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tsarisfanfiction · 7 months

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A Single Drachma

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians Rated: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Friendship Characters: Michael, Clarisse, Chris Alone. Injured. Hunted. Michael doesn't know where he is, but he knows he's running out of time, and he's only got one shot at calling for help. He's got to make it count. I'm a bit late posting it here because rl, but this was a fic written for @pod-together and my podficcer partner for the event was once again the amazing @stereden, who I also worked with for this event last year and once again had an absolute blast with! I pushed the boat out rather further this year in terms of length (there is actually a lot more to this story planned, but it became unrealistic to podfic... that being said I am still hoping to finish writing it at some point, for all that this does currently work as a stand-alone). We both had a lot more free time this year, and we definitely made sure we used it! I've lost count of how many times I've listened to Stereden's various takes on the podfic but it's been so much fun to work with her on this again this year! I was in a massive Michael&Clarisse mood when the event first started, and Stereden is a fantastic enabler who was more than willing to let them be the focus of the plot for our project, so here we are, and I hope you all enjoyed reading and listening to this as much as I did creating it! You can find the podfic to listen to here (go, listen to it! It’s amazing!)

After so long in darkness, the light of the sun was blinding. Michael’s tolerance for bright lights had always been higher than most, just like his siblings, but as he staggered out onto the street, limping heavily and doing his utmost to ignore the various signals of this fucking hurts different parts of his body were sending to his brain in discordant harmony, his eyes narrowed into a blurry squint. He stumbled, biting back a curse as his leg protested loudly at the bulk of his weight being forced onto it, and raised a dirty, shaking hand to shade his watering eyes from the worst of the glare.

Where was he?

With a wince he couldn’t hold back, he limped a few steps forwards, impatiently waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, until he almost collided with a wall. Knocking his shoulder - the less-bad one, the one that was only bruised and not taunting him with fears of dislocation - against it, he awkwardly shuffled until he was leaning heavily against the painted brickwork, shifting his weight until it was off of his right leg.

It still had the audacity to fucking hurt, and Michael could feel his left leg trembling from the strain, less injured but no less exhausted than the rest of his body, but there was nothing he could do about it except lean harder on his shoulder, shoving as much of his weight as possible onto the building.

He needed to keep moving; he knew that. His arm stung, his newest injury still bleeding sluggishly. Michael could hear the slow yet steady drip, drip, drip of the liquid onto the ground. He’d run out of useable fabric to tear into makeshift bandages a while back - his clothes were in tatters, and stained with so many things he didn’t want to think about that using them to wrap an open wound was probably begging for a dose of tetanus, as though he needed any more problems on top of everything he had already.

Leaning against the building was the most relief he’d had in days, though, and Michael was at loathe to give it up. He glanced towards the sun again, still blindingly bright and near-impossible to look at. Hi, Dad, he thought, his mental tone somewhere between bitterness and despair. Apollo hadn’t contacted him for a long time, not since the night before they left for Manhattan, and Michael missed his father’s dream visits. He didn’t understand why they’d stopped - he’d feared, for a while, that Apollo had fallen to Typhon , that despite the lack of Kronos stomping around suggesting that they’d won the war his father had been lost for good.

Deep down, he still feared that - despite the freak saying things to the contrary - because if it wasn’t true, if Apollo hadn’t been destroyed, then that meant his father had been ignoring all of his pleas for help.

Apollo had been answering him reliably since he was a small kid, before he’d even realised the guy he dreamed about frequently was real and his father. There was no good reason for him to have stopped.

And yet he had.

Where the fuck are you, Dad? he thought at the sun. And where the fuck am I?

He lowered his hand, squinting against the bright light of the sun as it inflicted a fresh assault on his eyeballs, and took stock of his surroundings.

It was some sort of side street. Not enclosed enough to be an alley but no major thoroughfare - Michael could see a busier street, if he squinted against the shadows and too-bright sun hard enough, running perpendicular to the end of the street he was in. People passed through with purpose, none of them batting an eyelid at a messy, injured demigod leaning against the painted bricks and no doubt leaving some crimson stains behind. Was that the Mist at work, or was he somewhere where no-one even noticed bleeding teens?

Michael didn’t really care. Both options were far better than where he’d been, where he was running from.

He needed to keep moving, no matter how much his body protested, but first he needed a plan. Running blindly wouldn’t help; he hadn’t shaken his pursuers despite his best efforts so far, and he wasn’t naive enough to hope he’d shaken them now, either. But now that he was out, he had a chance.

His hand tightened its grip around his precious prize, the one small shard of hope that had crossed his path amongst the pain and fear. Firm edges pressed into his palm in a way that would be almost painful, if his body’s resting pain threshold wasn’t currently up around ten out of ten, a reassurance that he hadn’t lost it, hadn’t dropped it as he ran.

Michael had no weapons. He had no way to fight off his pursuers, no way to make them stop following him for good. Hand-to-hand had been out of the question even before the injuries started stacking up; he’d never done well enough in that during training to treat it as anything other than a last, desperate, resort. Here, where defeat meant getting dragged back to the freak, it was even lower on his list of non-existent options than normal.

But what he did have was one, single golden drachma. A stroke of luck amongst everything else, because drachma meant communication, and communication meant help. He could call Chiron, ask the old centaur to send someone his way, and warn him about the freak while he was at it.

Once he knew where he was.

He only had one drachma, one chance to make a call. He had to make it count.

It didn’t take Michael long to come up with a plan, if it could even be called that. Step one, find out where he was. Step two, find a rainbow and make the call.

Don’t get caught in the process.

He’d lingered too long. He knew he had. With a groan he forced his body upright again, biting back a scream as his right leg buckled and almost collapsed, and shoved himself away from the wall. The movement pushed him into a run, one leg in front of the other with no pause to think, for all that they both threatened to crumple beneath him as he staggered forwards, each step sending a bolt of pain up his right leg.

Michael stumbled his way towards the busier street. He didn’t know if it was a major enough street to have helpful signs like “welcome to”, but it was the best shot he had at finding where he was.

Several times, he almost fell, barely catching himself on the building walls, but he made it to the larger street without picking up any more injuries.

It didn’t have a “welcome to” sign, or any other defining characteristics that might have at least given Michael a clue. Cars drove past him without a second look, not that Michael intended on getting in one, anyway. It would be infinitely easier than walking, but the freak had a lot of influence. Michael couldn’t trust anyone not to be part of his many, many circles. Until he made contact with Chiron, he couldn’t risk talking to anyone.

The street ran east and west, as straight as an arrow, and Michael barely even had to think before he was turning east, glancing up at the sun as he did so and sending yet another silent and rushed prayer his father’s way.

Apollo had guided him to safety before. Why couldn’t he do it again?

Passing mortals paid him no more attention on the major street than they had on the side street. Michael still didn't know if that was due to the Mist concealing the various injuries and blood dripping from hastily wrapped (and in some cases unwrapped) wounds, or if they really just didn't care in this place. Not that the why actually mattered; at least no-one was stopping him.

It was only going to be a matter of time before they found him again, and Michael needed to have figured out where he was and called Chiron by then. If they caught up to him here, he didn’t stand a chance.

The thought spurred his protesting body on, legs screaming and lungs hauling in as much air as they could stand. There had to be some sign, somewhere, to tell him where he was. A café name, roadsigns, billboards. Something.

He reached an intersection just as the lights turned green for the cars. A glance behind him didn’t show any obvious pursuit but Michael couldn’t risk it. He dashed forwards, dodging honking vehicles, and felt his leg buckle halfway across, but he snarled and pushed on, refusing to let it surrender to the break just yet.

Not until he was safe.

It was probably more luck than skill that got him across without being knocked down by a irate driver, but Michael didn't pause when his feet met the sidewalk once more, leaving the cacophony of chaos behind him as he kept running. His lungs were starting to burn; no demigod endurance could keep going forever, and Michael had been fleeing for days, weeks, he didn’t even know. He’d long since lost track of time.

There were more than a few near-misses with crashing into mortals on the street, his legs not quite up for intense manoeuvrability and reliant mostly on other people getting out of his way, and more side streets crossed - more than one involving a game of chicken with cars and the accompanying soundtrack of blaring horns and swearing drivers - but Michael didn’t let himself stop. Couldn’t stop.

Where was he?

His eyes scanned the streets as he ran, desperately searching for any sign, a familiar name to latch onto, but his dyslexia kept jumbling anything that might be helpful and he didn’t dare stop long enough to decipher it. He couldn’t hear any pursuit yet, but he knew with a certainty deep inside his bones that they’d come. If he hadn’t lost them in there, he wouldn’t lose them here.

Another intersection - complete with more cars and horns, and Michael almost collapsing in the middle of the asphalt as his leg buckled alarmingly - and the buildings sharply receded on the other side of the street, leaving a large lawned area with a broad paved path leading directly up to an impressive building. People milled about, sitting on the edge of the cacti-infested planter that ran up the middle of the path, signifying it as a public place, and Michael made a snap decision.

It was the first thing he’d seen that seemed like it could tell him where he was, and further down the street he could see a fountain.

He clutched the drachma tighter, certain it had to be leaving jagged red marks in his skin, and ploughed across the street, his run disintegrating into more of a rapid limp as he dragged himself towards the building. There were words emblazoned above what was clearly the entrance, and flapping banners covering the outside of the second floor windows, more images than words.

When he drew to a stop outside, chest tight with pain and almost all his weight on his left leg, which trembled frantically as it desperately tried to bear it, he blinked at the large words, willing them to arrange themselves in a way that made sense.

AZRINOA STATE MEUSUM

No, that wasn’t right.

Arizona State Museum.

Arizona.

Michael had never been to Arizona before in his life, but the state name triggered an immediate memory of crackling spears and loud, abrasive words.

Clarisse.

He’d had a lot of time to think, while the freak had him. Time to get angry at the daughter of Ares, time to shout and curse her existence, to blame her for the battle going wrong, for the hellhounds tearing Nathan apart, for the shockwave that had sent half his siblings cascading off the shaking bridge-

But then time to go hollow, time to remember that the Ares cabin was never going to be stationed with the Apollo cabin, that the deaths wouldn’t have been prevented.

Time to realise that it wasn’t Clarisse’s fault. That in the grand scheme of things, their argument had been petty and inconsequential.

Gods, but the Fates had a sense of humour, dropping him in Arizona, of all places.

Michael didn’t know which city held the state museum, if it was Phoenix or Tucson or somewhere else entirely, but… Clarisse would know.

Clarisse, for all that they’d never got on, had always been a strong leader. She might hate him, might have told him she hoped he died (and he almost had and that still stung, a little), but she was prepared for trouble and Michael had never seen her without at least two visible weapons on her.

Hades, he’d been on the receiving end of them a few times, when their arguments got too heated. Lee, and Emily before him, had always told him off whenever he landed in the infirmary again after a fight with her.

The drachma felt heavy in his hand.

Michael turned away from the museum and pushed his body to start moving again, a walk that turned into a jog until he dragged it into a full run again, leg screaming in agony but something almost like hope starting to bloom in his chest.

He just had to reach the fountain. The Arizonian sun blazed down above him; there had to be a rainbow shimmering in the droplets somewhere, and then he could call for help.

The back of his neck prickled as his staggered run took him out of the museum grounds and back onto the street, and the blooming hope stuttered before it had much of a chance to grow. He threw a glance down the street, back the way he’d come, even as he pressed forwards towards the fountain, glistening in the sunlight. No sign of pursuit, but that didn’t mean anything. Michael hadn’t survived this long by not listening to his instincts, and the sudden tenseness at the top of his spine told him he had to run.

So he ran.

Jagged agony shot up his broken leg as he pushed it further, stumbling but refusing to fall even when tears of pain started leaking from the corners of his eyes and his breathing took on a whine of desperation that rang in his ears.

He almost crashed into the edge of the fountain, hands reaching forwards to brace himself against it and absorbing the impact. The drachma in his hand dug in deeply enough Michael wouldn’t have been surprised if it had drawn blood, but he’d take that a thousand times over dropping it now, so close to being able to use it.

Exposed and with no cover, if he lost it and the cry for help it afforded him now, it would be over for him.

Dashing away the tears of pain with the back of his hand, and wincing as the salt stung open scratches, he glared at the fountain, desperately searching for the glimmer of colour that had to be there, somewhere. The sun and the falling droplets of water were present, he just had to find -

There.

It was halfway around the fountain from where he’d stopped, and he clawed his way around the edge, leaning heavily on the white stone rim and letting his right leg abandon his weight. His left leg, and the arm he was bracing himself with, both trembled angrily, but Michael wouldn’t fall here. Not now.

The rainbow shimmered in front of him and he forced his fingers to unfurl from their death grip around the drachma, streaked red with angry lines where the coin had imprinted almost every detail onto his palm.

“Oh, Goddess, accept my offering,” he mumbled. His voice rasped in his ears after however many days it had been since he’d last had a reason to talk out loud, hoarse in his throat - maybe he should’ve taken a drink from the fountain first, but there wasn’t time for that - but hopefully the words came out clearly enough for Iris to understand. He tossed the drachma into the rainbow with a shaking hand.

“Clarisse La Rue.”

Fuck.

He hadn’t planned on calling Clarisse.

Even if he was in her home state, Chiron would know where things like the state museum was, and crucially, the centaur had never told him to die .

But the drachma was gone, the only one he had, and he’d said the name now. He dashed more tears - pain, frustration - away and stared at the rainbow, waiting for the call to go through and knowing he wasn’t at all prepared to talk to Clarisse, but that he had to.

Nothing happened.

The rainbow shimmered, glistening in a way that didn’t quite seem natural, and Michael stared at it in horror.

“C’mon,” he muttered, glancing back the way he’d come. Still no signs of pursuit, but his instincts were screaming at him. “C’mon, connect, why aren’t you fucking connecting?”

The rainbow pulsed lightly, as though it was still waiting for something, and realisation crashed over Michael.

“Fuck.” He hadn’t said where Clarisse was - where was Clarisse? He didn’t know, didn’t know if she was even still alive, let alone if she was at camp or if she’d left camp now, or... “Fuck. I don’t- Where the fuck is Clarisse? Iris- fuck- Lady Iris, please.” His hand clenched into a fist as he leaned forwards and rested almost the entirety of his weight on the rim of the fountain. Breathing was supposed to be easier than that but the air kept getting caught in his throat and distantly he realised he was panicking, sensing his hope slipping away from one slip of the tongue. “Clarisse La Rue at… fuck, I don’t know. Camp Half-Blood?”

His right leg buckled and he clamped his mouth shut against the cry of pain as broken bone fragments slipped against each other. More tears welled in the corners of his eyes and he turned his head, wiping them away frantically in the dirty remains of the fabric on his shoulder.

When he looked back up, Clarisse La Rue was staring at him out of the centre of the rainbow, eyes wide in shock.

She looked older than when he’d last seen her, hair semi-neatly chopped around her cheeks and small scars he didn’t remember peppering across her face. She was bigger, too, always broad-shouldered but now easily twice his width, and Michael was pretty sure she was even taller.

“Clarisse,” he rasped, too relieved to even care how frantic he sounded. “Help. ”

“Michael?” she asked. “You’re dead.”

The bark of laughter that erupted from his mouth wasn’t humorous in the slightest. Fuck, camp thought him dead? It made sense, explained why no-one had ever come looking, but-

Fuck.

“Not fucking quite,” he replied hoarsely. The back of his neck tingled again and he glanced back the way he’d come. Still no sign, but that didn’t make him feel any safer. “Not yet.”

Her brown eyes sharpened, narrowing from wide-eyed shock to the assessing daughter of Ares Michael had seen so many times before. “What happened to you?” she demanded. “And why are you calling me?”

“Fuck if I know.” He looked around again, and caught sight of movement in the distance. Movement that didn’t seem natural for mortals going about their day. “Fuck. I’m in Arizona, don’t know where the fuck except the state museum’s just down this road and if I don’t find somewhere safe to hide - or at least some fucking weapons to fight back with - now I’m fucking dead for real.”

“I know where you are,” Clarisse said. Michael saw her glance away from the IM for a moment, then nod firmly, a familiar stubbornness settling into her expression. “There’s a big building behind the fountain.” He looked up and nodded. “That’s the state university. Get around the back of it then follow the boulevard east through the campus. Once you’re out of the campus, keep following the street east for six blocks, then go left, then get to the park on the right. There’s an unused building in the far corner; mortals think it’s locked but it’s not. It’s one of my safehouses. You’ll find weapons there.”

Through the college campus and then another six blocks. Michael’s leg throbbed in protest but he set his jaw and nodded. He could do that.

He had to do that.

“Thanks,” he rasped, glancing back again. The shapes were clearer, bulky individuals that clearly hadn’t figured out exactly where he was yet but were searching. “Fuck. Gotta go.”

He slashed an arm through the rainbow, cutting off Clarisse’s “Mi-”, and pushed himself away from the fountain.

Time to run.

