at least scary with that.
Controlling worlds
Evo originated as the Watchers gave clues to the players so they find portals to the next updates + the puzzles + gifts and punishments. They were very much in control
Purple
Evo. From the literal Minecraft portals to the Evo icon it was very much present the whole time.
Powers
ATUS makes use of some powers like telekinesis and the like. There is even some mention to being able to use blocks that aren't allowed/present.
The telekinesis part is very much an ATUS thing even though again - if someone is going to give powers the ability to magically move objects would be the first choice.
The part of bloks that aren't accessable to a normal player are more nuanced. In Evo the Watcher did build structures with obsidian and bedrock which are either extremely tasking to get or impossible so the grounds for that are very much there.
The ability to show up in dreams is present in ATUS but considering Taurtis' lore in Evo I'm not surprised it was inspired by that. It's not the same as the Watchers never appeared in Taurtis' dreams but Taurtis did miss going through the portal because he was sleeping and woke up to seeing everything purple with a portal animationor even more likely: the ATUS part came from the angels showing in people's dreams in the bible so again - might be in ATUS but it doesn't mean the people who write / draw stuff with it took it from there.
The Watchers destroyed Evo
Surprisingly, Evo based. As someone reminded me well, after Grian left the Watchers threw a meteor at the Property Police I believe. This leads to
Watchers are Evil
Depends of who you watch. Grian's playthings gives room for doubt. They give gifts and punish. They seem neutral at least. You could argue though that a lot of Grian's punishments were deserved. They were because Grian basically liked to prak and blow up other people's stuff.
They can be about platful as I saw someone describe them once.
Also the modification of the end poem, the one that reveals Grian turns into a Watcher himself, is quite fond.
Martyn and Jimmy on the other hand play the Watchers as more evil even in Evo. As they are more connected with the Listeners and the Listeners oppose the Watchers.
In ATUS they are shown as feigning compassion and being very manipulative.
But if you follow Last Life canon they are also shown as manipulators.
+ In Grian's lore specifically they are canonically a representation of the viwers (you and me) but this has seemed to change in Jimmy and Martyn's lore.
So I'd say ATUS made popular the "Grian was taken by the Watchers and they were awful" but the truth is that there was some ground to that already.
Watchers came from the void
Not specific stated in either Evo or ATUS actually. I don't think we ever really know where the Watchers exist in Evo but in ATUS they are from (a special kind of) the End... But there's also a logical reason for it.
Elytras and all the obsidian. And in Evo Grian got turned into a Watcher after he fought the ender dragon and used the end portal.
The idea of the void most likely comes from the void that surrounds the End.
Watchers are eldritch abominations:
Well, the Watchers in Evo don't have a canon physical appearance and in ATUS they are quite tame. A bit taller than maybe the average human, have wings, use robes... But nothing too monstrous. They use staffs and magic weapons to fight.
The idea if cryptic abomination comes from somewhere else. Probably a mixture of Biblical accurate angels and maybe some other pop culture monsters.
Bird features
100% neither Evo nor ATUS. Recent development that came from the wings and Grian's association with birds in Hermitcraft.
Grian's Watcher name is Xelqua
Surprisingly not ATUS! And not Evo either! The name is from Grian's old YouTube name but I don't know where the idea was first introduced. It wasn't in ATUS though.
Conclusion:
Except maybe the masks almost all stuff, even if more elaborated in ATUS, all the stuff as either came from Evo itself or even been inspired from something else (most likely biblical accurate angels). In fact I believe the stiff in ATUS mostly came from biical accurate angels too or just normal angels (long robes, stained glass windows)
So I think accusing all fandom depictions of the Watchers as all coming from ATUS is very silly. ATUS might have popularised the appearance of Watchers in Hermitcraft and in a way to have some Grian angst but it definitely isn't all there is to Watcher depictions. Besides that other fics have come and did things differently.
For exemple I have already read two fivs where Grian (a watcher) is a monster in the boaten hole. Yes. The idea he was like transformed into whatever he is by the Watchers might be very loosely be based on ATUS (although Watcher Grian in ATUS was never an eldritch being. He was just like a person with wings and a mask and he was still himself and capable of communicating) which in turn came from Evo but it's already very far removed from it.
Fandom changes. You might want people to watch Evo to take their own conclusions and you might ask for more variety but saying ATUS is the sole responsible for the state of fanon Watcher Grian is just false.
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starry night // hawks x reader fanfic
summary: lonely nights cause for longing. you stare at the blank ceiling, your mind full. His number on your phone. He fills the lonely with his presence, even by the crack of his voice.
“mmm.. hey.. you alright birdie…?” the sleepy voice softly mutters through the speaker of your phone, his tired hums acting as a sense of reassurance as they fill your ears.
The dark room around you felt all to quiet. The silence reminding you of the loneliness that filled your house. It felt like self confinement, being alone was. Starting at the wall and scrolling on your phone gave you no help. No matter how many times you tossed and turned, it could never give you that sense of comfort you longed for. After hearing the silence that filled around you, it was finally silenced by a few short rings and a soft voice through your phone, the one that gave a sense of relief in your chest. Though even though your clock read 2:09 AM, you were accompanied by the half awake hero on the other end of the phone.
“hey kei..” you say, your voice not as weary as his. Your eyes felt heavy, but only shut to blink. Your body felt as heavy as a weighted blanket, but your mind remained awake. The bedsheets crinkled as you slightly adjust yourself, bringing yourself closer to the phone placed to your side.
“you okay honey..?” his groggy voice asks again. You feel a warmth burning inside you, slowly easing up to his presence. Though you had his words, you still longed for his touch.
“Yeah, I’m just- too tired to sleep.” You said blankly. You heard a slight chuckle from the other end, followed by an “only you..”
You slightly smiled at his playful response, a sweet comfort erupting in your chest. “It’s just too quiet.”
“mmm.” He hummed in understanding, the background filled with the small sound of his bedsheets rustling.
“is there something on your mind..?” you heard him softly say, his voice seeming more closer than before.
“Just thoughts.” You say. “stop thinking” he replies back, making another one of his dumb jokes that makes ur lips slightly curl. You can sense his smile coming through the screen as he hears you laugh, he’s probably got that sleepy look in his face.. where he’s slightly smiling but his eyes are shut.. his hair is messy and the pretty marking on his eyes look like a drawing. He reminds you of a painting.
Like a soft song, the type of songs that reminds you from the smallest gust of wind that blows through your hair, silencing the suns warmth on your skin for a split second, to the peace of a quiet, saddened night, the type that gives darkness an alluring feel.
“you’re so dumb..” you softly smile as you hear a small scoff through the speaker. “you’re dumber.” he said. “righttt…” you breathed out.
“sorry I called, I know you have work early tomorrow I just-“
“hey, don’t worry about it.” He interrupted. “I can’t talk to you if I’m knocked out huh?”
You scoffed a small laugh, followed by a small smile beginning to curl at the corner of your lips.
“I’d rather talk to you then sleep anyway, the morning comes wayy too quickkk..” you heard Keigo yawn.
“Kei, we spend eight hours a day in the same office,” you laughed a bit, “how are you not tired of me..?” You asked the semi-serious question in a kid tone.
“eight hours isn’t enough.” the phone said. “if anything neither is the whole day.”
you softly smiled, his words causing that wave of anxiety to pass over with a slight breeze.
“I wish you had more time. ” you confessed. your eyes remained starting at the bare ceiling.
“You want me to come over?” He asked, sending a pang to your heart. “You do know it’s 2 in the morning, right?” You said. “Mhmmm…” he hummed. “Kei, you’ll be exhausted.” Your mouth talked, but your heart stayed silent, even though it tugged on your vocal cords, telling you to speak it.
“so what? I’ll be with you.”
His response made you softly smile, breathing out .
“It’s raining, you’ll get your wings wet.”
“You got towels right?” You rolled your eyes, as your grunts were heard through the phone.
“Plus, I know you want me to.” the phone said In a flirty tone, making you blush out of embarrassment.
“oh my god- Just get over here you idiot” you said, rolling ur eyes with smile plated on your face.
his small chuckle hummed through the phone.
“See you in a little bit, yeah?”
“yeah.” You replied, before hanging up the phone.
Your eyes remained at the ceiling, now feeling the silence all around you. Everything was so quiet, too quiet. It was dark, but not saddening. It was lonely, but not depressing. It was just bare. Everything was too blank, even if the walls were filled with posters and decorations, the house itself felt alone.
you spaced out for a while, your eyes glued at the dull setting surrounding you. And soon after a while, a small shut of the window, pulled you out of your trance.
you stepped out of your room, seeing the back of his figure.
“Geez.. I’ve told her… so many times about leaving that window unlocked..” you heard him mutter under his breath, his presence making your lips slightly curl into a relieved smile.
“Well how else would you get in?” You snarky replied, your unexpected voice making his shoulders tense up.
he turned around, a bit more swift than usual, to see you standing behind him, looking at him in the way that makes his heart pound. Your arms crossed together in that sassy way you do, as you were clothed in the pajamas he had gotten you for your office’s ‘Secret Santa’. But the best thing wasn’t the way you leaned back against ur door frame- or how your hair was slightly ruffled from its friction against your pillow. It wasn’t the way you looked in the dim light, or the dumb fluffy socks that’d make him blush everytime he saw you in them. It wasn’t the way one of your legs were positioned slightly infront of the other, or the way your fingers pushed back the hair in front of your face. But that distinctive smile, the one that laid plastered on your face like a painting. The way your lips curl slightly upwards, showing off a faint glimpse your dimples on your cheek. The smile that elevates the plump or your soft lips. The smile that consumes him like the second medicine kicks in. The smile thats so contagious it moves his facial muscles for him, reflecting that same, soft, smile back to you without even realizing it, like a natural instinct of his, his body moving on its own. The smile that softens his gaze. The smile that no one else gets to see but him.
“hey…“ he smiled through your gaze, “hey..” you said back, his look making you smile wider. “If you ever get broken into because of that I will taunt you about it for the rest of your life. ” He said his soft smile turning to a sneaky smirk.
“Oh haha- you’re hilarious..” you roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile.
“Just saying,” he said, coming closer to you. His hands sneaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him. The atmosphere eased with an intimate aroma. The air surrounding you becoming more thick. More sensual. His eyes didn’t help either, as they started back at yours, taking glances at your lips every so often.“What if.. a villain comes through your window huh..?” You weakly laughed at his tease, you both somehow closer than before. .
“oh hush- The only villain coming through my window is you.” You joked back at him.
“I’m a double agent, different thing.”
“Yeah tell that to the league, then they’ll be breaking through your window.”
Your remark made him chuckle, his laugh eventually becoming a muffle as he kissed your soft lips. His gentle pecks becoming passionate as they continued, his exhales breezing a warm breath on your skin. Your arms found its way to his broad shoulders, relaxing them onto him, as his grip tightened at your waist, luring your lower body closer to his.
Keigo’s grasp was firm and protective, the heat of his body radiating his warmth onto you. His tall, strong figure towered over your body, his hand making its way to cup your cheek.
“mmm… thats what i missed…” He said lowly, a rasp in his throat.
He finished the kiss by giving you a firm, aggressive peck on your cheek, making you let out a giggle.
“Gosh you tryna kill me.?!” You playfully hit him to let go.
“Mmm that was the goal.” He teased, pulling his head back.
“Damn you suck at killing people.” You scoffed
“Nahh don’t worry I’ll get you in your sleep” your smile widened at his stupid joke as you muttered a “shut up” through a few laughs.
“Speaking of sleep..” he began to speak.
“Ohh yeah…!” You recalled. You two were having too much fun to even realize the clock read 2:35. If he hadn’t of brought it up, you two would’ve probably gotten no sleep at all.
“Ughh I blame you, you distracted me,” you groaned, opening the door to your bedroom.
He gently released his hands from your side. “Oh yeah? Distracted by what exactly..?” He smirked.
