#the most tenuous link to the prompt ever

[asnowfern]

Crimson Starlight

Summary: His fingers twitch before clenching into a fist at the side of his body. He wears a nostalgic smile as amethyst eyes take in every detail, lost in every smudge and swipe of water colours. A secret conversation between him and the long gone artist. 

A lost history of the world's most iconic female impressionist artist and her first ever sale of an art piece. 

~~~

OR Vampire Rhys and human Feyre falling in love in 1880s Paris.

Rating: M, some blood and violence

WC: 4.2k

Read on AO3

A/N: Happy Feysand Week everybody!

Written for day 2 of @officialfeysandweek2023 prompt: Hobbies Because she likes to paint🎨 and he likes blood🩸 (The link is tenuous I know)

Thank you so much to @octobers-veryown for helping me check on the art history stuff! Love you💜

THE FEYRE ARCHERON EXHIBIT

Defying English societal norms and her middle class background, Feyre Archeron propelled to notoriety at a private art gallery in 1889, rendering critics of the community speechless with her stunning use of colours and bold impressionistic still life paintings. Eventually, paving the way for the self-taught artist to win the gold medal at the 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris. 

Come celebrate with us one of the most prolific and trailblazing female artists in history.

***

She watches from her corner in the cool exhibition as the man enters the room. His tailored jacket clings to his broad frame, the first two opened buttons of crisp white shirt reveal whorling black ink and tantalisingly teases lean muscles underneath. His presence is commanding even  as his steps hitched in the middle of the exhibit, sharp violet eyes zeroing in on a portrait hung at the opposite end of the room, almost hidden from view from the general public. As if, it's a portrait which only he knows the existence of.

The lights of the museum seemingly follows him as he strides towards the painting, an aureate glow reflecting off dark skin with every step. He looks up at the smeared bright colours tracing three distinct lifeforms, the brush strokes in a distinctly different style. 

His fingers twitch before clenching into a fist at the side of his body. He wears a nostalgic smile as amethyst eyes take in every detail, lost in every smudge and swipe of water colours. A secret conversation between him and the long gone artist. 

A lost history of the world's most iconic female impressionist artist and her first ever sale of an art piece. 

===

A deafening crack of thunder over Hyde Park snaps Feyre out of focus, her hand twitches and sends dark shades of brown splashing over delicate painted hands. Ruining what was supposed to be portraits of her sisters. Matching storm in crystal blue eyes narrows as she swears, her mind races on how she could correct the misstep and salvage the painting.

Another clap of Zeus's lightning bolt sends rain down on the garden. It quickly soaks the canvas sitting and accumulates water on her precious paint. Dismayed, Feyre closes the easel and gathers her materials. Within the next minute, she ducks into a small stand and relies on the small red brick structure above her for shelter. 

Assessing eyes surveys her now damp canvas and sculpted lips curl inwards in dismay. Canvas are expensive, paint all the more so. For them to be wasted and ruined by the rain. The number of meals she may have to skip out on to recuperate the losses. 

She stares idly at the splotchy colours as her mind overlays new images of how the painting could look like. Her hand pauses in mid-air as she reaches for a new brush. It is something different, something new. 

Leaving no further room for doubt, she lowers her brush to the canvas in a smooth decisive stroke. With a slight curve to the lips, her brushes levels swipe after swipe, adding more colours, more shapes, more shadows. More. 

Suddenly, her hand stills. Feyre inhales sharply.

A chill runs down her spine and raises the hair at the back of her neck. Feyre shivers as she looks up, surprised that night has fallen in what had to be hours since she escaped to the shelter. 

As fast as it came, the pressing fear lifts from her chest and returns her breath back to her. Her fingers tremble as she dumps the brushes into her cup, quickly rinsing out the paint. 

"That's a beautiful painting," a low, silky voice says from behind her. 

Despite instincts screaming at her to run, Feyre turns towards the source of the voice and her mouth goes dry. 

The man is impossibly beautiful. 

Sharp sensual lines trace his facial features, his mouth pulls into a smirk with a hint of white gleaming through. He draws himself closer, wrapping her in a sea of salt and citrus. She feels her back practically arching towards him in response - closer, closer. 

He leans, not into her but towards the canvas, pausing for a stretched second. When he finally turns his gaze on her, the world quietens. For there are no colours that Feyre could mix to emulate the violet in his eyes. No, not just violet but the varying shades of blue and purple. It is like a galaxy, drawing you in until nothing else matters. 

"Hello, darling," he purrs. 

The words break the enchantment and Feyre steps away, her back colliding into a pillar. The stone cold surface spurs her into action, hands flying to keep her belongings. 

