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bealovesmarauders · 1 year

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🐚 james potter asking you out to the yule ball. friends to lovers!

enchanted / james potter

⋆ ࣪. ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖

james potter x fem! reader, fluff, childhood friends to lovers

wc: 1k

in which your childhood best friend james potter takes you to the yule ball<3

this night is sparkling, don’t you let it go

a/n: uhhh so i know i said i was just doing a drabble but this is. quite a bit more than a drabble like somehow it turned into a full fic?? i also tweaked this a tiny bit so it’s childhood best friends to lovers, i hope that’s okay:) also i think my characterization especially in the dialogue is rly off here idk whats up with me lately. ty for the ask my love<3

⋆ ࣪. ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖

it started, as it always had with james, with a note.

you’d instantly recognized his chicken scratch handwriting on the torn piece of parchment floating towards you, the hasty smiley face and heart with an arrow drawn through it symbols you’d seen hundreds of times before. the time you were sick at home and couldn’t play outside, so he’d slipped a note into your mailbox to say he missed you. the apology note from when you were six years old and he’d crashed into you on his toy broom, consequently breaking your arm in the process. the letters he’d written to you on vacation the summer he visited his grandparents and aunts and uncles, detailing all the hijinks and shenanigans he’d gotten up to with his cousins. since childhood, james had been your best friend- the person who knew you most in the world, always a shoulder to cry on, someone you knew you could count on forever. the boy you loved, secretly, ever since that day so long ago when he’d taken you to his secret treehouse and smuggled a tray of euphemia’s famous cardamom shortbread cookies to share.

but this note was different.

y/n,

i’ve got something to ask you. meet me in the room of requirement in 5 minutes?

- prongs x

uncrumpling the scrap of parchment, a smile spread across your lips, blush coloring your cheeks. searching for james across the great hall, you spotted him sitting with the marauders, where they were all supposedly studying for the charms test next thursday. james was sprawled across the bench, laughing about something sirius was saying, but straightened up when remus elbowed him in the ribs, peter whispering something in his ear and gesturing to you. james’s hazel eyes lit up, and he raised his eyebrows in the form of a question.

biting your bottom lip, you looked down at the note and back up at him again. oh my god. it was finally happening. you scrawled a note back, tucking the one from him into your pocket, and cast a spell on it quickly, watching it fold into an origami bird and fly over to the marauders, delicate paper wings fluttering like a hummingbird’s.

jamie,

of course.

- y/n xo

james’s stomach filled with butterflies when he saw the hugs and kisses at the bottom of the paper, along with your childhood nickname for him at the top. no one called him that, not even lily. and you’d always signed your name like that, ever since euphemia taught you how to sign your name way back when, but he couldn’t help but think maybe it meant something different this time. maybe it was finally his chance. a smile playing on his lips, james ambled out of the great hall, presumably to your secret meeting in the room of requirement. his walk was nonchalant- but the silent cheers of the marauders, along with the back pats and not-so-subtle spray of cologne from sirius’s pocket were anything but. you caught sirius’s eye and threw him a questioning look- what did they have planned?- but he only shrugged, raising his hands in mock surrender.

casually gathering up your books and leaving the great hall to go find the room of requirement, you smoothed your hair and tried to hide the blush growing across your face, creeping up to your ears. you couldn’t help but silently scold yourself- james was your best friend, and had been for years. sure, you’d always been harbouring a small crush, but you’d always vowed to never act on it- you didn’t want to ruin your friendship. nevertheless, you made your way to the room of requirement, and tried to quell your beating heart as the door swung open- revealing your best friend, suddenly all decked out in a suit.

“james,” you said, all breath suddenly gone from your lungs. he was so pretty, with his messy dark curls a contrast to his freshly pressed tuxedo, the collar stiffly starched and swan white. he looked happy, hopeful, nervous- a bundle of emotions. in his hands was a singular rose.

“hi,” he said back. slack-jawed, you took a step into the room of requirement. it was stunning. it seemed to have converted itself into a romantic tea room. fresh flowers were hung everywhere, and on a small side table there lay an envelope. your interest piqued, you looked at your best friend questioningly.

“before you say anything,” james said hurriedly, “like i said, i want to ask you a question. so i’d like to invite you to open that envelope right there.”

eyebrows raised, you took it carefully and pried the wax seal open. what was going on? you set the envelope down, and slowly unfolded the piece of parchment inside it.

will you go to the yule ball with me?

you looked up at james, eyes wide. was this some sort of sick joke? but a bouquet had materialized in his hands and he was bouncing on the soles of his feet. when he met your eyes, the doubt must have been clear, because his face immediately fell and he resembled some sort of wounded animal. slack-jawed, not wanting to leave him hanging, your brow furrowed. “are you- are you serious?”

instead of making a wisecrack about his best friend’s name, james nodded. “if you’ll have me. y/n- i love you. and i don’t want to ruin our friendship, but-”

without another word, you cut him off, stepping forward and engulfing him in a hug. he smelled like cedar wood and butterbeer, cotton and leather, with a hint of sleakeasy’s hair potion sprinkled in. your best friend. the boy who loved you. james. and then you kissed him- sweet and lingering, his hands traveling up your back and cupping your face. it was even better than you had ever imagined.

“so..is that a yes?” james asked, and you giggled. “if you’ll have me.”

he smiled, the same genuine one from when you were kids, dropping another gentle kiss on the tip of your nose and tenderly squeezing your hands. “of course i’ll have you, darling. m’gonna give you the best night of your life.”

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smallgodseries · 11 months

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[image description: A white background with very thin gold frame. A black wire crosses that frame at a slight angle. Centered in the frame is a singing bird rendered in ink lines. It has small heart markings on its chest and the word ‘Love’ on its wing. Text reads, “31, The Small God Love Bird”]

Love never dies. It changes forms, yes. It fades and falls into memory. But as time is eternal, love is eternal, forever preserved somewhere in the clinging amber of the past, unable to fully pass away.

Gods of love are similar. They flock around all its many forms and manifestations, from the small god of puppy love to the small goddess of first kisses, and some of them are venerated and some of them are forgotten, but all of them were, at least for a time, and so all of them will be forever.

The most important are always the first to fall. Everyone remembers Aphrodite, in her famous see-through nightie, goddess of love and beauty and marrying for your own heart’s happiness, but how many remember the demigods who served under her? They carried her intent into the world, and as a reward, their names were lost to history, lover’s letters left unread and untranslated, lover’s prayers unanswered. For them, forever is a long and silent place.

But those with less import have a way of holding on.

We say messages fly on the wings of love. We compare our hearts to birds held captive in cages made of bone. We call love itself the thing with feathers. And so, although it has no name, no clear plumage or identity, the love bird endures.It is a small god of all that loves, all forms of love, non-specialized yet still diminutive. It spreads its wings to cover lusty lovers in the grass and sleeping siblings in their sleepaway tent at the same time. Love is love is love, whether sexual or familial or the deep, complicated bonds of friendship, and the love bird perches on them all, feathered and fleet, too small to die, too enduring to ignore.

Its iconography is everywhere. It will never fly away and leave us, but will love us all and always, and sing its songs just on the edge of hearing, where all ears are open as they tumble into sleep.

Love is love.

____________________________________________________________

Artist Lee Moyer (Trident of Aurelia, 13th Age) and author Seanan McGuire (Wayward Children, October Daye & InCryptid series) sincerely thank to each and every one of you who share Small Gods!

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

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onlyseokmins · 2 years

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butterfly • x.m.h.

Pairing: xu minghao x afab!reader

Genres: smut (minors dni!), fashion designer!au, tiny angst mayhaps

Warnings: little bit of dirty talk, reader is a model FYI but nothing really much abt that lol, one-night stand mention, way too many butterfly metaphors, idk lmk if I missed smth as always!

WC: I have no idea I typed this up on Tumblr mobile whoops

A/N: Thank to this, I'm thinking of fashion designer minghao where you're his muse, model, and arm candy for the lovely butterfly lingerie collection he designed.

He'd just slip his hand through the slit of the dress you wore earlier to his latest press conference the minute the both of you entered his penthouse. His eyebrow raises in mild surprise that not only are you already quite wet but that he can also feel your bare, puffy pussy lips against his fingers. He's quick to fully undress you, smiling with pride at the green crotchless panties and how the delicate lace stretches out across your hips in the shape of a butterfly.

"Dirty," he murmurs appreciatively in your ear as he slides his fingers in, "having your needy pussy open and dripping wet like this in front of all those flashing cameras. These were made for you."

"They kind of were," you remind him teasingly. Instant regret fills you when he takes his fingers out, using his other hand to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

"It's because you're so pretty. Can't resist you at all but I can show you where you belong."

Anyone would think he means on your knees but instead you're led to his king-sized bed adorned with satin sheets. It overlooks the cityscape and it's the same place he first sketched how heavenly your body looked laying across it as you slept after a whirlwind of a one-night stand.

He envisioned you with wings - not the angelic, feathery kind - but the mystical ones of fairies that resembled a butterfly. The kind that no matter how gently you touched them, they would break and leave the creature unable to fly ever again.

That was how he kept you by his side, how his most famous line of clothing was inspired, and how he still had your scent linger on his bedsheets and tongue. Not that he told a soul about it. Even during the most intimate nights when his body magnetically pressed against yours in a flurry of ecstasy after a sensual photo shoot, you were gone by morning like a butterfly migrating south at the merest threat of winter.

And Minghao feared you'd crumble away in his hands and disappear forever.

But tonight, a different swarm of butterflies flutter - this time inside his gut. He's aware of his feelings now. Giddy upon such a recognition. Enamored every time an article of clothing wraps around the most intimate parts of your body in a strange sense of possession.

He can only hope you'll let him into your heart as easily as you let him enter your pussy, gliding into you with practiced ease and praising himself for the genius idea of designing something delicate enough to tear but accessible to what he wants so they won't be ripped apart.

But now, what he really wants is your heart. Your noses are almost touching as you peer up at him through your lashes. Lips he's always tried to evade are tantalizing close and he finally takes the plunge, pressing his own chapped ones against your soft, plush ones he's dreamed about.

It's chaste and sweet, a bizarre contrast to how hard he's thrusting up into your wet warmth.

"Stay," he mumbles against your mouth, "stay with me. Don't be gone when I wake up."

"Maybe if you had better stamina, you'd be awake by then," you shoot back, feisty as always even as you chase his lips when he pulls back.

"I mean it. Stay here with me, let me order breakfast in bed for us."

"Hao..."

"You never let me buy you anything." His eyes focus on your collarbone as a finger traces circles around your nipple. "And you never let me leave any marks."

"That's because - "

You're cut off by a moan, throwing your head back when he angles his hips just right to hit that spot that has you seeing stars. Light scratches from your nails graze his back as he focuses on drawing you closer and closer to that edge. He reaches his peak right behind you, groaning as you clench around him and tremble at the aftershocks of a powerful climax.

As you try and catch your breath, he starts shuffling around in his nightstand. You hear a soft click and feel something cold lay against your chest. You shift in his hold to look down, your breath catching in your throat.

A gorgeous golden butterfly encrusted with various gems hangs from a matching chain around your neck.

"Are... you getting into jewelry now?"

Minghao sighs. "That's a one of the kind design and it's solely for you. Just like those panties you're wearing."

You thank him, fumbling over your words. "But I couldn't possibly - "

"They're yours. All of it. Even my bank account. I was serious about what I said earlier. Stay with me - forever."

"Forever?"

"Yes, forever. Unless you don't want to but I'm more than happy to continue our arrangement. Plus giving everything you desire even without feelings attached." He clears his throat, suddenly evading eye contact. "But I want you to know that my feelings are genuine if they're something you'd want to return. Even if that's not now."

You're near tears and he starts panicking before you speak. "I've been in awe of you since you showed me that drawing the first night. You've always encouraged me to feel as beautiful as you see. But I didn't know if you were just fantasizing that idea of me or who I actually am."

"What I don't know about you, I'd love to find out."

"Likewise," you confirm, a hand cradling his cheek tenderly.

He joins you in another kiss, gentle and light, like wings brushing across skin. Although the feelings of butterflies may fade with time, he believes they will strengthen into something more beautiful than a butterfly emerging from its caccoon.

#ez.creates #svt smut #seventeen smut #minghao smut #xu minghao smut #kpop smut #myungho smut #the8 smut #svt.smut

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whyareyouhere66 · 1 year

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Mezo Shoji x Male Reader - Pulled Away

Mezo Shoji (MHA) x Male !Traitor! Reader

Request: Could i please request mezo shoji with either a male or gn reader where the reader is super kind and soft and nice and whatnot but they turn out to be the ua traitor and they sell out deku (or another classmate) to the league? Idk i just want more shoji appreciating and content but I'm also craving some angst :'D

Content Warnings: Angst, mentions of violence, unedited.

I think I’ll probably make a part 2 for this, as there is lots of room for more and the ending is open ended. So if you would like that or have any ideas for what part 2 could include, feel free to share <3

The tall buildings that stood on the grounds of U.A high school were quite crowded today- without any classes to keep students busy, the groups of teens resorted to sticking around the dorm rooms for a rare day of relaxation.

At the famous 1-A dorm, a familiar crowd of teens were gathered around the common room.

“C’monnn let’s go outside! The suns finally out-“ Kaminari whines, his head dangling over the couch. His legs were propped up against the back of the couch, just missing Sero’s head.

“No,” Mina says, shutting it down nonchalantly, “too much work this week- I’m tired.”