Michael knew that his leg shouldn’t be able to keep moving, let alone running. A mortal could never have managed it, and he was pretty certain most demigods couldn’t, either. Being the son of Apollo had its perks, but that didn’t stop it sending vicious stabs of pain up through his body with every step, reminding him loudly and furiously that son of Apollo or not, he wasn’t doing it any favours and sooner or later it was going to run out of endurance.

Oblivious college students didn’t even seem to blink as he ran past them, adrenaline flooding his body and pushing him further, further, faster. Fear of being caught and the hope of safety ahead of him worked in tandem to urge him on, slamming away the pain with extreme prejudice and forcing his legs, both the broken one and the merely exhausted one, to keep going, one foot in front of the other and jarring with every step. The campus stretched out before him, seeming impossibly long, and in the back of his mind a small voice despaired that he’d never make it.

He told the voice to shut the fuck up and kept going.

The sun beat down as he ran, sweat joining with blood to leave a trail behind that he was painfully aware of but could do nothing about. All he could do was hope that he had enough of a headstart to outrun them to Clarisse’s safehouse. And that Clarisse would think to tell Chiron, because fuck, he’d forgotten to tell her to.

The first sounds of active pursuit reached his ears as he passed a set of tennis courts near the end of the campus, lungs burning, chest heaving, legs screaming, and he glanced over his shoulder to see students being pushed out of the way by larger, armed and dangerous, figures.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His body had nothing left to give but Michael wasn’t going to let it surrender. Not now, not when he finally had a chance to get away. He ignored the voice in his head that said that a safehouse wasn’t much good if they saw him go into it, and that he didn’t stand a chance in combat even if he did get his hands on weapons, because it didn’t matter how true it was, it was still all he had.

He accelerated again, finding speed he didn’t know he was capable of even with two intact legs and not on the cusp of exhaustion, and bolted across the last few yards of the campus, hurtling across the street without stopping and forcing cars to swerve to avoid hitting him, and kept going.

One block.

Behind him, more car horns sounded and drivers started shouting. Something sounded like it hit something hard.

Two blocks.

Something went crunch and the shouting abruptly stopped.

Three blocks.

Michael’s lungs were on fire. He couldn’t even feel his legs any more, which definitely wasn’t a good thing.

Four blocks.

Fresh shouting started up, low and guttural and undoubtedly aimed at him.

Five blocks.

His lungs transitioned from on fire to non-operational, each breath a constricting choke as he ploughed on.

Six blocks.

Michael skidded around the corner, crossing the intersection to more irate cars and almost toppled over at the change of direction. He caught himself on a wall and all but bounced off of it, lurching down the sidewalk and knowing it was too much to ask that his pursuers hadn’t seen him make the turn but part of him begging whichever gods might be listening that they’d missed it anyway.

The park on the right, Clarisse had said, and Michael almost stumbled over his own feet as he caught sight of greenery after a moment of desperate running.

A javelin sailed past him, missing only because his leg buckled and listed him to one side for a heartbeat, and Michael’s stomach leapt up into his throat. Not now, not now he was so close.

He threw himself into the greenery the moment it opened up, using the shrubbery for what little cover it could give him, but it was barely moments before he heard the leaves get brushed aside behind him. Guttural cursing in a language Michael didn’t know but had got used to hearing was far too close as he frantically scanned the far side of the park for the building Clarisse had mentioned.

Where was it where was it where was it where the fuck was it-

There!

On the far side of the park, sheltered by trees on multiple sides, was a building that looked old and rundown. Chains and padlocks wrapped around the door, but as Michael focused on it, they shimmered and fell away.

He hadn’t known Clarisse could manipulate the Mist that well, but he wasn’t going to complain.

He didn’t have time to complain.

There was still half the park to cross and he wasn’t going to make it unless he found another burst of speed from Hades-knew-where. He choked on more air, willing his legs to go faster, but he still couldn’t feel them, not even the pain from the break, and he definitely wasn’t speeding up.

If anything, he was slowing down.

Fuck no. He wasn’t going to get caught, not here. Not now . He leaned forwards, desperate for just a little more speed, and felt something snag his feet.

He landed on his front hard enough to see stars, every part of his body compressing in a way that made him feel sick, or perhaps that was the knowledge that he’d never get up and away in time. It didn’t stop him trying, pushing himself upright on arms that were shaking almost too much to bear his weight, one shoulder screaming as it reminded him it probably wasn’t in its fucking socket, determined to fucking crawl if he had to.

Electricity crackled.

“Back off!” a female voice roared , footsteps running towards him from where he’d been trying to get to. Michael’s first thought was that he must have hit his head when he fell, because that was Clarisse’s voice.

He dragged his head up just in time to see a figure jump over him, barely an instant before there was the clash of weapons behind him.

Rolling over was marginally easier than trying to stand up. It brought with it a reprise of pain from his broken leg that jolted back into awareness so quickly he barely choked down a cry, but more importantly gave him a front row seat to Clarisse La Rue in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt wielding a familiar electric spear with a vengeance against the freak’s employees as they found themselves on the back foot, clearly not expecting to face anything more than a desperate, injured demigod they’d already run into the ground.

A skilled daughter of Ares with a weapon gifted to her by the god of war himself was not a desperate, injured and run into the ground demigod.

Michael had seen the Germani fight before, when the freak wanted entertainment. They were skilled and powerful, far more so than most demigods - but Clarisse was not most demigods, and had surprise on her side.

He pulled himself backwards with trembling hands, away from the fight, until his back hit something solid. A panicked glance upwards revealed that it was the trunk of a tree - not a rogue Germani trying to get around Clarisse - and Michael reached up with his less-bad arm for a low-hanging branch to haul himself to his feet with, much to the protest of his entire body.

If one of the Germani did get around Clarisse, he refused to be vulnerable on the ground. He could still run to the safehouse if he had to, leg be damned .

For the moment, he let the trunk of the tree take most of his weight, keeping his right leg off the ground and gripping the trunk with white knuckles to stay upright while he watched Clarisse fight.

She’d always been an impressive fighter, but the demigod in front of him here was a whole different class to the one he remembered from before Manhattan. The IM hadn’t deceived him - she was slightly taller and muscular since he’d last seen her - but there was a confidence to her that felt different, almost more natural.

Or maybe he was just so relieved to be saved that his mind had entered delirium. That was certainly possible.

Whatever it was, Clarisse clearly needed no help in finishing up the fight, her spear whirling around and dispatching the startled Germani in a typically child-of-Ares display of aggression, until the last one disintegrated into dust.

Michael was not ready for Clarisse to turn and face him, towering over him the way she always had done and racking him over with narrowed brown eyes. There were some bleeding scratches on her front, and a rather more considerably bleeding gash on one arm, but she didn’t seem to notice them as she stepped towards him. Instinctively, Michael straightened, his weight automatically transferring back to both his legs, and provoking another blinding protest from the right one.

“Clarisse,” he croaked.

“What happened to you?” she demanded, voice sharp and unyielding. “You died in Manhattan.”

“The fuck I did,” he protested. “Some fucking emperor-god-wannabe fished me out the river and dragged me off.” At least, that was what he’d gathered after the fact. He didn’t remember anything between the bridge collapsing and waking up in the freak’s floating villa, which had taken far too fucking long to escape from.

He didn’t expect Clarisse to believe him, though. It sounded fantastical, he knew it did, wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t lived it himself. But it was the truth.

To his surprise, Clarisse’s gaze sharpened. “Emperor-god?” she demanded, and there was something in her tone that made Michael’s default defensive snap back falter briefly, because it sounded like she did, somehow, believe him.

Still, “that’s what I fucking said,” he retorted after a few seconds, the familiarity of arguing an unlooked-for comfort washing over him even though he didn’t want to argue, still needed Clarisse’s help badly. “Freak said he was one of the Roman bastards despite the fact they’ve been dead for fucking millennia. Called himself Caligula.”

The soft shit that slipped out of Clarisse’s mouth seemed like a reflex, and Michael blinked as she set the butt of her spear on the ground. “Let’s move,” she said, glancing around. “We can talk once we’re somewhere more secure.”

That, Michael agreed with, and he took a step away from the trunk.

His body did not agree.

Enough, said his leg, at the same time adrenaline drained away, leaving his head lighter than air.

He crumpled.

“Shit!” Large, warm hands caught his shoulders in a grip of iron. “Michael!”

Michael snarled weakly and tried to get his leg under him again. “I’m fine,” he insisted, knowing it was a lie. He wasn’t fine, but he hadn’t hit his limit yet - he refused. He dragged his head up to meet Clarisse’s searching gaze.

She snorted. “Pull the other one, Yew.”

To his surprise, she sank down in front of him, and by the time his brain realised what was going on he was slumped over her shoulders, pinned in place by an arm around his leg and hand clamped around his wrist.

“The fuck, La Rue?” he yelped as she grabbed her spear with the hand not holding him in place and straightened up. “I can fucking walk!”

“This is faster,” she said. “Instead of slowing us down, keep an eye out for more of Caligula’s people.”

Michael tried to be offended, but as she broke into an even jog, he had to at least privately concede the point. The movement jostled his broken leg, thankfully not the one she was using to hold him in place, and he fought back whimpers, but after so long running under his own steam, it was a relief not to have to, anymore.

Even though it meant a fireman carry from Clarisse.

It was easier to let his head hang than try to hold it up, and his matted hair made a curtain that was difficult to see through, but Michael had no desire to be ambushed by more Germani - more of Caligula’s people, and he was starting to wonder how much Clarisse knew about the freak, how she knew anything about him in the first place. He squinted past his hair, watching the park behind them as Clarisse jogged forwards, and then the street as she passed the safehouse without pausing.

“Where’re we going?” he asked, watching the building get smaller for a moment before flicking his attention back to the street.

“My apartment,” Clarisse said shortly. “It’s more secure than that.”

Clarisse’s apartment? “Your mom’s place?”

She snorted. “No. My apartment. You just ran through my college campus.”

It hadn’t occurred to Michael that Clarisse would be in college, now. Fuck, they were the same age; if she was in college, then if it wasn’t for the freak, he probably would be, too - if he’d ever decided what the Hades he wanted to do.

“Huh,” was the only noise he could summon in response, followed by another muffled whine as his broken leg jarred again. Fuck, he missed the pain numbing properties of adrenaline. Clarisse’s grip on his wrist shifted, and he realised that she’d heard it. She didn’t mention it, though, just kept up with the jog as though he didn’t weigh a thing.

In his current state, he probably didn’t as far as she was concerned.

Wherever Clarisse lived, it felt a long way away. Maybe it was because she wasn’t running in a flat-out sprint, but the journey seemed to take forever. More than once, Michael found his eyes starting to slide shut, exhaustion fighting for dominance, and forced them open again, unwilling to risk missing a threat.

Nothing attacked them. Michael could feel the tension in Clarisse’s shoulders rising the longer they went without being attacked, but she drew to a halt outside an apartment building unchallenged.

“Still awake?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Good.” She turned around, looking back the way they’d come for herself and giving Michael a clearer view of the building, complete with the flight of stairs they were no doubt about to go up. Seemingly satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything, she then turned back and continued towards what was clearly her apartment door.

Michael’s leg did not approve of the stairs. Clarisse went slower than he expected, the rise and fall of her body minimal, but still his leg complained and more than one hiss forced its way past gritted teeth on the ascent. Her grip on his wrist tightened, but she still said nothing. Michael appreciated it.

Eventually, they came to a stop outside a plain door, indistinguishable from the rest of the apartment doors. Michael wasn’t sure how Clarisse was planning on opening it with her spear in one hand while the other kept hold of him, but he wasn’t expecting for her to call, “it’s him.”

The door was yanked open so fast, Michael half-expected it to fly off the hinges.

“Michael?”

He forced his head to raise, his hair falling mostly out of his face so that he could see over Clarisse’s shoulder.

“Chris,” he rasped, not liking the way the son of Hermes was looking at him in horror. “Take it you two are still together, then?”

“Yeah,” Clarisse confirmed as she walked past her boyfriend, who shut the door behind them. At the click of the catch falling into place, Michael let his head sag again. “Down you go.”

Michael didn’t manage to brace himself before spilling out of Clarisse’s grip, but he didn’t have to as he was gently laid on a throw-covered couch, his limbs limp and boneless as he sank into the fabric.

It felt heavenly.

“Gods,” Chris breathed, kneeling on the floor next to him, dark eyes surveying him from head to toe. Michael heard the quiet click of a catch opening and his eyes flitted to look at the floor, where Chris had a large plastic box cracked open on the rug. “Eat.” A small square of ambrosia was held up in front of him. Michael forced a shaking hand to take it from him and slipped it into his mouth, instantly feeling the relief that came from eating the godly food.

Hades, how long had it been since he’d last had ambrosia? The freak certainly hadn’t ever given him any.

He let his arm fall heavily back onto the couch as he savoured the taste.

“Let me treat your wounds,” Chris insisted. He was already pulling on gloves, and Michael eyed him in surprise. The son of Hermes huffed. “I know I’m not an Apollo kid, but my dad is still a patron of medicine, even if he’s not strictly a god of it. I might not be able to instantly heal you but I can make sure you don’t die of sepsis.”

It wasn’t like Michael could do much more for his own wounds than he had already; he healed fast but not instantly.

“Fine,” he agreed, and Chris broke into a relieved look. Clarisse shifted her weight.

“I’ll make sure the perimeter is secure,” she said, grabbing a small vial of nectar and taking a sip from it.

“Could you grab Michael something clean to wear before you go?” Chris asked her. Michael felt him gently take hold of one of his arms, then hissed as he gently dabbed at the exposed cut with antiseptic. “These clothes are filthy.”

“Fuck you,” Michael muttered, well aware that he was right. They weren’t clothes he was attached to - the freak had got rid of his clothes after Manhattan and replaced them with some sort of sailor’s outfit, which Michael had had no hesitation about tearing up for makeshift bandages.

He was still furious about the loss of his camp necklace, though.

Clarisse headed further into the apartment without another word as Chris wiped down the skin around the gash before peeling away one of Michael’s makeshift bandaging attempts and getting to work treating the wound underneath it.

“You know I’m right,” Chris replied. “Those rags need cutting off, anyway.”

Michael bristled. “I can-”

“I know a broken leg when I see one,” Chris overrode him. “I don’t even want to think about how much damage you’ve done to it running around - or how the Hades you managed to run around on that - but it won’t thank you for moving it again.”

Clarisse returned before Michael could come up with a retort, dropping a bundle of fabric over the back of the couch. “I’m securing the perimeter now,” she said.

“Be careful,” Chris replied, and Michael watched as she stalked out the front door, shutting it with a loud click behind her. “Okay, let’s get these rags out of the way.”

Chris’ hands were gentle as they tended to each cut, scrape, gash or worse. It wasn’t the same as one of his siblings, but it was enough to make Michael feel halfway human again, if completely helpless.

“I’d run you a bath now but I think you’d fall asleep in it,” the son of Hermes told him as he probed gently at the probably-dislocated shoulder. As much as Michael hated to admit it, the older demigod was once again right; he was well aware of the exhaustion doggedly gnawing away at him now that the adrenaline had faded away. “I’ll do that later.” He frowned at Michael’s shoulder. “This, on the other hand, I’ve got to deal with now.”

One good thing about the encroaching exhaustion was that Michael’s muscles couldn’t tense up too much, even if they wanted to. He grit his teeth as Chris carefully manipulated his arm into extending, before slowly starting to rotate it. The earlier ambrosia was not enough to completely muffle the sensation of the joint grinding back into its socket; some whimpers slipped out past his clenched jaw. Like Clarisse earlier, Chris had the tact to not mention it.

Even worse than the dislocated shoulder, predictably, was the broken leg. That was by far the worst part of the treatment as Chris gently poked and prodded at it before resetting the bone. The ambrosia was no more effective as a painkiller for his leg than it had been for his shoulder, and Michael couldn’t help a short, high-pitched shout as it shifted back into position - thankfully also passing unacknowledged by the son of Hermes.

“No walking on it,” Chris said firmly as he fitted a splint to keep it in place. Michael grumbled a string of curses under his breath as it was secured. “It - and the rest of you - needs rest.” It was obvious that he wanted to ask about what had happened to Michael, much in the same way Clarisse had, but to Michael’s relief, he wasn’t actually broaching the subject.

Then again, Chris knew a lot about traumatic experiences.

Once all his wounds were treated properly, Michael pulled on the spare clothes Clarisse had dug out for him, begrudgingly accepting Chris’ help. Unsurprisingly, they were all far too big for him - Clarisse was easily twice his size, now, and Chris might have been rather lither than his girlfriend, but he was far taller than Michael. The only advantage was that it meant they were easy to pull on over the various bandages and even leg splint, which didn’t negate Michael feeling like he was swimming in fabric.

“I’ll get you something that fits better soon,” Chris apologised as Michael flaked back down again, finding the couch far more comfortable than it had any right to be.

“Whatever,” he muttered.