Rough calloused fingers gently close around her wrist. He asks lightly, "What's the hurry?" 

Feyre fights to keep her eyes open, fights to not lose herself in the smooth silk of his voice. She breathes out shakily, "I don't want any trouble. Just let me go and you'll never have to see me again." 

"Why would I ever want that?" He returns sharply, her hand remains rigid in the air even as he releases it.

A tension locks in her jaw as she pushes down the primal fear. She lifts her chin slightly, "Well, then what do you want?" 

"I want," he pauses as if to collect his thoughts, his eyes drifting back to the coarse board sitting on the easel, "I want to see the finished work." 

"Why?"

"Because I might like to buy it." 

The words sound genuine and takes her by surprise. She swallows the lump, her heartbeat kicking up a notch, "You're lying."

The man studies her for a moment, she resists the urge to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Finally, he asks, "Can you afford to let me go on the possibility that I might be telling the truth?"

Hot wells of embarrassment burn her cheeks as he touches on a sore subject. She has never sold a painting. Without the easy privilege that comes with wealth and titles, a female artist with no formal training or connections can never sell or exhibit.

Forever an amateur. 

She straightens her back to raise steely blue eyes to vibrant violet, saying carefully, "I'd consider it if you're telling the truth."

The edges of his mouth flick upwards, "Let's set up a meet when you've completed," he hands her a card with a name and address in Grosvenor Square, "We can discuss over dinner." 

He lifts her hand to brush his lips, spreading warmth over her frigid knuckles. Feyre swallows thickly, "This time, a week from now" 

He glances up, his lips lingering a touch longer than what is probably appropriate before drawing himself back to full height, "Very well, bring the completed piece and a couple more of your favourite ones. I will send a carriage to you at seven pm next Tuesday." 

She nods and gives her address down in Bayswater, her mouth set in a grim line. The man steps a respectful distance backward, giving her slight how, "I'll be counting down the minutes before I am able to see you again…"

"Feyre"

His eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky, "till then, Feyre darling." 

Feyre looks up at the blanket of clouds as she walks home, her hands clutching tightly onto the easel. She hopes that she did not just invite a murderer into the home of her and her sisters.

===

Feyre stares at the intricate designs etched into the wooden door. She shifts slightly and readjusts her grip on the numerous covered paintings sandwiched between her arm and body. Taking a deep breath, she raises her hand to grab the knocker. Only for the door to swing open to reveal her mysterious buyer - Rhysand, from the card, her brain reminds her.

Her eyes unwittingly drags up and down the male. He, Rhysand, has shed his jacket today. The sheer white shirt hangs loosely on his body but does little to hide his muscular physique. With a teasing smirk and another caress of his lips against the back of her palm, he leads her down a tastefully decorated corridor. 

The tight trousers, Feyre thinks, was definitely a conscious choice on his part. 

"Is there no one else here?" She asks as they enter a dining room, her head swivelling around, noting the lack of people around.

"Why, Feyre," Rhysand teases, smiling widely to reveal sharp pearly white canines, "are you enquiring after my marital status?" Feyre is about to scoff when he croons, his eyes slightly darkened, "Fortunately, I remain a bachelor." 

This time, Feyre does scoff, settling her paintings down with a huff, "It doesn't concern me if a potential art dealer is a married man or a bachelor. Although," she nods her head in gesture of her surroundings even as he bends at the waist to carefully study the pieces, "you don't seem like a very discerning collector."

Rhysand draws to his full height as he smiles wanely, "There hasn't been art that made me want to collect as much as yours."

She withholds a frown to mark his sincerity, announcing, "I have not yet decided if you're conman or a predator." 

He lets out a barking laugh, "Darling, I am sincere in my offer, but," his voice drops into dark velvet and awakens a dangerous heat in her, "make no mistake about it. I am most definitely a predator." 

With her hackles raised, she meets the darkened stare with her own, "And what makes you think that I'm a prey?" 

"No, you're not," Amethyst eyes glint as he dips his chin in agreement. Then as fast as a switch, he drops the heat and speaks formally, "Fifty pounds for the painting from the park and a thirty percent commission on all future sales."

Though she is sure her eyes are round with disbelief, she forces the breathlessness out of her voice, "Let's talk terms over dinner."

Dinner goes smoothly, a simple yet elegant affair. Servants slip in and out only to bring in food. Gentle clanks of chinaware bounce around the room as they eat. 

"Paris?" Feyre asks incredulously, her dessert fork hitting the plate loudly, "You want me to move to Paris? With you?"

He shrugs, the very picture of nonchalance, "Is there anywhere else better to be?" 