“Oh my god just get in the bed Keigo” You replied back, flustered.
“A request orr a demand?…because I’ll do whatever you want sweetheart.”
“KEI-!”
“OKAY HAHA FINE-“ he laughed like a child, before playfully falling on the bed, grabbing your waist and pulling you down with him.
He laughed at your squeal before you thudded onto him, feeling his chest raise up and down with every laugh that escaped his lips. You punched him as your way to get back.
He smiled at the snarky smirk on your face, feeling accomplished at your act of revenge. "that didn't even hurt" he said, smirking back at you.
"shut up before I make it" you replied as he pecked your cheek, making you softly smile.
Keigo pulled your under the covers with him, cradling you to his chest. "Now…go to bed." He muttered, his body relaxing slowly into the bed, releasing the exhaustion he held back with laugh and giggles, finally letting it take over him.
You softly smiled at being close to him again, your head buried into the crook of his neck, his strong arms wrapping lovingly around you, as his warmth surrounded you. Now you could see that lovely face you imagined over the phone, where his eyes are closed, but a small soft, sweet smile laid on his face. His sleepy face, You kissed it, gently.
You eased into his arms, cuddling closer to your lover as he hummed sweetly, pressing a kiss to the crown on your head before resting his next to yours.
“ m’ love you,” you heard him grumble, making your lips curl into a soft smile. “I love you too kei..”
He’s calm. That’s who he was. A peaceful painting you painted in your head. And in the darkest lonely night, he wasn’t the shine of light through your window. He didn’t magically make the night day. But he made the dark just as comforting. Just as peaceful as the light. He reminded you that though you’re surrounded by the darkness, the stars still shine light. And though it is dark, and there isn’t much light, there’s still the same peace as if it was day. That’s just who Keigo was, a painting. A beauty of streaks of colors and light. An image with a hidden story inside. Keigo, he..was ur starry night.
#my hero academia hawks#boku no hero academia hawks#hawks x y/n#hawks fluff#hawks x reader#hawks scenarios#hawks fanart#wing hero hawks#mha hawks#jealous hawks#hawks headcanons#hawks x you#bnha hawks#mha takami keigo#keigo headcanons#jealous keigo#mha keigo takami#keigo x y/n#keigo imagine#protective keigo#keigo takami headcanons#keigo x reader#keigo tamaki#keigo fluff#keigo takami x reader#keigo takami#Keigo scenarios#hawks drabble
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continuation of this silly little fic...have more silly maxiel hunger games au fic bc I recently read the new book and got obsessed again, oops. cw: everything you'd expect with a hunger games au, death, torture & forced prostitution mentions.
Alex stares down at his meal. Lumpy porridge sprinkled with what District Thirteen likes to call ‘nutritional powder,’ orange juice, and an apple that looks far too green to have been grown underground. In three weeks, he hasn’t seen sunshine, real or otherwise.
“You aren’t going to get anything else,” George reminds him, and in front of where he’s shovelling food into his mouth at an alarming pace, his tray is already three-quarters empty. Gone is the good boy routine, vanished along with the Capitol cameras the moment Charles blew up the dome sky of the arena with a good shot and the reel of wire Seb spent all games carrying around.
Alex hasn’t seen either of them since that moment, Charles dead the moment the sky lit up, and Seb still in District Thirteen’s medical wing. There are rumours he’ll never walk again.
Max, who fought off the Capitol mutts in an attempt to keep the rest of them alive that night is their only other living ally. Right now he’s sat at the next table alone, his food tray also full. He’s drawing patterns in the sludge with his spoon, and mumbling to himself the way he used to, in the games. Talking to ghosts, or talking to his- To Daniel, maybe. By now, that probably means the same thing.
“Are you going to-“ George interrupts his thoughts, gesturing to Alex’s tray. He shoves it towards him, standing as he does.
“Go wild, Georgie,” he half mutters, meaning to walk back to his room, or to Toto’s to beg for something, anything to do to help him stop thinking.
Instead, he finds himself standing over Max, only with no real plan of what to say. Hello, I’m sorry your boyfriend is probably dead, but so is my girlfriend. Want to talk rebellion strategy? Yeah, right. Alex has a feeling that Max is as much an unwilling participant in this uprising as he is, or at the very least an accidental one.
You fucking promised me, you- You swore he’d be okay, that you’d protect him, you promised.
Alex had watched Max howl it all at Horner in the hovercraft as it took them thousands of miles away from the remains of the arena. Right before Max punched Horner in the face and ended up sedated for the remainder of the journey. The yellow-orange traces of the shiner Max gave him still give Alex a strange sense of satisfaction to see every time Horner calls him to the command room to ask him to star in more propaganda videos.
“Hi,” is all he says to Max now, shifting from foot to foot in front of him, as Max continues to mumble into his food.
“I’d need a gun for that, or at least a knife. Of course, these are too blunt, and-“
“Max,” Alex tries again, and that gets his head snapping up, as though woken from a trance. His eyes dart around before settling all the way on Alex.
“Oh,” he says like he’s assessing a threat and finding there to be none, “it’s you. What do you want, twelve?”
In the arena, Max had called him Alex. Maybe, like George’s gentlemen act, it had been something designed to please the cameras, or more likely, to forge allies. Allies they apparently needed to get this show on the road. Toto had explained this to him, that it was important to have as many districts as possible represented in the uprising victors. That way, their homes would have a reason to believe that they too can rebel.
“Nothing,” Alex says hastily, putting up his hands. “Nothing, I- I wondered if you wanted some company.”
Max glances from Alex to the side, where he can no doubt see George still filling his belly with Alex’s unfinished meal.
“Pretty boy is winding you up already?” Max asks, something almost teasing on his lips.
Alex flushes. There was no way Max could know about the night before, George’s warm body slipping into his bed, and his warmer hands finding Alex’s skin under the scratchy, military issue blankets. Clinging onto each other, the only piece of home they’d likely see again. Except, maybe Max can know all about it, maybe that was how he’d found his way to Daniel.
Max raises his eyebrows, and Alex choses to believe he’s just expecting an answer rather than recognising Alex's guilt. Even though Lily was likely killed right after his unconscious body was airlifted from the arena as a warning to any who sympathises or dares to love a rebel, there was still a small voice in him that warned that if she had survived, he would always have betrayed her.
“A little,” he says, half the truth and half a total lie. If he didn’t have George, he’d be like Max. Alone, and half mad.
Max smirks, but gestures to the bench opposite him. Alex sits, trying to think of something else to say.
“What, uh. What are you talking about?” It’s all he can come up with, and internally he groans. He doesn’t need to get roped into Max’s crazy. He cocks his head at Alex, like he doesn’t know what he is talking about, only affirming Alex’s belief that he's securely in cuckoo land, but it’s too late to go back now. “The guns, or the- The knife?”
“Oh,” Max says, nodding like this is perfectly sane. “I am trying to think of some way to the Capitol.”
“The Capitol?” Alex repeats, dumbfounded, because that is where they’ve just been rescued from. But- Realisation dawns on him, slow and then all at once, like the sun he used to get to see every morning.
“It’s where Daniel will be, probably,” Max confirms.
Alex tries to nod earnestly like this isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard.
“Of course, Christian promises me that they are going to rescue them, but only when it is safe,” Max is continuing, hands suddenly animated in front of him. It’s the liveliest Alex has seen him since the games. “I cannot wait until it is safe, because what if it never is? What if they are- I can’t leave him there. I need to get to him.”
Alex tries to listen, but his brain stalls on one word, making the rest almost obsolete.
Them.
“Who else are the Capitol holding?” He asks, knowing as he does that the spark of hope Max’s answer lights might be the thing to tip him over the deep end too. Max’s answering look tells Alex that he thinks his question is very stupid.
“Well,” he says with a bitter laugh, “I did not exactly get the list, but I would imagine it includes yours and Georgie’s families-“ He waves his spoon in George’s direction- “along with maybe the rest of the victors. Your girlfriend, your childhood best friend. Fuck, maybe someone you sat next to in math class, Alex. Anyone they think they can use against you.”
Alex's head begins to spin. Of all the propaganda videos from the Capitol that had made their way to them here in Thirteen, Daniel and Lily hadn’t been mentioned or seen once. Alex had assumed this meant they were long gone, but what if they were only waiting for the right time to reveal their captives? Max is right, after all, they’d be more use to the Capitol alive. As bait, or maybe just to torture them with the idea of ‘what if.’
He thinks back to Daniel’s screams in the arena, calling for Max over and over to help him. Max curled on the ground like a child, his fingers stuffed into his ears.
“What about your family?” Alex asks, stomach turning at the thought of how much blood he would have on his hands at the end of all this. “What-“
“Daniel is my family,” Max interrupts him bluntly. Then, maybe because he senses the cold coil of fear his words help to settle in Alex’s stomach, he continues. “I had a sister when this all- But I told her to run. She had two small babies, and I couldn’t- There was nothing I could do to protect them if they stayed.”
Alex’s eyes widen. Running was almost unheard of. Growing up, he’d only known two people to try it, the wife and child of a rebel who had been hanged the day before. Peacekeepers put a round of bullets into their bodies just five miles past the fence.
“Did they-“ He asks, and Max shakes his head.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I like to think that because I never heard, it means-“ He shrugs.
Alex would want to think that as well, but the chances of Max’s sister running around the wilderness of Panem with two little kids, not only undetected but thriving, is- It’s hard to believe. To be kind, he nods like it’s not.
“I wish I’d told Lily to run,” he practically whispers because even though he doesn’t think she’d have made it either, it would likely be a quicker death than whatever the Capitol have in store for her now. Like Max, he doesn’t have much faith in Horner’s plans to rescue whoever they may still have, and unlike Max, there’s no way he has faith in himself either to make up for that shortcoming.
Max nods, his mouth a wonky line that in any other circumstances might be considered a smile. He reaches across the table and shocks Alex by touching his shoulder gently.
“If I make it there, to Daniel-“ He looks to the side, like his mind is still halfway elsewhere, formulating his plan- “I promise I will look for her, also.”
Alex closes his eyes, startled by the sudden compassion in Max’s voice.
“Thank you,” he whispers, but to be honest, Max’s words do very little to bring him any comfort.
Toto had made Alex promises too, like Horner to Max. It seemed this war was built upon the breaking of them.
—
“Tell me something about Daniel.”
Max looks up at Alex from where he’d been staring down at the same photograph Alex has seen stuck on his bunkroom wall. Something he must have grabbed when the bombing siren started to sound, before they all filed down into the shelter. In it, Alex can see Daniel’s curly hair, his well fitted suit. A Capitol propaganda photo, likely, that Max had swipped from some magazine.
The moment Horner and Toto called them into the control room to detail their scheme- sneak a craft out during the next air strike on Thirteen, when the Capitol is distracted to retrieve the hostages- the fight Alex was used to seeing in Max had almost completely diminished. Looking at him now, he looks- Well, a little pathetic.
Come on, Max, he thinks but doesn’t say, weren’t you supposed to be some bloody murderer?
Max is the deadliest victor in Panem’s history, a reputation that had followed him into his post-games life as a victor. Seb had told Alex stories in the arena, of how the people of the Capitol requested for Max to sit in cages at the edges of their dinner parties, the ultimate display of power.
“Why?” Is all that same man asks now, and it’s as if he’s too weak to even seem guarded anymore.
Alex sits down on the bed beside him. Around them, the metal frames shake, clanging together in the dimly lit bunker. Dust and dirt fall from the ceiling. Maybe the mission will succeed, only for Daniel and Lily to arrive at District 13 and find them all dead and buried under rubble.
“Because it seems like a better plan than waiting in miserable silence?” Alex offers, tucking his legs up to rest his chin on his knees. “Come on,” he prompts, when Max still seems hesitant, “there must be one thing you love about him that you’re not too stoic to share.”