The apartment door opened and Clarisse strode back in, bolting it behind her and propping her spear up beside it. “Secure,” she reported, heading for them. “Done with the first aid?”

“Done,” Chris confirmed. “He won’t be walking on that leg any time soon, but otherwise it’s mostly exhaustion.”

Clarisse sat down on the rug; with Michael laying down on the couch, their heads were at similar heights. “So what happened after Caligula grabbed you?” she demanded. Chris’ sharp intake of breath at the name told Michael that they definitely knew something about the freak. “That was nearly two years ago.”

Michael grimaced.

“Couldn’t get out,” he admitted, glossing over the gloating, the leering Germani and the self-important big-eared pandos, to say nothing of the fucking horse and the freak himself. They’d found his attempts amusing. The freak had even dared him to get out, promising him that he couldn’t.

The freak had said a lot of things, and Michael still couldn’t shake the shivers at the promise that he would be the new sun god. It was delusional - it had to be, Apollo was the sun god and wouldn’t be usurped by some fucking wannabe - but the freak had always sounded deadly serious when he’d said it, like he fully believed he would . He’d said Michael would help him, too.

Michael’s attempts to escape had always got more frantic whenever he heard that gloat.

He didn’t say any of that, didn’t think he could if he tried. Neither Clarisse or Chris pressed him for details.

“Had a fucking boat villa. Never let the thing near land.” He’d managed to get on one of the boarding boats, once. Mortal security guards had spotted him and dragged him back, citing some nonsense about the boss’ son not being allowed to leave. “Took for fucking ever to get off.”

Eventually, one day, the guards had been distracted by something. Michael still didn’t know what, but it had been enough for him to finally slip past them, onto land for the first time in eighteen fucking months, and run for it.

It almost hadn’t been enough, he’d almost been caught, but a door he’d run through had ended up in tunnels and more tunnels and more and more and more fucking tunnels with monsters with claws and teeth and other appendages they shouldn’t be allowed to fucking have that wanted a piece of demigod flesh and-

“Michael, breathe.”

A hand rested on the couch, not touching him but enough to catch his attention. His eyes snapped to it, then followed the arm up to a shoulder and up again until he was looking at Chris’ face. The older demigod’s brow was furrowed in concern, and Michael realised he was breathing too fast, air not actually reaching his lungs.

Fuck.

Michael closed his eyes, only to be assaulted by memories of being tracked, hunted, and snapped them open again, focusing instead on Chris’ face as he tried to wrench his breathing under control.

“Don’t push yourself,” Chris told him gently as air started to reach his lungs again. “It’s okay if you can’t talk about it.” Michael glanced at Clarisse, still sat on the rug behind her boyfriend but frowning, face all twisted up.

“No,” he said, hating how thin his voice sounded. “I- fuck.” If it was anyone else, he’d take the invitation to stop talking, because they wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t get it. But these two…

“Fucking Labyrinth.”

Chris’ face paled, and Clarisse moved, putting her hand on the son of Hermes’ shoulder. Her knuckles were white.

“It got me away,” Michael admitted, because it had; without its twists and turns and traps absolutely everywhere the freak’s men would have caught up to him within a day.

He didn’t know how many days he’d been running through the fucking thing before it finally spat him out in Arizona.

“But- fuck .” He’d never been in the fucking thing before, but he’d seen what it had done to Chris, how pale and shaken Annabeth had been when she re-emerged alone after her quest. Had seen the monsters spill out of it into camp, had seen Lee’s head smashed open-

The fucking thing was supposed to be destroyed. Why was it back?

He could’ve done without experiencing the inside of the fucking living nightmare for himself.

“You made it,” Chris told him, voice shaky but assuring. “You made it out, Michael.”

“You’re safe,” Clarisse added, tone firm and leaving no room for debate. Michael looked at her, remembering too many arguments and disagreements and threats from the daughter of Ares but seeing only pure sincerity and stubbornness there now. “Those shitheads won’t get you, and you’re never going in there again.”

Michael swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice shaking just as much as Chris’. “Yeah.”

He was out. He was safe.

The knowledge settled over him, heavy and warm as it finally sank in, and with it came a looming darkness his battered, aching and exhausted body finally stopped fighting and instead welcomed with open arms.

potentially tbc...

#riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson fanfiction #trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #michael yew #clarisse la rue #chris rodriguez #toa caligula #tsari writes fanfiction #stereden #podfic #podfic of my fic

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zot3-flopped · 1 month

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I think Niall appreciates his luck and behind the scenes he does seem to put the work in. I'm not a fan - his music bores me. But looking back, I'm impressed that he has trained his vocals to sing the way he does now - he can tour with his voice. Of all of the four that aren't Harry, I can see he's achieved a lot *for him*, and with The Voice and the golf thing, plus let's not forget a steady relationship that seems to be pretty private, he's doing great. Of all of them, I think he has always been aware that the level of stardom he gained from 1D was out of proportion to his talents. I wish he didn't cosplay Harry quite so much, it's getting a little weird, but it also shows someone who's willing to observe what works, and the other three don't have that ability!

Liam, to me, seems to be in a bad place, psychologically, maybe psychiatrically. He can't do this job. He can sing well - if you like that sort of thing - but he hasn't got such talent that he can wow people. I think in the beginning Simon thought he did, perhaps, but 1D ended up being a curse for Liam. The whole project very quickly overshadowed him. He worked so hard to be part of it - and he *was* good in the band, no doubt. Vocally he was vital. He just didn't appear to have much guidance about the rest of 'being a pop star' post-1D and he seems not to have a foundation within himself, for whatever reason, that he could build on (unlike Harry, with his laser focus on who he is and what he wants). It's my view that he's got a personality disorder of some sort and of all of them, I think he is most in danger of ending badly.

Zayn I think is just a prick. There isn't much to say about him. I was the anon the other day who was utterly shocked at his live stream singing. People talk about him having the best voice in 1D. Yeah, maybe for one line and a high note per song. He has not got nearly enough talent or good personality to have garnered the adoration of his stans. He has not got anything to him, that he can take forward, and I'm glad this latest song hasn't hit. He doesn't deserve anything.

Louis is such a mess but he is making it work for him in his own weird way. I suspect he's losing money, but he's crafting for himself the tale he wants to tell (bolshy singer who did it his way against the odds, thousands of adoring fans to support him). The way he creates this underdog image, then has the balls to go on stage and patently be unable to sing or even move, the dogged repetition of his mantras about needing the fans' support: it's an exercise in manipulation on quite a large scale. I think he knows exactly what he's doing with it, but I can't see what he plans for the future. I'm curious to see him in five, ten years' time - still no relationship whatsoever with Harry to please the fans; the music scene will have moved far beyond him. I reckon someone in future will make a podcast series about his last few stans and he'll end up a weird footnote, a grizzled, addled recluse who was the centre of some strange people's lives for a while.

🤣🤣 Love this! Excellent points. Agree about Liam, unfortunately. I do think he'd be happier retiring from the fame game and just enjoying his millions. He should stop calling the tabloid paps everywhere he goes and find a partner who supports a sober lifestyle and isn't a wannabe influencer.

#louis tomlinson #harry styles #liam payne #zayn #larries #niall horan #kate cassidy

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freedomfireflies · 7 months

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We’ve already seen 404 Harry being gentle with Tink, only in serious situation though…so what if she’s working on this hard project and she’s been perfecting the code and it’s taken her awhile to finally get it right after it crashing and needing to tweak it a bit or the client keeps adding on more. Then when she’s near done, something happens maybe it’s bad weather, maybe it’s an overheated server, maybe the power cuts, maybe IT was restarting the system that day at that hour and she just forgot about the company wide memo. Either way she had just finished, didn’t even get a chance to save it, before in a flash the screen is blank and then showing the restarting sign. This could either be after hours so most everyone’s gone home or maybe during lunch hour, but she just doesn’t know how else to react apart for letting the tears she didn’t feel forming in her eyes drip down her face. The longer she sits there in her chair and watches her company issued computer startup, the more her face grows warm, the more tears slip past her. Then when the screen opens up and she signs in, she sees the time and her heartbeat quickens considering the project is due in two hours, but a small part of her is hopeful until she opens up the code and sees her work from yesterday, the one that lacks all the new needed tweaks and the one that took eight hours to correct, not her finished code. She doesn’t realize she’s not breathing properly until she’s turned in her chair and sees Harry crouched on the floor with one hand on her knee and the other on her cheek. He’s saying something to her as he wipes away her tears but she can’t quite make it out, her heartbeat to quick. Harry looks worried and now that she’s more focus on him, she can hear his voice, “what’s wrong baby? Why’re you crying?” She goes to answer his questions, but he interrupts her still with a worried look on his face, “tell me all about it and I’ll help you solve it, but first match my breathing. Baby you’re breathing irregularly. Good, breathe in…and breathe out” when she’s all calm and can feel her normal heart rate she back to crying, but this time she’s moving forward and hugging Harry while speaking into his neck to explain to him what happened. Harry rubs her back and listens with intent, once she finishes he pulls back, one hand still on her knee and tells her not to stress and the two of them together can get it done. He’s quick to remind her that most of the changes are still probably fresh in her head, next thing she knows he’s pulling up his chair, connecting his keyboard to one of her monitors and asking her details to get started. He offers her a breather, to relax for ten minutes, but she denies and then they’re at it. They work along side each other, focused on getting it done, only talking code that is until both of them are back to their regularly scheduled program of bickering. The banter has them both biting back a smile and sometimes a scowl, this they don’t hide. Neither of them willing to admit, that time crunch aside and the poor portions of the others personality aside, they enjoy being near each other. Maybe they even like the poor portions a little, but scratch that thought right away and make a taunt at the other to fix their internal balance. At the end, Tink is pushing all other feelings aside, turning to Harry and thanking him wholeheartedly and he, he’s having trouble holding back a smile and has a small urge to hug her, but he pushes both those feelings aside. Instead he nods in acknowledgment before he takes a crack to tease her on his way to grab his stuff and leave. She’s huffing still by her desk packing her things, her reply is just as snappy. Just like that, everything is back to normal and neither of them know if their relieved or…

Omg, I apologize for that last ask I sent in. It was too long, I just got carried away. It was only supposed to be a small idea and I just wanted to ask what you think would happen in that situation. I didn’t mean for it to get that long🫶

OMG STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!! This was so cute, PLEASE DON'T APOLOGIZE I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!! You can send anything you want, no matter how long!!!

This is literally one of the sweetest things I've ever read, tell me why I actually started tearing up from just the thought of him crouched down near her 😭💞💞💞

LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN....I love this so much, I do, and I so wish this would be the case but I already know our man's would not be this nice alsjfsf

I adore the premise, though!! And I can absolutely see her getting overwhelmed without even realizing it!!!

But the only difference I would make is that I think he wouldn't be that quiet and calming with her, at least not right away!! I think he'd come over, study her with a frown, try to figure out why she's being weird alsjff

And then he'd crouch down, maybe nudge her leg with his elbow to grab her attention, and murmur, "Hey, what's going on? What happened?" And she'd explain, angrily gesturing toward the screen, and cursing because she's been working for hours, and those fucking IT guys didn't even warn her of the restart.

And Harry would just smirk because she's kind of funny when she's this angry, and then he'd just nod and say, "Okay, easy, Princess. Relax, all right, I'll fix it." And maybe she'd snort and tell him that he has no idea how to fix her work but he'd just ignore her, pull up to his own computer, and get going You're so right, they'd be bantering through the whole thing, working late into the night, and griping but they would get it done!! And he'd walk her down to her car (claiming it's just a coincidence since he's walking down, too)

And they would never speak of it again HAHAHAH

BUT IN ANOTHER UNIVERSE....I LOVE THIS, YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS!! Honestly, this is giving more Mine Harry or even One for the Money Harry!!! BUT I ADORE YOU SO MUCH FOR THINKING OF IT AND SENDING IT TO ME, I AM GOING TO BE THINKING ABOUT THIS FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER 😭💞💞💞

#404 prompt #harry and tink

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theladybarnes · 2 days

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SPOILER/TEST:

So I'm still writing my next update while working on my side projects. This is a sort of plot I've wanted to do for a bit but I can't make up stories without a little world building. So tell me how we feel about this:

(this is super vague since it's technically an ending to a chapter but I wanna know if the vibes and stuff are there.)

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

Billy scoffed, his gaze flicking between us. "What's it to you, Harrington? You sweet on this little freak? I thought that was what Wheeler was here for.”

Steve's jaw clenched, his usual charming demeanor replaced by a steely glare. You on the other hand, bristled at the insult. But before you could respond, Steve interjected with a sneer of his own.

"Please. I couldn't care less about her. But she happens to be the Chief's niece, and I'd rather not have him breathing down my neck for causing her trouble. So, freak or not, leave her alone. There’s plenty of other girls willing to warm you up right now.” he finished, nodding for him to move on.

Billy's expression darkened, but he reluctantly backed off, muttering something unintelligible as he disappeared into the crowd.

Everyone dispersed after that. Displeased and muttering while you stayed backed up against the wooden gate. It wasn’t until you heard a throat clearing that you picked your gaze again to see that Steve and Nancy were still there.

“You okay?” Steve asked gruffly, looking at you carefully.

“I’m fine.” you muttered, looking away from the two.

“You sure? Billy’s just an asshole, so don’t worry about him.” he said, taking a step forward. That’s when you flinched back, not quite sure why you were so shaken up. It wasn’t like anything was going to happen. It couldn’t have, not with the amount of people at the party.

“Let me get her friend, I think I saw him somewhere inside.” Nancy said, leaving Steve’s side to venture back to the house. The music worked hard to keep out the awkward silence between the two of you. That is, until Steve felt the need to speak up.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Snapping your head up, you watched as Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said you’re welcome,” he repeated, taking a step forward anyway. “For the whole thing with Billy just now. You could at least be thankful.”

Something about his tone had you scoffing at his audacity. “Yeah, totally.” you said, forcing a relieving laugh. “I mean, how can I ever repay you for both calling me a freak and apparently fragile since I’m the Chief’s niece.”

Steve's expression darkened, his jaw tightening again. "It's not like that," he protested, his voice strained. "I was just... trying to get that asshole off your back. I mean, it’s a party..we should just all have fun, right?”

“Well, I am having such a great time, Steve.” you saluted, pushing yourself off the fence finally.

“Ace!”

Over Steve’s shoulder, you watched as Jonathan made a dash through the crowd of people, making it around the pool carefully before he was able to get to where you two were.

“Whoa, hey, Nancy told me that stuff went down. You okay?”

“She’s alright.” Steve answered for you. “But I think she’s had her fill of fun for the night.”

Jonathan frowned at Steve’s words. Seemingly confused as to why not only was Steve speaking for you, but apparently dismissing you. Little did he know that it was more insulting than either of you let on.

“Um, did you wanna go?” he asked wearily.

“Yeah, he’s right.” you nodded, reaching to tug your friend to your side. “I’m done.”

A part of you really wanted to bite back at Steve. Make him feel bad for everything, but with a simple raised brow, defeat already felt so imminent.

“Good.” Was all he said before he turned on his heels and returned back to his hosting duties.

Quietly, Jonathan led you back to the gate, choosing the back exit of the house in order to leave. And while you were relieved, you couldn’t help but feel the twist in your gut still lingering around.

In the end, Steve Harrington may have saved you from Billy Hargrove, but he couldn't erase the sting of his words—or the realization that, despite the brief moment, you were still nothing more than a Freak to the King.

#text post #test run #ca #this is gonna be ANGSTY and fluff(ish) and romanceee??#idk #depends on how yall feel about it

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three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat · 1 year

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“Shadow?” Vio asked, voice strangled.

He tried to say something, anything, but no noise came out. He clawed at his throat, gasping and gagging as the effort stole the breath straight from his lungs, willing even the slightest noise to come out– a breath of air, a whimper, anything at all– but there was nothing, only silence.

Shadow knew what it was like to not exist.

Cold, dark, quiet– seeing only what Link saw, hearing only what he did, unable to move or breath or speak.

He resented him for it. Link never knew, it was never a malicious act, but that only made it so much worse. No will of his own, and no one who knew of his existence.

And then– Ganon pulled him from the mirror; gave him a body of his own, power to control his fate. When he told him to unleash Vaati and kill Link, he listened. Finally, for once, he would be heard.

Then he met Vio– beautiful Vio– used to being ignored and tired of always having to dumb himself down. He thought he had finally met his match, someone he could trust and who would listen– until that all came tumbling down.

He was a fool for forgetting; even split apart, Vio was still Link, and Link was never someone he could trust.

So why did he do it? Why did he shatter his own mirror, robbing himself of a life of his own, and take Vio’s place?

Love; the currency of fools. But Shadow was dripping in chains of gold, not that it did him any good.