Her jaw clamps down on the delicate pastry. He is right, of course. The city of light is the epicenter of Europe's art scene - the birthplace of the often condescended upon impressionism. A place she could flourish much better than stuffy London. The marginal freedom she could attain as a female artist. 

Her sisters are comfortable with the small inheritance they've received with their mother's death. She could modestly live off the money Rhysand is offering for the painting for a couple of months. She could entrench herself in the landscape, learning and absorbing. She could actually be an artist. She could, she could, she could. 

Her heart lifts ever so slightly in hope and excitement.

She could.

===

Feyre wrestles her hands behind her back as she observes the casual art dealers surrounding her. It's been a few weeks since her move to Paris and things have progressed well enough that when she heard about Helion Spell-cleaver's private art exhibition, she paid the small fee and signed up for entry. 

"Look, Dagdan. It's the same distinctive wild brushstrokes as before. This must be Rhysand Night's artist then," a low voice sneers from a distance, "the new star."

Feyre releases the iron grip on her hands and forces them open and relaxed. Her back straightens with every stretched beat as she turns to the pair, schooling her expression into one of impassion.

Dagdan and Brannagh. 

Hailing from the upper echelons of French government and strong familial ties to the leadership of the society of French artists, the sibling duo made their debut at the last Salon with a piece Feyre found to be derivative. A pale attempt to pander to the recent commercial success of mixing impressionism elements into classical art styles the Salon prefers. A view that is sometimes whispered clandestinely around the community but never to their faces.

"Yes," the brother tuts, his elbow tight around his sister's, "and the same obscene mix of colours. But the price that it fetched? They say it's avante garde but I don't get it. Perhaps the perception of the common," his eyes flick disdainfully at the slightly frayed material of her plain cotton dress and distinct lack of a corset and bustle, "just isn't something that we can understand." 

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Feyre forces on a polite barely passable smile, interjecting, "Perhaps, the perception of the common is more suited for the masses. I couldn't possibly begin to understand the, er, beauty from a trained eye." 

"No," Brannagh curls a perfectly shaped lip in haughty contempt, "you really wouldn't." Her voice drops a decibel, "Mark my words, your name will be forgotten the day you stop offering extra services to your sponsor."

Her fists clenched into tight balls as they stalk away, the low rumble of their sniggers fuelling the burn in Feyre's cheeks. 

The words still haunt Feyre days later. She growls in frustration as she lifts a charcoal to paper for the umpteenth time that day. Her mind draws a blank. 

Obscene mix of colours. 

The charcoal breaks into pieces as it collides against the hard floor. Feyre bends her knees to pick up the pieces and inadvertently collapses to the ground. The cool sting of marble permeates through the fabric to reach her skin. 

She twists her body slightly to rest against the leg of the chair, her eyes falling shut. It's just to rest her eyes, she tells herself. The next time she opens them, she will be ready to face her canvas. She thinks as Brannagh and Dagdan's voices melt into a pot of derisive laughter.

==

"Feyre, wake up!" 

Large hands envelope her, pressing her against a stiff jacket while gently shaking her awake. Feyre whines at the intrusion, "Five more minutes." 

The pressure of fingertips on her lessens and a low chuckle reverberates pleasantly down her spine. "Wake up, darling."

Her lids flutter open and Rhys swims into vision, lines of concern carved into his face. The lines lessen as he takes in her waking form, gradually giving into tender amusement. 

"Rhys?"

"You had me worried for a moment there"

She groans, sitting up. A warm palm lingers on her back, lending her support, "What time is it?" 

"Nine," he answers, his brows pinched together. 

Feyre rubs the bridge of her nose. She is more than two hours late for their appointment, no wonder he showed up. She gives a woeful look, "I'm really sorry about this. I was just really tired." 

He doesn't say anything. Instead the arms which are still wrapped around her tighten and there is suddenly nothing else in her world but a salty sea of citrus. 

"I was so afraid that something had happened to you." The confession comes out in the slightest of whispers. 

"It's just an ill-timed nap," she murmurs into his chest, his confession prompting one of her own, "I've been having a block the past few days. Ever since the gallery." 

They lock gazes, Rhys searching her expression. But for what, Feyre cannot say. Finally, a familiar smirk returns, "I think I have a solution for that." 

Refusing to let her change out of her paint speckled dress, he ushers her into a carriage and sets them off with haste. The infuriating man refuses to let her sneak a peek out of the carriage window, even after they have arrived at their destination.

"Is this really necessary?" She huffs as he ties a scarf around her eyes. 

"Yes, now hush." 

With a last good natured hush, Feyre loops a shaky arm around her mysterious broker's elbow and follows. She relaxes after a couple of minutes.