Max laughs, despite their situation, and mouthes the word, stoic, shaking his head a little. Then-
“Everybody loves his big smile,” Max offers, finger tracing over the shape of Daniel’s lips on the photo, “the tributes we would mentor, the other victors. The people of the Capitol, who paid enough to have it, and much more, thrown in their direction, but- But I like it better when it is smaller. Softer. Just-”
Just for you, Alex thinks, but Max doesn’t finish his sentence.
“What about you?” He asks instead, offering Alex a small smile of his own, “What makes Lily so special?”
Alex laughs, because what doesn’t make her special?
“She’s like, the smartest person ever,” he says, because throughout all this he has wondered over and over what she would do in his place, and tried to follow that course of action. “I keep thinking how she’d have the Districts liberated by now if she was here.”
Max nods, lips quirking upwards again.
“Let’s hope she makes it then,” is all he offers, eyes back on his picture. It’s then Alex notices the expression Daniel is wearing, the soft smile Max was talking about. Maybe not a Capitol promo photo after all.
“Did you two-“ He starts, but stops himself, aware he is treading on shaky ground now. Another explosion sounds somewhere above ground, with the vibration taking a few beats longer to travel to them. Somewhere near them, a baby begins to wail, as the ground both above and beneath their feet trembles.
“Did we what?” Max asks, looking at Alex again.
“Did you, uh. Did you fall in love before or after your games?” It isn’t what he was going to ask.
“That is not what you were going to ask,” Max says. Alex flushes, but Max answers anyway. “For me, yes. For Daniel, he says it was after.” Alex nods. Max’s answer is the only clear confirmation he’s gotten since hearing the jabberjays wail that Daniel and Max are lovers. “Now ask me what you were really going to ask.”
Alex hesitates, but another shockwave of the bombing has him throwing caution to the wind. By morning, they might be dead anyway.
“Did you like, live together and stuff?” He finally asks, and it’s a watered down version, and Max sees through that too.
“You mean, why did we not hide it better, from the Capitol?” He asks, head tilted to one side in a gesture that Alex has since learned means he’s considering how to dumb down a very easy concept to someone he thinks is very stupid.
It’s half of what Alex had wondered, along with how they worked, given the entire country knew the rumours of how Daniel spent his time when he was in the Capitol, how he got so many of the jewels he seemed to proudly wear at every year’s games coverage.
He shrugs.
“We tried,” Max says, “for a while. Of course, people do not like- Well.” Alex feels himself flush again. “But it got very hard.”
“The logistics?” Alex asks, surprised by the flimsy sounding excuse, but Max shakes his head.
“No, the-“ He breaks off to chew his lip, clearly debating how honest he wants to be. One of the cats Max told him Thirteen only had to keep the mice away appears as though from nowhere, winding itself around Max’s legs. Max hunches over with a cautious hand to pet it, and it lets him, where with Alex it would show its teeth and claws. Eventually, he continues.
“My sister, when I came back from the games, she did not look at me the same way,” he explains, tucking the photograph of Daniel carefully back into his pocket. “The Capitol paraded me around like one of their muts, like I was some kind of bedtime terror meant to scare their naughty children, as well as the people from my own home.”
You used to terrify me, Alex agrees internally, but he knows better than to say anything. The cat between Max’s feet begins to pur.
“The only time I really felt like a person anymore was with Daniel,” Max says, like it explains everything and in a way, it does. “It was too hard, to go for such long times feeling like a monster, too easy to start to believe that you are. When we are together, we can just- I can just-“
Max breaks off, putting his head into his hands. As his shoulders start to shake, Alex realises that Max is doing something Alex has never seen him do before.
He’s starting to cry.
#sorry to be back on my 'plagorising the hunger games to put my lil guys in situations' bullshit but#needs must#max/daniel#fic#lily's hunger games au#<bc there's a few im sure lol#galex#<bet you never thought you'd see me tag that!! lmao#outsider pov
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Written for the @sambuckylibrary anniversary event! Rated G, no CWs.
"You know, he's not half so scary in person," Carlos said from Sam's far side.
Sam finished crushing trash further into a garbage bag before he followed Carlos' gaze across the party to the table where Bucky was regaling many, many children with an, undoubtedly, dramatic story. There were enough swooping hand gestures and mimed explosions at any rate.
"Yeah, the TV adds seven layers of hostility," he joked. "He's actually just a good actor."
Carlos snorted and rolled his eyes at Sam's ribbing. "You always were the first one to offer a second chance to anyone and anything. Do you remember when you--"
"When that stray bit me three separate times and I still cried when animal control caught it and took it away?" Sam finished for him. The story had followed him along since he was thirteen. If someone wanted to boil Sam Wilson down to his essence, that was the story they told. "To be fair, someone told me while I was in the hospital getting stitches for the last bite."
"You spent weeks afterwards tryin' to borrow anyone's home phone to call and ask about it 'cause your mama wouldn't let you use y'all's phone," he continued.
"He wasn't a bad dog. Just scared," Sam chuckled softly. He moved his fingers over the textured edge of a paper plate. "It wasn't his fault."
Carlos just smiled at him like he and Sam were on the same page, which was never true. Carlos was usually seven steps ahead of Sam. It's probably what had made him and Paul Wilson such good friends, even though they were otherwise very different men. He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder and then moseyed away.
Sam looked over at Bucky, still in the midst of his story, and wondered when the last time was that he'd had teeth bared at him as he offered out a helping hand. And, honestly, cold shoulders and sarcasm aside, he couldn't remember. DC all those years (and not years) ago, probably. Even watching the Winter Soldier work again a few weeks ago hadn't been enough to remind Sam that Bucky could be that kind of dangerous. Especially not when it only took a touch and a look from Sam for him to draw back out of the character again. Sam was in no danger of being bit. No good person around was. Definitely more like the kind of dog that wanted to be a lap dog despite being a hundred pounds of muscle.
Sam made his way over to the table, just to make sure he didn't need to offer Bucky an escape. From the angle he was coming at, and the way Bucky's head was on a constant swivel to keep up with all of the laughing and teasing and questions around him, Sam got a chance to just look at him. The sun was bright on his face, making his eyes look like they were lit up and painting his hair more of an auburn than Sam had ever seen it. There were curls forming close to his head, brought out by the humid salt air and Sam had never seen that either. It kind of knocked the breath out of his chest.
Finally, he stepped closer, about to interrupt whatever exaggerated story Bucky was telling, but the man's words stalled him before he could.
"And Sam came out nowhere!" Bucky exclaimed, miming a sudden flight dive with his hand. "He took out a whole bunch of bad guys without breaking a sweat. Steve told me it was the coolest thing he's ever seen."
"Steve Rogers thinks Uncle Sam is cool?" Cass asked, all wide eyed. Sam would be offended, but it was less that Cass was in disbelief and more like he wanted to hear Bucky say it again.
"Steve thinks Sam is the coolest!" Bucky assured. "That's why Sam's Captain America and not someone else."
Sam raised an eyebrow that no one was going to see, but he supposed that the simple version was best while Bucky recounted glory days with a bunch of kids. Bucky reached out to catch a girl by the back of the shirt as she worked on climbing to the other side of the table so she could stand on the bench. She struck a dramatic pose and stared off in the distance for a moment.
"I wanna have wings. How do I get wings?" she asked.
"Well first, you have to eat all your vegetables. And you have to make good grades," Bucky explained, tugging her down to sit. "But you also have to be kind and not selfish, right? Gotta behave like Sam does."
"Even to my brother?" she asked with a frown.
"Even to your brother," Bucky agreed with a solemn nod.
When Sam couldn't stand it anymore, he came over to put a hand on Bucky's shoulder and tug him back from the table. "Hey, mythmaker, you're gonna have to help clean at some point. Come on, let's go," he encouraged, pulled Bucky's shoulder until Bucky dramatically flailed backwards.
"I'm not a mythmaker," he argued as he carefully extricated himself from the table. "I don't exaggerate."
"I do not believe you," Sam promised lightly.
Bucky clicked his tongue and then waved at the kids around the table who had quite eagerly taken his spot, clambering over each other even as Sam and Bucky walked away.
"You can never let me have the spotlight," Bucky sighed. When Sam glanced over at him, Bucky already had his eyes on Sam and he was grinning easily.
"I'm really jealous, what can I say?" he jokingly admitted. They walked for another moment, past all the trash they really should be taking care of, before Sam jostled his elbow against Bucky's side. "It's not like they were listening to stories about you anyway," he teased gently.
"Well, just the last one. Or the last two, depending on when you showed up," Bucky defended. It was unconvincing, especially when he snickered to himself anyway. "Your stories are more family friendly."
"You were sounding pretty bragadocious of those stories."
"Oooh, there's a vocabulary word," Bucky laughed. He nudged Sam towards an empty pier and sat down so he could dangle his legs over the edge of it. Sam followed suit and watched the water lap at the old wood. Algae and barnacles clung to the supports and drifted in the repetitive current.
"I'm proud of you," Bucky eventually said, barely audible over the water. The noises of the party were far enough away that Sam could almost believe he was underwater, with the way his head went light with the compliment.
"Thanks, man," he said back just as softly. "You're not doing too bad for yourself either."
Bucky knocked his shoulder into Sam's and then stayed leaning against him as he stared out over the water. Sam let his own head come to rest on Bucky's, tucking his cheek against Bucky's sun warmed hair. The birds called overhead, waiting for their chance to swoop in on discarded food and open trash. Music started up from somewhere near the heart of the party. The water continued to gently keep time with the wind and the current. And Bucky was warm and solid and constant beside him.
Sam was pretty damn proud too.
#sambucky#sam wilson#bucky barnes#captain america#sambucky fanfic#the falcon and the winter soldier#writing#tfatwsanniversaryevent2023
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The Crescent Moon Reminds Me Of You
Stanley Uris x Male Reader
Prompt - Soulmate AU where you can draw something on your skin and it appears on your soulmate's skin.
Stan sighed as he felt a tingling sensation on his left forearm. Stan moved his head and pulled up his sleeves to look at it. It was a moon. A crest moon. Stan shook his head as he turned his head back to his professor, who was lecturing his class. This was the routine for a couple of months now. Stan would feel a tingling sensation on his body, and then a drawing would show up.
It was because anything you drew on your body showed up on your soulmates. Stan knew his soulmate was fucking with him. Nobody drew on themselves this much and frequently. Stan first found the drawings annoying but the more frequent they became then more comforting Stan felt. Stan felt like he would never find someone that loved him.
But then something would appear on his body and he was reminded that someone was out there that loved him without even knowing him. But this person never revealed themselves. Stan had asked if they wanted to meet up or tell him what their name was. But they always said no. But something that his mysterious person didn’t know was that Stan already knew who it was.
You see everything the person drawn had something to do with werewolves. Whether it be a moon or a paw print, it would always have something to do with the mythical beings. The only person in the school who loved werewolves was a boy named Y/n. Stan had one class with him, and from what he gathered, Y/n loved werewolves. A weird amount. And as far as Stan’s knowledge, Y/n was the only person who loved werewolves that much.
But Stan never got the bravery to confront Y/n about this. What if Stan was wrong. What if he told him then Y/n told everyone that Stan liked boys. That scared Stan. So Stan kept it under wraps, even if friends didn’t agree.
“Tell him” Mike said as he and Stan walked to their next class. Stan had just spent the last couple minutes between classes staring at Y/n. And the losers didn’t really like it. Bev tried to convince Stan to tell him, and Richie teased him. And now Mike was trying to convince him. But Stan wasn’t budging. He was still scared. “I’m not going to” Stan said once they reached their next class. “What could go wrong?”
Mike whispered as Stan sat down in his seat. “Everything” Stan said, annoyed. Mike dropped it and went to sit in his seat. Stan thought he was finally at peace. Till he felt a tingly sensation on his arm. Stan looked down. But Stan didn’t see a drawing. He saw words. The words said ‘are you okay? I saw you are sad at break.’ Stan’s eyes widened.