The conversation had been dragging out for probably 10 minutes, with only short intervals when one would get distracted- before Kaminari would catch another glimpse out the window and bring it right back to the start. Y/n shook his head with a small smile- the bickering was, of course, nothing knew. But that simply made it more comfortable.

Sun was leaking in through the windows, shining a spotlight onto random spots of the carpet. Y/n could feel something shift behind him, throwing a glance over his shoulder to where the large build of his boyfriend rested.

Shoji’s arms were together, like closed wings as he sunk deeper into the couch cushions- allowing Y/n to sink with him. Shoji already accepted that he was like a pillow in the relationship, Y/n leaning closer against his torso as if he could curl into a ball and sleep at any moment.

His arms were crossed, making him smaller to fit against his boyfriend better- and the faint chatter of their friends served as a sort of background noise.

Shoji caught Y/n staring, the latter seeing how his face turned pink at the edges of his mask. It pulled a bigger smile from him, and he leaned in closer to Shoji before tuning back into their friend’s conversation.

The group talked of the training they had just done the day before- an extensive, but classic, work of fighting against faux villains.

“I think I’ve gotta work on strengthening my arms once more- while using my legs has been helpful, I can’t rely on it forever.” Deku admits, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. Uraraka nods in agreement, looking down at his own hand thoughtfully.

“I’m just trying to see if I can aim the things I levitate, like- position them a certain way to attack, y’know?” She adds, looking up at the rest of the group.

“So, bordering on telekinesis?” Kaminari raises an eyebrow, and Uraraka flushes in embarrassment.

“Yeah, I guess that’s another way to put it…”

Y/n sends the girl a big smile, thumb rubbing across Shoji’s hand in his lap. “I think that would be cool- you should try it!”

The words make Uraraka brighten more, and she turns to face him. “Thank you, I appreciate that!”

Y/n simply nods, still smiling.

“Anytime..”

***

“So..?”

The gravely voice echoed through the bar’s walls- bouncing off the old bricks and ringing through Y/n’s ears.

In front of him Shigaraki stood, hunched over the wooden table with his head hanging down. The table was near empty, the blue-haired man’s shaky hands practically gripping the surface.

Y/n sat in a small wooden chair, hands clasped together in his lap. Shigaraki was looking at him expectantly, the eyes of the rest of the League boring into his figure through the shadows of the dark room.

He no longer felt the same relaxed feeling he had found in Shoji’s arms on the couch, just hours prior. Now that the sun had set, he remembered the dread that had filled him upon preparing for this meeting.

“Goodnight, guys!” He calls out, shutting the door to close himself into the room. The sound of their footsteps shuffling away slipped into the room, until he was sure they had left the hallway.

At the sound of the door clicking shut, his shoulders fell and he turned around as if his mind was suddenly drowsy.

The boy runs one hand down his face, closing his eyes for just a moment before looking back at the clock sat on his nightstand.

8:34 PM

With a small sigh, Y/n walks to his closet and rummages through the clothing, shuffling through hangers until grabbing the plain, black hoodie he’d reserved for these specific occasions. The simple fabric and low hanging hood did well of shadowing over his features- for if he were to be seen, all they would notice was the baggy clothing and hunched figure.

Pulling the hood over his head, he walked to the window- taking one last peak at the room he would be unable to return to until hours later. He longed to go to bed, to sleep and give into the slow dropping of his eyelids- but he couldn’t.

Letting the powers of his quirk lead him off the campus grounds, he was gone quicker than the robotic security guards could notice.

Y/n looked at his hands, running his thumb over the other fingers before looking up to meet the villains eyes.

“Earlier today in the dorms we somehow came to conversation of our various weaknesses, or faults…” Y/n started, earning the raise of an eyebrow from a now intrigued Shigaraki. “As you may have seen, Deku’s arms are weak- he’s still trying to rebuild strength in their use. He says he relies too heavily on the legs,” he trails off once more, “he is also distracted. He overthinks too much, find a way into his head and it’ll put him into a temporary sensory overload.”

A moment of silence follows behind, Shigaraki grinning like mad as he threw a glance at Kirogiri. “Keep that in mind…” he stated firmly, turning his twisted gaze back to the boy in front of him.

“L/n has done us good once more,” he walks around the table, stopping short by Y/n, “congratulations.” The words, his crackly voice making him shudder. He gives nothing more than a nod in response.

The blue haired man continues walking, but turns around again in front of a doorframe.

“You all know the drill- keep ya’ mouths shut, and come back again same time next week.” His grin is still visible, sticking out from under the stray hand clinging to his face. He turns around finally, stepping into the buildings shadows. “That’s when the plan will begin…”

***

For days on end, Y/n felt on edge. His shoulders were constantly up and tense, pushing into his neck uncomfortably. He knew of the plan Shigaraki had mentioned, he’d heard the conversations and even worse- he’d given information.

His conscience constantly nagged at him, only giving him a split second of laughter or smiles before pulling him right back into the suspense.

Even now as he sat, comforted by the presence of his boyfriend, he was scared. Because Y/n knew that not only will the plan lead to pain amongst his friends, but pain in the relationships he’d built. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to look Shoji in the eyes, the way he was looking at his figure now and instead of seeing that peaceful look- he would be seeing betrayal.

Shoji sat, back against the headboard and arms relaxed at his sides. There was a book laying open on his lap, and Y/n laid half on his side staring up at the white haired boy.

He looked so relaxed, something Y/n wanted to always see on his lovers face. But it would always follow with shame.

“This is who you’re turning against…”

Y/n closed his eyes shut.

“I don’t wanna do this shit anymore…”

Without thinking, his hand moved up and grabbed one of Shoji’s spare hands.

The touch caught the bigger boy’s attention, and even if the mask hid it, a small smile grew on his face.

From his eyes, he simply saw a tired Y/n with his face tucked into his arms. He found it cute, squeezing the boys hand softly.

“Tired?” He asked, glancing over from the pages of his book.

Y/n hummed out a response, because oh, his voice.

He gripped Shoji’s hand more tightly, eyes narrowed as they peak over his arm.

“It’s gonna be ok…” He thought, giving himself harsh reassurance to follow his face hardening.

“It’s all gonna be ok….”

And those words he repeated to himself, over and over again- until he felt isolated in his own bed, the skin on his back suddenly felt cold. The more he thought those words the more he longed to be in the warmth of his lover and partner- and so he crawled up, landing in Shoji’s lap.

The boy’s face flushed, pink peaking out of his mask, and Y/n felt himself being engulfed by the warmth of multiple arms.

His upper body was now completely covered by Shoji, his legs poking out and tangling in with the white haired boy’s legs as well.

Y/n could feel how is shoulders dropped ever so slightly, a trapped breath escaping.

“You know I love you, right?” He asked, voice tired and raspy.

Shoji, still flustered, nodded. “Yeah, I know… I love you too.” He says, resting his head against the top of Y/n’s.

But that was what worried him.

Because it might not be the case, for much longer.

***

The sound of yelling and clashes boomed through the large training arena.

Another fake setting had been set up, the scenery being a large park that eventually lead to large concrete buildings.

Y/n sat at one of the bleachers, next to his friends. Aizawa had paused the training, now in front of a sweaty group of teenagers as he explained something Y/n didn’t have the energy to listen to.

He used a spare rag to dab the sweat from his forehead, before taking sips from his water bottle.

Today was the day.

Y/n threw a glance over to his phone, checking the time.

1:27 PM

The same feeling of dread spread through his abdomen, squeezing at his stomach as he knew what was to come.

But it was too late. There was nothing more to do than sit and wait.

And so, just as Aizawa comes closer to the end of his lecture- the first round starts.

A large book echoes through the arena, alerting everyone. Yet still, no one gets a chance to move before the large, purple mist began to grow in the center of the “park.”

Shigaraki was the first to step out, followed closely by Dabi and Toga. Aizawa’s hands curled into fists, his yellow goggles now covering his eyes, his hair and scarf whirling around in makeshift wind.

By now most of the class was up on their feet, hero costume’s conveniently on as they too got into a fighting stance. Y/n felt himself try to stand up, tired legs stumbling a bit before he caught himself. But still, his arms stayed at his side.

Shigaraki stepped forward, causing everyone to tense. But, to their surprise, he raised his arms up in what seemed like false surrender.

“Oh, calm down, ‘heroes’, give a man a second to speak, will ya’?”

The sarcasm ticked Bakugou off, and in his usual fashion, attempted to launch himself at the villains. However something stopped him- his body freezing midair as if someone was holding him up. This shocked the whole class, eyes falling onto a new person- a new villain.

Y/n let out a shaky breath, recognizing the deep blue and purple outfit she wore.

Her hand was outstretched, aimed towards Bakugou. Y/n had the displeasure of knowing who she was- part of Shigaraki’s “master plan.”

With powers of telepathy and telekinetic abilities, she was the leagues way of “getting into” Deku’s head- just as Y/n had advised.

Well shit.

Soon more purple portals began appearing, one or two members emerging from each- until the whole class was surrounded.

Aizawa, not looking away from the villains, called back at the teens. “Stay back- do not attack yet.” He advised, and surprising enough, everyone listened. But their fists never lowered from their defensive places.

He narrowed his eyes at the woman, his eyes beginning to glow a bright red- but before he could erase her quirk, she dropped her hand. And with it- dropped Bakugou.

A loud ‘thud’ rang out, followed by a groan as Bakugou glared up at her. “Fucking psycho-“ he started, but Aizawa held a hand towards him.

The woman shrugged simply, a sly smirk on her face. “Sorry to steal your thunder, Erasurehead,” she stepped toward, “thought I’d make it easier for you.”

Shigaraki stepped up, now by her side. “I’d like to introduce you to the new member of the league.” He smirked, and Y/n felt he knew what was to come. He could only hope Shigaraki would keep his secret, keep his mouth shut so Y/n could continue this betrayal in silence. But, it seemed Shigaraki’s big ideas just excited him so much- the second they’re put into action, he must narrate it step by step, so his enemy knows just how they’re going down.

So, in other words, Y/n was screwed.

“We must do something!” Iida called out, fully prepared to rush forward into action. But Aizawa refused.

Deku stood in tense silence, thinking through plan after plan in a last minute effort to see a way out. Sweat dripped down his forehead- he felt stressed.

Y/n looked at him from the side of his eye- he could basically see the plans forming in his head.

“Oh no….”

The standoff continued, Deku mumbling to himself quietly, the group had grown used to it, Uraraka and Tsuyu putting themselves between him and the villains in hopes he would have a plan for them soon. Y/n almost cringed- he saw how the woman’s smirk grew bigger and bigger as she stared at the green haired boy.

Finally- he put the final pieces of the puzzle together, whispering something quick to Uraraka that Y/n couldn’t hear. In the matter of a few seconds, Uraraka was dashing towards the outer circle of their class- and Deku had launched himself into the air.

It was inevitable, what happened next.

Deku had reeled his leg back, a war cry erupting from his mouth as he grew closer and closer. But, just like Bakugou, he was stopped short.

Only this time, a thick, blue mist began floating across his eyes- the green irises appearing a more blue, or purple color. The entire arena could hear it this time, confused whispers erupting as millions of scattered thoughts and words fizzled in the air. Among them, Y/n heard split parts of Deku’s plan- words such as “trick” and “quirk” floating around only to be lapped over by random sentences.

His mind had been scrambled.

Just like he had told Shigaraki.

Another thud echoed around- and Kirishima let out a shout as Deku was forced to the ground.

“Get away from him!” Uraraka cried, watching as the woman who had yet to name herself walked to him. She kneeled to his level, grasping his hair at the back of his head.

“Sorry about that..” she grins, shoving his face into the ground- bloody nose staining his freckled skin.

Shigaraki was the next to step forward, clearly quite proud.

“Isn’t she lovely?” He practically smeared, only to get angry glares from the teens in front of him.

“What did you do?!”

“You bastard…”

The words bounced off him, no effect whatsoever.

“Oh, it wasn’t my idea…” Shigaraki starts, the hand clasping his face unable to hide the large, chapped smile that came from his lips. The words made Y/n’s heart drop- here it was.

The moment when he would lose all he’d ever learned to love.

“No…”

“Isn’t that right…”

Confused looks began replacing the angry ones.

“Shit…”

His gaze slowly filtered over to Y/n, a few of his classmates following in suit as they stared at the sweaty boy.

“…Y/n?”

The boy froze.

All around him he could feel the looks coming from his friends, boring into his skull. The exact thing he’d been fearing for weeks had finally happened- and he had no idea what to do.

His fists were clenched at his side, wide and panicked eyes staring into the ground. He knew that standing there, frozen like an idiot, was going to do nothing for him.

“What is he talking about?” Kirishima asked.

“Y/n? Are you the…” Sero didn’t even have to finish that sentence, everyone knew what he was getting at.

“Don’t. Look.”

Bakugou was next, demanding an answer. The League didn’t even have to make another move- just as planned, the heroes were falling apart.

“Answer us damn it!”

“Dude…”

“Oh my god…”

The words made Y/n’s fists clench tightly, breathing becoming ragged. His mind felt the way Deku’s had felt just minutes prior- too many words swirling around for him to pin one exact feeling.

“…Y/n?”

His name, now whispered from the lips of his lover, shut his mind down into silence. As soon as he heard it, the voice he longed to hear constantly, his head bolted up.

It took no longer than a split second to find the eyes of Shoji- and just as they did, he could feel his heart breaking.

The eye visible to him was so full of hurt, it made Y/n want to hurl. He didn’t want to be the reason for that look- he couldn’t be. He was supposed to be the reason for eyes full of love- full of joy. Eyes worth millions in beauty and admiration- not betrayal and…fear.

Y/n couldn’t talk, his throat had run dry.