"Hold tight, darling." 

"What, why?"

Feyre stifles a gasp as the ground beneath her moves upwards, leaving her stomach behind. With reflexes faster than what the other probably expected, she whips the blindfold off her head. 

Dark metallic structures whirl past her at impossible speed, bringing them higher and higher. She lurches forward as the contraception comes to a halt, only strong arms which are still circled around her shoulders keep her upright. 

She gingerly steps forward to move towards the viewing balcony. Every inch of her body thinks of nothing but to lean against that edge, "How? This isn't open to the public yet " 

He gives a mysterious smile of his, "I have my ways." 

She sniffs at the non-answer. But it doesn't matter, she peers downwards at the small dots that littered the streets of Paris, the shimmering glow of the street lamps glinting at her like stars. It is suddenly obvious why Paris is known as the City of Light. 

But to speak of stars.

She shifts her gaze upwards and reaches out a hand. She's so close to the stars, closer than she's ever been before. 

Colours burst in her mind, a cacophony of swirls and lines. Her lips relax and pull upwards at the image. She turns back to Rhys, "Thank you"

The male remains silent, his eyes are shaped like the moon and reflected wonder, "Do that again" 

"Do what?" 

His lips trembled, "Smile"

Her face splits open as a warmth fills her chest.

"Welcome to Paris, Feyre darling."

===

Feyre races down the street, swerving through Parisians, earning herself disapproving glances and tuts. She ignores them in favour of the paper scrunched up in her palm and the bursting excitement in her chest. 

Exposition Universelle, Exposition Universelle. They are actually going to showcase her art at the Exposition Universelle - the world's fair to show the progress and success of the French and they wanted to display her art. The art of a no-name, English female impressionist. Her entire being vibrates with excitement.

She barges through Rhys's door, her chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath. The brunette darts around before dashing up the stairs and into Rhys's study.

Never mind that she did not have an appointment. For what is an appointment in the face of such fantastic news?

Apparently, very important. She thinks as her eyes numbly take in the sight before her.

Her throat fills with pennies, her tongue becoming numb in her mouth. Blood roars in her ears.

Rhys is locked in a lover's embrace with another woman. Her head lolls back and her eyes are glazed. She sighs in pleasure as familiar large hands hold the back of her head in an iron grip, his full lips pressed to her neck. 

She should be mortified. Maybe even betrayed. Yet, a tight, blooming heat erupts in her stomach. Feyre's back hits the shelf behind her with a thud. Rhysand snaps his head dangerously towards her. His hand loosens on the woman, who slides to the floor.

Twin streaks of blood flow from his mouth and dribble down his chin. 

With her heart still pounding jungle beats, Feyre turns around and bolts. She barely makes it to the stairs before a flash of black snarls and sweeps her off the ground, launching them into the air. 

They land roughly at the base of the steps, hard arms absorbing the crucial impact from the ground. His heavy body pins her down. A guttural growl vibrates the narrow space between them. 

She should be terrified, horrified, petrified. And she is all of those things. Yet, her brain is still caught up in the way Rhys had embraced the woman, her moans and sighs of limp pleasure, the trail of blood running down his chin as he fixed her a feral, hungry glare. 

Teeth, no, fangs scrape up the surface of her cotton dress and rips the high collar. His hot breath tickles the length of her exposed throat and raises goosebumps. Another low snarl escapes his throat.

His pupils are blown wide open, a black hole consumes the vibrant galaxy she is used to seeing. No, this is not the Rhys she knows. A paralysing fear seizes her body.

He lowers his head once more, sharp fangs join the soft wet tongue, poised at her jugular. Feyre squeezes her eyes shut, a choked sob escapes her as pain erupts, "Rhys"

Immediately, the hard pressure lifts and is replaced by a pliable heat. The pain lessens. 

"I am so sorry, Feyre," she relaxes her eyes open to see sorrowful violet eyes staring back at her, "Sleep" 

There is nothing left to do but to let the darkness pull her under. 

===

Dear Feyre darling, There are no pretty words I can use to defend what happened, nor will I ply you with lies. The truth is I am an unholy creature, an undead monster of the night. I prey on humans and leech off them. So as much as it pains me, I understand if you never want to see me again. If it is agreeable to you, Helion Spell-cleaver has agreed to be your agent and will be awaiting your correspondence. My dear heart, in the short weeks that we have known each other, you have become everything. You brought beauty into the humdrum of my centuries of existence. A shining star in the endless dark sky. A brightness that I sully with my very presence. A fact I grew comfortable ignoring. But alas, reality has caught up and I can't pretend to be what I am not any longer.  Instead, I wish you the very best - at the upcoming Exposition Universelle and all future endeavours. I know you will shine, as you always have, and always will. Yours eternally, Rhysand

The paper remains crumbled in Feyre's hand as she reads it for the umpteenth time. Her heart grows heavier with every read, her heart that has no business weighing her down. 