His soulmate saw him. But who could it be? The losers spend free periods together. In the far end of the school. The only other people that were there were some random girls and. Y/n. Was Y/n his soulmate. He couldn’t be though. Why wouldn’t Y/n talk to them? But Y/n knew what he looked like. Or Y/n thought his soulmate was at least one of the losers.
But what if Y/n thought it was someone else. Everyone knows that Ben and Bev were soulmates. Along with Richie and Eddie. So Y/n had to think it was either Bill, Mike, or Stan. So what if Y/n thought it wasn’t Stan. Stan had to admit that he wasn’t the best looking. So Y/n probably hoped it was Bill or Mike.
Stan quickly realized that his soulmate had asked him a question and responded, saying he was fine. His soulmate didn’t say anything back but Stan assumed that they were focusing on class. But Stan was wrong. Because after a few minutes Stan felt it. He looked down in surprise as he looked at his arm. ‘Meet me in the math wing’ it read. And on Stan’s other arm he felt the tingling again.
When Stan looked to his other arm, he saw a crescent moon. Stan was shocked. He was finally going to meet his soulmate. Stan smiled as he looked back to the front of the classroom. He was happy but a little scared. What if it was Y/n, but he was expecting someone else. Someone better than Stan. Stan’s smile fell at that. But Stan had to go. If it wasn’t Y/n that Stan could get over this little crush.
Stan fiddled with his hands as he walked into the math wing. He hoped that it was Y/n was the man he was meeting, but he was also scared. He also hoped that it wasn’t. But he couldn't leave now. He had promised. He had told his soulmate that he would come. So he was. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. Stan had to rub his sweaty hands on his pants as he turned the corner.
What Stan saw shocked him. He saw Y/n. Who was leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. Stan had to admit, he looked hot. But Stan wondered why he was here. Was Y/n his soulmate? Stan felt happy, but he didn’t let it consume him. He still might be here for a different reason.
Stan walked over to Y/n and Y/n’s head shot up at the sound of footsteps. Y/n smiled as he grabbed Stan’s arm and pulled his sleeve up. Stan was shocked but once he saw Y/n also pull up his sleeve he realized. Y/n had the crescent moon on his arm too. Like Stan. Y/n smiled as he looked at Stan.
“Would you like to go on a date?”
#lgbtq#it 2017#it book#it#it 2017 x male reader#stanley uris x male reader#stanley uris#stanley uris x reader#it x male reader#it x reader
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Still A Sunbeam
Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together
Previous Chapter | Read on AO3
Having no expectations should have saved Elain some surprise. Her and Nesta had rushed off too quickly for Elain to really consider what she might find in Night Court, and once Velaris shattered her expectations, her mind didn’t bother filling in any new gaps.
Still, finding her sister paint streaked and beaming ear to ear. Elain certainly didn’t expect to be assaulted by the smell of her sister, either.
Glancing up at Nesta, her older sister merely shrugged as if to say, we don’t talk about that. Elain had a million questions, squashed as she stepped into the airy, bright sitting room that her sister was currently painting in. Seated in a chair, presumably for study, was the object of the scent rolling off her sister.
The new High Lord. Elain recognized Rhysand from those meetings in Spring. He was just as handsome as he’d ever been, though somehow more relaxed. It seemed it ought to have been the opposite—that becoming High Lord in such a violent manner ought to have made him more nervous, more uptight. Certainly more fearful than he was, out in the open where anyone could drive an ash arrow through his throat.
“Hello, Elain Archeron,” Rhysand purred, crossing one leg over the other. “How fascinating to hear the kingslayer think of all the ways I might be killed. Not at your hands, I hope?”
Right. She’d forgotten he could hear people’s thoughts.
“Kingslayer?” Elain asked instead.
Nesta scoffed, pushing through the living room to stand beside the mantle place. Cassian grinned at the High Lord before dropping into a chair just beside him, wings draping over the arms. In some ways, it reminded her of Day Court, though much, much smaller. Perhaps the rest of Rhysand’s court was in a palace somewhere.
“That's what they’re calling you,” Feyre told Elain, really studying her for a moment. “Did you truly kill the High Lord of Autumn?”
“No,” Elain said automatically. “Eris Vanserra did.”
“She merely stabbed him through the throat, darling.”
Darling?
Feyre didn’t react to the endearment and Rhysand turned to his sleeve, plucking at some stray thread Elain couldn’t see.
“Can we talk to Feyre without an audience? For once?” Nesta interrupted, eyes narrowed. Rhysand turned his head to look at her and Elain bet he couldn’t push through the walls that guarded Nesta’s mind.
“We’ll be fine here,” Feyre told the High Lord, once again confusing Elain. What was their relationship, exactly? It didn’t seem romantic on her sister's end, though there was some kind of affection in the undercurrent of her words.
Rhys stood then, shooting Nesta a look she’d seen on the faces of men one too many times. The sort that warned her to mind her own business, and the kind that only made Nesta more iron willed. Cassian, on the other hand, swaggered to his feet with a lazy, lopsided grin on her own face.
“Nes—”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, for all the good it did. Cassian merely straightened himself, a soldier being reminded by a general not to slouch.
“Call if you need me.”
“I won’t,” Nesta retorted, though Elain caught color crawling up her neck. Elain would have given anything to have Lucien with her, murmuring some missing context in her ears. She swallowed, waiting for the males to exit before Nesta rounded on them both.
Feyre had already plunked down in the chair Rhys had been sitting in, drawing her knees beneath a thick, cable-knit sweater.
“Nesta—”
“If we left right now, no one would stop us,” Nesta whispered, glancing toward the open window. “We could be back in days.”
“If you make me go back, I’ll take Spring apart flower by flower,” Feyre shot back, eyes flashing with fury. Elain remembered these sorts of fights—her sisters refusing to back down until Elain stepped in and smoothed things over.
She tried not to feel resentment for being thrust back into this role. It was a role she’d never wanted to play and had felt forced to, and now, as adults, felt even more so now that she’d been pulled away from her mate and husband to convince the two of them to stop acting like they didn’t love the other.
Their mother wasn’t around, pitting them against each other. They could be friends if they wanted. Elain understood why Nesta wanted her there, though she waited to jump in so she could hear Feyre’s reasoning.
“He won’t let me go. You know he won’t. Lucien Spell-Cleaver saw me unbound and in my right mind and Tamlin is still convinced—”
“It’s not about Tamlin!” Nesta interrupted. “Fuck Tamlin. Let Elain explain how you kill a High Lord for all I care. I know you’re worried about Amarantha.”
That silenced Feyre. Elain came around the room, sitting across from Feyre while she waited, too.
“Killian is there, too,” Elain told her younger sister, echoing the same fear that Feyre had. “Everyone surrounding them will be telling them how smart and clever and wise they are.”
“I know,” Feyre whispered with a huff of air. “Just the thought of…of placating him when he’s done so many horrible things, I…I want to rip his neck from his body.”
“Do it,” Nesta said dismissively.
“You’re not helping,” Elain murmured without malice. “There is no need to kill anyone, just as there is no need to marry anyone—”
“You’ve done enough of that,” Nesta muttered.
“You’re married?” Feyre asked as Elain wished for a moment she had the fortitude to scream at them both.
“Yes,” Elain said through gritted teeth, “and I do not want to be here, either. Yet here I am. We will go to Spring and try and put some sense into the heads of the males there. We will spend a week in our old beds, walking those old hallways, and being good daughters. And if we aren’t successful, we will leave and inform our respective High Lords of what we’ve learned.”
“Rhys will never allow it,” Feyre murmured. Elain thought the same was true of Lucien…if he’d known it.
“They don’t own us,” Elain told her sister while Nesta crossed her arms over her chest. Whatever was going on between her and the warrior named Cassian was apparently going to remain a mystery. Nesta said nothing, made no comment on a male she’d miss.
“We should go before they realize what’s happening.”
“I don’t think we’ll be able to get away with killing two High Lords,” Feyre mumbled, rising to her feet. “And I need a few things. Hold on.”
She raced upstairs, leaving Elain a little irked that she hadn’t thought to grab anything, either. She’d be back in spring florals before the day was through.
“I didn’t kill Beron Vanserra,” Elain grumbled.
Nesta shrugged. “Semantics.”
Elain sighed, because there was real danger to people believing she’d killed Beron Vanserra. She was safe with Lucien, but anywhere else she might be perceived as a threat. Tamlin could hold her hostage, if he liked, and demand an inquiry to the High Lord’s death. He could ransom her back for gold or protection or allies. It was foolish to think he wouldn’t, and Elain had to hope that her insisting she would never do such a thing, coupled with her reputation for non-violence, would spare her.
Feyre returned with a bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows tucked under one hand. “While we’re there, I want to trap the Suriel again.”
“Again?” Elain and Nesta gaped, looking at the fine, silk cloak hanging from Feyre’s shoulders. Feyre glanced at them both. She’d changed from her comfy sweater into a high necked, long sleeve, white shirt with a blue and gold tunic falling over top. Tight pants were tucked into immaculate boots, and the paint had been scrubbed from Feyre’s face, her hair braided off her face so the tail draped neatly against her shoulder.
“Subtle,” Nesta commented, though there was no ire to her words. “Maybe we should tell everyone our plan.”
“We have no plan,” Elain hissed, rising to her feet. “We are just three daughters going home to see our parents. As far as anyone else is aware, we are doing nothing else. And we are not assassinating a High Lord.”
“Again,” Feyre added with a twitch of her lips. “No instructions about a foreign general, though?”
“One problem at a time,” Elain replied, hating the way her palms were sweating. Too much stood to go wrong, with very little seeming as if it might go right. The part of Elain that prioritized safety and comfort was tempted to start screaming until Rhysand returned and gave her back to Lucien. And then what, she wondered? Lucien would know for the rest of their lives that when things got hard, she didn’t really want any of the things she’d once clawed so desperately for. How long before he began suggesting she just stay home? That she didn’t need to do anything at all? And how long before she just let him?
They had to go. It was a week, which was no time at all to accomplish anything and just enough time, Elain thought, to sow some seeds of discordance. Nesta and Feyre would be far better at that then she was, but Elain was a lot more careful and closer to Killian than she preferred to be. Perhaps he could be reasoned with, even if they were never going to get married. Elain had to trust it, because Nesta was hellbent on them going, and she refused to be branded the coward of the Archeron family.
And maybe, deep down, Elain wanted to prove to her mate that she had just as much courage as he did. That she was the kind of wife he could be proud of. Elain wanted to feel that same pride in herself, too. To know that she didn’t run away when things got hard—that she still tried, even when she was scared.
Kingslayer. That’s what Rhysand had called her, even though in truth, Elain had just been scared and had acted anyway. It hadn’t been bravery, it had just been instinct. Choosing to walk out the door, though, sandwiched between her sister, though?
That felt like bravery. Even if their presences grounded Elain and made her feel safe, it still felt like courage, however small.
“Lets go,” Feyre murmured, taking the hand Elain offered to them both. “Rhysand is on his way back.”
“Tell him not to do something foolish,” Nesta warned as Elain realized Feyre could speak to the High Lord mind to mind. Elain squeezed both their hands.
“Tell him to trust you.”
And then they were gone, gobbled up by the icy wind Nesta commanded. Elain held her breath, eyes squeezed shut even as the cold gave way to a cool, lilac scented breeze. Sunlight warmed her cheeks even as somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled threateningly.
They were home.
LUCIEN:
“Baby brother,” Tanwen began, clapping his hand on Lucien’s shoulder. Already, Lucien had regrets. Namely, agreeing to anything Eris had proposed, alliance or not. Let Autumn rot for all he cared—if Hybern swept in and took Spring, they’d take Autumn too. Eris could be High Lord for a month before he was replaced.