He tried to step forward, his hand trying to reach for the white haired boy ahead- but a blur of black and grey stopped him, his glaring teacher now between him and what he wanted most.

“L/n.” Aizawa’s voice was strong and firm, and Y/n shakily stood up taller, for he knew he would shrink otherwise.

“I-“ before he could finally speak, the familiar purple mist began to swirl behind him- and Shigaraki’s hand reached out and pulled him in. He went from standing in front of his teacher to standing by Dabi and Toga, the latter grinning at him maniacally. He whipped his head around, seeing that his friends had followed the movement and now stood to stare at him from a different angle now. Yet still, through the crowd of familiar faces, he found Shoji’s first.

“Shoji..” he muttered, the tall and muscular boy looking at the ground, multiple fists clenched.

“Welp, looks like we’ve already done enough damage…” Shigaraki said in a raspy voice, his hunched body facing Y/n- but his face looking out on the class. “Step one is complete..” he continued, “can’t wait for step 2.”

With that, the portals grew once more- engulfing villains into its mist once more. A sense of panic filled Y/n- this might be his last, and only chance to explain. He took a step forward, reaching for Shoji.

“S-shoji!” He called, but Dabi grabbed his arm. The purple fog began surrounding him, but he continued to call out- his arm and face being the last to get captured.

Y/n called, over and over as his boyfriend finally looked up from the ground, watching with an indescribable look on his face. It felt like dread, panic, pain, and hesitance- stuffed into one. From the side of his body, one hand picked up just a bit, as if he too, was reaching out for his traitorous love.

“Please, I-“

“Shut up.” Dabi interrupted, with the same monotone voice as always. “Your boyfriend isn’t going anywhere.”

But that was the problem.

He was.

He was going away from Y/n, being pulled too far out for Y/n to grab back.

This was only step one. And he had already lost it all.

#mezo shoji #mezo shoji x reader #mezo shoji x male reader #Mha #mha x male reader #66 recs&replies #UA traitor

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rocketxgirl · 5 months

Text

The arrival (QSMP x OC)

(This was proofread by Grammarly so I hope there aren't any mistakes haha)

word count: 1157 reading time: 8.9 minutes

Okay… this was weird…

Why was she in the fucking woods? Wasn’t she supposed to be in her cozy room, finally sleeping before going to school?

She needed to keep calm, she couldn’t start panicking in the middle of nothingness… well it wasn’t nothingness if you consider big trees, plants, and flowers something. For our protagonist, though it was nothing, there wasn’t any kind of living creature. She was alone.

“What could I do?” she whispered to herself, she was indecisive. Should she start screaming, hoping someone would hear her, or should she try finding someone by herself?

She decided to start screaming, it probably was the dumbest thing she could do but at least someone could hear her!.... maybe at least, but that’s better than nothing.

So she yelled and screamed with all her force, her throat would probably hate her after that. “Helloooo! Is someone hereee?!” after half an hour she finally heard someone getting near her. The first thing she noticed were long locks of golden hair, a pair of elf ears, and a pair of eyes that she swears that remind her of someone… but who?

“Hey,” the girl hoped that strange man wouldn’t hurt her. “Hey,” he said back “Who are you?”. Was it wise to tell him her real name? Maybe she could use one of the OCs’ names that she created, after all, they were all a projection of herself, and that way she wouldn’t have any of her “but I’m lying” problems. “I’m Rosaleen, and who are you?” she just really hoped she wouldn’t have any problems when he called her that in the future. “I’m Forever… why are you here? I didn’t see you when I and my friends got here” So there were more people in here, now this is interesting… wait that name’s familiar… where did she hear that? “I actually don’t know how I got here…” she felt silly, in a way. She probably should know how she got in here, after all Forever knew how and why he was here, wherever “here” was. “I don’t even know where or what “here” is”.

“This is the Quesadilla Island… wait you don’t know how you got here? What do you mean by that?!” she could tell the man was perplexed about the situation. “Yeah… It seems like I have no memory about my journey here” She didn’t want to tell him she didn’t have any memories at all, it could complicate her situation even more if she did so. “You know what? I’ll take you to the Favela, my friend Cellbit might be of better help than me” and with that he started walking beside the girl, to help her get her memories back or at least to discover how she got in the Quesadilla Island.

And they walked and walked, talked and talked until they got to the famous Favela. Everything reminded Rosaleen of something but she never could remember what it was. She had memories of literally everything that happened to her before being on this island but that.

The Favela was fantastic, it was so colorful and it gave her joyful vibes like nothing bad could happen there. The first people she saw there was a man and a child. The man fluffy brown hair wasn’t too long but it was longer than what she saw from other guys that unfortunately existed in her country, he had cat hears that was somewhat hidden by the amount of hair the man had… she could swear that his eyes were one of the most gorgeous colors she ever saw, Rosaleen could stare at them all day and she probably wouldn’t get bored of them… okay she needed to stop staring at him, she couldn’t give him a bad first impression. changing the subject… the child that was with the man had beautiful dark skin, she didn’t know how to compare it to something so she didn’t, he had curly hair that hid… horns? What the fuck?! Wait he had dragon wings too?! How fucking cool was that?! There was no way the child could be even cooler… she was wrong. He had a prosthetic leg and that made him even cooler, she already decided he would be her favorite kid if there were others on this damn island.

The man and the children walked towards the two of them, the man was asking himself who was the girl beside Forever. Finally, the blonde saw the two getting near them. “Cellbit, here you are!”

“Here I am… Forever, can I ask you who’s that?” Rosaleen hoped the man wouldn’t be suspicious of her, he seemed like someone with trust issues.

“This is Rosaleen,” the blonde said energetically “She just got on the island but doesn’t remember how she got here, so I thought you could help her!”

“Yeah, I could help her but she has to wait a little since I’m a little busy right now”

“Busy with what?” she asked without even thinking, she had always been curious. Instead of Cellbit answering her, the child started writing on a plaque. “It’s a secret :)” That’s what it was written in it. “Oh, okay… excuse me but why don’t you talk?” after rethinking how it could be offensive she added “If you don’t wanna tell me it’s fine, sorry for asking haha” and awkwardly laughed hoping the kid wasn’t offended by her words.

“Não podia tar calada nè?” she whispered, hoping no one would hear nor understand her. Rosaleen knew already she would overthink about it for two days minimum. The two men, unfortunately for her, heard what she said and were intrigued by her knowledge of the Portuguese language.

“Você fala português?” asked Cellbit, if she did speak Portuguese why wasn’t she on the boat with the rest of the Brazilians?

“Eh?” why the fuck couldn’t she just shut the fuck up? “Sim… porque?” she’s fucked up.

“Por que você não estava com o resto dos brasileiros quando chegamos aqui com o barco?”

“Desculpa-me mas como posso saber disso, eh? O Forever jà te disse que não me lembro de nadinha de como cheguei aqui, tà?!” was he deaf? literally, how could she know when she had no memory of how she got here? “E, ainda mais, eu não sou brasileira. Não sei se consegues ouvir o meu sotaque, completamente horrivel eu sei, mas de certeza não é brasileiro”.

Cellbit had to give her a point, after all, that was kind of a dumb question. He apologized to the girl for claiming she was one of the Brazilians and told her he would help her tomorrow, maybe she could help him with his research since it was too late now - he didn’t want her to know he was a workaholic. Rosaleen wished a good night to the child - whose name she still didn’t know - and to Cellbit before going to Forever’s house to sleep the night.

translations: Não podia tar calada nè?: I couldn't stay shut, could I? Você fala português?: You speak Portuguese? Sim… porque?: Yes... why? Por que você não estava com o resto dos brasileiros quando chegamos aqui com o barco?: Why weren't you with the rest of the Brazilians when we got here on the boat? Desculpa-me mas como posso saber disso, eh? O Forever jà te disse que não me lembro de nadinha de como cheguei aqui, tà?!: Excuse me but how could I know that, huh? Forever already told you that I remember nothing about how I got here, alright?! E, ainda mais, eu não sou brasileira. Não sei se consegues ouvir o meu sotaque, completamente horrivel eu sei, mas de certeza não é brasileiro: And, I'm not Brazilian. I don't know if you can hear my accent, completely horrible I know, but it certainely isn't Brazilian (english isn't my first language, so i'm sorry for any translation mistake. my portuguese isn't as good too so sorry for any mistake in it too haha)

#qsmp #qsmp x oc #oc #idk what im doing tbh i just wrote smth bc i was bored lmao

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thewilddoghaunts · 1 year

Text

I saw a flower in a field

A field of cars and people

Rows of concrete, paint and steel

Manhattan is where it grew

And I thought to cut it from its stem

And take it from the cracks between the bricks that it lay in

And save it from the city strife

Away from the city life

Then someone, they whispered in my ear

"A country boy can't be made out of anybody here

Don't touch it - it loves you not.

Cause bluebirds don't fly without their wings

And when you put them in a cage the world can't hear them sing

So selfish when greed sets in

Possession: the king of sin.

And people don't ever let you down:

Forever find a way to kill whatever life they've found."

A heartbeat, and I wanted to -

Manhattan is where he grew.

#Ferne #musik #famous flower of manhattan - the avett brothers #Spotify

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donnahinkleystaceytroy · 1 year

Text

The Wicked Witch of the West Hourglass -- the Most Famous and Recognizable Timepiece in Film History.

Margaret Hamilton "Wicked Witch of the West" Hourglass fromThe Wizard of Oz(MGM, 1939)."Do you see that[the hourglass]?That's how much longer you've got to be alive! And it isn't long, my pretty! It isn't long! I can't wait forever to get those shoes!"

From what is regarded as "the best loved motion picture of all time," the Witch's Hourglass remains as the most recognizable signature prop from the film, in addition to being a crucial plot-driving device. The scenes at the Witch's Castle, where the Hourglass is used, are among the most memorable in the film. After Dorothy (Judy Garland) is captured from the Haunted Forest, the winged monkeys bring her to the Wicked Witch, who holds the hourglass and exclaims, "You see that [the hourglass]? That's how much longer you've got to be alive! And it isn't long, my pretty! it isn't long! I can't wait forever to get those shoes!"

From this moment forward, the pace of the film quickens, as Dorothy's three friends race against time to save her from the Wicked Witch of the West. Periodic closeups of the Hourglass remind the audience of how little time remains before Dorothy's demise. When the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion finally reach the castle tower where Dorothy is held captive, they break down the door as Dorothy cries out, "Oh, hurry, please hurry! The hourglass is almost empty!" While making their escape, our four heroes are cornered by the Winkie Guards. From the balcony above, the Wicked Witch asks, "Going so soon? I wouldn't hear of it. Why, my little party is just beginning." The Witch then holds the hourglass above her head and throws it. At this point, the camera cuts to a different "stunt" Hourglass that is guided to the stage floor by wires and bursts into a cloud of flame and smoke. As with any signature prop from a major studio production, multiple versions of the Hourglass were created, including a resin and wood version, as well as lighter versions crafted of wood and papier-mâché, like this example, which was used for the epic, climactic sequence when the Wicked Witch of the West holds the Hourglass above her head in defiance of our heroes.

Measuring 20" tall x 11.5" wide, the Gothic frame is expertly crafted by studio artisans of wood and papier-mâché with winged gargoyles perched atop three spiraled columns. The glass element is crafted of hand-blown glass filled with red glitter (added later for display, as the glitter does not flow through the narrow neck of the glass). Following its use on The Wizard of Oz, MGM used this famous Hourglass in subsequent productions, including Babes on Broadway (1941), Diane (1956), and 7 Faces of Dr. Lao (1964). Hourglass frame is asymmetrical and exhibits expected age and wear from production use, including scuffing and cracking to paint on the gargoyle pillars as well as scuffing, wear with some wood loss on the knobs on both bases (top and bottom). There is evidence of studio repair, including pegs installed to secure the gargoyle ears to the base. This incredibly famous film artifact presents beautifully and has been featured in three museum exhibitions: Los Angeles Public Library's Getty Gallery (2000); Farnsworth Art Museum, Rockland, Maine (2014), and Figge Art Museum, Davenport, Iowa (2016).

Provenance: 1970 MGM David Weisz Auction; later sold by Camden House Auctioneers Vintage Film Posters & Entertainment Memorabilia sale, June 6-7, 1992, lot 510.

https://tinyurl.com/3nzf3zb8

#the wizard of oz

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familyfromukraine · 9 months

Text

On the morning of February 24, 2022, my wife woke me up with the words:

- Igor, wake up! They're bombing…

- What?! - I opened my eyes with difficulty.

About 5-6 o'clock in the morning, I don't remember exactly now. I only remember the feeling that hung in the air of the room. Feeling of anxiety.

- I just read on Facebook: friends write that russians are bombing Ukraine, - my wife said with alarm. - Oh... do you hear?.. again? What's this?..

I remember perfectly, for the rest of my life, what I heard right after that and then saw.

Thunder could be heard... explosions. Distant explosions, distant rumbles. They were so nasty, unpleasant for the ear that they penetrated right through, they were etched into the memory.

"If he caught us up finally, a bloody psychopath?!"

- ran through my mind at that moment.

My wife and I ran to the window. It was foggy. Low cloud cover. February dampness. Mist. I looked into the distance. There. Somewhere out there. Far away. On the horizon. Scarlet flashes flashed. There were clearly explosions over the horizon. From there to here came muffled rumbles:

- boom, boom, boom, boom!!! - very accurately conveys the Ukrainian word “vybukhi". This is exactly “vybukhi".