An undead creature, an undead monster of the night. 

Nothing about that statement is wrong. The image Rhysand drew in his letter is one that matches her memory. Yet, it is also completely different from the image of Rhys in her head.

That Rhys is teasing quips and arrogant smirks. That Rhys is encouraging words and a confidante. That Rhys is soft smiles against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. 

She can't quite reconcile the two but she knows without a doubt that she isn't changing agents, not yet. She gives the River Seine a last glance, appreciating the glitters of setting sun, and stands up. Her body twists towards the main street when she collides head first in a hard chest, gasping.

Obsidian hair and pitiless dark eyes. 

"Congratulations on the exhibition, peasant." 

Sharp pain explodes in her abdomen. Feyre opens her mouth to scream but it is covered by a cloth. The cruel glint in Dagdan's eyes stands out in an otherwise nonchalant face. White hot agony spreads along her body as he twists the blade. Metallic tang fills her mouth.

No, she's actually going to die here. 

The exhibition. She's going to die before she succeeds. Her sisters. She is going to be abandoned in a foreign land without ever getting to see them again.

Rhys. She is going to die before she ever figures out how things could be resolved. A scream of pure terror and a primal growl tear her away from her thoughts. Air floods her nostrils. 

Inky blue-black hair, bright violet eyes. 

Rhys's face is dark with rage, his lips folded into a thin line. Blood splatters his cheeks and immaculate velvet jacket. Next to him, Dagdan sobs, clutching on to his severed arm. Brannagh kneels over her brother, her neck tilted up at the male, her face locked in fear. 

He turns a fearsome glare on them, his deep baritone blends with a beast-like growl, "Jump into the river and remember, we were never here." 

There might have been a splash but darkness edges her vision and her world is muffled, nothing but a rain of salt and citrus. It feels like she's falling deep into the vast ocean.

"Feyre," a devastated voice reaches out for her, shining a beacon of light, "I can't save you. Not without condemning you."

Warm liquid gurgles her mouth as she forces out the words, "I'm not ready to die."

She continues, sending the gentlest look she can muster into conflicted anguished shades of violet, "Do it."

===

She watches as the nostalgic smile wraps around the man like a fitted glove. Then the moment vanishes. Giving the dark frame and vibrant colours one last look, he straightens his jacket, flicking off a lint and leaves. 

She emerges from her corner, her mouth widens into a predatory smile. It is time to move. She smoothly navigates her way through the quiet crowd, memorising every guard location, every exit and every camera. 

Not that it matters much, so long as she does it right. 

She carefully looks around her surroundings before fixing her attention on the painting. She remembers the shaky hands and skittish strokes. Her first time blending colours in that manner, the first of many to come. Well, they do say you never forget your first. 

With a broad, catlike grin, Feyre grips tightly onto the painting and walks out of the doors and the museum goers' minds. Later, as the painting hangs proudly in their doorway, Feyre raises a crimson glass to Rhys, the galaxy eyes that she can never tire of sparkle at her. The glasses clink together lightly. 

'Happy 120th anniversary, my love." 

#feysandweek2023 #feysand #feysand fic #Feyre Archeron #Rhysand #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Vampire!Rhys need I say more?

[mistresslrigtar]

Summary:

Snapshots of moments between Link and Zelda post-TotK, as they come to terms with the traumatic events of the Upheaval and slowly rediscover each other and their love. How many times can two people be forced to start their lives over?

Each chapter will be under 1k, so easy to read. Enjoy! Many thanks to @floraunderground for looking about half of these prompts over! The other half are unbetaed, so apologies in advance 😅

Chapter One - Cozy (day one prompt for @zelinktines24)

Read below or on AO3 HERE

Late afternoon sunlight streams through the room’s one window, casting an elongated golden rectangle across the smooth wooden floor. Standing in the doorway of the study Link built for her, Zelda knows the irrational fear that consumes her is out of place in this otherwise cozy room. Why is it, months after she’s been transformed back to herself, can she not shake the fear that any minute she’s going to wake up a mindless dragon floating far above Hyrule? It gnaws at her sanity, threatening to break the tenuous hold she currently has on her daily life. 

Zelda tries and fails not to think about the fact that Link built this room during a time when he knew she’d swallowed the secret stone, willingly giving up her soul and him in the hopes of saving Hyrule once and for all. He had no way of knowing if she would ever return, but all the same, his first thought was only of her and what would make her happiest.