So he resigned himself to a fate of shadow once more, even as Vio frantically clutched him, whispering desperate pleas into his hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He said, tears falling from his face to Shadow’s. “Please, don’t leave me I never meant any of it I love you please–”

He had forgotten how cold it was to be a shadow. Before, he had never had any way to measure it, never knowing what the sun’s rays felt like. Now, it was all he could think of, the ever present cold dragging him down.

And there he stayed, numb to everything, unable to do a thing as Vio cried with no one to comfort him or woke up screaming his name in a nightmare.

It was a miserable existence, and he had nearly decided to find some way to end it all, when his senses shifted the slightest amount, revealing– another shadow. A shadow following its owner’s movements, movements that would bring an ax down on Vio’s back.

He didn’t think, shooting forward to wrap his hands around the shadow’s neck. It writhed, broken gasps leaving the pig-like creature’s mouth. He squeezed it harder, bones snapping, until it sagged under his grip, ax falling to the ground.

“Shadow?” Vio asked, voice strangled.

He turned back to him, wondering what was wrong– and then the realization hit him. He had moved. He had been the one to kill the moblin, strangling it through his own actions rather than Vio’s.

“Shadow!” Vio cried, dropping to his knees.

He reached out, touching where Shadow’s cheek should have been, and for the first time in months Shadow was warm. He brought his own hand up to touch Vio’s, but whatever had let him kill the moblin wasn’t there anymore, and his hand passed through.

“You’re alive.” Vio said, words broken and shaky.

He nodded slowly, exaggerating the movement.

“Can you– can you speak?”

He shook his head emphatically.

“What about sign, do you know sign?” He asked desperately.

Little. He hoped his message came across– with no visible fingers, the sign was twisted and contorted just to be seen.

Vio nodded, wiping tears away with his sleeve. “That’s– that’s good.”

Injured.

“What? What’s wrong?” His eyes scanned Shadow, but there was nothing to be seen.

You.

“Oh. No, I’m fine.”

He jabbed a finger at his side, where blood was visible through a tear in his tunic.

“It’s nothing.” He dismissed his concerns.

He tried to speak, to scold him, but doubled over in pain instead, gasping for air frantically. A knot seemed to form in his throat, choking any noise before it could leave him.

“Shadow!” He yelled, trying to touch him but fingers only digging into the earth below.

He straightened up slowly, waving his hand in a clear action of dismissal, and pointed at his injury again.

“Maybe Shadow’s right.” Red said tentatively, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“No! What if he doesn’t– doesn’t–”

Shadow shook his head firmly. Whatever this was, it felt permanent.

“I… Okay.”

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

“Hey.” Vio said, shifting so Shadow was on the wall. “How are you doing?”

Fine. He slowly signed out. He wasn’t, but with no features or voice, there was no way for him to know that.

“We’ll find a way to give you a body again.” He promised. “Red and Green are with Zelda now.”

He doubted that– the royal family’s power was famously that of light, and he was a literal shadow. Best case scenario, nothing would happen; the worst case– well, he wouldn’t be around to experience it anymore, finally dead as he should have been months ago.

(Maybe that was for the best– a half life like this was cruel, to him and Vio. He should just let him go to return to the abyss he had been pulled from.)

“I know it seems hopeless.” Vio said, staring down at his hands, more vulnerable than Shadow had ever seen him. “But I have faith in Zelda. She’s stronger and smarter than anyone thinks. She’ll find some way, I know it.”

“Vio.” He mouthed, but of course Vio didn’t– and couldn’t– see it. He tried again in sign, but he didn’t look up.

“We’ll save you.” He said, tears beginning a slow journey down his cheeks. “I–I won’t let you die again.”

He cursed, hating how he couldn’t touch or talk to Vio. Couldn’t reassure him or comfort him, couldn’t whisper soothing words and stroke his hair.

He could only watch, a shadow on the wall.

@febuwhump

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday9 #four swords #vidow #vio x shadow #loz #loz four swords #mb's writing

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kingsofeverything · 10 months

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My dramione loving ass is definitely down for some famous/famous Tom Felton Emma Watson if you’re still willing to share! I hope it involves a skateboard board ride because that Instagram post STILL haunts me

omggggggggg ok so the plan does definitely include that and the famous jeep pic but i haven't written it. so far it's just pretty much a carbon copy of the interview where emma's like "oh yeah i had a crush"

funnyish story, but i was thinking of trying to combine this with my other famous/famous wip where harry's a dick lol but i haven't put much thought into it. anyway here it is!

Traffic in LA is maddening. Louis sighs as he finally pulls into his garage, exhausted from a long week on set. Adjusting to the drive is rough. Maybe Zayn was right and he should pay a driver so he can nap on the ride home.

At least the weather’s nice. As he’s done every day since moving to California, Louis strips out of his clothes, pulls on a pair of trunks, and dives into the pool in his backyard. He swims laps until his arms and legs feel like noodles, then lifts himself up on the side of the pool and sits there catching his breath. After shaking some of the water from his hair, and tipping his head side to side to clear it from his ears, he climbs to his feet and wraps a towel around his waist.

On the way to the shower, he checks his phone, finding a text from Niall telling him to watch Graham Norton—which he always records. As soon as he’s washed and dried and dressed again in his softest sweatpants, he turns on the television, but before the show can start, Niall calls again.

Rolling his eyes, Louis answers, “Neil?”

“Lewis.” Niall scoffs and asks, “Skip ahead to Harry's bit.”

“What?”

“Graham Norton. Harry’s on. Skip ahead to his interview.”

“Harry?”

“Styles.”

“Oh!” Louis chuckles quietly, and fast forwards while he talks. “Thought you meant Prince Harry. Harry Styles. Haven’t seen him in— There he is.” Beautiful. He’s grown into his features and he’s cut his hair, but he’s still obviously Harry.

“Right, mate. Talk to you later,” Niall says, and hangs up before Louis can say goodbye.

Louis frowns at his phone, but turns up the volume to listen to Harry's interview.

“Does it bother you? Still being asked about the Super Series?”

Shaking his head, Harry replies, “No. Not at all, actually. I wouldn’t be here if not for those movies. And I know they’re… They're important to a lot of people in a lot of ways. They’re important to me. If, in twenty, fifty, a hundred years I’m remembered for playing a teenage superhero, I’d be thrilled. Happy to be remembered at all, actually.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.” Graham smirks and, “Just one more thing about it then. You’ve said that the Super Series was pivotal for you with regards to your sexuality. Is this because of the fans and the, erm… shipping?”

Louis sits back on his couch, watching as Harry laughs and shakes his head. They haven’t seen each other in years. After the movie series wrapped, they were all off doing their own thing—different movie projects, television shows, guest spots, magazines, charities. Liam even moved back to Wolverhampton and worked as a volunteer firefighter, though that was kept secret for the few months he did it, so none of the fans would become arsonists in an effort to meet their favorite superhero. But the boys all kept in touch, except for Harry. He disappeared completely from Louis’ life, and until a few years ago, he thought Harry just didn’t want to be connected to the movie series or his co-stars. Turns out he just didn’t want to be connected to Louis.

“Nothing to do with shipping, no. I was very young when we first started, you know. But I think everyone remembers their first crush, don’t they? Only I’d never thought about it. We were a few weeks into filming and I quite suddenly had a crush on a boy.” The audience whoops and hollers and Harry frowns, but clears his expression immediately. “I didn’t know I was gay at the time, so it was a bit jarring. At first I thought I just wanted to be him, so I tried.”

“Oh. Been there, mate.”

“Yeah. Bought myself a skateboard and helmet and knee pads and everything. Would’ve cut my hair like his, but it was in the contracts that we had to keep the same hairstyle.”

Louis leans forward, studying the telly as if that will help him understand what Harry is talking about.

Graham Norton laughs. “A skateboarder? I’m sure the fans have probably figured this out already, but enlighten me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry says, covering his face with his hands. “I had a horrible crush on Louis Tomlinson. For the first few films actually. It was terrible.”

“Oh, no. Did Louis know you had this crush on him?”

“Oh, yeah. It was obvious. It was so obvious. Everyone knew. I asked him to teach me to skateboard. He was always so sweet—nothing like a villain in real life—and he did try to teach me, but I was hopeless.”

Louis sits there blinking at the screen. He remembers it then—little Harry, a Harry that was shorter than Louis was, with round cheeks and out of control hair stuffed under a helmet. Aside from tutors, the studio had to provide them all with things to do in their down time, and he had begged for a half-pipe. They’d settled with letting him skateboard in the back lot with a few small ramps as long as he promised to practically wrap himself in protective gear. He and Zayn spent most of their free time out there. And Harry joined them once or twice, pushing himself along on his brand new board while keeping one foot a half-inch off the ground. Louis tried to show him how to tick-tack, but as soon as Harry got both feet on the board, he panicked, jumped off, and that was that. He stopped coming around. But Harry hadn't had a crush on him. Or at least, it wasn’t as obvious as he seemed to think it was. Louis had no idea. Besides, they were children.

He tries to tune in and listen to the rest of the interview. Harry talks passionately about his charity work and what he’s doing in the UK involving LGBTQ+ youth. But Louis’ mind keeps drifting back to the almost decade long working relationship they had while filming the Super Series, wondering when the crush faded, and when Harry decided that Louis wasn’t worth keeping around for even friendship, especially since he talks of their past so fondly. Finally, he gives up and turns the telly off, calling Niall again.

Niall doesn’t answer with a greeting, just says, “Harry and Louis sitting in a tree—”

“Shut up, Ni. I had no clue about any of that. Did you?”

“Nah. But it’s Harry. He flirted with everyone before he knew what flirting was. Think it’s just his personality.”

“Well, thanks for the heads up. I’m sure that’ll be a talking point when I’m on the Late Show next week.”

When he goes to New York for The Tonight Show, it’s the first thing Jimmy asks him about and all Louis can do is tell the truth. No, he didn’t know about Harry’s crush, but they were practically babies back then. All he remembers is being worried about his hair and his spots and whether he’d get any taller.

He fields the question at all of the other interviews to promote his new show, and by the time James Cordon asks him about it, he’s tired of the question. Unlike the other repetitive talking points, this one starts to bother him and a part of him wants to respond to Cordon’s follow up about whether he and Harry have discussed it with the truth. Which is that they haven’t spoken in years. But he knows that would only lead to more drama and more questions and he’s not up for that. Thankfully, Late Late is the last stop on his short promo tour.

On the way home in the back seat of the car he hired for the day, his phone rings. An unknown number. Of course, he dismisses the call, but they leave a voice message, and as soon as he sees the beginning of the transcript, he listens to it.

“Heyyyy this is Harry Styles. Wanted to apologize for the trouble I caused you. Call me if you can.”

#famous/famous wip #unfinished wip #snippet

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mischiefwrites421 · 9 months

Text

Whump Week 2023

Day 2: Tell me how to fix this

@week-of-whump

CW: Harry Dresden's Canonical low self worth

Harry looked over at Murphy from his seat in the precinct. Her golden locks fell in front of her face as she leaned forward into her hands, paperwork almost obscuring her from sight. She looked exhausted like she hadn’t gotten any sleep since their encounter with the loup-garou pack a week ago.

Without looking up she gestured for him to come over with her unoccupied hand.

He sat down in front of her desk, arms going to move a duster that was no longer there. He really needed to replace that soon. He felt more exposed without his signature coat than he thought he would, but there was no saving the tattered strips of fabric his coat had become in the claws of the rabid beast MacFinn had transformed into.

“The plaque looks nice Murph.” Harry said with a small grin on his face. “How much did that set the department back?”

“What are you doing here, Dresden?” she sighed barely moving her head to acknowledge him. She wasn’t avoiding him. No, Murphy had always faced things head on, for as long as Harry had known her. It was more that she didn’t have the energy to look in his direction.

The small grin, as tentative as it was on Harry’s face, shifted to a neutral expression, “We need to talk.”

Murphy leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms putting more distance between the two of them. She glanced around the empty room, the other officers that were posted for the night had gone to grab dinner. Her eyes passed by Carmichael’s desk, his things boxed up and ready to be returned to his family, Murphy’s eyes hardened as they cut back towards Dresden. “Talk fast. You’re not exactly the unit’s favorite person at the moment.”

“They still think I’m in Marcone’s pocket? After everything I-”

“Especially after everything!” Karrin exclaimed, “For fuck’s sake Harry what is everyone supposed to think,” she slammed her hand on the desk. A spark returned to her tired eyes- confrontation she could do, she was good at it, “The past two cases we’ve had you on there’s Gentleman Johnny Marcone and there you are following right behind. No plan. No explanation. Nothing.”

Her chest heaved.

He took his chance-his hand sitting next to hers on the desk, “Tell me how to fix this Murph.” He was pleading as much as he knew how.

He knew how this was going to end. Murphy would tell him in her brusque way that there was no fixing this, inform him that he’d broken something else beyond repair, and send him away. Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden would be alone again just as he deserved.

Instead, in a voice softer than he ever remembered hearing from the Lieutenant before him, “You have to talk to me Dresden. Clue me in. Quit lying. Can’t have an informant that isn’t willing to inform.”

And wasn’t that a pleasant surprise?

Of course he couldn’t explain everything- Elaine, the White Council, his probation- especially not here. Despite the location he couldn’t spill his guts to Murphy in the middle of the precinct where anyone could walk in. The other officers should be returning from their break soon enough. And he wasn’t going to promise not to keep anything from her, there were somethings out there in the dark that Murphy didn’t need to know about, but the basics? Yeah, he could do that.

“I can do that,” Harry agreed.

Next thing he knew there was a calendar in his hand and he was circling a date for them to meet at his apartment. Afterall, he still owed her a thorough explanation of all things wizard, and Murphy didn’t want to fall victim to his horrible luck with technology by saving it digitally. Once that was squared away Harry made his way to the door of the precinct, he could hear the officers making their way up the stairs. He turned back and Murphy was buried behind her mound of paperwork once again.

Thanks, Murph. He thought to himself, walking out the front door.

#whumpweek2023 #whump #harry dresden #dresden files #the dresden files #karrin murphy #cross posted on ao3 #fanfiction #dresden files fanfiction #harry dresden fanfiction #cw self deprecation

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kilannad · 2 years

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A Court of Decay and Growth

Masterlist

With Amarantha dead and the Hybern War over, Prythian is left to pick up the pieces. For no one is this more apparent than Nesta Archeron and Eris Vanserra. Forced to contend with Court politics, old magic, and another brewing conflict, both must figure out what they truly value--and what they're willing to do for it.

Shout out to @ladyofbloodshed and everyone else posting for @nerisweek who gave me the courage to post this.

Prologue

Ianuarius 7th, 10 years Before Wall, Summer and Autumn Border

It wasn't the first time he'd seen a body.

That was the only thought that Eris focused on, could focus on, as he stepped towards the slumped form, blood so thick in the air it overpowered the wet soil and dying leaves. He might've only been seventeen, but being a Vanserra meant a certain degree of familiarity with such things. The Autumn Court breathed decay; trickling blood watering the great ancient oaks, bones snapping with every crunch of a fallen leaf, flesh and sinew fertilizing the thick rich dirt.

Eris often wondered which had come first: the all-encompassing death of Autumn or the sadistic nature of the High Lord which ruled it. Did the land reflect its master, or did the magic consume who Beron once was until only a creature of fire and misery remained?

Would Eris, when the day came and the flames of his home seeped into his flesh and marrow, turn into just another embodiment of eternal death, a pale imitation of his father?

Niall, one of the five guards accompanying him on this border patrol, swore as he got closer to the body. Only then did Eris register the long golden hair, the young body with its still moving chest, and rasping wet breath. The group spread a little, stepping closer. Nero, technically there to advise Eris though they all knew he was little more than Beron's spy, had a slow grin spreading across his face at what they all beheld. He stepped forward and Eris barely thought to modulate his voice as he ordered;

“Don't touch her.”

One of Nero's slim brown brows raised on his slim narrow face. A weasel, Eris had always thought. Nothing but a conniving weasel. Niall looked about to protest, but Cian, Eris's oldest friend and the only one of this lot he truly trusted, grabbed his shoulder and yanked him out of the way as Eris took slow, deliberate steps forward.

It wasn't a surprise he'd thought her a body. Not with the blood pouring from too many wounds to count. Not with the too-long pauses between her breaths, as if her body had to consider whether it could take another one or not. Not with the three nails spiked into her torso, a curling courtier's cursive declaring her to be Autumn's problem.

Nausea spread through him, his stomach heaving. He recognized some of the wounds and knew what instruments were required to leave marks like that. Had had them used on him, when he was too slow to pick them up himself.

He hadn't wanted a marriage to her, for many reasons. He would've done it though, and tried his best to protect her from his father. Maybe even found some kind of contentment, if not true love or joy. But when he'd heard how she'd gone to an Illyrian to take her maidenhead--when his spies in the Hewn City had passed certain information to him--he'd known she had wanted the marriage even less than him. He'd faced his own consequences for the collapsed engagement; he hadn't considered what her punishment would be. Had assumed that, as the distant niece of the High Lord, she would've had some protection. A fool's thought, and one he should've known better than, considering his own position.