A fighter jet flew over our house. It was not visible because of the low gray clouds that hid the sky from the people of Kiev. I didn't see him. I just seemed to be cut through by his sharp fighter drilling of the air, which cannot be confused with the calm peaceful sound of a civilian aircraft. It was a military plane, definitely. I didn't see the insignia on its wings, and therefore I didn't know if it was an Ukrainian or a Russian plane, “our” or an enemy one. And that made my soul even more anxious. Even sharper feelings, the feeling of adversity has become even more acute.

This low-flying fighter as you know... when you tear off a piece of paper from a school notebook, shhh, and this forever divides the moment into “before” and “after".

You will never be able to return a piece of paper back to the school notebook without a seam, without gluing, without a scar. It is rejected forever now.

Also with the fighter, which, with a sharp, terrible sound of a military aircraft, tore my time into “before” and “after". Fffshshshsihhhh.

It was unpleasant and sticky for me to think that a Russian fighter jet was flying freely over Kiev and could launch a rocket into any of the houses, for example, into our house.

I moved away from the window and sat down on the sofa. My wife continued to stand near the window, peering into the gray “something”.

- Do you think this is a war? - she asked me.

I turned my face away from her and quietly, calmly, as calmly as I could, answered:

- Yes, this is a war.

A tear rolled down my cheek. It wasn't a tear of fear, although, of course, I was scared. Something shrank inside me. A soul? Nerves? I began to think feverishly, what to do? But the tear didn't roll out of fear. In moments of danger, I usually get up, adrenaline hits my man's head, and I begin to think with a cold mind, calculate moves and ways, solutions. This is a male version of the reaction to an extreme situation.

And then suddenly a tear rolled out. At that time I still did not understand what this new phenomenon was for me. Much later, the explanation for my tears suddenly rolling into my eyes came to me. And I'll save this explanation for later chapters.

In the meantime, I was sitting on the couch and deciding what to do now. As a husband. As a father of two children, who slept in the next rooms.

How?

How it could be in the 21st century?

I started to remember speeches from famous people I heard recently.

1. Russian famous journalist’s answer “No” on the question “Will the war start?” a day before the war had started.

2. Russian politicans, who assured all world, that Russia wouldn’t attack Ukraine.

3. Lukashenko, the president of Belarus, who said “Never. Never. Never russian troops will come into Ukraine from Belarus” (but they came) a week before the war had started.

4. Zelensky “I will say to all of you in my next New Year speech to Ukrainian people, that I was right at this point, that everything is alright. Don’t panic. There is nothing for spooky. We will be doing our spring barbeku this year, as we usually do” (No, we didn’t and he didn’t too).

And of course the speech of the main psychopath and a lier, abuser and sadist of our modern history - Putin: “Ukraine was never existed really” and “We’ll show you the real decommunization”.

I could call this story “Lie” or “Big lie”, but such books are already selling on the Amazon and telling us about american politicans. Although does it really matter? Probably, the best title for my book would be “Big Liers” worldwide? Maybe.

To say true, months later I started remembering things from my life and suddenly I recognized, that I met sociopaths and psychopaths all my life since youth around me. In my country, where I was born.

So, I'll show you in this book how I escaped from sociopathes, who inhabited even entire country, and some psychopathes in my life experience.

> Firstly I wanted to write a book about escaping of our Ukrainian family from Ukraine because of Russian attacks. After a while I understood, that the topic extends more deeply in history of several countries, our family and, finally, into my soul.

So, meanwhile…

I got up and went to the window again. I looked once more into the distance.

"It can't be," - my wife said next to me. - "It cannot be that in the 21st century someone attacked a neighboring country like this. It cannot be that in the 21st century such a thing is possible: a war in Europe."

It cannot be… But it was. Definitely.

I peered into the “there” again, into the distance. There were red flashes on the horizon. From the “there” there were muffled “vibukhs” coming again, again, again. They bombed somewhere in the direction of Chernihiv, as it seemed to me.

There, beyond the mist, were monsters, monsters, unknown, invisible forces of evil, they bombed, destroyed, killed.

Along with the mist that was approaching the city, hordes of “orcs” were coming at us (this is the word that arose in my head at that moment), hordes of inhumans who wanted to tear us apart, trample our peaceful life, our ordinary affairs, school, work, family.

From there, because of the mist, a horde of ghouls, evil spirits, was approaching. That's the feeling I had at that moment, I probably remembered it for the rest of my life.

“There behind the mists, eternal drunks...” sings Russian singer Rastorguev in his famous song for former Soviet citizens of Russia. It seemed as if they had been preparing to attack behind the mist for many years before.

#ukraine #ukraine war #writeblr #writing

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sprayio · 3 years

Text

How does a Bird without wings fly?

“For the last time, he sees you.”

Pairings: Kazuha x Gn!Reader

Genre: Hurt, angst with no comfort. Request from @galaxytastes

Warnings: Violent descriptions of pain, suggestions of suicidal thoughts and self-harm. Loss and grieving.

Recommended: Listen to “Sangonomiya Shrine” while reading this!!

》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》

In the loss of you, Kazuha’s world stops moving.

But not in a metaphorical sense. Kazuha stops, breathes in the air that seems to accumulate like poison in his lungs, and sits down. He stays by your side, where you rest. Before, when your presence floated around his being like wings, he felt he could go anywhere; do anything. Your love was the feather to his step. Your gaze the speed to his sprint.

What does a bird without feathers do? How does a bird without wings fly? He wonders if staring at your headstone would give an answer. He sits almost as motionless as you- except that he is screaming at the top of his lungs where no one can see him. Kazuha sees blood and carnage and his wings dissipating into dust. Somewhere in a distant echo, the statue of the Omnipresent God is laughing a laugh that makes his blood run cold. His delicate flight is discarded nonchalantly on the ground in an uncaring lump of splintered, swollen feathers.

He sees you lying next to them.

Solitary cloud

Shadow in the setting sun

Stirs the drifter’s heart

It’s cold. So cold, like the fires of hell had turned over into a serpentine maze of burning ice. With tentative fingers, the samurai runs a hand that feels stranger to himself across his back.

Blood straightening like a tightly wound coil, he can’t help but wisp over the jagged heaps of swollen flesh on his back. A reminder of each plucked out feather. A reminder he would never fly again.

It’s unsightly.

The airy touches shift suddenly to angry scratches. His fingers are wet and bruised but the feeling is satisfying.

“Kazuha!”

“No... no.... please, please don’t do this to yourself, Kazuha.”

The feeling stops. Kazuha’s eyes glaze over, and he seems to snap back. Suddenly, he’s back in Inazuma. He sees Gorou’s worried eyes glistening in the reflection of his vision, and suddenly he finds himself tugged to his feet. Kazuha wonders why Gorou holds him with such urgency. Why are his calloused fingers trembling? The Samurai’s intuition fails him for the first time.

It’s only when the General reluctantly steps away, rebandaging his friend’s already bandaged fingers, does Kazuha realise. He realises why Gorou was holding him with such fear; almost as if letting go would mean the former disappearing forever.

Something in him splinters hideously as he collapses back to the ground. The sound of his muffled screams as he is bent into two and then two again is something he wonders if all of Teyvat can hear. It’s either the sound of wood being hacked or flesh being teared or leaves being burned that is blaring in his ears: there’s no difference anymore. The sounds and the sights blear into one, distinct realisation, accumulating in the green pulse of his vision.

“I couldn’t save any of them.”

He wants to apologise to Gorou for trying so desperately to keep the chipped shards together, only for it all to crumble pathetically anyways.

The boy no longer hears the words of the wind.

Beidou picks him up and he’s whisked away to the Sangonomiya shrine. Her rough yet somehow motherly touch is soothing. It lulls his weary eyes shut. He leaves you and his wings behind. His back hurts. His vision continues to pulse.

When Kazuha awakes, the grass is green. Night is dark. Day is bright. The times when he could listen to the unspoken stories of the wind and the laughter of playful waves seem like a distant dream. There are rumours the old Inazuman in Liyue harbour was a Samurai of the resistance during the Shogunate’s Imperial regime. There’s talk of a famous poet in town.

“You must have the wrong person.”

He smiles politely at the inquisitive children; trying desperately to forget the dusty anemo vision laying around in some isolated drawer. Calligraphy pens and paper had been long discarded, but for some reason the vision remained like a guilty reminder.

After all, the world is only what one can see. There’s nothing more or nothing less.

The answer to his own question abruptly rings clear in his mind, so many years later.

How does a bird without wings fly?

“It doesn’t.”

He thinks to himself, laying his vision by your resting place. It pulses weakly to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

For the last time, he sees you.

Sun and moon rejoice

Birds of dawn sings songs anew

Far from home with you

It’s the poem he wrote for you all those days ago. Sealed with a kiss, a promise known only to the two of you: the last haiku. This time, he hears you reciting it back to him. It’s beauty is as transient as a ripple in the ocean.

The vision dulls, before flickering out forever.

☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇

Support me on Kofi! Every little counts ❤️: https://ko-fi.com/sprayio

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pingutats · 3 years

Text

be this close, forever and ever

you and harry have been together for a while. your nights at home are quiet and comfortable, and, well, you’re both just so in love.

warnings: sexual content (soft giggly sex), mostly fluff

word count: 2.5k

. . . . .

Living with Harry, the two of you start to fall into the same rhythm. It’s not easy with his schedule as chaotic as it often is and your lives so profoundly different, but the nights when he’s home are the quiet sanctuary you need from all of those stresses. His little rituals seep into your own. The evenings are for being together, enjoying each other’s company without distraction or pressure. It’s just you and him, and the routine you’ve constructed so delicately together.

It starts with a face mask. Just because he’s so famous, he receives packages from different companies hoping for endorsements. He doesn’t really do those but he keeps the boxes anyway and most nights the two of you pick out one to try. He reads through the ingredients while you wait for the prescribed fifteen minutes to pass: pumpkin extract, baobab oil, a white flower extract.

“Which white flower?” Harry asks, looking up at you.

His mask is wrinkled between his brows where he’s frowning and you reach up to smooth it out again, your hands coming away sticky. You wipe them on his sweatpants, which just makes him frown again. “Dunno,” you say, “but it must be a pretty powerful flower if it—” you snatch the packet out of his hand “—de-puffs, hydrates, and brightens our skin.” You scan the printed text for a moment. “I think this one’s supposed to be used in the morning.”

“Oh, fuck. The moon’s out. Was this all for nothing?”

After peeling off the masks carefully in the bathroom, you coo over each other’s soft skin ridiculously and move back into the living room for the next unspoken event of your night. Harry is borderline religious about meditating, somehow possessing the discipline to do it for twenty minutes day and night. You aren’t like him, but sometimes you join in. It is good for you, after all.

The two of you sit on the carpet, legs crossed and backs straight, side by side and within arms reach. The itch to reach out and touch him or lean over to put your head on his shoulder is strong, but you know it annoys him when you do that. He is so serious about it — “It doesn’t work if you keep poking me, the point is to be completely focused” — and even if you’ve never reached his fanaticism about the practise, you respect it so you keep your distance. Two minutes in, though, you’re starting to get bored. He can meditate for ages: twenty minutes is his standard, and you simply don’t have it in you to sit still for that long. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, you uncross your legs and stand up, padding across the soft carpet into the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

When the soft alarm he’s set on his phone rings and brings him back to reality, he blinks open his eyes to see you in front of him, holding two steaming mugs. It’s the tea he buys especially to have before bed, something a friend recommended to relax him. You aren’t sure if it really does anything, but it tastes good so you always have a cup too. When you think about it, you do almost always have a good sleep the nights that you drink it. Those nights are the ones you’re sleeping with Harry, though, so maybe it isn’t the tea. You set the mugs on the table nearby.

“Thank you, love,” he says softly. He reaches to take hold of your hand and then suddenly drags you down to the floor, a tangle of limbs as you collapse on top of him.

You giggle and then shriek as his fingers find the ticklish spot along your ribs. “Harry! Get off!”

His attack ceases very quickly when you accidentally elbow him in the stomach in your attempts to escape.

“Sorry, H.”

“’S alright. Probably deserved it.”

“You did.”

But he’s mostly quiet in the evenings — doesn’t like to talk too much as he decompresses from the busy-ness of his days, so he shows his affection more through his actions. As the two of you sip your tea (still on the floor, because with the plushy carpet he has it’s just as comfortable down here as on the couch) he reaches out to drum his fingers over your knee while he tries to remember all the things he needs to do tomorrow. He’s always written himself to-do lists and he got you hooked on them too. You were sceptical at first, but they do make life easier. The little thrill of ticking off boxes in your black notebook with your initials monogrammed on the bottom right corner (Harry’s gift) is a bonus. He’s less driven by those superficial rewards, so he chooses to keep his on his laptop, which is rose gold. His hand leaves you only to type the next line of his to-do list, then he’s back to tracing patterns over the fabric of your borrowed sweatpants. He emails the list to himself when he’s finished. You’ve always found that funny, and you tease him for being grandpa-ish, but it’s just another one of his eccentricities that makes him more endearing.

You probably wear his clothes just as much as you wear your own. He loves seeing you in his stuff. He’s practically throwing t-shirts at you as soon as you walk into the house. He’ll take your stuff, too, sometimes. Dating Harry comes with an unspoken agreement to merge your wardrobes. There are a couple of pieces — a hoodie or two, sweatpants that are too big for either of you, a pair of extremely fluffy socks — that have been passed between you for so long that you can barely remember who owned them first. The sweatpants you’re wearing right now (paired with just a sports bra) are his. The old band tee he has on is yours.