Even though he’s yet to say the words since her return, Zelda feels the love that permeates the walls. It’s infused in every stone, wooden slab, and glass pane. Stepping into the room, she runs her fingers over the leather blotter pad in the center of the simple wooden desk before settling in the cushioned chair. An iron lantern hangs from the ceiling directly above, and that, along with the round hurricane lamp on the corner of the desk offers plenty of light when the room grows dark. Link has filled a bookshelf that spans one wall from floor to ceiling with all her books, scientific journals, and a few new ones he picked up during his quest to find her. Surrounded by all the things she loves most in the world, there is only one thing missing. Him.

Zelda gazes out the window at the setting sun, dipping beyond the peaks of Death Mountain Range. Link, ever patient and kind, has never questioned her need for solitude and gives her all the space she desires. Today is the first day since she’s returned that he’s ventured out past the property line. He’s in the valley between the mountains and Tarrey Town visiting Hudson, who’d sent word that morning of needing Link’s assistance. Link had checked in with her before leaving, and she’d assured him she would be alright and was ready to be on her own. 

All the same, she’d nearly raced after him when the silence that fell over their home when he left became oppressive to the point of becoming unbearable. Zelda doesn’t want to keep Link from enjoying one of the things he loves best, helping others. So instead, she’s retreated to this small, intimate room, where she can feel his presence the strongest, and awaits his return.

Twisting in her chair, she plucks the journal chronicling Link’s quest to track down the dragon tears. She’s reviewed it countless times, rereading his growing despair with the revelation of each faded memory until the last where his entries cease. The page is blank after the recount of the final memory. That suddenly wordless void speaks volumes of Link’s desolate acceptance that once again the needs of the many have outweighed the needs of the two.

Her heart aches as she traces her fingers over the page, recalling his terror-filled eyes as she fell away from him. If it hadn’t been for Sonia and Rauru, Zelda is uncertain what she would have done, lost in the past with no hope of returning home. As it was, the choice she’d been forced to make had nearly cost them everything, if not for the saving grace of two spirits who had swiftly become second parents to Zelda.

But what if? The weight of the ultimate decision to sacrifice herself fills Zelda with guilt and dread. She had no way of knowing if it would work, if the Master Sword would be restored, better than ever. She would never have known and Link would have been left bereft in a broken, hopeless Hyrule, knowing she’d relinquished her soul for nothing, while she drifted aimlessly above, without a care in the world. Or worse, it did work, but the choice was truly irreversible, and he’d been left alone with a restored sword that had been the bane of both their existences since the very beginning. Clenching her fists, Zelda bites back a sob, glad Link isn’t there to hear her crying… again.

#legend of zelda #zelink #the legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #self reflection #angst #dealing with depression #rediscovering lost love

[remidyal]

Bad Ideas of the Day, Part Three

My monthly-ish roundup of my bad dimension 20 fanfic ideas of the day prompts! As ever, all of these can be written by anyone who cares to do so.

Part two can be found here and part one here

Bad Idea Of the Day, Multi-class Edition: Following basic pattern recognition skills, Fig decides and convinces four of the other bad kids that the key to getting powerful wizard abilities is not hard work and study, but having a name that starts with the letter A. Can Adaine deal with walking in to class on the first day of school and finding five new students in her wizard classes, Afig, Akristen, Ariz, Agorgug, and Abian, or will she murder her friends on the spot?

Bad idea of the day, Sicktember is a curse edition: Out of respect for Aelwyn's compromised immune system following her time in the orb, the residents of Mordred Manor actually take proper precautions to avoid getting her sick during the following flu season. A fluff piece and alas seemingly pure fantasy.

Bad idea of the day, yes I already did one today edition: Fig, actually doing a bard assignment for once, needs to build a ballad for her family history and decides to include the entire insane non-Gorgug bad kids family tree, even the most tenuous links in it like Kristen and Aelwyn.

Bad idea of the day, role swap edition: Fabian, prince of Leviathan, must deal with a ship that has been raiding his father's trading vessels, led by two sisters who are pirating with varying degrees of reluctance to bring wealth back to their greedy and demanding parents

Bad idea of the day, backstory mix and match edition: In the summer before high school, Kristen and her entire family are ripped apart by the discovery that she is half-devil; meanwhile, wood elf Fig wakes up one morning to a god whispering in her head and is deeply annoyed because they won't just let her sleep in.