It was the thought that losing both Spring and Autumn left Summer vulnerable…and forced a battle to be fought in Winter, that convinced Lucien to unpack his clothes in a bedroom that smelled deceptively like apple pie.
Now he was in the hall, snooping because he was bored, only to find himself face to face with Tanwen and Conall. He knew them apart by their height—Tanwen was taller, Connall bulkier—and the fact that Tanwen kept sharp-bladed axes strapped against his back. Connall merely looked dangerous, but Lucien knew Tanwen was the warrior, Connall another courtier.
“What do you want?” Lucien asked, shaking off Tanwen’s hand.
“Come outside with us. Play a game.”
“Is the game hunting me for sport?” he snapped.
Connall’s grin widened. “Tempting, but no. You’re the one who hates us, remember?”
No, Lucien very much did not remember that. Still, it seemed better not to argue with them when he was currently residing in their fragile court. “What’s the game?”
“Counting how many new sentries Tamlin has sent to our borders,” Tanwen said, flexing a broad hand at his side. Lucien hesitated, certain he must have heard that wrong. It seemed risky to let him see any of the inner workings of their court or relationships with other courts…unless there was something they wanted his father to know.
“How tightly does he guard his border?”
“Lately?” Connall asked, steering Lucien down a hall. Both Vanserra’s flanked him, leading him toward some exit he’d never seen before. Lucien was surprised they were offering him any information at all. Eris must have given them permission—their positions were precarious as it was. Any one of them could make a play for the throne. Could campaign quietly for an army, for support, kill Eris, and take his place.
And yet none of them seemed terribly interested in it. Not that he thought they’d betray that to him. Things seemed…peaceful. Sorted. And Connall didn’t hesitate as he told Lucien, “The borders are tightly patrolled on Spring’s end. They never used to be so well monitored.”
“We slipped over all the time,” Tanwen added with a savage smile. “There is the most delightful village with the curious problem of too many females and not enough males.”
Connall was grinning too, stepping through the immaculate lawn toward the forest beyond. “Say what you want about Spring Court, their females are unmatched.”
Lucien’s spine straightened, hackles raised. He didn’t offer a comment to that, hating both Tanwen and Connall had made him the butt of their joke. Lucien was also strangely drawn to the creeping forest. Something in his blood jumped at the rustling tree tops and the loamy scent emanating from the shifting, golden light slithering through the shadows.
Tanwen glanced over. “You feel it?”
“Yeah,” Lucien agreed, unable to lie.
Connall’s brows rose. “Interesting. We wondered…since mother…”
Never once in Lucien’s life had he wondered if he had any claim to Autumn. That place belonged to the Vanserra’s—his enemies. And because Lucien hated them so much, there was no reason Autumn would call to him. And maybe, if he’d known that this place was in his blood, he would have hated them all harder for it.
Lucien was his fathers son—had always been.
But maybe he was his mothers, too.
Lucien took a breath of crisp air before plunging into the woods after his brothers. It felt good to stand there, like something that had long been writhing in his body were suddenly soothed and settled.
“Welcome home, little brother,” Tanwen murmured, shoving Lucien playfully with his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll think kinder of us, now.”
“Convince your father to let us see our mother more often,” Connall added, darkness lacing his otherwise easy words.
It was on the tip of Lucien’s tongue to remind the two of them that it wasn’t his father that kept them away, but their own dead one. He was certain his mother had already written, begging them to come to dinner once a week, if not more. And Lucien knew—though of course his brothers didn’t—that his father had no say over what his mother chose to do.
They’d have to figure that one out for themselves. Maybe Arina could model it for them, given Lucien very much doubted his friend was going to let Eris boss her around. Maybe they knew it, given there was no true anger in their expressions.
“Is there a reason you brought me out here?” he finally dared to ask.
“Just to see how you’d react,” Tanwen admitted, that practiced smile slipping back over his features. “Eris wanted to know.
“He could have asked—”
“And watch you refuse?” Connall replied, halting in front of Lucien. Their boots were lost in a sea of multi-colored leaves, their faces dappled in sunlight. “We have to force your hand to see you at all.
“Why would you want to?” Lucien demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. “We are—”
“Brothers,” Tanwent finished flatly. “Which clearly means nothing to you. Here, though…”
“That’s all we have,” Connall added, his expression neutral and guarded. “That’s all we’ve ever had. You don’t understand it and we’ve never held that against you but now…”
“Come on,” Tanwen said when it became clear Lucien wasn’t going to respond. What could he say? This was all news to him. Lucien was trying to parse through his memories, trying to piece together a time when he thought his brothers actually liked him. Never, if he was honest. He was content to trudge behind them, mind racing. What would life had been like if he’d been allowed to be friends with them?
Lucien couldn’t even imagine it. He tried for the duration of the now silent walk, but his mind rebelled. These were the Vanserra’s, tainted by their father no matter how they tried to untangle themselves from that legacy. Lucien’s whole world was shaped around Beron’s cruelty. To admit his brothers had somehow been spared of his influence meant everything Lucien had ever believed was fundamentally flawed.
He wanted to go home. Right then, Lucien considered just winnowing out and burying himself in his wife until this was a grainy, half-forgotten memory. The only thing keeping him from doing exactly that was the disappointment he could see so plainly on her face. She wouldn’t like knowing he’d left rather than try, nor would she appreciate him snubbing Eris when it was so clear that Eris had built some kind of trust with his mate.
So Lucien trudged on, increasingly aware of the world around him. The trees seemed to whisper secrets, speaking in a language he only half understood. Beside him, Tanwen’s head was cocked, ears twitching.
Connall had stopped altogether, one hand on his sword. The two brothers looked at each other before their gazes slid to Lucien.
“You’ll go home after all this,” Tanwen murmured, his voice a whisper on the wind. “And tell the solar courts what you saw.”
“What…” Lucien turned his head, looking through the thinning treeline. He’d expected sentries, well armed but mostly harmless. Not an encampment, with tents buttressed against the borders of Spring and Autumn. Stretching seemingly for miles, and likely touching Summer, too. It wasn’t guards, but a full army preparing for invasion.
“Time to go,” Tanwen said, his word law. Both Lucien and Connall stumbled back, winnowing back to Autumn before anyone caught the scent of them.
“Tamlins a fool,” Connall spat the moment they were inside the walls of the Forest House. “Foolish to think you could align with Hybern and not end up ashes, too.”
“Maybe he couldn’t back out of the deal,” Lucien suggested. His brothers turned to look at him, an idea forming in his mind. One his father almost certainly wouldn’t agree to…if he knew. Lucien could go on behalf of Eris, though. Take Connall or Tanwen or Cadmus with him.
“What are you thinking?”
“Two of us go. Just to visit, to extend a friendly welcome. Emissaries,” he added pointedly. “They wouldn’t tell us much, but we just need to see how much of Hybern has clawed its way into Prythian and convene the other six High Lords. And quickly.”
“Take Cadmus,” Tanwen said after a moment. “If Eris will allow it.”
“Lets go ask, then.”
In the end, it took very little convincing on Eris’s part. The words had only half left Lucien’s mouth before Eris was agreeing. Lucien intended to quickly pack his things, the thrill of doing something making him a little less careful than he usually was.
“Lucien. Cadmus,” Eris interrupted, halting them both in their path. “You come back together, or don’t come back at all. Do you understand me?”
Lucien and Cadmus looked at each other, a ripple of understanding passing between them. Brothers, Cadmus’s brown eyes seemed to say. Lucien inclined his head before turning to Eris.
“Understood, High Lord.”
“Don’t fuck this up,” Eris added, though who he was speaking to was anyone’s guess. Cadmus and Lucien exchanged another look, one that very clearly expressed their shared annoyance. It felt brotherly and Lucien didn’t hate that feeling.
“Heard, loud and clear,” Cadmus mumbled with an eye roll.
“Let's get out of here,” Lucien added, reveling in the camaraderie. He ignored the knowing looks from Tanwen and Connall, telling himself this was his way out of his promise to Eris.
Knowing full well it counted, all the same.
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Saw someone say that Klapollo is poor man's Narumitsu and I have A Lot Of Things to say about that. First off, Klapollo's dynamic is in no way comparable to Narumitsu, each ship has their own unique value and merit to them. You have these two guys who used to be childhood best friends until the other got adopted by his father's murder and had to leave for Germany and when Phoenix saw his face again, he learned that he had become a prosecutor, when he wanted to be a defense attorney like his father. His demeanor had also changed, gone was the Edgeworth who stood up for him in the class trial, he seemingly became a man who would do anything to win a case. And so Phoenix dropped everything he had planned for his life to become a defense attorney JUST SO HE CAN TALK TO THE MAN AGAIN. Now let me remind you that Edgeworth spended most of his life thinking that he had killed his father in that elevator, here comes Phoenix when Edgeworth got framed for murder. He reveals the truth to Edgeworth, that he hadn't killed his father, the real murderer was the one who had taught him everything he knew, who took him under his wing and acted as a guardian for him (a terrible one for sure though). He is able to take off this guilt that Edgeworth has been letting cosume him for all these years. He is able to deliver closure to Edgeworth's trauma.
It's also worth noting that Edgeworth has a customized chessboard that has the pieces look like him and Phoenix. Also we musn't forget "You've saddled me with... unnecessary feelings".
Now Klapollo? Sure they share some similarities to Narumitsu but the appeal is different. For you see, here is this lawyer who was a prodigy in school and he's also a world-renowned rockstar, here's this Guy who is a fan of Phoenix Wright and got into law as he was inspired by him. Klavier sees this average-looking man and goes "I've never felt this way with a man before~", Phoenix and Edgeworth would never be able to have done that, nah man everything these motherfuckers do together has to be dramatic as shit (sure you've got comedic moments here and there but these two are so angsty istg). The thing with Klapollo is that unlike Narumitsu, they are actually able to maintain a friendly relationship before the big climax of the games. Klavier is able to act professional (sorry Edgeworth but um... yeah) towards Apollo and doesn't go out of his way to antagonize him. You see, one of the main appeals for this ship is that Klavier twirls his hair and daydreams about this Some Guy who is the most Some Guy to ever live and probably takes pride in that (of course he has a shounen anime protagonist backstory but we'll get to that in a bit). And now we reach the part where we learn more about Apollo, and how you can draw parallels to Klavier's situation. Apollo just like Klavier has an estranged relationship with his brother, of course Apollo's brother had to be separated him due to Ga'ran's reign of terror and Nahyuta was forced to send defense attorneys to their deaths to keep his little sister safe, unlike Kristoph who did everything on purpose to achieve glory. Klapollo are not in any way comparable to Narumitsu, because Klapollo offers a healthy relationship with a solid foundation, a fun dynamic and some depth to it while Narumitsu is... I mean it's not unhealthy it's just that they're a fucking mess like they added way more extra steps in friends to enemies to lovers
#ace attorney#narumitsu#klapollo#wrightworth#phoenix wright#miles edgeworth#klavier gavin#apollo justice#i hope i got my point across#no shade to either ship i love them botb for different reasons
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Red Part 9
Words: 2.5k
Y/N is trying so hard to stay away from Van but she can’t avoid him forever… no warnings for this part ❤️
Red Masterlist Main Masterlist
You can't go on like this... you have to end things with Van...
You repeat the same few lines over and over in your head like a mantra over the following two weeks, almost like it's a sacred incantation that might somehow ward off these feelings that haunt you. It doesn't work though, your heart lurching every time your phone vibrates with a text message. Van's insistent, that's for sure. His texts start out flirty with plenty of innuendoes, but by the third day of you blanking him they take on a more serious tone.
Van: This won't go away just because you're avoiding me. I need to see you.
Van: We need to talk. You can't just keep ignoring me.
Van: I miss you x
The last one just rips into your heart brutally, and from that point on you hit delete quickly every time his name flashes up on your phone screen, trying not to read the contents of the messages. It's safer that way.