He carries the empty mugs back to the kitchen and loads them into the dishwasher while you finish the last of your planning. There’s no discussion around it, just like no one asked you to make the tea in the first place. The two of you just now how to work together now, with all the times you’ve practised this routine. Sometimes it’s him who makes the tea, sometimes you finish your list first, but you never really have to talk. Harry usually picks out an album to play in the background over these moments, and that’s the only thing you need to listen to. It’s good. It makes you feel more connected to him, like you understand each other on a deeper level than just being able to talk. You know Harry like the back of your hand. He knows you almost as well as you know yourself. It’s a quiet kind of euphoria, to love and be loved back. You don’t need the fanfares and the grandiose displays. You just need each other.

Later, you pull faces at each other in the mirror while you brush your teeth, bumping hips as you giggle around your toothbrushes. He’s finished in the bathroom before you are, so he lies in bed in just his boxers and watches you through the open doorway while you do your last couple of skincare and hair rituals. Satisfied, you switch the bathroom light off and enter the bedroom that you share, decorated with framed artworks you both chose, a bedspread that you picked out together. You quickly change into just a long loose shirt, then collapse into bed with him and crawl under the covers, his greedy arms pulling you to nestle into his side while he presses a kiss to your forehead. He likes to read before he sleeps, but you aren’t in the mood for that. You shuffle down until your head is at his chest and you throw your arm and leg over him, letting him rest his paperback against your bare thigh while he reads with you wrapped around him.

After a couple of minutes of just the sound of pages turning and your soft breaths, you start to sponge kisses over his bare chest. He ignores you at first, but you hear his breathing stutter as you move up to his collarbone.

“Let me just finish this chapter,” he murmurs. “Just a couple pages left.” His eyes don’t leave the page, but he gropes around until he finds your hand and brings your fingers to his mouth, kissing them before he lets your intertwined hands drop.

You don’t reply. You pull your hand out of his loose grasp and run your fingertips up the subtly defined lines of his abs, softened by the way he’s sitting. You trace the wings of the butterfly tattooed over his stomach, then draw a constellation between his four nipples — he chuckles and pulls your hand away, holding it tighter this time.

“Baby,” he says, a little firmer this time.

You kiss his shoulder again.

He sighs, closing the book (he doesn’t tear his eyes away from the page until it’s fully closed and you almost feel bad for distracting him until —

He throws the book on the nightstand and reaches over your body to plant his hand on the mattress, pushing himself up so he’s hovering above you. “You’re a pest,” he says, leaning down to nudge his nose against yours.

You giggle and bite your lip, wrapping one leg around his hip and pulling him closer to you. “Kiss me?”

He obliges, pressing his lips against yours. “That all you wanted?” His tone is slightly teasing. He’s always liked to see you squirm.

You shake your head, wrapping your other leg around him. You can feel the bulge underneath his boxers against your crotch and it sets a fire in your core. You thread a hand into his hair and pull him down to kiss him again, less chastely this time. You roll your hips against him, just slightly, and smile against his kiss when you feel him twitch.

He breaks away from the kiss and smears his lips over your cheekbone to your ear. “Tell me, angel, tell me what you want you want and I’ll give it to you,” he whispers.

You barely contain a whimper at how deep his voice has gotten. “Fuck me,” you say, gasping as he starts to place hot openmouthed kisses down your neck. When you first slept together, you were too embarrassed to ask him so openly. You don’t get embarrassed around him anymore. “Harry, please fuck me.”

He pulls back suddenly, smiling down at you. “See? All you had to do was ask nicely.”

“Harry!”

He’s laughing as he pulls his boxers down to free his cock, but his giggles fade into a low moan as he takes hold of himself and strokes a couple times. “Ready for me, baby?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes into you with one fluid motion, making your eyes roll back. He fills you so perfectly. Every single time he’s in you is better than the last, it never gets old — there’s no feeling that’s as good as how he feels. Sometimes it’s explosive, sometimes he’s brutal in how he fucks you, or passionate and needy, or the both of you get caught up in the roles you make up to play, but you treasure the times like this. The times where he’s on top of you, face-to-face, alternating between kisses and whispers and little giggles — this is where you feel the most love for Harry.

He takes his time, in no hurry to end this moment. The pace he sets is slow but he reaches deep into you on each thrust, his breath coming out increasingly ragged every time he buries himself to the hilt. You have your hands in his hair and splayed across his back — he has one clutching the pillow beside your head to hold himself up, the other roaming over your chest. It’s like he can’t decide what he wants to do with his mouth: he’ll kiss your lips, then along your jaw, down your neck, then back up to your ear where he whispers all the sweet little nothings he can think of.

“So pretty, baby, love you so much, taking me so well, always my good girl, my best girl, my girl, always feel so good…” He chants it like a prayer, his words taking on a firmer tone each time he thrusts in, starting to pick up the pace a bit. “Touch yourself for me, darling, want to see you cum underneath me.”

You moan and reach down between your legs, rubbing little circles around your clit while he starts to fuck you at a faster pace. “Feels so good, Harry,” you say, your words choked slightly by the intensity of what you’re feeling right now.

“I know it does,” he replies, kissing you again, swallowing your moans. That edge of cockiness, the way he knows how to take care of you, when you just need his mouth on you and he can’t keep off you — you love all these little traits. You love him. And he loves you. That’s maybe the feeling to triumph over all the others.

“I’m close, I’m close,” you chant, the hand on his back digging fingernail marks into his skin as the warm feeling in your core rises, threatening to explode.

He thrusts into you faster, his rhythm growing slightly sloppy. “Yeah? Let go for me, baby, let go, I’m right behind you.”

You cum, legs shaking around him and brows pinched as you stare up at him, while he watches you cum undone with an intensity behind his gaze that wasn’t there before. You say his name, over and over, trying to put all you want to say into just that one word. You hope it’s enough. You think it is. He gets you.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, words cut off by a pant, as you feel the aftershocks of your own orgasm and the growing over-sensitivity. “You feel so good, baby, gonna cum so hard…”

You feel him spill into you as he cries out, his body collapsing over yours so his entire body is pressed against yours. You thread your fingers through his hair until he starts to come down from his high and rolls off you, his cock slipping out and you hiss at the slight friction.

“God…” he murmurs into the air. “That was so good.”

You giggle, twisting around and propping your head up with your hand so you can look down at him. “You say that every time.”

“It’s good every fucking time,” he says, a smile spreading across his face.

You poke his dimple and he tries to catch your finger with his mouth, biting the air playfully, but you pull it away. “You’re such a weirdo.”

He pouts for a second, but then his features soften. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You drop your head back down to the pillow, watching him stretch his arm out to turn off his bedside lamp. After a couple of swats at the switch, he finally manages it, and brings the same arm back over to drape over your body. It’s totally dark now. “Love you so much,” he tells you, kisses your forehead.

“Love you more. Goodnight, H. Sweet dreams.”

“Night, angel. Sleep well.”

. . . . .

hope you enjoyed -- let me know if u did, i like reading ur replies/tags !! i rlly loved writing this fic, it’s just so domestic and sweet and happy. the meditating and the to-do list (including the emailing !! ) is from the real harry.

btw !! my ask box is open for requests & general chatter, so come say hi :D

#harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #fic

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smallgodseries · 3 years

Photo

But those with less import have a way of holding on.

It is a small god of all that loves, all forms of love, non-specialized yet still diminutive. It spreads its wings to cover lusty lovers in the grass and sleeping siblings in their sleepaway tent at the same time. Love is love is love, whether sexual or familial or the deep, complicated bonds of friendship, and the love bird perches on them all, feathered and fleet, too small to die, too enduring to ignore.

Its iconography is everywhere. It will never fly away and leave us, but will love us all and always, and sing its songs just on the edge of hearing, where all ears are open as they tumble into sleep.

Love is love.

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

Artist Lee Moyer (13th Age, Cursed Court) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.

Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/

#Small Gods #smallgodseries #Seanan McGuire #Lee Moyer #love bird #love is love

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yanderemommabean · 3 years

Note

Okay but consider! Hawks was the lead in a band. He was the lead for years, from early teens into adulthood and then he just...burned out. It wasn't drugs or sex (or maybe it was, up to you), but just how fake it was. He couldn't do anything without approval from corporate, and all these fans, they didn't like him, they liked the persona they made for him. And it got to him, bit by bit. He's a shell of himself when he meets his darling, and suddenly it's like looking into the face of a muse.

Another concert, another ten hours on his feet as he has to do make up, practice, make sure the instruments work with the crew, and of course make the fans nearly wet themselves with his appearance and voice alone. Every day it’s “OH MY GOD IT’S HAWKS” or “IT’S HIM IT’S HIM IT’S HIM!”.

They don’t even really care about how he feel about being smooshed into selfies and made into clout fuel for people who only want the most likes. Which to be fair, he’s apart of that group sometimes, he might have wings but he’s far from a saint, but even to him it gets a bit much with how much they only want to gain attention.

It’s not nearly as luxurious as people assume. He has a contract, has to make an album every few months otherwise his fame and band are dropped like a bag of trash into a junkyard. He’s stressed an unable to make any new songs, and the fact he has to preform while trying to perfect his newest works drains him considerably.

He doesn’t have time to be himself. He doesn’t have time or luxury to just be Keigo. No. He has to keep up this act and be the flirtatious, rebelling bad boy all the fans masturbate too and fantasize about. (Kudos to the fic writers by the way! He’s seen some good shit!).

Hawks vs Keigo. No one knows the real him. They all go for the media showered, Instagram famous persona with his band mates tagging alongside. Keigo is a more laid back, needing personal space, wanting time alone to think kind of person. He doesn’t mind doing things and going out, he just gets his daily quota of social interaction in a matter of minutes.

So when you have millions of fans wanting your attention and grabbing onto you all the fucking time, you can imagine how unwilling and uninterested he is in even preforming or socializing.

Tonight was no different, Keigo and the band sang and played their hearts out, got a few fans some autographs and let their ears ache from how loud the fans would squeal. Yeah yeah yeah same old phrases spout with new faces.

Remembering there was a bar nearby, Keigo decided it was time for a few drinks. Or a hundred. He fidgets for the sunglasses in his bag, and slides on a different shirt to head out in, trying to make his hair style different as well when he walks by a window and sees it’s still spiked. It wasn’t the most convincing disguise but it would do.

Sliding into a seat near the corner of the bar, Keigo slumps with a huff, letting his hands run down his face while he tries to let his mind slow down and soak in what’s been happening all day. The concert, the meet and greet, the signing, the interviews, the managers constant reminder that he needed new songs and soon.

“Need a breather?” Your voice mused, catching his attention for a second. Ah. Great. A fan. Time to put on the mask again. He gives a wry expression and nods his head “even party boys need a break. Care to help one out?”.

Ah. Weak flirting. That would never go by with the press. Where’s his skill?!

You noticed the tired expression in his eyes, how he forced a smile to keep your attention on his more well known persona. You didn’t buy it. You’ve seen that look in too many people to let it slide and go unnoticed. This man needed a beer and needed one pronto.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you sit in the seat next to him, drumming your fingers on the counter as you try to think of an answer that wasn’t too forward. “Listen...I can tell you’re super exhausted. You can drop the act, ya know?”. You cough, face turning a bit red as you realize that you’re talking to a celebrity. You keep telling yourself that it doesn’t matter, you’re both human and capable of communicating.

It shouldn’t be a big deal to speak your mind to the hottest, most sought after singer in the world. Who are you kidding? Of course it is.

Keigo arches an eyebrow at your statement, and sits closer to the counter. It’s odd having someone see through his act. Sure his disguise sucked and anyone within ten feet could tell he was Hawks, but to have someone see he wasn’t who the media said, it was a shocking but well welcomed breath of fresh air.

“You...heh you cut to the chase don’t ya, kid?” He said with mirth.

“Well I hate bullshit. I-I would rather be upfront and honest.” You admit sheepishly, looking away from his hazel eyes timidly. “Didnt mean to offend you or anything” you added, hands shaking.

Offend? He’s the exact opposite! Finally, someone who’s honest and not conceded! He’s only just met you and he’s felt more of a connection here than with his own band! “Nah nah! You’re fine! I love bluntness. It’s nice to have every now and again when you’re used to bullshit”.

You giggle at that, nodding in agreement. Soon you two break more of the ice, discussing the most random but humorous things, not noticing how Keigo’s eyes gloss over with awe and admiration. It’s been so long since he could let go and be himself, he never wants to leave your company. It’s an ache in his mind to think about since he’s got to be back on the tour bus in less than two hours.

“Hey-“ his hand snatches your phone from your hands as you were replying to a friend “-I’m giving you my number ok? I’m about to have to head out and I would rather die than miss talking to you”.

As he types the number into your contacts, you couldn’t help but freeze up. Was this actually happening? You just spent hours chatting away with Hawks, and are now getting his contact information?! Surely you were drugged. Had to be! No fucking way is this happening like some cheap hallmark Christmas plot!

“Y/N right?” He slides the phone back over to you, giving you his signature flirtatious grin “I better hear from you tonight. I’ll lose sleep if I think a new friend is hurt or ignoring me”.

You blush even harder, and nod, not being able to really speak. He stands, patting your shoudler as he slides his sunglasses back on “Oh! I almost forgot-“ he pulls out a wad of cash, slamming it on the counter “For the drinks. It’s the least I can do for someone as entertaining as you”.

You cover your face in your hands and try to stop the flurry of emotions bubbling up. You thank him, hearing him chuckle as he leaves the bar, not seeing the smile on his face as he walks back to where the tour bus was parked.