(If I want to do it for all of the bad kids, hmm… Riz's parents are actually retired thieves, while Bill Seacaster was actually a privateer working for Solace the whole time; Adaine is adopted and aware of it and hoping her birth parents would actually love her, while Gorgug has a wild gnomish older sister who may be up to some nefarious activity)

Bad idea of the day, every show needs a musical episode by its third season edition: The residents of Elmville have been cursed into bursting into song at the slightest provocation, with reactions ranging from the amused (Fig, Kristen) to the murderous (Riz, Aelwyn). What kind of villain could be behind such an impromptu act of theater?

Why, it's Sam Reich of course. He's been here the… you know the rest.

Bad idea of the day, I Like Werewolves Okay? edition - KINGSTON fails his con save to avoid becoming a werewolf during the train fight and everyone else needs to help him adjust without gnawing on too many people.

Bad idea of the day, the writer had to scroll back to see if it had already done a bad idea of the day today edition: A groundhogs day esque time loop for one of the bad kids, but it's not a dramatic day or anything special and in fact it's just kind of boring and miserable. This turns out to eventually be revealed to be revenge by Arthur Aguefort for some petty and long-forgotten-by-the-kid slight.

Bad idea of the day, campaign fusion edition: Arthur Aguefort sends the Bad Kids on their most dangerous and critical mission yet, shrinking them down to clean out his fridge and prevent the vegetables within from grouping up to kill him before he can eat them, without causing too much damage to the ecosystem he's been maintaining for the last five centuries. Can these mere fleshy beings stop this uprising against 'the hungry one' in the world of Calorum?

Bad idea of the day, early morning edition: Kristen's gay awakening is triggered not by Tracker, but rather by someone who her parents would hate even more: The cute bi rebellious tiefling in her new party.

Bad idea of the day, portal to hell edition: Daybreak succeeds in condemning Kristen to hell, which doesn't actually end the world but does mean Kristen's stuck in hell. Can she find a new god worth following in such spicy surroundings?

Bad idea of the day, after school special edition: Fig and Aelwyn get part-time jobs going around Solace to "demonstrate" the dangers of drugs and drinking by going to local school parties and faking getting into lethal car accidents, overdoses, and other mishaps to scare those local students into being drug free, mostly because both of them secretly find it funny and in Aelwyn's case she needs the money

Bad idea of the day, Double Your Pleasure edition: Riva, never quite certain how the pleasure putty they're selling works, finds out about oral sex and then makes the determination that the explosive material should be marketed as chewing gum. The ensuing pleasure blows people's minds!

Bad idea of the day, Oops All Spells edition: The bad kids manage to not get detention on the first day and to avoid accidentally playing into daybreak's hands, ending up in normal parties. Many of them have many troubles out of this, but the worst is for Fig, who finds herself tempted into hanging out with the first other tiefling she's ever met even if he is a little bit of a loser, one Johnny Spells

Bad idea of the day, Mentopolis edition: The Fix gets an assignment to wipe out serial distracter Imelda Pulse before she can ruin any more coworker's birthdays

Bad idea of the day, Afterlife edition: Figueroth Faeth is very bad at the paperwork of her domain in Hell, even after nearly fifty years running it. Luckily for her, her good friend and paperwork expert Riz Gukgak has just died of old age, and Fig isn't above cheating him out of heaven in order to get his administrative expertise in Hell.

Bad idea of the day, party swap edition: As part of a junior year test, all of the students in that year must do a relatively easy quest mixed up into different parties, with no two members of a typical party allowed to be together. How do the bad kids handle doing a mission with people who are less, well, generally insane and bloodthirsty than they are?

Bad Idea of the Day, Spy Versus Spy edition: All of the bad kids are on secret missions to spy on Arthur Aguefort and his school, with varying degrees of willingness and conflicting goals: Adaine for Fallinel, Kristen on behalf of the church, Fig on behalf of Hell, Riz for Kalina, Fabian for his father, and Gorgug for the Solisian government itself through his parents.

Bad idea of the day, A Crown of Candy edition: Amethar dies in the initial ambush, the way Brennan had frankly probably planned for. Can the remnants of house Rocks hold things together and avenge their fallen king?

Bad idea of the day, Nightmare Forest edition: Rather than illusions, the nightmare forest sequence is made up of a Freddy Kreuger-esque sequence of actual dreams in the Bad Kids' actual sleeps, with them needing to survive their respective worst nightmares in order to make it to the place at the center of dreams where they can find the Nightmare King.

Bad idea of the day, fake holiday edition: Aguefort in junior year includes a class on self-promotion, and Fig and Adaine, taking it extremely seriously, start a holiday honoring the anniversary of Riz murdering Daybreak.