“No one touches her,” he made himself say, cold and unfeeling as the Forest House that made him. “The moment we do, she's our responsibility.” And that, more than anything, terrified him. Eris didn't know all the details of what Beron had planned with Morrigan, but knew it couldn't be good. A female of that much power, leashed to Beron with nowhere to go, would only end badly.

“But--they nailed-” Niall began.

“No one touches her.” Cold, he reminded himself. As cold and unfeeling as the dead. Nero was watching him, would report every word and breath to Beron. He was already on thin ice after publicly turning down the engagement in a way that Beron couldn't go against without acknowledging either Illyrians as full Fae or admitting that a female's value didn't lie in her maidenhead.

Niall's face twisted with disgust, dark eyes near burning, but he kept his mouth shut and let Cian pull him back. Despite himself, despite all the reasons why it was a stupid idea, Eris stepped even closer and looked at Morrigan. At the female that, while he never would've chosen, he once thought he could've found some semblance of peace with.

That beautiful face, covered in blood and poorly healing injuries, stared up bleakly. Something in him twisted as he looked down on her. She'd been desperate to get out of the engagement, and he'd thought he'd been doing her a favor. Eris was many things, but he would never be able to force a female to live with him, in this court of decay that he loved so much. So he asked, in that arrogant drawl that had made her sneer the one and only time they'd met before this, the only way he knew how to speak, “I take it you do not wish to live here, Morrigan.” An honest offer, and one he knew she'd sense the truth of.

Fury and hatred spread across her face, burning in her eyes as brightly as any Autumn flame, tended by each rattling breath. She believed the rumors about him, he knew, each one worse than the last. The whispers that called him his father's heir in all things, a protege of cruelty and pain. For the Morrigan, whose gift was truth, to believe them--

He tucked away the twist in his chest. He did what he had to, to survive. To protect his mother as much as he could. To keep Beron's hands as far away from his little brothers as he could, for as long as he could. It was too late for Calum, but Finnegan, barely more than a toddler--there was hope, if Eris could find a way to protect him. And if that meant Eris becoming his father's creature... well. Let the rumors be true, then.

He made himself smile, made the magic in his veins rise up until he knew his eyes danced with it. “I thought so.” He turned on his heel and forced himself into the picture of casual grace and arrogance that everyone expected of him. Cian's face was perfectly bland, not a sign of what his thoughts were. Good. Niall however--

“We can't just--”

“We can and we will,” Eris insisted. Nero watched closely, eyes flickering between them all, the rest of the males silent. How many of them whispered in his father's ear? How many did Calum, only two years younger but already playing the game so well, pay to stand aside if something or someone attacked Eris?

Beron would be furious at Eris for not bringing her back, for letting a female of such breeding potential go for a second time. There'd be hell to pay for this, but he didn't care. He'd been a fool to think that breaking off the engagement would protect her without consequence, but he could do this one last thing as an apology. Could make sure she'd never fall into Beron's hands. Eris added, “She chose to sully herself; her family chose to deal with her like garbage. I have already told them my decision in this matter.” Nero stared him down, watching and waiting. The pause drew on, and Eris realized he'd been too fair in his words. Too much logic and not enough cruelty. So he looked at Nero as he said, “And I'm not in the habit of fucking Illyrian leftovers.”

Niall tried to protest once more but Cian dragged him into movement, away from Morrigan as Eris ordered them to move. Eris would be made to punish him for his disobedience and would hate himself for being part of stamping down one of the few good males that Autumn had. But he'd do it, as expected.

Nero, with his long weasel face and tight cruel eyes, gave a slow, approving smile.

Quintilis 10th, the day before the Wall falls, High Lord Summit Meeting

It'd been nine days since Eris's secret meeting with the Night Court and in that time none of them had improved their uptight, holier-than-thou attitude. Of course, if they had, Eris would've taken it as a sign that the world was ending.

Autumn was the last delegation to arrive, dismissing Spring, as Beron had intended. He'd contemplated not coming at all, but Eris had advised that it'd be better to know what was said than make a statement by not showing up. Beron had agreed, in the end, but had decided that if they were to make a statement then they should all make an appearance. Eris's mother included, no matter what Eris said against it. Likely the latest in a long line of attempts to see if she had really cuckolded him and if so, with who.

As they neared, Eris could just make out the discussion about Feyre being High Lady and Winter's new Lady making a comment to Kallias. Eris couldn't fathom what had possessed Rhysand to go and break tradition and name himself an equal before magic and law. A human Made fae at that. Kier, in the meeting they'd had privately after the one with the Inner Circle, had spoken plenty about what he called the 'human harlot' and how she'd been introduced to the Hewn City. Why Rhysand, who hadn't managed to command respect from his own capital city in centuries, thought his people would be willing to obey Feyre boggled the mind. Of course, Rhysand had always been too much like his father Llyr in all the worse ways--and too blind to see it.

Eris kept perfectly two steps behind his father and mother as they entered the wide, round meeting room. He gave a sneer at large, careful not to note how his mother's eyes lingered near Helion before twisting away. Careful not to show how badly he wanted to light the golden asshole on fire. Eris hated Helion almost as much as he hated Beron.

Calum, Cormac, and Killian flowed in behind him, each practically vibrating in the hope of violence. Beron hadn't made a secret of how little he respected being called to this meeting like a dog, on how he looked down on the other six High Lords, each younger than him by a century or more. He'd practically told them that he wanted them to cause trouble. Cormac and Killian would act as expected, true feelings damned, though only Killian would feel any guilt over it. Calum, however, had too much of Beron and too little of their mother to be anything but a monster.

When Eris saw him leering at the princess of Summer, her younger brother bristling, the whole room prepared to break out in a brawl before the meeting even started and his father more than willing to let it happen, Eris breathed a sharp, “Enough.”

His brothers fell into line, settling as they always did when Eris gave an order, even Calum. They knew that if Beron disapproved Eris would be the one to get the brunt of the punishment, and that if they disobeyed Eris, he would find his own ways to punish them. Either now or when he ascended the throne.

With lives as long as theirs, they'd learned how to be patient.

He scanned the whole room, marking each face, who spoke with whom. Kallias looked tense as an ice statue, watching Rhysand with barely restrained hatred in his cold eyes. Eris didn't blame him, though his wife and mate seemed more than pleased to ignore the tension and jump back into her friendship with Morrigan. Tarquin, young and untested, wore his curiosity and distaste for Night as openly as Kallias. Of the High Lords, only Helion seemed inclined to seek out Rhysand and his court, but that was as likely as to fuck one of them than for any other reason. Thesan, Eris's personal favorite High Lord, and the only one here that Eris had a working relationship with, remained neutral and calm. Eris gave it all of five minutes before someone started a fight, however.

“It's no surprise that you're tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate,” Rhysand drawled. Eris fought the urge to roll his eyes. Make that five seconds instead. “I suppose it runs in the family.”

Eris wished he could be surprised that Rhysand went through all the effort of calling this meeting, of trying to form a coalition of all seven courts and couldn't even be bothered to be polite while asking for them to agree. Llyr, who Eris had met several times in the decades after the Slave War and charitably thought made a brutal--but decent--High Lord, was likely dying a second time from shame in the eternal lands.

“Mate,” Beron drawled, staring intently at Feyre. “And High Lady.”

Feyre's eyes flicked to Eris--stupidly obvious, did she have no sense of how to keep a secret?--but he only gave a slow smile in response. He'd agreed to keep quiet on the topic of her powers, but her rank was an easy tidbit to hand over to his father. He let his eyes drag over the rest of the Inner Circle, trying his damndest not to reveal how much distaste he had for the sham of a government. Cassian, a general their armies didn't respect; Morrigan, a governess in title only who, according to Kier, rarely even bothered to be in the city she nominally ruled; Feyre, the human Made Fae who now had full power over a territory she hadn't even lived in for more than a handful of months. From what his spies had reported, she hadn't ever made an effort to understand Spring or its gentry, and Eris sincerely doubted she'd put in the effort for Night. Of them all, only Azriel had any true qualifications and ability in his duties as Spymaster, though his obsession with Morrigan made him easy to manipulate.

It was the last member of their entourage that caught Eris's eye though. She looked like Feyre, with the same gold-brown hair braided into a coronet, her eyes a similar gray-blue. One of the sisters he'd heard rumors about, though how she'd become High Fae he couldn't guess. Something in her burned though, and he couldn't help the way his eyes caught hers. She didn't flinch from him, didn't lower her imperious gaze a single fraction. If she knew who he was, what he'd done, she didn't let it show. She wore only a simple, elegant blue gown, with no decoration or ornamentation, unlike her sister who dripped with such things. It was no contest, though, on which of them commanded more attention.

He let a flicker of his power rise up, a flaming taunt in his eyes, just to see if she would back down. To his utter delight, her own eyes blazed a flicker of silver, there and gone before anyone else could feel the ancient, powerful magic.

And to his utter horror, Eris felt something behind his ribs--something soul-deep and unshakable--pull taunt.

A few servants offered refreshments and Eris let them serve as a distraction. Anything to look away from the Made female, to hide the tug in his chest.

If Beron knew--

Eris didn't finish the thought. He locked down his mind, let the fire of his mental shields blaze high and refused to let so much as a muscle twitch. He couldn't--wouldn't--let anyone know, refused to have that target end up on her back. The same way he refused Morrigan to protect her, no matter what the Night Court thought, Eris would stay away from this blazing, imperious female to keep her out of his father's hands.

Not like it would be hard, to stay away. The Night Court, despite their new deal, made no secret that they didn't want Eris anywhere near their lands.

“Rhysand,” Thesan began, diplomatic and easy as everyone finished taking their seats. “You called this meeting, pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.”

Rhysand had the audacity to give a slow blink, as if he couldn't believe Thesan would want clarification on the situation. “Surely the invading armies on our shores explain enough.”

Our shores, Eris noted. Already Rhysand wanted them all to consider Prythian unified, as if everyone in this room didn't have centuries of animosity to hold against each other. As if they didn't have fifty years worth of grievances towards Rhysand specifically.

“So you have called us to do what, exactly?” Helion challenged. “Raise a unified army?”

“Among other things. We--”

Whatever other nonsense Rhysand had planned to spout cut off abruptly as Tamlin, alone and looking half wild, winnowed into the meeting with a bang.

Eris had a shield around his mother in half a second, his brothers following suit for themselves, Beron looking absolutely delighted by the tension snapping around the room. Tamlin ended up settling between Helion and Killian, and Eris shifted his body to be between the last High Lord and his mother, in case Rhysand chose to act on the hatred burning in his too-bright violet eyes.

Eris sat back as they all spat at each other, a room full of the most powerful people in Prythian becoming nothing more than a bunch of bickering children. Eris couldn't honestly say he blamed Tamlin for hating Feyre for what she did to Spring--a stupid, shortsighted decision that would come back to bite Night in the ass in a few years. He did blame him for being so stupid as to make a bargain with Hybern all for the sake of a female that had left him, but what did Eris know of love.

Sitting back did let Eris make note of every word said, every glare and insult exchanged. All information was useful, and knowing what made Prythian's rulers operate would let him make headway in coming years as he tried to rebuild connections in the wake of Amarantha's decimation of the ruling class. So he sat back and didn't let anything show--not as Feyre revealed what happened to her sisters, not as Tamlin implied what said sister did with Cassian or the absolute violence promised in his answering snarl. Not even when Rhysand ripped the very sounds from Tamlin.

Another show of power, another brutal way of playing politics. To show that he could force their hands but chose not to, as if that somehow made him benevolent.

Always with the self-righteous sanctimonious bullshit, Eris thought. He didn't say it though, only angled himself to better guard his mother, reinforcing his shield. Too much was happening, too many ways this could descend into violence. And it would, undoubtedly. The tension had been built too high not to have an outlet, too many old grudges brought up in such a small room with too big personalities. So when Beron asked after Lucien, Eris took his chance and did what he did best: pissed people off.

And Morrigan and Azriel, as always, made it so very easy.

“Good to know after five hundred years,” he said to her, shifting his weight again, away from his mother this time. This would hurt like a bitch. “You still dress like a slut.”

Even quicker than expected, Azriel was on him. Eris lost his breath with the first slam into the ground, and never got it back. Not with the shadowsinger's full weight on him, his rough, scarred hands wrapped tight around Eris's throat. Spots danced in his vision, and he had a brief moment of wondering if he'd finally miscalculated, if this was how Calum became heir, when the hands loosened just enough for him to drag in a gasp of air.

“You're mine,” Azriel hissed in his ear and Eris felt all his blood drain.

Eris got up with as much dignity as he could, and forced the apology past his lips for the sake of this meeting. Everyone settled, slightly, and it seemed that the tension had broken at last, actual strategizing beginning in earnest. Of course, it meant that Eris's least favorite barrier once again came into play--convincing his father to do anything.

Still, Eris didn't dare push too much, not with so many witnesses. He'd pay for the incident with Azriel when they returned home. He could convince his father to take the faebane antidote in the coming days when Beron wasn't so set on playing politics and pretending like the Vanserras were untouchable.

“I don't take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores,” Beron spat at Cassian. The entire Night Court's attention hyper-focused on Beron, their wrath building in the room so thick that Eris could taste the fire of it on the back of his tongue. Smartly, the rest of the delegations shifted back, Tamlin alone looking delighted at this shift.

“That bastard,” Nesta drawled, utterly cold and more put together than the rest combined, even as her eyes blazed silver once more, “may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern's forces and your people.”

Cassian shifted to look at her, something uncomfortably like awe and desire on his face. Eris didn't consider the implications, not as Beron sneered and Feyre ordered him out. Eris assumed that if Autumn didn't join this alliance that Rhysand would consider their deal void--might even be so petty and short-sided as to tell Beron about it as a way to finally get Eris dead.

Beron, over twelve hundred years old and ill-inclined to listen to females, much less once-human females, ignored her. “Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha's bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain?” Eris blocked out the memories, the forty-nine years of trying desperately to keep his mother and brothers on the sidelines. The politics and cruelty necessary to earn even a handful of mercies towards Autumn. The towns and farmlands gone, the people dead and buried in a final insult to their cremation practices. He blocked out whatever insults Beron spat, desperately hoping that the Night Court would keep their cool, wouldn't take his taunting as an invitation. Hybern was on their shores and they needed unity if they were to win, surely Feyre and Rhysand knew that--

Eris knew about her powers, but even so, the white-hot flames shocked him, so quick and hot it shattered through his shield with all the power of a High Lady. He didn't care about his own burn, familiar as the feeling was, though at seeing his mother's pale arm red and welted, powers struggling to heal an injury from such powerful magic, he felt his rage climb. He pulled her up and back, closer to his brothers. He didn't bother trying to break the bind Feyre had on Beron, knew that for all his power he'd never break through it, and instead pushed all his magic into a sizzling shield around the rest of his family. His brothers joined, Calum snarling and Cormac looking half ready for a second go at Feyre. Killian hovered over their mother, ready to winnow at a moment's notice.

The Vanserra brothers might all be willing to kill each other, but they could agree that their mother's safety came first.

Eris tried to hide his fury as in a few short seconds the Night Court completely ruined any chance at a united Prythian. It was one thing to argue and mock another High Lord--stupid and arrogant, but nothing that hadn't happened at passed Summits--but to publicly attacked and embarrass, to injure their Lady and Heir, was going too far. Beron would never ally with them now, and would likely strike a deal with Hybern out of sheer spite. Worse, Feyre had revealed her powers.

Beron would demand to know why Eris hadn't told him, and if he claimed ignorance then the punishment would be for his inability to discover them. Rhysand would use this as a chance to back out of his deal with Eris. Assuming Hybern was eventually defeated, all the other High Lords would remember that Autumn didn't help and would hold it against them for the next millennia. Night would delight in the chance to impose new tariffs or to cancel trade with Autumn completely, and Helion and Beron already hated each other. Thesan, while generally neutral, would bend to the other solar courts. Kallias and Tarquin were too new for Eris to guess at their level of pettiness, but with Spring in shambles, he wouldn't be surprised if they used the chance to force renegotiation on their current trade deals.

In a single short-sighted, petty act of revenge, the Night Court had threatened the entire stability of Prythian and--more importantly to Eris--the future of Autumn.

“This meeting is over,” Beron hissed. “I hope Hybern butchers you all.”

“This meeting is not over,” Nesta responded, voice hard as she stood and stared him down. Eris blinked, half worried and half hopeful she'd cross the few feet and strike Beron with that strange silver fire. “You are all there is,” she said, sweeping that burning gaze across all of them. “You are all there is between Hybern and the end of all that is good and decent.” She looked to Beron, gaze sharp and demanding, tall and imperious as she stared down the oldest High Lord as if he were a child. Eris had to force himself to keep breathing, to stay neutral even though something behind his ribs tugged and tugged towards her. “You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?”