———————————————

Days go by, and every chance Keigo gets he’s messaging you, becoming antsy when you don’t respond within seconds. Sometimes he sends hundreds of messages a day, sometimes he’s on the phone with you for hours, or simply stalking your social media when you tell him you’re going to bed.

As long as he interacts with you, he’s sated and calm. Thinking up songs has never felt so easy, each day he makes a new hit, making the managers happy that he finally quit acting so down in the dumps. Months go by, and he’s still on the top charts, being the idol fanboys and girls pair themselves with.

But he doesn’t pay attention to that. He’s focused on you and only you. That shy encounter with you has changed his perspective, and all he wants to do is be with you. Flirting with you was easy enough but you always turned him down, saying things that didn’t make sense.

You’d say “Oh I don’t think we’d be compatible...you’d get tired of me” or “I think you’re just needing a hook up, but I’m flattered!”.

You’re crazy. He could never get tired of you. What will it take to get you to be with him and travel the world together?! Perhaps you just need more persuasion? A romantic gift? A gesture that proves he’s serious?

Well if that’s what you need then he’ll happily supply it. Just give him a few days, he’ll make sure you see how serious he is about being yours (and you being his. Only his). Should he make a song about what he loves about you the most? Maybe a song on how he fell for you?

A song on what he wants to do with you and your body? Or maybe you need a bit of danger, and need him to state what he’s willing to do to get you.

He’ll figure it out. Soon you’ll be his forever muse, he just needs to serenade you first.

(This was shit I know I know but I love this AU so much! -Mommabean )

#Yandere band au #band AU #Yandere Hawks #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #Yandere bnha #Yandere male #Mommabean #bnha

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shelby-love · 3 years

Text

GEORGE WEASLEY

I'm Holy. Get it?

Requested: no

Prompts: none (all lines are from the movie save for the reader’s + some other)

Warning(s): I'd say if you haven't watched HP movie 7 don't read this but I mean...

[Y/FN or Y/MN] is your father’s name or your mother’s name, whichever you prefer :)

Word count: 2.6K

Author's note: This is set directly in the first part of the ‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows pt. 1′ movie (Polyjuice scenes and arriving at the Burrow after the Sky battle). Reader reacts to George's injury kinda thing. I highly recommend rewatching those specific scenes so you get the feels:

Arrival at Privet Drive (watch first 50 seconds)

Full Polyjuice scenes

The Sky Battle (watch all if you want)

The Order at the Burrow after the Sky Battle

This is by far my favourite one-shot out of all of my work and it took me a while to write it so please like, reblog and let me know what you think! P.S. if you’re up for me to write a part 2, that one shot will be set before, during and after the wedding <3

MASTERLIST

Darkness set around Privet Drive seemed to be rippling, the air wafting all around. The Dursley's house, home of the famous chosen boy Harry came into view only as the brooms lowered to the ground. Not only brooms, in three cases skeletal, black winged horses too. Hagrid dominated the scene, sitting in an enormous motorbike you had begged him to give you a ride on, with goggles and a helmet set on his bearded face.

Despite not arriving in the motorbike, you had flown on the next best thing - a broom, with arms wrapped around your boyfriend, face nested against his shoulder and a million sweet nothings whispered into your ears on the way over.

You were pleased to say the least.

One by one, you lifted the Disillusionment Charms, coming into view for Harry Potter to see through the window of his room.

George Weasley dismounted the broom with ease, helping you off by letting you put your hand on his strong shoulders.

Harry pulled the front door open, eyes wide upon hearing Hermione screech and fling her arms around him. Ron: the next best thing how George and Fred always say, clapped his best friend's back and waltzed into the house after Hermione.

You stood outside, holding George's hand, body molded against his and watched the scenes unfold with the rest of the Order - Bill, Fleur, Tonks, Lupin, Arthur, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley, Fred and George. You were accompanied by Mundungus Fletcher: a small, dirty man with droopy eyes and hair that was non-existent. Behind Mad-Eye stood a slender man in a dark suit, having just dismounted the third winged horse. He was handsome, so to speak, with black hair brushed behind and dark glasses shielding his eyes.

"Who wears sunglasses at midnight?" Fred had mumbled when he saw the man for the first time at the headquarters. You laughed immediately, agreeing by throwing a joke of your own.

George was protective; he made sure you weren't close to either of them as you followed the rest of the Order inside. As was Bill, his older brother, who had a hand on his fiancée's back, ushering her inside while placing himself as a human shield against Mundungus and the stranger. You were thankful for George, just like Fleur for Bill - you saw it in her eyes when you made it inside the small, family home that was once filled with furniture.

"Hello, Harry. Bill Weasley," said the oldest brother, hand extended for Harry to take.

"Ah, pleasure to meet you," this was the first time Harry had met the oldest Weasley and he shook his hand immediately and gave Fleur a hug right after.

"Wasn't always this handsome." Fred teased, pushing through the small crowd of people.

"Dead ugly," Your boyfriend added, holding your hand, and pushing you in front of him as the auror walked in right after you three did.

You released George's hand and came in to give Harry a hug, who you considered to be your close friend. "Are you going back to Hogwarts?" The boy asked you, knowing you were as old as him and his closest friends.

You shook your head, "My parents are in the Order as much as I am. I'll go when we defeat him. At least that's what I have planned."

"Of course, she'll go," Hermione interjected, not wanting to take the N.E.W.T. alone.

"No, she'll work with me," George butted in the conversation, grinning. "She'll be our salesman."

"Or saleswoman!" Fred voiced somewhere around the house.

Your lips spread into a grin instinctively as you placed a hand into George's already extended one and joined him somewhere else, letting Harry get to know a little bit more about Bill and his scar.

"-the joker," the last of Tonks' words made their way into your ears. The bubbly woman came to stand next to you. "By the way, wait until you hear the news! Remus and I are -"

"All right, all right!" Mad-Eye interrupted Tonks mid-sentence. You gave her a smile and a glance at her belly. She smiled in return. "You’ll all have time for a cozy catch-up later! We’ve got to get the hell out of here and soon!"

"What news?" George leaned in and whispered into your ear, Fred leaning in too.

"Doesn't matter," You told him. It was Tonks' announcement, not yours.

"Babe, pleasee," he whined, but you stood your ground and elbowed him in his abs.

George yelped behind you, drawing in attention. The adults turned around to look but he composed himself immediately, placing on a carefree smile and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, brushing them all off with the actions.

You missed half the conversation about the Trace the Ministry had on every underage witch and wizard. You thankfully didn't have the Trace for several months now but you did pity Harry in that aspect. The Trace was not an easy pill to swallow for an underage wizard like himself.

"The real one...?"

Moody drew a flask from one of his pockets.

"I believe you're familiar with this particular brew."

"No! Absolutely not!"

Hermione sighed, "I told you he'd take it well."

Harry, the always humble boy shook his head. You didn't see his face because you stood in the back, but you could imagine it very well. "If you think I'm going to let people risk their lives for me-"

"Never done that before, have we?" Ron mumbled, rather audibly so that everyone heard him.

"This is different. Taking that. Becoming me - no."

"Well, none of us really fancy it, mate." Fred said earnestly.

"Yeah imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as scrawny, specky gits forever." Your boyfriend added after him.

Harry didn't smile at that.

But you did - and that was enough for the Weasley twins.

You focused on the conversation that went on, cringing with George when Mundungus started to speak.

Suddenly, Hermione mercilessly grabbed a tuft of Harry's jet-black hair, yanking several pieces out and placing the strands into the flask.

"Blimey Hermione!"

Moody held out the flask in which the potion was connecting itself to the strands of hair. The mud like liquid gave an awfully displeasing imitation of brewing, but it turned to gold liquid soon and you let out a breath of relief.

But relief was soon replaced with dread as you realized what awaited you. Instinctively, you stepped back only to crash into George who had stepped behind you, knowing what you would do. Your boyfriend placed his hands on your shoulders and walked you to stand in line with the rest of soon-to-be-fake-Harry-Potters. "You aren't going anywhere luv."

George slapped your shoulders for effect.

"For those of you who haven't taken Polyjuice Potion before, fair warning. It tastes like goblin piss."

You visibly shuddered as you stood between the twins, Moody's fake eye catching you in a locked gaze.

"Have a lot of experience with that, do you, Mad-Eye?"

Moody's eye switches from you onto Fred. "Just trying to defuse the tension."

Fred gingerly took a sip, cringing in distaste immediately after.

He tried to hand the flask over to you, but you shook your head and dashed over to stand after George, not before him.

Why didn't he start from the other end of the line?

You were fine with standing next to Mungundus - the petty criminal, just not with taking a sip of that potion.

"My girlfriend's just scared," George smiled apologetically, still trying to defuse the tension just like his brother.

Both twins shrinked immediately after drinking it, and you swallowed the remains of your saliva and took the flask from your now very short boyfriend. "Cheers." You muttered, taking a small sip from the flask.

"That's not nearly enough! Blimey drink some more!" Mad-Eye barked at you and you did as he said, taking a much bigger sip this time round.

He finally nodded and stepped aside.

You felt your features bubble up uncomfortably, until the transformation ended, and 8 Harry Potters stood in the kitchen that had once belonged to Harry's evil muggle caretakers.

"Wow - we're identical!" Fred and George said at the same.

"Not yet you aren't," Moody mumbled, pulling out the sacks with eight identical sets of clothes.

You, Fleur and Hermione grabbed for the clothes immediately, your bras suddenly feeling everything but comfortable against your now flat chest.

"Don't have something a bit more sporty, do you?'" George asked, looking at the red shirt puzzled.

"Yes, don't fancy this color at all." Fred agreed.

"Fancy this: You're not you, so shut it and strip." Mad-eye exclaimed, turning to Harry. "You'll need to change too, Potter."

Harry looks around and self-consciously begins to strip. The other in takers of the potion had no concern when they stripped off their clothes. As for you, when you glanced underneath the shirt and indeed saw that your breasts were no longer there, you had no problem when taking off your shirt and bra. Any ounce of self-consciousness that was there disappeared once coming to terms that the body wasn't yours.

"Harry," you started, your voice the only thing left that was your own save for the clothes you were currently taking off. "Sorry for exposing you like this. But if it makes you feel any better...you have a nice body?"

You didn't really know to which Harry you were talking to, but one look at the Harry who didn't smile, the one that looked rather angry was enough to know he wasn't the real Harry. It was George. "I mean...that's kind of a compliment to you too... Right Fred?"

"It's a compliment," A different Harry but with Fred's voice said. "Take it or leave it George."

"Help me with this?" You decided to say instead, your cheeks flushing red as you turned around to give George space to unclip your bra.

"Never thought, I'd see the day Harry helps himself take off a bra," Ron mumbled with a laugh, having just finished commenting about his best friend's non existing tattoo.

"Shut it, Ron." Harry's voice came from somewhere amongst the crowd. Real Harry's voice.

George then helped you put on your red shirt in a haste, just now starting to smile. "I'm helping Harry Potter with his clothes the same way I would help my girlfriend."

"But it is me you dimwit!"

"Right then," Moody started to talk again, just after George helped you with your jacket. "We'll be pairing off. Each Potter will have a protector. As for you, Harry..."

"Yes?" Every Potter, real and fake, said in unison.

"The real Harry! Where the devil are you, anyway?"

"Here." The real Harry raised his hand and Moody's eyes rotated onto him.

"You'll ride with Hagrid." He said, "As for [Y/FN or Y/MN]'s kid... Where in the bloody hell are you even?"

Hearing those words, you raised a shaky hand. "I'm here sir."

"Good," Mad-Eye took note. "You'll be going with Ren on one of the thestrals."

"R-ren?"

The dark figure you and George so desperately tried to avoid stepped into the room right at that moment. "Yes, Ren. He's one of our best Aurors. Good and loyal - exactly the ones that are the hardest to find."

"O-kay," You said uneasily and turned around to face George. As weird as it sounded, fake Harrys holding comforting hands weren't a weird sight if you imagined hard enough to see George and Y/N.

That's what you did at that moment at least.

Held Harry's hand and tried to imagine George.

"Let's go."

***

"I'll see you at the Burrow, okay?" You told George, voice laced with worry.

"I would kiss you right now if you didn't look like Harry," He said.

You nodded in understanding, "Me too George. Me too."

The two of you went to your respective protectors - George with Remus and you with Ren.

You ignored the man when you came up to him and only gave him a look when he was supposed to help you up on the calm horse like creature.

"Hang on tight," was the last thing he said before the thestral flew the moment Moody finished counting.

You did hold him, only not as closely like on the broom with George.

***

"Confringo!" You yelled, holding out your wand in the direction of the Death Eaters. A bright blast flew out of your wand, hitting one of Voldemort's followers and sending him off his broom to be eaten away by the wind.

They were catching up to you, not bothered by the aggressive sways of the wind. Whether the thestral was acting out in fear or in rage - you wouldn't know.

"We're almost there!"

True to his words, the two of you broke through the protective spells of the headquarters, landing somewhere on the land, away from the Burrow.

You heaped off the thestral immediately. "Do you really plan on walking all the way back?"

You didn't know what to tell Ren as you continued to walk on unsteady legs. Your brain was mushed, fried even due to the number of curses you evaded and had been struck with.

"I-I..." You started, but words weren't coming out. "We're the last ones to arrive. I'm sure of it!"

"What difference does that make?"

"What difference..." You repeated, not believing what he was saying. "They maybe think we're dead! George might-"

George might think I'm dead.

It crushed your whole being. The lingering thought that they might not be okay...

"Come back," Ren interjected, slashing through your mind with his words. "We'll be faster on the thestral."

As much as you didn't want him to be right...he was. And so you turned back around and grabbed his hand, sitting back on the thestral - cold and scared for everyone's lives.