Of course ignoring Van doesn't mean that you automatically stop thinking about him though. He lingers there in your mind frustratingly, refusing to budge. He's the first image that pops into your head on waking and the last thought intruding on your mind as you battle with sleep. His whispered seductions in your ear, his hot breath fanning against your neck, the plushness of his lips as they press feverishly against yours... and those eyes... captivating and impossibly blue in the sunlight, drawing you in.
You've stayed away from Larry's ever since the day after the party, feigning a mystery illness, even going as far as insisting that Larry steers clear of your house too in case you infect him. He argues at first, but you insist. After all you are sick. Sick with guilt.
For the first time in all the years that you've been together you find yourself imagining a scenario where you two break up, playing the scene in your head like a movie. Larry shocked and disbelieving, pleading for you to reconsider through his tears. Van there waiting in the wings to move in and claim you, the duplicitous victor who steals you right out of his best friend's arms. No matter which way you play it, the outcome is always the same. Heartbreak for all involved.
You just can't do it.
"You can't still be ill, surely?"
Larry's tone is disbelieving and you're glad that you're on the phone and not face to face where he could see your flushed cheeks and guilt-ridden expression.
"Honestly, I've never felt so bad in all my life. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"But Sophie says she saw you in town yesterday, you were just coming out of that cafe on the High Street. You can't be that bad if you're out and about."
Sophie.
So she's still on the scene. It surprises you and that familiar jealousy comes flooding back, but you remind yourself that you have no business feeling it. If you don't want Van you're going to have to get used to seeing him with other girls. It's actually a good thing.
It doesn't feel good though.
"Errr... well, I guess I am starting to feel a little better." You flounder at being caught out. "I only popped out for a moment."
But Larry doesn't seem concerned that your excuses could be lies, he's got no reason to think that you'd be so devious in trying to avoid him. He just sounds happy, his voice raising up in excitement.
"Ah great, if you're starting to feel better then you'll be okay to come to the gig on Friday night."
"Gig? What gig?"
"You know... the lids are playing the O2 Academy. It's gonna be great. Tickets sold out in about 5 minutes."
"Oh..."
You're struck with anxiety at the thought of seeing Van again, but you know that you can't hide away forever. Sooner or later you're going to have to face him so it might as well be sooner. And he'll be up on stage for most of the night which should make staying out of his way even easier.
"Yeah... yeah. I should be alright. I'll come. Should be a good night."
You try to inject some form of enthusiasm into your voice but it's strained, not that Larry seems to notice. He's off on an excited rant, enthusing about what a good opportunity this is for the band and his best friend. It twists your heart to hear how proud he is of Van, and this just confirms to you that you're making the right decision by ending things.
"Ahh yeah it's gonna be class, and Dan the manager reckons this is just the start of it. He's just in talks with some of the major festivals and there's a good chance they'll be booking loads over the summer. They're really going places, I can feel it. Next year is gonna be immense! And Van's writing some quality tunes at the moment... proper anthems. Hopefully he might play one of the new ones on Friday."
You find yourself zoning out, Larry's words becoming indistinct until you hear something that makes your ears prick up.
"I'm just hoping this gig'll sort him out. Honestly I don't know what's got into him at the moment, he's been moping around with a face like thunder, ignoring Bondy's texts, shutting himself away in his room... he's been a bloody nightmare. Sophie says he's been snapping at her too..."
You close your eyes and screw up your face, your gut twisting as you listen to Larry's account of Van's mysterious uncharacteristic behaviour. What the fuck have you two been playing at? You're not just risking messing up your own lives, but also dragging other people into this whole sordid mess.
You need to rid yourself of this notion that you're somehow falling for Van. It's lust, that's all it is. Plain and simple. And you can soon put a stop to that. You just need to control your urges and see Van for who he really is. It wasn't so long ago that you were disgusted as he paraded a string of lovestruck girls into his bed. He's only on his best behaviour right now because he's on a mission to bed you. And that's never going to happen. Never. Never in a million years. It's over.
Gig nights are always accompanied by a mixture of emotions. Bob and Benji are a bag of nerves even though Benji tries to play it down, a contrast to Bondy's quiet, chilled confidence. Van's always hyper and tonight's no different. He's pacing back and forth in the back room of the venue, practically bouncing off the walls. At least the excitement is overshadowing the awkward moment that you two first clapped eyes on each other. Your train of thought had been utterly derailed and you were rendered speechless as you'd pushed through the door and seen him standing there, your breath catching in your throat as he'd greeted you with a rush of words which sounded very much like relief.
"Y/N! You made it. I really didn't think you'd come but here you are!"
"Here I am," you echo weakly when your power of speech returns, immediately dropping your head down to study the floor to hide your red cheeks. Thankfully everyone's so caught up in the pre-gig excitement that they don't appear to notice Van's eyes lingering on you and your obvious discomfort, but you announce that you're going to the bar nevertheless, keen to be released from Van's stifling gaze.
You turn quickly on your heel, head still down, making for the doorway that you've just come through. Various cries sound out from the lads, placing their orders, but you don't turn around. You just carry on walking, through into the corridor where you stop, taking a deep breath and leaning up against the wall, tipping your head back and closing your eyes.
Fuck... you hadn't been expecting the strength of emotions that had come crashing down on you when you'd seen Van. It had hit you like a ten-tonne truck, a wave of longing and craving and pent-up desire, a rush that made you feel weak, your head still spinning as you curse inwardly, trying to compose yourself.
"Are you okay Y/N?"
The female voice catches you by surprise and your eyes flick open quickly to see Sophie standing there, eyes wide and brimming with concern.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine... good... really good actually. I just felt a little... I don't know... faint I guess. It's so hot in there." You fan yourself with a hand, glad to have an excuse for your scarlet cheeks.
"Larry said you'd not been very well so I thought I'd come and check on you. It's not like any of the lads would think to… am I right?"
She rolls her eyes and grins, linking an arm through yours, friendly and conspiratorial. You smile back, pushing your body off the wall, letting her turn you both in the direction of the venue foyer and bar.
"Yeah, guys are shit like that aren't they? Completely wrapped up in themselves."
"Totally! Oh god, especially Van. Sometimes I wonder whether he notices that I'm even there at all!"
You can't help the satisfaction that floods you at her words and you hate yourself for it, pushing it away and playing the understanding confidante, glancing over at Sophie as you walk along.
"Oh, well that's Van for you, he's so easily distracted. So... are things not... errr... going that well with you two then?"
Sophie lets out an audible sigh as you arrive at the bar, both leaning on it with your elbows. "I don't know. He's so moody at the moment, and it's like his mind's always somewhere else entirely when we're together."
Your mind goes to the frequent text messages you've been receiving. You dig in your bag for your purse, ordering pints for everyone. "You do realise that the band always comes first don't you?"
Sophie shrugs, shaking her head slightly, her glossy brunette locks falling perfectly to frame her face. She really is gorgeous, Van must be crazy.
"I know that... and I mean I know we've not been together long, but sometimes I wonder whether he's just stringing me along. You know, until something better comes along."
"Well I don't know about that..." you begin, but Sophie talks over you, eager to tell you her woes, reaching for the first freshly poured pint.
"I mean you did warn me didn't you? About what Van was like? Maybe I should've listened... but I keep finding myself going back for more. He's just so bloody gorgeous it's like I can't help myself. D'ya know what I mean?"
You almost mumble out an agreement before you stop yourself, dipping your head to take a sip of your own pint instead. Sophie's not waiting for an answer anyway, she's on a roll. And what she says next shocks you.
"It's funny really, I've fancied Van for so long. I tried to catch his eye for ages, turned up to all his gigs, went to all the same parties, then after months he finally noticed me. I thought it was like a dream come true, but now I'm not so sure. I'm beginning to think that maybe Van's not the real catch here... maybe it's your Larry instead!"
You splutter in surprise, nearly spraying her in a mouthful of lager, swallowing it too quickly and making yourself cough. "Larry?" You croak, wiping the drink that's dripping down your chin.
She throws her head back with a hearty laugh, a hand reaching out for your arm. "Oh my god Y/N! You should see your face! Yes Larry... your Larry! There's not many Larry's around here last time I checked!"
You crack an awkward smile, setting your drink back down on the bar. "Yeah, I guess he's a good one."
"The best!" Sophie giggles. "Honestly, he's such a sweetheart. When I got upset over how Van was acting the other day he was so lovely. And he's hilarious too, he had me in stitches telling me stories of what the guys all get up to when they're touring."
Her eyes are all lit up as she speaks and you suppose you should feel threatened that this gorgeous girl's so taken with your boyfriend, but you don't. You just listen on, smiling and sipping your drink as she tells you a story of Larry picking her up from a party when she'd had too much to drink as Van wouldn't answer his phone. You hadn't realised how close they'd become in such a short space of time.
Suddenly she stops mid-sentence, eyes wide and cautious. "Oh bloody hell, listen to me going off on one! I hope I'm not over-stepping the mark. You do know that Larry adores you right? I really don't think that he'd even so much as look at another girl. Ahh shit I feel bad now! Me and my big mouth!"
"No, no it's fine," you assure her. "Larry's one of the good guys, nothing's too much trouble for him. He's like everyone's best mate."
Sophie's wariness evaporates instantly. "Yes! That's just it!"
"Alright ladies?"
You feel an arm on your shoulder as you hear the familiar voice in your ear and you whip your head up to see Larry's wide grin. He's got his other arm curled over Sophie's shoulder and she shrieks excitedly on seeing him.
"Larry! Oh my god, we've literally just been talking about you! Bet your ears were burning!"
"Hope it was all good," he grins, giving you a kiss on the cheek, murmuring a quiet "hiya love".
There's a flurry of greetings and hugs, and again you marvel at how seeing Sophie obviously so close to Larry isn't setting off alarm bells in your head. Maybe it's because you're so secure in the knowledge that he'd never stray. Or maybe it's something else. Maybe the spark really has gone from your relationship, that giddy breathless feeling that Van gives you, so addictive that you're always left craving more.
As Larry picks up the pints that you and Sophie can't manage and you all turn back towards the green room, thoughts are thundering through your head like a hurricane. You know damn well that you'd be foolish to think that the rush of excitement from a new relationship can be sustained, and the comfortable companionship that usually ensues is really the ultimate goal, but you still can't shake that disquieting feeling that your relationship with Larry has run its course.
But this isn't the movies. There won't be some dramatic scene accompanied by emotional turmoil that ends up in life lessons and everyone living happily ever after. The fact remains that not only are you a dishonest cheat, you've done the unthinkable and embarked on a illicit affair with your boyfriend's best friend.
Again the words ring through your head, and a quiet determination blooms inside you.
You can't go on like this... you have to end things with Van...
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Alright, let's finish this up now before I have to read JJK's next chapter and be sad about that, too. Trigun Maximum Sadness.
Stream-of-consciousness thoughts for TriMax Vol. 14, Chapters 7-8 below.
Chapter 7: Twin Wings
You know... Rem does indeed resemble Meryl here.
Yeah, explosions are noisy....
I feel like Orange took inspiration from this chapter's name for their big showdown in the final episode of Stampede.
Also also! Note they're both technically missing an arm at this point. And it's the opposite arm.
I'm honestly surprised Knives took the time to give himself some sort of Plant pants. I didn't think he cared that much. This is a seinen. They've had plenty of vags. I'm sure they could have got away with some dick.
I love how this page focuses on Knives' plant abilities, and on Vash's bullets.
Ha! Barefoot Knives! This is where Orange got that, too!
Ohhhhh, Knives' hair's all dark now, too. He burned a lot of energy regenerating his body, didn't he?
Cool sword, though. Of course he'd bring a knive to a gunfight.
"Everyone has abandoned me." Honey, you kind of forced your Plant sibs to join up with you, and you discarded the loyalties of the humans who followed you as worthless (especially Legato). Things might have turned out different if you'd approached all of that differently.