Beron didn't respond, as Eris knew he wouldn't. It'd taken Eris centuries to realize that Llyr had blackmailed Beron into committing to the Rebels, and he doubted anyone else knew the real reason, the secret that Beron killed to keep quiet.

In the silence that followed, Eris gestured his brothers down, retaking his own seat when his mother settled next to him. Nesta caught the movement, silver banking in her eyes. He stared her down, tilting his head only a fraction. You've caught our attention, he tried to tell her, now make it count.

“You may hate us,” she started. Us, Eris noted. She still thought of herself as human. “I don't care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.” She gave it a moment, to let her words sink in, before turning to the Winter Court. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent. But beneath the wall, I witnessed children--entire families--starving to death. Were it not for my sister, I'd be among them.” Eris hadn't been south of the wall since it went up, and he couldn't imagine life with magic. Knew it would be hard, near impossible. “If you fight for anything--fight now, to protect those you forgot. Let them know they're not forgotten. Just this once.”

“While a noble sentiment,” Thesan offered, “The Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbors. We were to leave them alone, and we obeyed.”

“The past is the past,” she said. “What I care about is the road ahead. What I care about is making sure no children--human or fae--are harmed. You have been entrusted with protecting this land.” Nesta stared each High Lord down, Tamlin and even Rhysand included. Not a single court unrepresented. “How can you not fight for it?”

For a long, drawn-out moment no one spoke. Nesta did not buckle under the weight of it, stood tall and proud as any ancient tree, the power in her veins pale in comparison to the power of her presence. A queen, Eris thought. More deserving of a crown and kingdom than any Lord or Lady in the room.

“I will consider it,” Beron finally said, and winnowed away with his family. Eris stayed though, allowed himself two heartbeats to stare at the imposing figure Nesta Archeron made. He wondered, brief and fleeting, what she'd look like crowned and enthroned in autumn red and gold. A future he'd never see, Eris knew, because he'd never force her into his pit of vipers, as his mother had been.

But he could fight, he thought, as she'd demanded. Would rally Autumn's forces quietly until Beron could be convinced to see sense. She'd already paid for this war with her humanity--he could offer blood and fire for her in return. A courting gift she'd never know about.

He kept his eyes on her for the full two heartbeats he allowed himself, meeting her stare unflinchingly.

Then Eris offered his mate the slightest dip of his chin and winnowed away.

December 22nd, Year 0 After Wall, Band of Exiles' Manor

Eris Vanserra stretched himself across the overly stuffed, pink couch and sipped daintily at the poorly brewed tea Lucien had shoved into his hands. In the months since the wall had fallen and Hybern's king had been killed, Eris had found quite a few things in his life changing, but having both an excuse and the ability to visit his youngest brother was something to be grateful for. Not that Lucien seemed to think so.

Each time Eris visited the 'Band of Exiles', Lucien offered only the bare minimum courtesy in the most passive-aggressive ways he could come up with. Which, for a court-trained, centuries-old courtier, were quite numerous. Bad tea, however, was not enough to get Eris to leave Lucien alone.

“You know, if you need me to bring you some supplies Lulu--”

“Don't call me that,” Lucien snapped, the fire in the hearth crackling merrily in time with the snap of his teeth. “Drink your tea and get out Eris.”

“Tsk tsk, what manners.” Eris took a pointed sip at the tea which had barely been brewed enough to be considered such. Mostly it was just tepid water with what might have been finely shredded lettuce in it. Eris considered using his powers to heat it up so at least it'd be warm water with shredded lettuce in it, but that was considered insulting in the Autumn Court.

Eris, unlike some people, had manners.

“Go choke on your manners,” Lucien muttered. Upstairs, Queen Vassa moaned obscenely loudly at whatever Jurian was doing to her. Lucien, having gone feral apparently, didn't so much as blink.

“Found a better use for his finger, did he?” Eris drawled.

Lucien narrowed his eye, the other whirling in its socket as it scanned him. Looking for spells or glamors or anything else to hold against Eris. When he found nothing, for there was nothing to find, he demanded, “Why are you here, Eris?”

“Can't I check up on my baby brother after the Winter Solstice?” he purred. Lucien only stared, silent, so with a put-upon sigh, Eris pulled a folded letter out of his jacket pocket. Lucien didn't touch it, so Eris placed it on the low table between them and slid it over. “From mother.”

That got a reaction, as he knew it would. Much as Lucien might pretend he had no more connections to Autumn, any mention of Niamh Vanserra was sure to get his attention. His golden eye clicked and spun as he leaned forward, unfolding the paper only long enough to recognize the handwriting before tucking it away again.

With his own sigh, Lucien disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a steaming pot of chai--Eris's favorite.

“Is he allowing her letters?” Lucien asked.

“No,” Eris responded shortly, letting Lucien pour. He didn't need to say more for Lucien to understand how difficult it had been for Eris to smuggle a letter from their mother to him and how impossible a response would be.

“Tell her I love her,” he murmured, and Eris offered only a nod in response. It wouldn't be hard to slip such a message into idle conversation with her. They were all used to double talk.

They settled into silence, as much of a truce as they could manage. Already though it was a thousand times better than the first time Eris had visited, a month after the war which had devolved into a fist fight followed by an evening of drunken bonding. It hadn't fixed their relationship by any means, and they hadn't talked about Jesminda. Still, Eris took it as an invitation to stop by when he liked and Lucien did nothing to stop him but be a terrible host.

Eris thought this might be how normal siblings interacted.

“How was your Solstice?” Eris asked after some time.

“Fine,” he responded tightly. “And before you ask, no, I will not be telling you all of the Night Court's secrets. Nothing is discussed much with me anyway.”

“I don't understand why you're working for them anyway. Spring needs to be pulled back together before Calanmai.”

“No one in Spring trusts me. With General Adair dead during the war, there's no one to champion Tamlin except the Lieutenants and they're all too busy fighting amongst themselves over fixing damages and finding homes for the displaced to be worried about uniting the Court. They all see me as a Night Court spy these days, and have started realizing what Feyre did and rightfully hate her for it.”

“Then make them see sense,” Eris insisted. Lucien snorted so he pushed on. “Beron's taken notice of Tamlin's refusal to enforce borders and he's started taking it as an invitation. He's about to make Spring a dependent of Autumn if not absorb it completely.”

“The other Courts would never allow it,” Lucien pointed out. “He'd be bringing war from all sides.”

“Would he? I've been sent to discuss trade deals with Kallias, and he's willing to do quite a bit if it means securing fair prices for food for his people.” That at least had been a blessing. Kallias cared too much about feeding his citizens to hold Autumns role--or lack thereof--against them.

Lucien had the brains to look concerned, brow furrowing as he considered the implications. “He wouldn't stand with Autumn if it meant defending you from the solar courts. He cares about his people too much to turn his land into a war zone. Besides, even if he did, Summer would still be on this side of his borders.”

“Summer's High Lord hasn't seen a century yet and has several distant cousins that would make fantastic puppets on the throne,” Eris pointed out.

“You can't be serious,” Lucien laughed. When Eris didn't join in he only laughed harder. “Beron doesn't seriously think he could assassinate Tarquin--and Varian by the way--without drawing attention to himself.”

“He was more than willing to kill for his throne,” Eris reminded Lucien. “What makes you think he won't kill for someone else's?”

Beron Vanserra's rise to the throne was still told as a cautionary tale in Autumn, though Eris had heard it from the cradle, phrased as something to aspire to.

The only son from High Lord Aymer's short and tragic first marriage to a commoner high fae whose name was no longer remembered, Beron killed his three half-siblings, two uncles, aunt, and six cousins in various assassinations before killing Aymer himself to get the throne. Of all the Vanserra family tree, only the Vanka branch was allowed to live, being removed by four generations and having produced only females in the most recent two generations. When Beron decided he needed a wife to secure an heir, several hundred years after murdering his way to the throne, he took the youngest Vanka daughter in order to 'make amends'.

As far as Eris knew, only three people had ever found out the truth of why Beron had needed to marry Niamh. He happened to be one of them, the very dead Llyr another.

“Systematically poisoning and slaughtering relatives through a Blood Duel is a little different than targetting foreign dignitaries,” Lucien pointed out, but he sounded doubtful. “Still, I get your worry. I just don't know what you want me to do about it.”

“What does Night have you doing?”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “What point of I'm not going to reveal Night's secrets don't you get?”

“This isn't revealing Night's secrets,” Eris drawled. “This is sharing vital intelligence with an ally for the good of Prythian.”

Lucien sneezed loudly, once, twice. “Sorry,” he finished with a deep breath. “My bullshit allergy seems to be acting up.”

Despite himself, Eris felt his lips twitch. Every now and again he was reminded why Lucien had always been his favorite. “Come now, Lulu. At least tell me you've visited.”

“I was there yesterday if it'll get you to shut up. To celebrate the Solstice.”

“I hope Feyre didn't attack you for whatever gift you got that pretty mate of yours.”

Hurt flickered across his face, there and gone, and Eris fought the urge to scowl. Elain Archeron, despite all reports to the contrary, was a cruel bitch for leaving Lucien out to dry. If she found herself unable to love Lucien, then Eris wouldn't have said a word against her if she'd simply rejected the bond and been done with it. He would've mourned that chance for his brother but could've understood that the mating instinct was a flawed system. The fact that she refused to give Lucien the time of day but wouldn't break the bond--to constantly dangle the possibility without any intent to truly give mating a consideration--that Eris found unforgivable.

“Please,” Lucien said with a snort after a short moment. “Nesta's the violent one of the sisters, and she's in no mindset for such things.”

“What do you mean?” Eris demanded, attention caught. The female from the Summit had seemed unbreakable, the sort of person that could always get vicious and violent and would delight in it.

“She's been quieter since the war. Got her own apartment in the poor part of town, only comes to dinners when Feyre drags her.” Lucien frowned, scars pulling tight with the movement. “She's thinner, now that I think about it. And near constantly drinking.”

“She sounds like she has battle shock,” Eris pointed out, placing his cup down.

He tried not to think about Nesta, though he was about as successful with that as he was with killing his father. He felt little from the rope of flame attached to his ribs--mostly just cold, with the occasional spike of pleasure which told him her bed was staying warm at least. Eris tried not to care about it, since he preferred her alive and fucking someone else than fucking him and dead at Beron's hands for it. As long as she was happy, he told himself, than it didn't matter that he'd take the secret of his mate to his grave.

“I hadn't considered it,” Lucien murmured slowly. “When Feyre came out from that mountain, she was--not loud, that's the wrong word. She had days when she'd sleep until noon and wouldn't speak a word, but it was clear what she needed. She told us what she needed, though to my shame I never managed to get it for her. Nesta hasn't been like that though.”

“Has it occurred to you that they're different people,” Eris snapped. Lucien's brow raised and he took a small breath to regain control. He'd been barely twenty when the Slave War started, young enough not to be taken seriously, but old enough to be put on the battlefield. Especially with two little brothers to take his place as heir. It'd taken nearly a decade to get past the horrors he'd seen, to be able to wake up without wondering where he was and whose blood coated his hands. Even now, he sometimes still woke up remembering the Xian Masacre.

What was it like for Nesta, who'd been raised the eldest daughter of a human merchant, and never expected to see more than a monthly cycle's worth of blood?

“It's occurred to me that it's none of my business,” Lucien said finally. “If anyone should be helping Nesta, it's Cassian.”

“The bastard?” Eris had heard the rumors about Nesta and Cassian. After half a battlefield had watched him abandon his legion for her, everyone had something to say about the Lord of Bloodshed and the Made female. Eris had always comforted himself with knowing that, whatever else happened, it couldn't be as serious or romantic as everyone whispered about.

Never mind that another female had, once more, chosen Cassian over Eris.

“She's his mate.”

“Bullshit,” Eris spat before he could stop himself. Lucien's eyebrow climbed higher, metal eye focusing on him further. Eris added, “A lesser faerie bastard with a female like her? Cauldron Made and burning with power? I don't believe it.”

“Well everyone else does,” Lucien said. “They don't say it, since I don't know if the bond has snapped for her, but it's heavily implied. Cassian is certain of it, though he doesn't go near her. Trying to give her space, I think.”

Eris didn't believe it. Not that he'd doubt Lucien, but he'd never heard of someone having two mates. Then again, no one knew the last time the Cauldron Made a human into fae, either.

If Nesta had Cassian as a mate--it was safer. Rhysand had already proved he'd do anything for his mate and family. Besides, Beron would never even think to guess that she was Eris's mate if the world knew her as Cassian's. She'd be taken care of, near her sisters, safe for the rest of her immortal life from Beron and Autumn Court politics.

If this was true--and a big fucking if--then it seemed to answer all of Eris's problems. She deserved a hell of a lot more than Cassian, and Eris hoped she'd make the bastard crawl before she accepted the bond, but she could be happy. Surely, surrounded as she was with a functional family, self-righteous assholes they might be, she'd get the help to overcome her battle shock.

Eris should leave her alone, to live her life as he'd planned. Ignore the flares of passion that tugged at his chest. Forget everything Lucien had just said about her, about her becoming thin and quiet. He had no right to involve himself in her life.

He wouldn't turn into Beron, keeping a female on such a tight leash they couldn't even receive letters.

Eris lasted two seconds before he summoned pen and paper with a flicker of power.

“What are you doing?” Lucien asked warily.

“Can't you tell, brother dearest? I'm writing a letter,” Eris responded pleasantly.

Lucien, the clever little fox, looked worried.

#neris #nerisweek2022 #free day #a court of thorns and roses #eris vanserra #nesta archeron #pro nesta archeron #pro eris vanserra #fanfic #my fanfic #ACoDaG

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frostfall-matches · 14 days

Text

[ matchmaking... ]

@shxtodxroki : [ match report ready ]

your match is…

✦ Nishinoya Yu

-> As boisterous and friendly as he normally is, he completely clams up the first few times he tries talking to you! He can’t help it - talking to cute girls, especially if he doesn’t know them, causes him to just freeze up (and then he’s mentally kicking himself for looking and sounding stupid). The first coherent thing out of his mouth (immediately after a greeting) is a compliment on your bright pink hair - it totally caught his eye, and he loves how the color looks on you and how it contrasts nicely with your green eyes. It does make him feel a little bit better that you also seem to be struggling to move the awkward, stilted conversation forward, though. Of course, this is all temporary - both you and Noya are friendly with a knack for connecting with others; the initial awkwardness will dissipate soon enough, and then the two of you will be yapping all the time.

-> For all your overthinking and worrying over problems big and small, Nishinoya brings a straightforward, simplistic approach to any concerns you might have. For him, if it’s out of his control or if it’s something that ultimately isn’t going to bring about great consequences, he simply makes it a point to not worry about it. Sure, he has his worries just like everyone else does, but as long as he does all that he can and faces his issues head-on, he has no choice but to see how it all plays out. Noya, being close friends with Asahi, has seen many times the stress and anxiety that comes with overthinking. He lets you vent as much as you need - and though he doesn’t have any magic solutions to your worries, he tries to remind you to just focus on the here and now, and to let go when a situation is truly out of your control.

-> Noya isn’t the most creatively-inclined, but he’s your biggest hype man. It doesn’t matter if whatever project you’re working on is in the planning stage, halfway done, or completely finished - he loves to see it, and always has supportive, genuine compliments. And, really, all that matters to him is that you have an outlet where you can express and enjoy yourself. Volleyball is his passion (obviously, given the amount of blood, sweat, and tears he’s poured into practicing and becoming skilled) and he would prefer it if his partner also had something they were passionate about, something they loved doing on a regular basis. It’s easy for him to relate to someone like that, even if his area of interest is different from yours. Besides, whatever is important to you is important to him by extension. He wants to support you (and expects that you will also support him), which includes learning all about all the different types of art you engage in.

-> Your patience and reserved nature tempers Noya’s more excitable, impulsive one. He can get pretty fired up - in both a good way and a bad way. Yes, he’s quick to become eager and energetic, but he has a pretty quick temper on him as well. (On the plus side, Noya is more than willing to help you stand up for yourself, or even step in and handle the conflict for you… though he might not solve it very peacefully). There are a lot of spikes in his emotions - the relationship would work best if his partner understands that expressive is a core part of who he is, and they’re willing to extend grace to both his positive emotions and his negative emotions. Thankfully, Noya doesn’t mind if your energy doesn’t match his 100% - and really, he’s liable to get carried away around people who feed off his energy and throw it right back. Your quiet enthusiasm is still just as apparent to him, and he just claims that he has more than enough loud energy for the both of you.

-> And ultimately, the two of you aren’t so dissimilar in the way that you’re both very emotional, expressive people. Each of you have your own forms of expression, prone to different moods, but your emotionality is a strong bonding point for you two. You’re easily moved to tears, be it from happiness, sorrow, frustration - and it’s something that Noya finds surprisingly endearing. Funnily enough, he never considered himself much of a crier… Until he got together with you. He can’t help the misty eyes he gets when the two of you are sharing a particularly tender, heartwarming moment together, or the tears burning his eyes when something has upset you to the point of tears, his heart aching for you. If he notices your eyes tearing up while the two of you are watching a heartbreakingly sad scene in a movie, he pleads with you. “I swear! If you cry, I’m going to start crying!”