Especially George's.

***

"Oi! Let her go! Let her go!"

Remus Lupin ignored everyone as he pointed the tip of his wand to you, sending your still very Harry looking body hurling to the ground.

In the end it was Fred, George's older twin, who had marched out of the house and pushed Remus away. Fred looked like himself again, making it all ten times scarier. You had tears in your eyes as he pointed his wand at you and never felt so threatened in your life. "What was the place where you first met George and me?!"

His screaming had you struggling for words. "Answer me!"

"Filch's office you bloody dung brain!" You screamed back, feeling your face return back to normal.

Fred's face softened instantly as he came down to help you up. He hugged you the moment you were back standing. "Fred, what's going on?"

"It's George."

***

"Where is he?" You barged into the cramped house, looking around the whole place frantically. You followed Fred into the sitting room, where Molly had tended to her injured son when he was first brought in.

George lied on the couch, his bleeding had stopped thanks to his mother, but under the light you saw a clean hole where George's ear had been.

You dropped to your knees by his side immediately.

You could practically see the struggle he had with opening his eyes which he never had trouble with before, especially not when he was trying to look at you.

"How is he?"

Fred answered glancing at the bandages, "It could have been much worse. We can't make the ear grow back since it was removed by dark magic."

You shook your head, wiping your tears with the sides of your index fingers before brushing George's hair out of the way. "He wouldn't want you to."

"Yeah," Fred agreed. "He's a tough nut."

You voiced your agreement with your laugh, "Yeah, he is."

The two of you admired George in silence for a few moments. The room has been cleared, leaving only the three of you there. "I'm sorry for jumping on you like that."

It wasn't common for Fred to be so serious, and because you didn't even want to think about your arrival, you gave him a small smile, "It's okay Fred. I would have done the same."

"I know."

"What did he say?" You asked quietly, "Before he passed out."

"That he was holy."

"Holy?"

"Yep," Fred said, the teasing tone to his voice returning as he pointed to his ear for demonstration. "Holy. You get it?"

"Thank God! He's alright!"

MASTERLIST

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fatefulfaerie · 3 years

Text

Once Upon A Time

Long one shot under the cut. Every once in a while I obsess over Gelato (Roman x Neo) so...yeah...

Spoilers for RWBY: Roman Holiday (read it if you haven’t it’s so good!!)

He didn’t know how to treat it like anything but a heist.

Roman had definitely kissed a girl before, Bleu Berry at the orphanage when he was twelve, Crimsen Blank when he was fifteen, Verd Webster when he was seventeen, and then of course the off and on thing with Chameleon while he worked for Lil’ Miss.

But something about kissing Neo was special, something not to be messed up or done lightly like every other young woman he had kissed. He had to do it right.

It had seemed like a lifetime ago since Roman had planned a heist without Neo, and he found himself at a loss because of it. She really was the brains of their partnership...and the brawn…

Why was he even here?

Neo gave him a distinct look. She snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“Sorry.”

He was staring again, at her instead of the television. His cover story was that he stared into space when he was really tired.

Lie.

It was really him taking glances from under her nose, like pickpocketing a stranger’s wallet.

Steal.

Cheat.

Survive

Love.

When did that get in there?

Normally when they sat down together to watch the large, holographic screen that emitted from Neo’s facedown scroll -- Roman still hadn’t gotten his hands on a new scroll. He was perfectly able to steal one of course, especially since the Vale City Mall had the most pathetic security. He just kept straight up forgetting -- they were watching themselves on TV, laughing about the coverage of their recent ridiculous robbery and eating spicy hot wings from the Cuckoo Crazy Chicken Shack.

This was the first time that Roman was thinking about someone else while watching his own name flash across the screen.

He was catching feelings for her, and there was no doubt about it. He had been catching feelings ever since she saved his life in the alley where she first showed off her semblance, and then more and more as they spent time together.

Roman pinpointed the moment she showed him the fabulous outfit she had made for him as that oh moment that you read about in romance novels.

Not that he read. He accidentally stole a book once. Once. Neo was the reader. He could hardly summon the patience. When Neo gave him a book to read, he skipped to the end. Roman didn’t see the point in all the rest.

But for some reason with this conundrum, this real-life conundrum, he couldn’t bring himself to skip to the end, to just kiss her like it meant just as much as any other kiss.

He tried to plan it like a heist, watching Neo, memorizing her routine, figuring the best moment of the day to perform the act, but it didn’t work. Neo was too unpredictable. She wasn’t like a bank or a warehouse that had their security guards on the same schedule every day. Her chaos was part of her charm, always doing the unexpected, but Roman was absolutely lost as to when he should make his move, if at all. They had a good thing going here, after all, and for all he knew he could kiss her one second and be knocked out cold the next.

Roman felt a slap on his shoulder and he looked over.

What the hell?

Neo was mute yet Roman could hear her say it. She must have been doing airplane arms before she slapped him.

She pointed at him and then her right ear, her forehead creased with inquisition.

“No, I am not going deaf,” Roman said.

She must have been clapping and snapping to get his attention.

“I’m just thinking,” he explained, the words spilling out just as he realized he might have to come up with an answer for what he was thinking.

But Neo nodded in understanding. What a wonderful human being. She mimed sleep, resting her head on hands that touched palms.

“Yeah,” Roman agreed. “Sleep. Good idea.”

Since his fancy condo was ambushed by Lil’ Miss, the two partners in crime had settled in an abandoned building that had gone from being a restaurant to a convenience store to a nail salon in the span of three months, before being abandoned for a year now. This street was a terrible place for an above-board business and even the Vale Government had let it rot, too small and inconsequential to be made into a factory or a warehouse of any sort.

Neo and Roman found it a week after the skirmish at the Vanille mansion. It was dilapidated and falling apart but it was only as broken as each of them were before they found each other. They quickly saw it as home.

So Roman stood up in order to head towards his bedroll in the corner. Neo watched him with a suspicious eye.

“Now that we’ve done as much damage as we could with the information from Mr. Vanille’s computer…”

Neo had already noticed that Roman never referred to the late Jimmy Vanille as her dad. Biologically he was her dad but he never treated her like a daughter.

“We may as well start on this dust business,” he continued. “Dust Till Dawn seems like the easiest target to me but I’d rather start bigger, something more fun.”

He turned around in case Neo had anything to add but she only stood up and paced towards him, using her semblance to change into Roman Torchwick himself. Roman looked at the mirrored version of himself as Neo made fun of the way he had been acting, staring with a blank expression, losing his train of thought. She then changed back into herself and shrugged her shoulders with her hands up as if to ask him why.

“I…I don’t know.”

He stammered. He rarely stammered.

She crossed her hands over her heart, then offered her hands to him. He knew what that meant.

Can I help?

She was always so thoughtful.

“It, umm…”

He had to be confident about this, he absolutely had to. He was Roman Torchwick, after all, the fabulous, the famous. He was fearless. He was clever and could get any girl he wanted, even the best of the best that stood in front of him. He could do this.

“Roman Torchwick this is the VPD,” a voice bellowed. Roman closed and opened his eyes.

“Why is it never you?” He asked Neo quietly, who was smirking. She stuck out her tongue.

“Come out with your hands up,” the loud voice continued. “We’ve got you surrounded.”

Neo turned back into Roman.

“Meet you at Forever Fall?” He asked.

Neo nodded and ran off to get caught by the police. Roman pocketed Neo’s scroll and grabbed Melodic Cudger and Hush, the two hooks of which clinked in his grasp.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Torchwick,” he heard as he was halfway out the window in the back. Roman froze and listened. He dared to let his vanity doom him. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t do you justice.”

Roman turned his head.

What was that supposed to mean?

He could see the scene barely, through a gap in one of the distant boarded windows. Neo, in his image of course, stood with her hands in surrender.

“A volatile jokester,” the policeman continued, circling around Neo. “Always has something to remark. Doesn’t seem to want to shut up.” He stopped his spherical pacing and turned on his heel. “Do you know where I got these phrases?”

Neo shook her head.

“Vale Police Department records,” he said. “It’s how they describe you, and it’s how I know you aren’t really in front of me right now, are you Torchwick?”

He felt the panic in his heart, he tried to slip out the window but his forehead met a gun as it cocked with a click.

Their strategy had worked twice already, a disguised Neo getting arrested as Roman fled to a rendezvous location. Neo would use her semblance to escape captivity easily and they would have cheated the system. But it seems the police caught on.

Roman was almost impressed as he bumped shoulders with Neo in the back of the cop car, their weapons confiscated and Neo’s scroll slammed in half by the heel of one of the officers. Their hands were literally tied and Roman might have found a way to fight his way out of this but hey, he had never seen the interior of the Vale Police Department before. He figured it was time for a grand tour of the rathole’s rat hole.

“What’s that?” were the next words out of his mouth twenty minutes later. The VPD building was disappointing. Roman regretted wanting a look inside within a couple steps.

“Semblance inhibitor,” the officer replied, latching a second pair of handcuffs onto Neo’s wrists and only Neo’s wrists. “New tech from Atlas. It drains aura.”

Neo looked at Roman with a flash of panic in her eyes. She was always so confident in her chaos that it was a rare sight to see her scared.

“It’s okay,” he managed softly.

“We’re submitting her for questioning,” the officer continued, nearly interrupted as if Roman hadn’t said anything. “And we’re sending you back to Mistral. Lil’ Miss will be elated to learn that you are alive.”

They began to pull them away along two different hallways.

“No,” Roman said, struggling. “No!”

He lurched for Neo with all his might and caught her lips. That one moment of vulnerability where she tried to keep him with her cost him his better sense as he was very nearly yanked away, only seeing Neo’s face in shock.

“She’s mute, you idiots!” Neo heard Roman exclaim. “She couldn’t answer even if she wanted to. You lay a hand on her and so help me gods I’ll--”

A door slammed shut. Neo didn’t get to hear that last bit.

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

Trivia Vanille a.k.a. “Neopolitan”

Height: 4’10”

Age: 19

Prisoner ID Number: 827338

It was the first time in several years that she genuinely smiled in a picture, and it was a mugshot. Although she could see in her file the name that was dead to her, they referred to her verbally only as Neopolitan. The respect made Neo over the moon with happiness, made her almost forget her concern to get out of this without her semblance. The lock on her normal handcuffs were simple enough to pick once she was left alone but the one that shone blue and drained her energy even now would take a bit more creativity.

Roman Torchwick

Height: 5’11”

Age: 27

Prisoner ID Number: 827299

How many times did he have to tell them? He was six foot three. Six. Feet. Three. Inches. They never listened to him and it bothered him that it was on his permanent record that he didn’t measure up to at least six feet. For goodness sake, he was a celebrity. Any dunce on the street knows that he has orange hair, a white jacket, a grey scarf tied around his neck, and dashing emerald eyes. Everyone knows that he gave himself the birthday of October 31st (the mother who abandoned him at the orphanage didn’t care to specify the day that he had an excuse to steal cake) and that he was six foot three. It was on his mugshot and everything. He pleaded until he had two hands on the bars of his temporary holding cell. He was on his knees.

“Lights out.”

He sighed.

“Fine.”

He heard a foot stomp behind him. His cellmate was standing against the barred window that let in only streaks of moonlight, only fractions of nightlife and remnants of an already crumbled world.

He was a quite heavyset man and Roman’s heart skipped a beat. Roman was good in a fight but he wasn’t sure about these odds as he slowly stood up. This guy looked to have the strength of ten men and his arms were crossed.

Descending pink triangles dispelled the illusion and Roman choked a sigh of relief when the burly man turned into the small silhouette of Neo herself. Her hip cocked to the side and Roman knew, although he couldn’t see it, that she was smirking.

Roman rushed forth and hugged her, embraced her desperately like he never had before. He must have really thought they weren’t getting out of this one together.

“How?” he asked when they separated, his eyes searching her moonlit face.

Neo mimed picking a lock but then shook her head. She then mimed smashing her heel into an invisible pair of handcuffs between her two wrists and gave Roman a thumbs up.

“Good to know Atlas technology goes so fancy on design that brute force is the solution to breaking it. Would you like to pick the cell lock or shall I?”

Neo nodded and skipped to do just that, as if that were the easy part. Neo plucked pins from her mess of brown and pink hair and got to work kneeling before the lock and snaking her arms around the other side of the bars. Roman leaned on the bedpost and ignored his actual cellmate, the actual burly, wideset man who was knocked out on the bottom bunk and had a gnarly bruise the resembled Neo’s heeled boots across his face.

“About earlier, I…” Roman hesitated. “I guess I just wanted to apologize if I took you by surprise. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do, don’t get me wrong, I just…”

After several clicks, the door swung open and Neo turned around to face Roman, approaching him. Roman wondered if she had even heard him until she grasped his tied gray scarf and pulled him into her lips. It was all the answer Roman needed as they explored each other’s mouths, Neo slowly backing up and Roman chasing her, walking forward. When she let loose his lips they were out of the cell. She smiled. Roman was absolutely smitten.

She turned into a security guard, one they had seen earlier and she took his hand, Roman giggling under his breath as they fled from the Vale Police Department and into the wild night they had claimed as their own.

The memory became foggy, as it always did. It turned into a million other nights of chaos with him, all melding into a single lifetime that was now deceased. Trivia Vanille once died in the burning rubble of the Vanille Estate and left Neopolitan in her stead, but the moment Neo saw a blinding “X” over Roman’s aura gage a different Neopolitan had emerged. This one wasn’t languishing in her new sense of identity, wasn’t happy beyond belief in her friendship with this Torchwick guy. No, this Neopolitan was in pain, deep soulful, cutthroat, bleeding pain. When she threw a parasol and made her dad bleed she felt nothing. When her parents died because of the dust her dad harbored, she felt free. But when Roman died, she felt grief for the very first time, felt loss and lost in this world that didn’t understand her, would never understand her like he did.