You know what they say: pride comes before the fall.
Dammit, Knives! This doesn't have to end in your death! You sound like freaking Legato! Seriously, man. You really should have spent some time getting to know and nurturing that boy. You guys could have learned so much from each other. And if you are gonna go all suicidal on this, for the love of God, don't force your brother to land the killing blow! There's a very important difference between going into a fight expecting to die and going into a fight hoping the other person will kill you.
Gratuitous Knives chest shot.
Knives lost to a one-armed Vash in a close-combat situation where Knives had a blade and Vash had a gun. That says a lot about the difference in their fighting abilities.
Ugh, Knives looks so sad now that Vash has a gun at his head. This isn't how he wanted things, and he's only now realizing maybe he could have done things differently.
But of course Vash doesn't pull the trigger.
Chronica?!?!
Vash is using his last bullet to save them both... and everyone below them, likely.
Ugh, looks like the power cost is maybe too much for Vash.
And Chronica's down.
Vash's angel wings!!! He's gotta save his brother!
Yeah, Vash just can't anymore. He's spent.
OMG THIS PANEL. Them flying (gliding?) using both their wings, so tangled up in each other it's hard to tell them apart, trying to save each other.
Dang, Chronica's determined.
Wait, what exploded behind her?
Livio?!? Gotta be him with that hat and cape. And Nightow suddenly drawing him in twink form again.
I doubt Chronica expected any of the humans of this place to try and save Knives.
I mean, if you're gonna have someone go after a Plant, I don't know that there's any human left alive more qualified than Livio. And he's bringing his full charm to the table, too.
Have I mentioned recently that I love Livio? I love Livio.
WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE?!?! WHAT IS HAPPENING??!?!?!
HE LITIERALLY TURNS TO LOOK OVER HIS SHOULDER TO TRY AND FIND WOLFWOOD WHAT IS HAPPENING!?!?!?
Crybaby Livio.... <3 He knows he only has the chance to be here doing all this because of Wolfwood. He'll never forget that. It's etched in his soul.
Chapter 8: Never Ending Song
Last chapter last chapter last chapter last chapter last chapter...
Half a year?!?! Dude, Vash was supposed to come back to Meryl!
These Earth Fleet tank things remind me of the tachicoma from Ghost in the Shell.
Awww, Vashie.... His hair is sooooo dark....
Looks like the Earth Fleet is gonna help the people on No Man's Land thrive after all. Wasn't sure if this was just gonna turn into an evacuation run or what.
Dude, you can't tell Vash not to get all weepy. He's the type who cries (although I do think TriMax Vash is WAY less weepy than '98 Vash). Let him cry, if he needs.
Hahahahahaha, can you imagine? The world's #1 most dangerous terrorist, known for wanting to genocide your race, shows up on your doorstep dragging along his brother, who the news says is the #1 best chance you have at survival, and begs you to help him. At that point, I guess you'd just kinda go with it because literally what else can you do? Maybe the terrorist will change his mind halfway through or kill you later for not doing a good enough job or who even knows, but it's not like you're in any position to argue right then and there.
Oh, this man's a doctor, even.
OH HE DOESN'T KNOW VASH IS A PLANT.
Wow. Just... wow. I'd heard that Knives got appled, but... I don't know what I was expecting. Definitely not that he used what little of himself he had left to terraform part of No Man's Land so he could nurture the people whose destruction he'd spent 150 years plotting, the same people his brother loved so much and couldn't possibly help in this way because that same brother had to save all his power to defend all these people from Knives. Gods, what they could have done if this is where they had started, even crashing on a world as desolate as this. It's such a small gesture, not nearly enough to sustain a population. But it's so, so important. I'm tearing up over here.
Logic brain needs to shut the hell up with its talk about how the people probably don't know enough about actual plants to keep the tree healthy and thriving. Let me have this moment, logic brain.
Geez, I just realized they were hiding Vash in a secret underground safe room.
I don't know if Vash is physically capable of living a quiet life... but it's good that someone told him he should, and that he's done enough and then even more than that.
What the hell, Earth Forces? First off, it was you guys who sent a group down to Earth being like, "Vash is probably our last hope!" so why are you hunting him like this?? Second off, I get you being panicky about Knives, but it seems like you're not considering the human element here at all. Third off, lying about your time frame and then whipping out your guns is not a good way to win allies. Fourth off, didn't your oh-so-amazing intel let you know that the only people here aside from supposed Knives and Vash were an old doctor and his kid??
Yyyyeeeaaaahh, I see Vash's commitment to a quiet life has lasted about as long as his morning meditation does.
What a freaking gremlin. Shooting his gun into the air and causing a scene. Playing to his strengths, I guess. Really, though, I know he's doing it just the way he did before, with intention to save the most people even if it's at possible cost to himself. He's still Vash the Stampede. Nothing's gonna change that, and I mean that in the best way.
Hahahahaha, he's still crying about it.
LOL, he wants to get a fake beard. Is it 'cause it took him TWO FREAKING YEARS to grow his Eriks stubble???
Nightow, what the heck. You just HAD to get some more crazy bounty hunters in before the end, didn't you?
LOL, "dickless earthlings."
Aaaaand now they're all too busy fighting each other to bother with Vash.
Uh. Is that Meryl's boot? IS THAT MERYL'S SKIRT?!?!
YES IT'S MERYL!!! AND ALSO MILLY!!! Vash looks so relieved.
Meryl, on the other hand, looks like she's going to slap him. He'd deserve it.
And he's getting appropriately dressed down instead. This is reasonable punishment. Be ashamed, Vash. You should be.
I like how all the bounty hunters and such are just standing there in the background, watching. They're like, "We come in guns blazing, and this tiny woman says a few words and has him groveling on his knees. Who even is she??"
They're fighting back to back with him. THEY'RE FIGHTING BACK TO BACK WITH HIM JUST LIKE WOLFWOOD DID!!! They're all gonna go home together!!!
LOL, Meryl replacing her derringers with microphones. Ain't no one needing that many mics, lady. And Milly having a camera instead of her stun gun.
Fucking hell. They got me all excited that they were gonna fight at his back and now they're just interviewing him while fifty billion people stand by and watch in shock. I'm honestly a little mad at the girls for this.
I love this little song of Vash's, though.
"Stay tuned for wardrobe malfunctions, too!" LOLOLOL, girls, please let him keep his coat on. He's self-conscious about his scars.
I mean, all things considered, this is a great way to stop him from being hunted. They know him better than most, and getting the word out about him in a way that alleviates anyone's potential fear of him would help build a lot of bridges.
He looks less than thrilled to be interviewed, though.
Hahahahaha, I love this shout-out to so many of the characters who came through the story. We have Mr. Dynamite Neon and his goons, and Lina and the hamsters man that Vash told to protect the village, and the old couple with a geoplant and their son, and...
LIVIO GREW HIS HAIR BACK OUT AL;JSDF;AJD;LSFALJ;A
Ahhhhh, it looks like he's working at the orphanage, too! He looks so good and so happy and just... I'm so happy for him. <3 <3 <3
LOL, shout out to the Nebraskas in all their terribleness.
They're all watching him run away on live TV now. Even Chronica.
This color spread.... His hair might be black, but... but he looks so happy, even if he's running away again. Like he's in his element in the best way he ever could be.
Aaaand everyone's just chasing right after him.
I love how happy Milly looks about all this, too.
Now I'm full of warm fluffies, so if you'll excuse me, I'm just gonna bask in them for a bit.
Chapter Archive
Trigun Vol. 1: Covers + 1-3, 4, 5-6, 7-8, 9-10 || Vol. 2: Covers + Extras, 1, 2-4, 5-6, 7-8
TriMax Vol. 1: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 2: Covers + 1, 2-4, 5, 6-7 || Vol. 3: Covers + 1-3, 4-5, 6-7 || Vol. 4: Covers + 1-2, 3-5, 6-7 || Vol. 5: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 6: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6
Archive Intermission for Weird Tumblr Formatting Reasons!
Vol. 7: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 8: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5 + Bonus || Vol. 9: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 10: Covers + 1-3, 4-5, 6-8 || Vol. 11: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 12: Covers + 1-3, 4-6, 7-9 || Vol. 13: Covers + 1-3, 4-6, 7-9 || Vol. 14: Covers + 1-3, 4-6, 7-8 (here)
Extra Credit Archive
Trigun Vol. 1: Nebraska vs. Vash's Motivations, Vash's Loneliness, Vash's Depression (pt. 2 of post), Soupy Brains || Vol. 2: Coin Factoids || TriMax Vol. 1: Lina, Vash, and a Haircut || Meryl, Vash, and the Pursuit of Happiness || Vol. 5: Knives, Vash, and Hatred for Humanity || Vol. 6: Coping Series: Wolfwood, Meryl, Vash || Vol. 8: The Uncoordinated Counterattack || Vol. 9: Justice, Punishment, and Mercy, The Tolling of an Iron Bell || Vol. 10: Crucifixion Symbology (pt. 2 of post), Merging of Families, Being Childlike (And Why God Hates Chapel) || Vol. 11: New Hair, New Outlook
#now i have to standardize my archive across all my posts or some other such nonsense#but not now-now#later-now#my heart is full#so glad i got to read this#trigunbookclub#trigun maximum#volume 14#pancake thoughts
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Nowhere to Run- Chapter 6
Posting another chapter also to save Glen Powell’s hashtag from this GiGi/Glen/Sydney drama.
Warning that Maverick is a bit ugly in this chapter. He was fired from his job that he loved after effectively cutting three pilots' wings. He's been accused and reprimanded for ending other people's careers and that can't feel good. Now he is stuck at his own hangar while the Daggers all separate, and his best friend is still dead. He has no family besides Bradley who he know has to leave him now when he is shipped off, and he has no real purpose in life anymore (in his mind). So Maverick gets drunk and he finds Jake as a target. It is an AU characterization for sure and I hope you all will forgive me for it.
The wedding ceremony of Reuben and Jacqueline was being held in the gardens of a country club so Jake pulled the car in for valet before the trio headed to the area to get some seats. They arrived just in time, able to procure three seats together in one of the back rows and sat without drawing any attention to themselves. Once settled Jake couldn’t help but to look around, another set of three immediately catching his eye.
Phoenix, Rooster and Maverick sat a few rows up from Jake, all together. Since they were seated Hangman couldn’t get the best look but the blonde could tell right away something was off with all their body languages. Phoenix looked to slouch in her seat dejectedly, an absolutely startling sight from the woman who commanded attention from every room she’d ever enter. Her gaze stayed down to the ground and she only offered little nods or shakes when Bradley turned to say something to her. It was a strange sight, and something that made the blood already start to boil in Jake despite only having watched for thirty seconds. This was Jake’s biggest fear, the concern that he raised to Natasha herself all those months ago before he left Top Gun. He knew that following Bradley Bradshaw was not the path for the female pilot; she was always going to shine the most on her own. Jake hoped he was overreacting, he hoped that he would see Phoenix at the reception and she would be snarky and fun and the spark that made Natasha would be there but he was worried, so very worried.
On the other end of the threesome, Jake almost had to do a double take; the sight of grey hairs in Pete Mitchell’s notoriously known sleek dark hair looking so foreign that Jake would have assumed it was another person. But no, it was Maverick, the ace pilot, the legend of Top Gun and the entire Navy and yet when the man turned around and straightened up to catch a glimpse at who was left to take their seats, Jake could have sworn the man was thirty years older in the time he had seen him last. To be fair Maverick was nearing 60, however when he trained the Dagger Squad a few short months ago he held his own and bested them in most things. Even shirtless dogfight football showed that the elder pilot still had the physique and the stamina to keep up with people half his age. Now the man just looked weathered, his face drawn and sad, his body holding a bit more weight that was more pronounced on his shorter frame. He shuffled uneasily as he continued to look around before Rooster said something and the man sat right back down as though ordered. He didn’t turn around again.