-> He’s not sure how to react to your silly, lame jokes that you like to crack here and there. Perhaps it just depends on what exactly the lame joke is. Sometimes you catch him off guard and he’s cackling at your wit. Other times, he scrunches up his nose at the ridiculous pun that just came out of your mouth (he claims he hates puns and dad humor, but he just doesn’t want to be seen thinking such dorky humor is actually funny). Well, you’re probably having fun regardless, even in light of his more lukewarm reactions to your humor. And really, he wouldn’t have it any other way. Noya loves your humor, and he likes being silly in turn, adoring your smile and laugh. He’s big on exaggerations - exclamations, big reactions, intense expressions on his cute face.

-> Both in light of your own personal preference, and how excitable Noya is, movie nights are best done at home. You love how it’s much more cozy and personal compared to a theater, and there’s less pressure to be quiet and respectful of the dozens of others who may be watching the same film (especially considering Tanaka once mentioned how noisy and rambunctious Noya gets when watching action films…) Noya is often in charge of buying and prepping the snacks while you get to pick the movie and set up the living room or bedroom. Regardless where the two of you set up, he insists on snuggling… though, he’s very much the type to squirm, tense up, and scoot to the edge of his seat during suspenseful scenes. You definitely get him to branch out in terms of genre - though, he’d really rather not watch any more horror films… he will politely ask you to spare him.

-> Luckily for you, Nishinoya is very open about his adoration and affection for you. And he’s not shy about it at all (until you do something especially cute - such as sneaking up behind him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a tight hug, for example - and he malfunctions for a moment). He’s more than happy to be the one to cuddle up to you in bed, or beckon you over when he’s hanging out on the couch watching something. Noya is very sweet when verbally expressing his affection for you, too, using little nicknames, complimenting you, saying how lucky he is that you’re in his life… You won’t even get the chance to doubt his feelings for you! Initially, he pouted a bit when you would hesitate to initiate any sort of physical affection with him, but he’s quick to understand that it’s because it makes you shy, rather than the possibility that you don’t like him enough to allow physical contact.

-> He adores the gifts you get him - and his reactions are always the best! He gets so excited to see what you got him if you’re teasing the fact that you have something for him but that it’s a surprise. Tasty snacks and beverages are always exciting (and very much appreciated when you bring him something after he’s done with practice!), little knick-knacks are proudly displayed, more heartfelt gifts tucked away safely so he can look at them intermittently, his heart warming because each gift is a sign of your love for him. He likes to reciprocate the gifts when he can, though he often feels a bit clueless about what to get you - sure, he knows what you like, but what if you’re not in the mood for your favorite dessert, or what if you already have an overstock of paints? But, as he graduates and decides to travel instead of continuing professionally with volleyball, he gets really good at gifting you with thoughtful, endearing souvenirs (regardless if you’re on that particular trip with him or not).

runner up…

✦ Sawamura Daichi

-> Daichi is mature, level-headed, and happy to be your rock, providing support whenever you might need it (and even when you don’t). It would be a calm, steady relationship, the type that blooms slowly and makes you feel warm and loved from head to toe. The type of relationship that feels like coming home, a deep sense of comfort settling in your chest. He’s great at listening and communicating, and he’d be quite the conversation partner when you want to share whatever new topics you’ve been learning about. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and is skilled at looking at things from multiple perspectives, and he finds it to be quite the fun exercise to go back and forth with you about nuanced, difficult topics. Daichi is also a very good choice for someone who might struggle with anxiety and overthinking - he’s very good at providing comfort, knowing just what to say to soothe some of your worries while acknowledging that you can’t always help how your brain never quite shuts off. Stable as he is, however, your relationship with him would lack the dynamism and potential for growth that would be present with Nishinoya. It’s simply a different vibe, a different pace, but still just as enjoyable.

#user matchup #exchange #umm SURPRISE i got this done a lot earlier than i was expecting. forgot my work schedule was adjusted #i hope you enjoy!!#(also knives out is such a funny movie. i'm not a movie person but i'm glad my buddy made me watch it)#haikyuu

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class1akids · 2 years

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Hawks is interesting to me because it's kinda like he decides things for everyone and assumes that he is always right/smarter than others but he couldn't understand twice and understimated how he felt for the LOV and is now assuming things abt how endvr should or shouldn't react to dabi like ????? Even his feelings of guilt for his family are confusing because i don't think he really understands how any type of relationship works? Tbh he just knows how to be a soldier. Idk hawks is weird lmao

I don't see Hawks deciding things for others as hubris / assuming he's always right, but more as a coping mechanism. After all, he is also a child abuse victim and someone who had no healthy ways to process his experiences growing up in the institutionalized setting he did, as part of a government grooming programme.

Hawks was trained to believe that cutting ties with his parents, his past, his identity would make him a better hero - and even if he had no agency in that process - he is restructuring it as something that he himself decided - perhaps to feel some control over the situation.

But I think the way Hawks never addressed his past, never really faced the fact that his father hated him and his mother was willing to basically sell him - all of that are part of his subconscious.

To the point that he sees his own self-worth only in terms of how useful he can be to others.

To me, Hawks' and Endeavor's relationship always felt fundamentally a kind of child/parent framing, where Hawks projected a lot of his yearning for being protected / accepted onto Endeavor (at first the doll/fantasy version). And even upon meeting the real guy and seeing his flaws up close, it feels to me that Hawks is trying to save him because it's the only bond resembling a familial one that he has (even if it's largely built as a defence mechanism) and he hopes to find himself if only he could help Endeavor become that shining ideal again.

And I think it was with this in mind that Hawks used his influence over the battle planning to ensure that Endeavor wouldn't face Touya, because he correctly surmised that Endeavor wouldn't be able to fight his son and would just accept Touya's rage (and quite possibly die in the process).

What Hawks didn't factor in though is that it wasn't Endeavor's role to fight Dabi. That's not why the Todoroki family wanted him there. It wasn't meant to be a hero vs villain fight. His role would have been to face Touya, face his past mistakes, and not to leave him alone on Sekoto peak once again to burn himself to death... and who knows? Maybe, if Touya saw proof of Endeavor's change, things wouldn't have escalated the way they have.

But Hawks still operates purely in a villains vs heroes logic, having shut away the part of himself whose literal family is a pair of villains, or the fact that he himself could have easily fallen into villainy.

So even as Endeavor crumbles, Hawks tries to rationalize his decision, holding onto hope that he can keep Endeavor on track, and when Endeavor is wounded, Hawks is ready to pay with his life for miscalculating.

I'm not holding my breath that Hori will dive deep into Hawks' character, but the narrative generally makes it clear that not facing the past is a weakness. Quirk awakenings / upgrades happen when people look back unflinchingly and find a way to move forward in full acknowledgement of the past. It doesn't need to mean forgiveness, but it means accepting the fact that it happened and trying to make some sense of it.

So I'm hoping that his interaction with Tokoyami (whose support of Hawks is very similar to Hawks' support of Endeavor) will allow Hawks to let his true identity/feelings (even the ones he believes are weaknesses) more to the surface, and instead of trying to protect Endeavor from facing the past, he will instead look at those things he himself locked away - be it the issue of his parents or killing Twice.

#c1a asks #bnha meta #tamaki keigo #hawks #bnha 354 #bnha manga spoilers

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whatyourusherthinks · 2 months

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Imaginary Review

I'm starting to get suspicious of movies we don't get any marketing for. Imaginary, say it with me now, got absolutely no trailers or posters before it came to theaters. When I saw it on the coming soon whiteboard at work I thought someone had misremembered the title of IF, the John Krasinski movie that is also about imaginary friends, but nope. This is a horror movie from Blumhouse. (IF comes out in May.) All I knew going in is that it has been getting trashed by reviews. But the premise seems interesting, maybe I'll like it despite what other say?

What's The Movie About?

Jessica is a children's book author who moves her new family into her childhood home. When her stepdaughter makes an imaginary friend, the family deals with some spooky shenanigans while trying to navigate past trauma and moving forward together.

What I Like.

I really like Jessica and the little girl Alice. I think making the main character of a movie about imaginary friends a children's book author is genius. And Alice is very cute and never got cloying. He's not in it much, but the dad in the movie was also pretty nice and sensible, which was a good change of pace. When eventually we get to see some creature designs, I thought they looked pretty freaky and the effects were good. There's a land of imagination that I also liked the look of. The monster also had a power where it could project the collective imaginations of all children through its eyes, and adult brains can't handle the strain of looking into them. That's really fucking cool idea. It's like unrestrained children's imagination is a Lovecraftian entity. The plot as a whole I rather enjoyed. There is themes of parenthood and protecting the innocent even if that means sacrificing yourself, and the moments when they touch on darker topics like self-mutilation are pretty unsettling. I also really like that Jess is the kids' stepmother and she actually loves them and is willing to put her life on the line for them, even though they don't always appreciate her efforts. I've heard this movie described as cliched, and while that is true, I also feel like they do some interesting twists on those cliches and I enjoyed it. There also quite a few plot twists that did take me a minute to fully appreciate, but I came around on them. The few moments of humor I thought were pretty good too. I liked the worldbuilding and how the imaginary friend operates, but admittedly that may be because it reminded me of two TTRPGs I think are cool. (Monsters and Other Childish Things and Little Fears, if you are interested in checking them out.)

What I Didn't Like.

I only have two substantive issues with the movie. One, while I liked the designs of the monster and the imaginary world, it felt constrained. Like if I told you a form the monster takes is of a spider-humanoid, the first thing you think of is probably exactly what it looks like. There's nothing too crazy in terms of the supernatural aspect of the movie, brain-melting imagination projection aside. (And that being said they don't really show any of the brain-melting stuff. It's just the monster projecting swirly lights from its eyes.) Two, I really fucking hate Taylor. She is the elder step-daughter and basically the secondary main character, but she a rude bitch to Jess the entire movie, causes a bunch of problems, and even when eventually getting on the same page as everyone else she's still sarcastic and barely helpful. At least the douchebag boy next door she flirts with ended up being so pathetic it was funny.

Final Summation.

I did like Imaginary despite the poor reviews! Maybe it's just something that appeals to me personally (I like kids and monsters together for some reason), but I was ruminating on why I liked it when no one else seemed to. I have two theories.

One, while I think Imaginary is a good movie, I don't think it's a good horror movie. It's not that scary. Shocking, I know, the movie with a stuffed teddy bear as the main antagonist is not the horror masterpiece we were all expecting. It wasn't as scare-less as Night Swim, but it's definitely not gonna be keeping me up at night. I can totally understand why someone walking into a Blumhouse would be annoyed that they aren't getting nightmares from it.

Two, I think maybe people misinterpreted what the movie was trying to be. Imaginary is not a serious movie. It does touch on some darker subject matter, but it still airs a bit on the fairytale storytelling method. The main villain, besides angry imaginary friends, is not trusting the adult. It isn't the most complex moral situation in the world but I don't think it was trying to be. I also think some of the goofier parts were intentional. The only death in the movie made me laugh, but it could have used one more comedy beat to make it completely clear I was supposed to be laughing. Honestly, maybe that's the best direction for a PG-13 horror movie to go. If you're already limiting how dark you can be by not allowing certain imagery, it might be best to just shoot for a lighter tone all together. I didn't watch it, but that what it seems like the Five Nights At Freddy's movie did. (Interestingly, the other movie title dropped on the poster is M3GAN, and the only thing I know about that movie is that the robot danced in a silly way. Maybe the filmmakers were trying tell everyone what kind of movie they were making and no one paid attention.)

In conclusion, give Imaginary a chance. Maybe you won't set your world on fire, but I had a good time.

#Imaginary #Recommended Movies

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land-of-sinners · 2 months

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Alright, since the poll was very much in favour for it, here’s the first little bit of that AlastorxSerenity rut fic I’ve been procrastinating on-

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Rut season.

Alastor obviously wasn’t too fond of it when it came around once a year. Ever since he died and gained his damned form to practically mock him for his death, the forces of Hell decided to kick him again by giving him all of a buck’s ‘natural instincts’. Every Fall, Alastor found himself preoccupied with disturbing thoughts, he could never get anything done, and his whole body would practically ache every second of every day. Of course, he had gotten pretty good at hiding and mostly ignoring it.

That is until recently. See, when he decided to start contributing to the Princess's hotel, naturally there came some new people in Alastor's life; including Serenity. The sweet little sinner who seemed to be the only demon in Hell willing to take Charlie’s rehabilitation program seriously, offering herself as a patient to see if this ‘taking demons to Heaven’ thing was possible. Needless to say, the two hit it off rather well and despite literally everything, were able to make a romantic relationship work quite well. Which is specifically why he didn’t want to potentially scare the poor sinner off with the fact he went through this rut every year.

At first, he insisted on staying away from the girl when his little season kicked in, but to his surprise Serenity actually didn’t seem to mind it, and was even willing to ‘help him out' as the brunette put it herself. She was his girlfriend for a reason, right? So from there on out, the couple had a plan; every Fall when the deer’s rut came into play, the two sinners would ‘go on vacation’ to Alastor’s secluded cabin so they could deal with it until it subsides and they would return to the hotel.

The first year they were together was the hardest Alastor can recall his dreadful season hitting. Presumably because the ‘opportunity’ his rut craved finally came available, for lack of better phrasing. Not that two sinners could ever actually make a child, no, that was long past them. But again, logic was never a factor for Alastor’s mind once Fall hit. Besides, that just meant less to remember anyway. And Alastor could still thoroughly recall the first time Serenity had been kind enough to help out the deer during his rut. All those years alone were nothing compared to the one night he actually had a mate to project such desires onto. Never had Alastor gotten lost in such a state before, all his control melting away with this sweet little sinner in his arms. And little would Serenity know, that was only a hint of what she would get to experience from there on out.

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Okay yeah there! I have more than this, but this is where the cohesiveness stops in my word document 😅

Let me know what y’all think and if you have any comments or ideas for moving forward, PLEASE let me know 👀

#i don’t want to set the world on fire 🌹#self shipping #hazbin hotel #self shipping community #self ship community #self ship #alastor #suggestive #f/o x s/i #self insert #oc x canon #Serenity #Hazbin oc #alastor x oc

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itsclydebitches · 1 year

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Fandom: Ted Lasso

Pairing: Ted/Trent (more pairings likely as the story develops)

Rating: Teen and Up

Current Word Count: 1,712

Summary:

In a desperate attempt to save his failing marriage, multi-millionaire entrepreneur Ted Lasso moves his family to Richmond, England, the well-to-do countryside where the locals say things like "indubitably" and parties are conducted with too many, tiny forks. Ted thinks that Michelle's growing distance and his own lack of etiquette are enough to contend with, thanks, but then Henry starts talking about ghosts in their new home... Good thing his handsome writer neighbor knows what's what! Unfortunately for Trent, he was expecting Ted to run off once he realized the hauntings were real, not learn to love his ghosts. ... or him.

Chapter also below the cut!

“Boy howdy. I don’t think a thousand words is enough for that picture.”

Must be the American, Trent thought. It was no great leap in logic considering he’d never heard a drawl that thick before, not on his side of the pond and certainly not out here in the countryside. As his mother used to say, each word of the gentry should be polished like silver, with none of the three S’s working their way into a gentleman’s speech: Slurring, Slang, or Swears. Trent was pretty sure that ‘Boy howdy’ fell somewhere within tarnished territory. If his mother had ever heard that coming out of a neighbor’s mouth she would have expired on the spot, long before the cancer deigned to take her.

Imagining her horror brought a small smile to Trent’s face.

Maintaining his faux interest in the flowerbed, Trent snuck a glance at the man, one eyebrow creeping into his hair when he put a face to the voice. White, brown hair, a truly appalling mustache... though well-muscled, Trent had to admit. Put him in something other than khakis and he might actually pass for a civilized member of society, albeit one out of the American seventies. He was standing partway out of his van that he'd pulled to the side of the road, balanced on the door, using the vantage point to gaze out at their town and into the hills beyond. Trent felt a sudden, sharp pang at the look of wonder on his face. Their little pocket of the world was beautiful.

Snooty, backstabbing, and utterly cursed, but beautiful.

Ah, but he’d stared too long.

“Hey there, pal!”

The American had spotted him, waving enthusiastically despite being just a few yards away. Rather hoping there was no one else to witness this, Trent inclined his head the merest centimeter, not willing to risk his already shaky social status with anything warmer.

“Theodore Lasso,” he said, tone cool.

There was something morbidly fascinating about watching the man’s jaw unhinge, mouth gaping wide enough to catch flies. It was fascinating in the way seeing Ms. Jones’ dress tear at last year’s polo match had been fascinating, or observing Mr. Tartt get drunk enough to spill soup down his front was fascinating - banal, socially stigmatized events that induced emotion only insofar as they made you grateful you weren’t in their place. Watching the man make such a fool of himself on so little, Trent revised his assessment. No idiot could ever truly appreciate his home.