Neo blinked her eyes open.

She liked when her dreams dipped into her memories up until the point where she woke up, where reality reminded her what was past and what was present.

It smelled like blood here. Neo had started to wonder if this is what it was like to be in the womb, gestating, trapped, waiting to be reborn in Salem’s image. The thought made Neo gag. This was the last place she wanted to be, seen as a mere chess piece in Salem’s game. She grew up as a chess piece that had been discarded, then used, then discarded again, like a dirty towel her parents kept forgetting about. What once liberated her was her newfound knowledge that her decisions could be her own but now she was CInder’s helper? beneficiary?

She would have to stomach it until Cinder upheld her end of the deal and got her to Ruby Rose.

Neo pushed against the bed she was assigned and sat up, although she would use the term bed extremely loosely. It was a hunk of red rock and the small room looked like the maw of a Grimm more than anything else. Neo would quantify it to a torture chamber if there wasn’t a small young man literally being tortured a few rooms over. She at least had it better off than him, but that didn’t say much.

Neo steadied her breath and closed her eyes. She thought of him, not the boy who screamed in anguish down the hallway but him. Roman. She thought of his brown, leather slip-on shoes and how much he hated the hassle of tying laces. She thought of his dark grey pants and how they collected around his ankles. She thought of his white coat and remembered tailoring it to his size, remembered thinking of the moment she would surprise him with it. She remembered his gloves and how it felt to be held by those hands. She remember his grey scarf and tried not to think about how it was on her neck instead of his. She tried to think of his piercing green eyes and his pumpkin orange hair, his bowler hat that had a red ribbon and a grey feather. She tried to remember his voice.

She opened her eyes and stood up slowly, pacing towards the illusion she had created, feeling tears sting in her eyes, feeling her heart beat with relief she tried to subdue.

“Neo,” he said softly.

She bawled, tears streaming down her face. She took the hat off her head and put it on her doll. She cupped his face with her hands and found herself missing having to go on her tippy toes like this.

Neo thought she could hold the illusion long enough to at least hug him, to at least derive some comfort from her memories and what her semblance was able to do with them. Yet, the illusion just as soon shattered, crumbling into shards of glass. Neo’s gasp was shaky as she looked down into her palms. Her breaths matched no rhythm and her soul bled as if she had lost him all over again. She looked up.

Cinder.

Her lip quivered. Neo couldn’t help it. Her brow furrowed in anger despite her sadness. The pink and the brown were like flames. And yet Cinder couldn’t even see her hate. No one could see anything of her.

“Salem wants everyone on the bridge,” Cinder said. “Welcome to reality.”

She walked off without a care and Neo fell to her knees, gathering the glass shards. She seethed with anger as she held them delicately in her hands. Her panting increased as balled her hands into fists, not caring in the slightest the sharp pain in her palms or the blood staining her white gloves.

She made a silent promise to Roman then, not to live for herself like she once did but to survive long enough to give Ruby Rose everything she deserved.

#gelato #neo x roman #roman holiday #rwby roman holiday #rwby #rwby fanfiction #roman torchwick #neopolitan #trivia vanille #neo my beloved #am I ec Myers yet?

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shofics · 3 years

Text

So tumblr ate the ask (thanks! I hate it!) but @knifemartin sent the prompt 13. pirate au but make it... sky pirates with Earhart, Zolf, Sasha, and Wilde! This got frighteningly long so I had to put it under a cut, I hope you enjoy my ramblings. <3 They’re going to kill a dragon!!

I think I genuinely might clean this up and make it into a proper fic. Watch this space.

Zolf Smith is a miner. Zolf Smith dreams of the sky. Zolf Smith kills his brother. Zolf Smith takes flight.

The Meritocracy doesn't have air forces- don’t really need ‘em when you’re a huge fuck-off dragon who can fly- but they’re worried about the increased presence the separatists are having in the skies above their lands, so they’re building one. Zolf leaps upon it like a life raft.

When the ship goes down, there are two reasons he doesn’t die; his past, and his god.

The Reliant answers the emergency call, and that surprises Zolf- a known separatist vessel, making an attempt to save the crew of a ship in the Meritocratic Air Force- but a lot of things surprise him about Captain Earhart. It’s not the Reliant’s fault that he is the only survivor. It is due to the Reliant that there is an only survivor at all.

His family were Harlequins. Captain Earhart recognises him, visits him in the sick bay as her medics do their best to save his legs, asks after his father, asks after his brother. Gives an understanding nod when he refuses to speak about them. Offers him a job, because he desperately needs one.

It’s a lot all at once, and they can’t save his legs, but he finds he doesn’t need them. Dwarves don’t have the build that most of the Hermes lot have, but he’s never let not fitting in stop him. The feeling of the wind in the rigging is like wings on ankles he doesn’t have anymore. He’s freer than he’s been his entire life.

When he is thirteen years old, Brock Rackett successfully makes it out of Other London and out of the clutches of the Rackett clan by chopping off his ring finger and escaping on the first air vessel that will take him. At least, this is what Sasha believes. She’s sad he left without her, but she knows well that when an opportunity comes, you take it. She hopes he made it out safe.

Nine years later, at twenty-two, Sasha’s opportunity finally comes. She heads for the aeroport. Maybe she’ll be able to find him.

Barrett’s men are following her, she can feel them on her tail all through the crowd like a bad smell; she needs a cover, needs somewhere to hide. There’s a drunk in the corner of the bar, some once-foppish-looking dandy, and Sasha decides to make him her cover.

She slides into the seat next to him and tries to be as inconspicuous as possible, but the drunkard starts and leaps to his feet, swaying. “Keep your trousers on,” she hisses, jumping up to pull him back down in front of her- he’s tall enough, he should provide good cover.

The man staggers out of her grip and produces a dagger from nowhere. He tries to fend her off with it- poorly- and then his eyes roll up and he collapses. Sasha just barely manages to catch him before he hits the ground.

Wilde knows the Meritocracy is crumbling. He can feel it in the air; something big is coming, something very bad, and he really doesn’t want to be here when it finally arrives.

Though maybe the sense of impending doom he’s getting is just from lack of sleep. But he’s sure that’s fine. It’s fine. He’s fine.

So he puts his bardic talents and his espionage training to work, following the trail of the odd orders and the disappearing agents, and realises quickly that if he stays, he’ll probably end up disappearing as well- or worse, become one of the people giving the odd, conflicting orders. He doesn’t know what that’s about. He doesn’t want to find out.

Wilde fakes his own death in the hopes it will throw off the scent, and decides, like so many others seeking the separatists, to head for the Americas.

In a bar at the aeroport he is accosted by a mugger, and he knew he was being conspicuous, but with everything blurring and the ringing in his ears he’s in no shape to properly defend himself. Instead of killing him, though, the dark figure hauls him up and runs.

He’s not lucid enough to take in the scene of the room she drags him into, and so he doesn’t resist as someone snaps something cold around his wrist, and he at long last sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Earhart knew the look of people like Zolf Smith- lost, angry, needing. She’s seen plenty of it, in her years as an airship captain, because there are only a few reasons why people set out for the skies. And so she took him on, and he proved a fantastic first mate, knew his stuff inside and out and indulged her more reckless tendencies.

Plus, he’d been fleeing the Meritocracy. That automatically put him in Earhart’s good books.

Famous (and infamous) Harlequin airship captain Amelia Earhart was, by that point, becoming famous and infamous enough to become a thorn in the Meritocrats’ sides. They decided to target her. The fact that they tried to take down the Reliant was not her fault. The fact that she turned the whole ship around to attack back, causing a wreck that killed almost all of her crew and blew the Reliant into unsalvageable bits… that was.

The only reason she hasn’t drunk herself to death by this point is her ‘fantastic’ first mate (she’s regretting that now, in an angry way), who for some unknowable reason is unwilling to let the guilt swallow her whole.

Zolf Smith was an airman. Zolf Smith dreams of gods and wings and roads not taken. Zolf Smith is given a choice. Zolf Smith chooses no.

Zolf Smith loses his magic.

Earhart is trying to die, and he’s doing his best without access to his healing magic, but it won’t work forever, not when she’s this determined to let herself waste into nothing. He’s not good at talking, and that’s what she really needs- someone to talk to. Someone to listen. But he’s got no legs, and he’s got no magic, and he’s got almost no hope left, and nowhere to go.

They take refuge in a seedy bar in the closest aeroport and report the crash; two survivors, him and Earhart. They’ve been there a month and a half when the door to their room bursts open and a terrified kid with dark shaggy hair and an enormous jacket practically falls through the doorway, lugging an unconscious man in a blue and green waistcoat.

For a split second they all just stare at each other- everyone except for the unconscious man, of course, being as he is unconscious (and bleeding, from the nose and from the ears, and Zolf may not have magical healing but he has medical training and he knows that’s bad)- and then the kid drops her charge like a sack of potatoes, slams the door closed, and dives under the bed.

“Are you in trouble?” is all Zolf asks, and the kid nods, petrified and utterly silent. “Fine. Stay there.”

The unconscious man begins to shake and cry out as Zolf manhandles him into his bed, as though having a nightmare. He wakes with a scream, eyes wide and terrified. Someone bangs on the door. “Do you mind?” Zolf yells. “Little busy in here!”

The door bursts open a second time- those poor hinges- and two men of the kind who aren’t holding knives until you look at them from the right angle, and then they definitely are, and they’re pointed right at you, appear in the doorway. They take in the sickroom and the man with the two prosthetic legs, look nonplussed for a second, and then one nudges the other and tells him to “get a move on, she’s in here somewhere,” and they disappear down the hall.

Zolf pulls the door shut behind them and goes back over to the man in the waistcoat. It takes a bit of figuring out, but eventually, in desperation- the man is obviously dying- Zolf fishes out the anti-magical handcuffs issued to him as soldier and medic in the Meritocratic Air Forces, and clips one around his wrist. He goes limp.

He turns around to find the dark haired kid staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers. “Were they lookin’ for you?” he asks, and her eyes narrow.

“Why do you want to know?” she asks defensively- as though they could be looking for anyone else. The kid has ‘runaway’ written all over her.

“‘Cause I’m tryin’ to save your life,” Zolf snaps, and that seems to shock her, “so if you could work with me here, that’d be great, I’ve got enough on my plate tryin’ to save her life-” jerks a thumb to Earhart- “and apparently this one’s as well-” to the now asleep man taking up his bed. “Who are you? Who’s he?”

“I dunno,” says the kid, “he just kind of fell over.”

Sasha does not make the decision to trust him then. She doesn’t even tell him her name. She makes the decision to trust him when he tells her, a day later, as they sit against the wall and watch the man in the waistcoat mumble in his sleep, that he used to work on an airship.

“I’m Sasha,” she says. “Can I come with you?”

The white-haired dwarf named Zolf Smith- he looks too young to have white hair, but Sasha knows not to judge from appearances- grimaces. “I mean,” he says. “Dunno why you’d want to.”

“I want to see the sky,” says Sasha, who has spent her entire life underground. Zolf looks at her and seems to see something in her that pains him.

“I dunno where I’m goin’,” he warns her mournfully, looking back at Earhart, who is also sleeping. “But you can come with if you want. ‘S your choice.”

He doesn’t ask Sasha’s surname. She decides to trust him.

The name of the man in the bed next to her is Oscar Wilde, and Earhart starts frantically reaching for a gun, any gun, forgetting in her automatic fury that Zolf had taken them all off her weeks ago. A Meritocratic agent-

“Ex-agent,” says Wilde politely. “Please don’t shoot me, Captain, I’ve almost died once this week and I’m not really eager to repeat the experience.”

Earhart feels more lucid than she has in ages as she listens to him describe the strange series of events that brought him there, how sure he is that something is brewing within the Meritocracy’s upper ranks, the disaster that is coming. She can feel Zolf’s eyes on her as all her grief and guilt and despair and boiling anger calcify inside of her.

Wilde is like her, like Zolf, like Sasha- lost, angry, needing.

Wilde has information she can use.

“Mr. Wilde,” Earhart says, her voice hoarse with disuse but filled with more fire than she’s felt since the crash, “you are going to help me kill a dragon.”

She didn’t like him at first- he talked down to her, and his posh affectations grated on principle- but Sasha has to admit that Wilde is smart. She stares in disbelieving wonder as he produces a bag of holding full to the brim with more gold pieces than she’s ever seen in her life. His Meritocratic funding, he tells the spellbound group, because he can spellbind even without his magic. He liquified as many assets as he felt he could get away with before leaving.

“Pick a ship,” he says, “any ship. We can buy it. No need to steal.”

“We’ll need elementals,” Earhart says. “At least two.”

Wilde turns to Zolf. “You’re a cleric, aren’t you?” he says. “You can summon elementals.”

“Not anymore,” Zolf bites.

“Why?”

Zolf makes a face. “I don’t- when- okay.” He sighs. “Look-” and casts Spark into the fireplace. He jumps back in shock.

“I… don’t see the problem?” Wilde says after a good minute of silence, looking from the roaring flames back to Zolf. Sasha gets up and goes to dry her hair by the fire; the weather around the ports has been awful lately. Zolf stares into the flames in surprise.

Zolf Smith was a cleric. Zolf Smith dreams of a new ship. Zolf Smith finds a team, full of people who need healing, the kind he can now provide. Zolf Smith has hope.

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