In between the two was Bradley who besides looking a little more shaggy-headed, was more or less the same. He alternated between talking to Nat and Mav, never spending too much time with one instead of the other. It reminded Hangman of a mother, keeping both her children entertained without any favoritism; reminding them not to slouch and to clap when appropriate.
It was just such an outlandish image overall for Jake that he turned to say something to Javy about it. However before he got his chance the music began to swell and he was forced silent by the start of the wedding. Payback stood at the front of the altar in a tuxedo instead of his dress whites, looking the picture of suave and sophistication. He offered wide grins to a few of the guests, and then turned to watch the members of the wedding party make their way down the aisle. Fanboy was a big hit of course, winking and smiling at a few of the pilots he recognized before finally giving his partner a big thumbs up before he took his spot at his side.
When Jacqueline appeared the whole crowd seemed to hold their breath, the woman looking radiant in her ivory gown. Her eyes stayed on Reuben the whole way down, beaming with happy tears as she watched the man she was about to marry cry as he saw her. The two lovers met in front of the wedding officiant and held hands throughout the ceremony, leaving no doubt to any of those in attendance of how much they adored each other.
After the vows were exchanged and Reuben was allowed to kiss his new bride for all the world to see, the guests were ushered inside for a cocktail hour before they were led to the reception. The cocktail hour, (the best hour at any wedding in Jake’s opinion) was pleasant. The food was delicious as was expected and thanks to Naomi being the designated driver, both Jake and Javy got to indulge in some scotch from the open bar. As they mingled around, Jake was able to catch up with some of the old Daggers, each greeting him enthusiastically. It squelched the nerves that had been simmering in Jake’s stomach, the nagging fear of being rejected or un-liked that seemed to be permanently attached to him. Instead the team appeared to fall right into step like no time had passed at all, everyone happy and healthy and in one piece when all that seemed so unsure a few months ago.
Towards the end of the hour Jake came close to getting a minute with Natasha, but the other woman clutched her water a little tighter and headed in the other direction. Jake couldn’t contain his disappointment but Fritz told him not to let it get to him while he explained the complete transition in Phoenix’s demeanor. Hangman didn’t know what upset him worse, hearing how Nat had effectively become the bully of the replacement squad when they had all left or how she had become almost like a shadow in the weeks since Maverick’s leaving. The blonde knew he needed to find a way to talk to the woman, find out what exactly was going on. She may hate him but Jake had nothing but respect for Natasha Trace and he knew the world would not seem right unless she was at her best.
When the reception started, Jake realized quite quickly that not all the Daggers were sitting together. Thankfully the split was Rooster, Phoenix, Fritz, Fanboy and Maverick seated at one table with some of Reuben’s other pilot friends. Meanwhile his table was Jake and the two Machados, Halo and Omaha who had finally seemed to embrace the inevitable and declared their feelings for each other, Harvard and his girlfriend Marilyn, Yale, and most surprising of all Bob Floyd and his plus one, a young man named Dylan. Jake actually found himself seated next to the quiet WSO and his date and he noticed the way Bob's eyes shifted nervously when he introduced Dylan to the rest of the squad.
Jake grew up in Texas and then joined the military so he was well aware of homophobia and all the ways it could rear its ugly head. He had seen it ruin friendships and squadrons instantly, destroying what should be safe places and questioning other people’s characters. Jake couldn’t imagine having to worry about what others would say about who a person chooses to love. He knew that it took a lot of guts for anyone to so willingly share this part of their personal life with anyone. Luckily the bespectacled man next to him had absolutely nothing to be scared of as the team welcomed Dylan instantly and warmly. The man had met Bob just a few short months ago but it was obvious they both were very smitten, Dylan held Bob's hand through most of the conversation and every time they caught each other's eyes, they shared a sweet smile.
Being around all this love made Jake feel pretty lonely as he sat at the table. He wasn't the only one riding solo, Yale had come alone and Jake saw a few others around the room with no dates, but it still felt different. Hangman had spent a lifetime pushing others away, having no qualms about focusing on his career first and foremost, marriage a statistical unlikelihood and children something that Jake's own troubled childhood had made him frightened of. However, as Javy rested a loving hand on Naomi's baby bump and the three other couples all rose to dance during a slow tune, Jake wished he didn't have such strong convictions in the past against settling down.
Hangman rose up before he got too melancholy, heading to the bar in the corner of the room only to run into one of the people he had hoped he could have kept avoiding. Pete Mitchell stood by the drink station, nursing a whiskey that did not look like his first by the way he was leaning. The man was watching over the wedding procession with hooded eyes, his expression not the warm melancholy of a man past his prime, or even the jealous envy of a single loner. He just looked void and blank, which were two words never associated with Maverick Mitchell.
The older pilot spotted Jake quickly and his eyes widened just a fraction before he took another sip of his drink and let loose a hiss. Knowing it would be worse if he turned around, Hangman continued over, nodding to the bartender and ordering a scotch. "Sir" he acknowledged while he silently pleaded for the bartender to pour faster.
"Seresin" Maverick's voice was slightly slurred, confirming Jake’s suspicion of his multiple drinks, "didn't you hear?" the man continued, rolling his glass a little as he watched the amber liquid splash around, "I don’t need to be addressed as Sir anymore."
Jake wasn't quite sure how to play the situation but opted for honesty, "yes" he conceded cautiously, "I heard you retired."
Pete gave a snort of bitterness that just seemed so wrong coming from the man, "it wasn't voluntary" he shared looking up at the blonde once more, "You were right, I wasn’t fit to lead the team.”
“I didn’t say that-“
“Didn’t you?” the older man challenged, pressing off the bar to step closer to his former Lieutenant. “Isn’t that what you screamed to the rafters in the hangar that day? That you didn’t trust my judgment? My decisions?”
Jake could stop the blush of guilt that flashed over his cheeks, “I didn’t mean- Sir I-“
“I told you” Maverick snapped harshly, “I’m not Sir anymore.”
This wasn’t the situation Jake wanted to be in and certainly not the venue. He looked over to the side and noticed Javy was watching warily from their table. He nodded over to his best friend to put him at ease before turning back to his former Captain, “I think I should head out-“
“Yes” Pete tilted his head as though pondering something, “that is what you do, isn’t it Seresin? Run away.”
Jake felt his defensiveness rising, “Look Mav I’m sorry about what happened but I did what was best for me.”
"Don't you always" the man scuffed.
It was foolish to keep engaging but Jake felt the heat of the scotch in his gut egging him on. "I see you've been taking notes from Rooster" the blonde spat back, "I forgot that you pushing dangerous and life-threatening stunts on a bunch of newbies was my fault. Enlightening me Mav, was I the one flying in between them?"
Maverick's green eyes blazed, the most emotion that Jake had seen from the man since he caught a glimpse of him at the wedding. The older man took his pointer finger and rammed it hard into Jake's chest, "all I ever wanted was to train you all to get home! I cared more about your lives than the mission-"
Hangman pushed Maverick's hand from his chest, "No one ever doubted that" he told his former captain, "but you always wanted to fix your relationship with Bradshaw and it clouded your judgment."
"I picked the team that succeeded!" Pete's voice rose, enough to draw the attention of a few people in the crowd. Jake could see Javy rising, no doubt wondering why he was staying in this conversation any longer. Maverick clutched at Jake's dress whites with a desperate hold, "even you" he explained expressively, "you being the spare was methodical too, I knew you'd be the only one that could fly fast enough to get to us if we needed it."
The blonde swallowed roughly, "You couldn't have known I'd fly against orders-"
Mitchell nodded sagely, "I couldn't know for sure but I knew if anyone would have done it, it would be you" he said, echoing the similar words to what Cyclone had spoken in his office all those months ago. It dawned on Jake that for all of Maverick's renegade status he and the other Admiral were not so different. They all wanted the same thing, success and everyone coming home. Captain Mitchell naturally thought that Simpson and Bates wanted success first, and maybe they did, but they also cared, maybe just as much as Mav did. But they were different; they were regimented; they believed in rules and regulations and order. Maverick believed in getting things done however you needed. Neither were 100% right or wrong, they were just different styles.
Jake looked down for a moment before finding his former captain's eye again. The truth of the matter was he respected Maverick for his record, for his skills and as a man. Him picking Bradshaw and ignoring the glaring problems with that choice was the reasons that Jake couldn't respect him as a Captain. But the man was no longer a CO. Instead he was a clipped bird, stuck on the ground for the rest of his life, bitter and angry with a growing feeling of inadequacy. It's hard to stay mad at someone like that. The blonde shook his head, "look Pops" he began hoping the nickname would soften the edges of fiery emotion from this conversation, "I didn't expect it to get here okay?"
Maverick backed off a bit, "Me either."
"And I'm sorry" Jake continued, "for what happened to you. I'm sorry that the Dagger Squad didn't become what you wanted, or Rooster wanted, but you can't blame that on me."
"You never gave it a chance" the older man explained, moving back to his position of leaning against the bar top as though it was too much energy to stay standing and conversing with Jake any longer, “because you weren't the star."
Hangman rolled his eyes, frustration mounting as he felt the need to defend himself again, "this isn't about my ego-"
"It is. And I should know" Mav warned, "because I was the same. You and me Seresin, we aren't so different. Running around and trying to be the best, shine the brightest, only worried about getting that ace status-"
"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be the best in your field-"
"But you won't be that" Pete cut in gravely, looking even older than his years. He grabbed Jake's arm with an iron tight grip to force him to listen. "You don't get to be the best pilot or move up the ranks to being an Admiral. Men like us Jake, we don't rise."
"Sir you became a Captain-"
"Because I wouldn't die" the man explained, "We are meant to die young and in a blaze of glory. We are meant to be a part time Navy assets that burns itself out before the expiration of its shelf life. You and I, we aren't the Icemans of the world or even the Cyclones." He took a step closer, right in Jake's face, "you are a liability, just like I was, and the Navy always gets rid of their liabilities eventually."
"And how do they do that?" Hangman asked, his curiosity in the seasoned pilot’s point too poignant to step away from.
Pete sighed, "they give you enough rope to hang yourself" he shared, his eyes growing distant. Jake had a feeling he was back up in the skies that faithful day a few weeks ago, flying in between two planes like he always did, only to watch the stunt go horribly wrong so quickly. "They give you that rope and they let time drive you to wrap it around yourself."
"With all due respect Mav," Hangman cut in to drive the older man from his thoughts, "but I'm not like you. I wouldn't do what you did-"
The smile Pete gave in reply froze the blood in Jake's veins. It was creepy in its knowingness. Like Maverick knew this big secret that Hangman was too dumb to understand, and maybe he did. Maybe Mav had a point, could Jake advance to the Admiral status like he always dreamed? Or was he like Pete Mitchell, always chasing after the next bogey, flying like a maverick instead of an iceman. Losing the game of advancement before he even realized he was playing. Jake felt his cheeks redden as the truth hit him.
Maverick looked smug as he watched realization dawn on the younger man, "that's right Seresin, now you get it. We don't become admirals, we don’t advance. You think you have a future with the Navy but you don't, we don't, we're just meant to fly until we die and hopefully it's sooner rather than later for everyone's sake." He shot back the rest of his whiskey and slammed the glass a little too harshly back on the table, "enjoy the rest of the wedding" he declared as he gave Jake one final slap on the shoulder before slipping back into the crowd of dancers.
#top gun maverick#glen powell#jake seresin#top gun hangman#top gun#top gun fanfiction#bradley rooster bradshaw#maverick#top gun movie#tom cruise#jake seresin fanfiction#pete mitchell#dagger squad#jake hangman seresin#jake seresin fic#natasha phoenix trace#miles teller#javy coyote machado#monica barbaro#drama#maverick fanfic#maverick really goes off in this chapter#and says some messed up things#i am sorry
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