Lasso finally closed his mouth, dipping inside the van to say something to the woman beside him, a vague, child-like shape moving in the back. A second later he was bounding forward and Trent flinched slightly, keeping a hefty distance between them. If Lasso picked up on his reticence, he didn’t show it. The fool was smiling wide enough to blind a man.

“Well now, you’ve got me at a disadvantage, sir.” When Lasso looked him up and down Trent bristled. He resisted the urge to take off his glasses to fiddle with - only to realize a second later that they were still in his pocket. “I feel all wrong-footed, like a baby giraffe trying to dance the polka. I’ve heard talk of ghosts around these parts, but not psychics. Gotta admit, you’ve got the look for it.”

Trent blinked. Was that an insult? He’d heard his fair share of “ruffian”s and “degenerate”s over the years, particularly after he grew his hair out, but “psychic” was a new one. And yet... no. Lasso seemed to consider it a compliment, for what little that was worth.

“No psychic,” Trent said. He ignored the hand Lasso held out until it dropped back to his side. “Trent Crimm, novelist, and I’m far from the only person who knows your name, Mr. Lasso. Your move has been the talk of Richmond ever since the sale went through.”

“Aw, none of that now. Call em Ted!” Absolutely not. “Truth be told, only my mamma calls me ‘Mr. Lasso’ and that’s usually when I’m in some real deep trouble. Deep as the Grand Canyon. Or the Mariana Trench. I don’t actually know which of those is deeper, but I figure if you pile one on top of the other, you’ll roughly get the hole I dug after lying about my report card in the fourth grade. Metaphorical hole, I mean.” Lasso grinned. “But hey, what am I doing lecturing a real, bonafide write about metaphors, eh?”

He leaned forward to give Trent a light punch on the arm, briefly short-circuiting his thought process because the last time someone had done that was... never. Worse, the last time someone - a non-three year-old someone - had touched him was a memory so hazy that Trent feared he wouldn’t be able to summon if back if he tried. He grit his teeth against the cutting remark he wanted to let fly. His mother might not have managed much with him, but she’d instilled enough manners to keep Trent alive in these parts. Seriously though.

Was this a fucking joke?

“Indeed,” he settled on and was horrified to note that Lasso’s smile didn’t dim an iota in the face of his dismissal.

At that moment a woman stuck her head out the van window, hollering Lasso’s name. The wife, Trent presumed. The shape in the back morphed into a young boy with sandy hair, tugging impatiently on his mother’s arm. Perfect American with his perfect spouse and their perfect child, perhaps even with the other 1.5 along the way. The picture sent something curdling deep down in Trent’s stomach. Not that he expected anything else from... wherever exactly Lasso was from.

“Shoot,” Lasso said. “I’ve gotta skeedaddle. That’s Michelle,” he pointed, rather too exuberantly, “and Henry, and I’m sure they’re both eager as beavers to settle in after the trip we’ve had. You know, naps to take, snacks to eat--”

“Ghosts to meet,” Trent finished. He paused at the look on Lasso's face. “...you do believe in ghosts, don’t you?”

Once, back during his university days, Trent had stunned a group of his peers by admitting freely - and with no few snide remarks - that yes, he believed in ghosts, and yes, he had seen them, and no, this wasn’t an elaborate prank, not that he’d have ever pulled one. Something about his intellect and overall vibe seemed to suggest that he was above such fanciful nonsense. Maybe some version of Trent Crimm might have been, but what everyone seemed to forget was that he was a man enamored with research, experience, proof. Nothing was worth more to him than what he’d seen with his own eyes and you didn’t grow up in Richmond without seeing a whole hell of a lot.

Lasso didn’t look at him like Trent had gone off his rocker, so that was a mild point in the man’s favor.

“Well,” Lasso scratched at the back of his head, warm threads of gold catching the light. “I sure do believe that they should believe in themselves. But did I heed the warnings of our lovely realtor who tried to dissuade us from buying a swanky and shockingly cheap mansion because it was haunted?” He grinned. “No, sir, I did not. If any ghosts are roaming the old place, well, I figure they got there first and as the interloper, I’ll just have to learn to share. Like swimmin’ with sharks, you know? That’s their backyard.”

“You need to take this more seriously.”

Why he was attempting to warn the man off? Not only had Lasso done little to engross himself in Trent’s good graces, but allowing him to stumble into his new home unprepared would no doubt go a long way towards softening Trent’s own status in the community. His neighbors would care little about the single father recluse with a traumatized American bumbling about. Letting Lasso enter the Mannion mansion in ignorance could only serve him, surely.

However, his intentions mattered little when a pissed-off wife started striking the horn. Trent flinched at the noise and Lasso did a strange little jig, waving both hands at the van.

“Ah shoot, I’ve really stepped in it now,” he said. “But it was a real pleasure meeting you, Trent Crimm, not a psychic.”

Trent swallowed. “A pleasure... you mean that, don’t you?”

“‘Course I do. Why would I go sayin’ something if I didn’t mean it?”

Oh god. Richmond was going to eat him alive.

With a twiddle of his fingers more suited to a toddler, Lasso jogged until he was close enough to kiss Michelle on the cheek, her annoyance melting into fond exasperation. The boy, Henry, squirmed between them and started chattering about whatever boys his age were concerned with. The three made such an outlandishly perfect picture that Trent had to look away, swallowing compulsively.

Lasso wouldn’t last. Nothing bright like him lasted in Richmond. They didn’t need ghosts to see to that.

As they drove off, Lasso waving through the window, Trent let his imagination spool out in a wave. The Lassos would head straight to the Mannion Mansion where they’d find a decrepit building tinged in loneliness, a literal blanket of emotion that would turn their tidy, picture-perfect world upside down. Not, notably, for the better. After suffering the night in the company of Rupert Mannion, they’d welcome the dawn and attempt to rationalize whatever horrors had occurred. If they lasted the second night they’d no doubt start seeking solace in their neighbors. Too bad they were sandwiched between the Kents and the Tartts. In all honesty, Trent would rather deal with the ghosts.

Three days, maybe four, and then they’d be packing their bags again, unaware that they were the lucky ones, capable of escape.

With a sigh Trent started his own trudge up the hill, heading towards another afternoon of staring down at the blank page, trying to cobble together even one, readable paragraph. There were characters lurking in the back of Trent’s mind, shadowy and undefined, refusing to surface because they knew, like him, that Richmond was no place to be born to.

Oddly though, that day all his characters had the same thick accent, whispering odd turns of phrase in his ear.

#Ted Lasso #Trent Crimm #Tedependent #TedTrent #Ted Lasso fic #finally caved and decided to post what I have for this so far!

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peace-coast-island · 11 months

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Diary of a Junebug

Hot chocolate, a box of gadgets and gizmos, and a sketchbook full of unrealized dreams

There’s nothing like a mountain mocha hot chocolate after a busy day of adventuring and conducting research in the Maidshire Mountains. Hanging out with Ludwig and the Kayode triplets have always been an interesting experience.

When was the last time we all hung out together? I felt like it’s been a couple years since I’ve tagged along with Ludwig on one of his adventures. This one in particular needs a lot of volunteers since we’re mostly searching for stuff and trying to figure things out as the information we have is incomplete. So, accompanying him besides me, the triplets, and Daisy Jane are, Louie, Almie, Pippa, and a bunch of inventors from One Step Forward.

Ludwig’s friend, Edward Ushkton, is the founder of One Step Forward, a company that allows inventors to make their dreams a reality. I’ve heard a bit about him and his accomplishments. He and Ludwig go way back, so they and their families are well acquainted.

The purpose of this trip is to honor the memory of a young and promising inventor who had a lot of potential. I remember hearing a bit about him and how he died under mysterious circumstances. The investigation resulted in the shutdown of a rival company that recruited him when other scandals were uncovered.

Though Finn Costain’s life and career was short, he left a huge impact on his mentor and fellow inventors. According to Jenny, even though Edward Ushkton has achieved a lot, he’s the kind of person who tends to dwell on his failures. It’s been nearly 10 years since Finn’s death and he still blames himself for what happened.

From what I gather, I feel like it’s one of those things where you did everything you could, but at the same time, things could’ve been handled better. Finn was the kind of person who was initially ridiculed, a common thing for eccentric geniuses like him. He was described as someone who’s selfless to a fault, someone who was desperate to fit in but was punished for being different.

A lot of his inventions failed, which made him a bigger target for ridicule. However, Ludwig said that he was no different than any other inventor. Failure’s a part of the process, that’s just how they figure things out and move forward. And like many inventors, Finn was persistent, so he kept going. And eventually, by chance, he met his idol, Edward Ushkton.

At the time, Finn had left his hometown despite his father’s objections. He was having trouble when he was rescued by Ushkton’s wife. He got to know the family and worked at One Step Forward as an assistant while being mentored by Ushkton.

Several months later, Finn returned home and created an irrigation to address an ongoing problem with the dam over there. At first, his plans were ridiculed, even when One Step Forward backed him. Still, he persisted on moving forward with his project, and he succeeded.

The town became prosperous after that, which led to a new set of problems as people got greedy. Finn went through desperate measures to fix things by orchestrating a crisis in order to get everyone to work together. Had it not worked, the entire town would’ve flooded - that was how far he was willing to go and how much trust he had put in the people. A risky gamble that worked out, but like with Project Floodgate, that solution opened up to new conflicts.

This time, a once big shot company and rival of One Step Forward, In-New-vations, took Finn in. He had planned to go back to One Step Forward, but was lured in by the glitz and glamor In-New-Vations claimed they would open him up to. At the time, no one knew of the scandals the company was involved in, though Ushkton had his reservations.

And from there, that’s where it all went downhill for Finn. They manipulated and exploited him, cut him off from his friends, forced him to go against his principles, and finally drove him to suicide. He disappeared after getting into an argument with his father and the CEO of In-New-Vations acted like he never existed when questioned about his whereabouts.

Ushkton decided to launch a massive investigation after digging some stuff up about In-New-Vations. Ludwig and Clarence assisted him as well. Later, a group of high school kids - one of them happened to be Ushkton’s son - found a boat with a bunch of blueprints and hard drives that belonged to Finn. Before jumping into the river, he left behind a lot of evidence that would bring In-New-Vations crashing down and apologized for leaving everyone else to clean up his messes again.

To think how easily we can be led astray. Ludwig worked with Finn on a couple projects and described him as a bright kid who just needed some direction. He wouldn’t have gotten far without his persistence, but having grown up with people often brushed him, Ludwig felt that maybe that was why Finn needed validation. He pointed out that most of the town didn’t really support Finn until he became famous, so he questions their sincerity to this day. That’s why it made perfect sense to Ludwig why Finn let the fame and In-New-Vations get to his head, and why he couldn’t live with himself afterwards.

The triplets and Louie met Finn a handful of times when he was with Ludwig and enjoyed his company. Had he not lived so far away, maybe he would’ve been able to become Ludwig’s assistant. Jenny said that Essie and Clarence got along super well with him and that maybe Ortensia would’ve liked him too.

That was probably the first time I’ve heard Jenny talk about her mother casually. I don’t know too much about that situation other than things got complicated when Clarence sacrificed himself and Ortensia came back into the picture. We kinda had a general consensus not to pry on that. And as for the triplets, I don’t think they really know what’s going on anyway. Ortensia may be their mother, but she hasn’t been around for most of their lives, so she’s nothing more than a stranger to them.

According to Ludwig and Essie, she and the triplets felt that it was best if they kept their distance. The truth is, the triplets don’t really have an opinion on their mother, or more accurately, how they feel about her. Clarence, Essie, and Ludwig were the ones that raised them, not her. I think it was Clarry who said something along the lines of she’s got her own life and they have theirs.

There had been some resentment at first but by now they just kinda accepted that they can’t force something that isn’t there. From what I get, Ortensia wasn’t the kind of person who was meant to be a parent. Even if she hadn’t disappeared on an adventure gone wrong, it probably wouldn’t change the fact that was and will always be a thrill seeker.

I imagine she’s probably similar to Xenia’s mother - the triplets have made similar comparisons. Xenia’s mother was a daredevil who constantly disregarded her safety for the thrill of adventure. Just as many had predicted, she paid the price with her life and left behind a daughter who barely remembers her.

The triplets had long accepted that their mother’s fate was something similar, so it stirred up complicated feelings when it turned out that she was alive, although trapped somewhere for years. That, and the fact that their uncle sacrificed himself to free her, which resulted in her being forced to kill her brother - or the shell of what’s left of him, as they later found out - really fucked things up, to put it simply.

Lyndi mentioned that Ortensia drops by Essie’s from time to time, but even then, she and her sisters rarely talk to her. After all, by the time she came back in the picture, the triplets were just staring college. Plus, she was too wrapped up in her brother and the guilt she had for having to kill him. That’s still another sore spot between her and the triplets. And I’m afraid that’s one that might never be resolved.

Like with Finn Costain, it feels like one of those scenarios where everything went wrong and there was no good outcome no matter how hard you try. I’m not trying to be too negative, and as much as I wish that things could have turned out better, there’s really no use getting tied up in what could have been.

Should things have ended up this way? Probably not. But what’s happened is past and all we could really do is hopefully not make the same mistakes.

Anyway, so a while back, Ushkton and Ludwig found a box of stuff from Finn’s old office in One Step Forward that was thought to be lost. When Finn returned home to propose Floodgate, he had intended to return to One Step Forward and get his own office as well. That’s how half his stuff ended up over there, and he never got the chance to come back. His office space went to someone else and his stuff were put in storage, only to get misplaced when the company relocated.

Ushkton later discovered that most of Finn’s stuff ended up in a storage space, though there’s still some things that haven’t been recovered yet. At least most of the stuff they found were prototypes, blueprints, files - basically bits and pieces of his work during his time there. Even though a lot of his projects never came to fruition, it’s still worth looking into and archiving.

One notable find was a sketchbook where Finn jotted down pretty much everything. At first glance, it’s hard to decipher, but Ushkton and Ludwig have worked with him enough to understand how his mind works. It’s amazing to see all the work left behind on these pages. All those ideas and dreams, stored away in an old sketchbook.

Even after we’re long gone, we leave something behind, something to remind the world that we had long existed, no matter how insignificant we are.

By using Finn’s research, Ushkton and Ludwig were able to continue with this thing codenamed Project Wisdom. It was some collaboration thing with Maidshire University’s School of Science - a series of research projects, to be accurate. Finn was working with some researchers over there and made valuable contributions to their work.

This project in particular needs a lot of volunteers to clean up a lake and collect plant specimens. Decades ago it was polluted because of some weapons testing facility several blocks away. Ludwig said by the time the facility closed, the lake was so badly polluted that it had to be closed off to the public.

Efforts had been made to clean it up but it was still a huge undertaking. A lot of progress has been done over the past twenty years thanks to Maidshire and One Step Forward. A lot of the research over there has to do with environmental science and combating pollution. That was where Finn was inspired to start Project Floodgate.

The lake, at first glance, doesn’t look too remarkable. But compared with pictures from thirty years ago, it’s amazing to see how much pollution there was. The area looked like a landfill! If they continue to make steady progress, the city hopes to eventually open the lake to the public within the next five years.

When we’re not at the lake, we’re checking out the shops and hanging out the cafes. There’s this popular cafe near the university that’s famous for its mountain mocha hot chocolate. The weather’s been a little chilly so hot chocolate feels just right.

I can see why it’s popular as the consistency is perfect - not too watery or rich, so it’s something I can enjoy without getting tired of it quickly. The coffee balances well with the dark chocolate - I’m thinking kinda like a fancy and richer latte, if that makes sense. The one they serve at the university cafe’s considered the classic but every place has their own spin on it. Sorry to be basic, but the classic’s my favorite, though the rest are good too.

Tomorrow’s more of the same - cleanup at the lake and then chilling for the rest of the day - which I don’t mind. Jenny’s our tour guide as she’s the most familiar with the area since she tags along with Ludwig the most, so she covered a lot of ground.

Along with this being a nice little vacation, it also feels nice to contribute to someone’s life’s work in hopes of building a better future. No matter how short or seemingly insignificant or forgettable someone’s life may be, they will always leave something behind, whether it be memories or something physical that represents who they were.

Ushkton worked hard to protect Finn’s integrity, not just as an inventor, but as a person too. He could’ve easily just taken Finn’s work and run with it while leaving him as merely a footnote, but from I what I see, he’s not that kind of person. I think the fact that he goes out of his way to show respect like that says a lot about him.

To pick up where someone left off is, in my opinion, something you should do if you know for a fact that you’re doing it out of respect for them. Finn was someone who had a lot of dreams and ambitions, and it’s a shame that he was never able to act on many of them. But that doesn’t diminish his accomplishments, and nor should he only be known for what could have been.

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#animal crossing #animal crossing pocket camp #diary of a junebug #headcanon ramble

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