#fantasy high #a starstruck odyssey #dimension 20 #fanfic #the unsleeping city #a crown of candy #bad ideas

[coconutcordiale]

Yay! Congrats on the 1k, babes!! You know I love your writing so I’d love a drabble. How about for the closer prompt? BB x reader or hangster. I love them both. ❤️

hours don't turn into days (pt one)

full fic on ao3

pairing- rooster x hangman

synopsis-

There’s fog edging into the corners of his vision, surreal and dream-like. He’s going through the motions, operating on instinct. The only place his head is clear is in the air. In the silence of his jet, with nothing between him and endless miles of the sky but clouds and the crackle of the radio in his helmet, he can see vividly, can feel at peace.

or, bradley's struggling post-mission and hangman keeps calling him for some reason

warnings- 18+ explicit sexual content (blow jobs, anal sex, dom/sub undertones, praise kink, orgasm delay), angst, anxiety, bradley bradshaw's bummer of a life

length- 7.7k

an- MONTHS LATER i'm so sorry ash hahahaha

i'm back!!!! school is still kicking my ass so i can't be as active as i used to but i'm baaaack kinda. i've been posting this on ao3 (the chaps are split up nicer on there but i'm lazy so it'll be 2 parts on here) but since i finally got to the point that kicked off this whole fic - the lovely ASH requesting "make me" with hangster i figured i'd post the first few chapters on here as well. linking the fic on ao3 if you'd prefer to read there. fair warning....i've not scratched the surface of the angst that is planned for this one

Me carrying this mess Is tearing me to shreds I’m so far away from what I need From here it’s hard to breathe

hours – again&again

Bradley’s been measuring his life in hours since the moment he added up the first page in his logbook. He still remembers the excitement of penciling in that 11.4 of flight time into the bottom, already feeling as cool as Maverick, already one step closer to flying as close as he could to a mustached blonde guy and his bright Hawaiian shirts.

It took three hours for him and Mav to talk, actually talk, and hash things out, tears falling as they soothed old hurts and cautiously built new promises. Took them half that to even start.

Took one hour before he left his mother’s bedside, to believe she was gone, but Bradley tries his best not to think about that hour.

All that to say, it’s been nearly a thousand hours since Bradley came back to his stale East coast house that’s never really felt like home. A thousand hours since Hangman showed up in Virginia Beach, seeing as the Navy’s favorite way to say thank you for saving the lives of fellow pilots and surviving the un-survivable is to uproot someone's life and toss them across the country with little to no afterthought.

Phoenix got reassigned to Oceana too, but Phoenix��s presence across from him in the dim lighting of Haddy’s Bar isn’t trying to make Bradley lose his mind.

The problem with being near Hangman post mission – in light of the tenuous truce they’ve struck, with the debt Bradley feels like he owes him – is that no matter how many decent interactions he has with the guy, that flighty feeling in his stomach every time he sees him out of the corner of his eyes never seems to go away.

Must be his anxiety.

“Bradshaw.” Phoenix’s voice is sharp, slicing through the haze in his mind. She waves a hand in front of his face, annoyed. “Bradshaw.”

Bradley shakes his head, clears his throat. “Sorry, zoned out. What were you asking?”

She rolls her eyes, albeit mostly fond, he thinks. “You ever gonna bring the Bronco out here? You’ve been stationed here for, what, two years and you’re still keeping your most prized possession in California?”

Bradley blinks. Two years. He didn’t realize it had been that long and opens his mouth to admit it when he glances up, words dying on the tip of his tongue as he catches sight of blonde hair moving across the bar, amidst a group of pilots Bradley recognizes as VFA-37.

He wonders how Hangman feels about trading out the Vigilantes for the Ragin Bulls, wonders if Hangman insists on wearing his khakis because he knows how good he looks in them.

Then kicks himself for wondering.

Hangman grins when he clocks them, sauntering over like the cat he clearly was in a past life. “Bradshaw, as I –”

Phoenix shakes her head in disgust. “Nope. Not this again.”

Hangman mimes zipping his lips. The fact that he actually shuts up is a testament to how much the dynamic has changed since the mission.

Bradley tries, really tries, not to look but he can’t help the way his eyes flick to Hangman’s lips where they’re turned up slightly, a miniature version of his signature smirk. Phoenix’s derision is the only thing keeping him from saying something stupid at this point.

It doesn’t go unnoticed if the glint appearing in the other man’s green eyes is anything to go by.

“Hangman.” He nods, somewhere in the realm of normal, he thinks.

A blonde eyebrow quirks, telling him he wasn’t even close. “Cool shirt, birdie.”

Bradley wants to protest the obvious sarcastic slander of his muted yellow and white shirt, which is frankly pretty tame but can’t be bothered to put any real heat into his tone. “I see you’re still allergic to civvies."

Hangman lets out a chuckle, his face bright and open for a fleeting second before schooling his features back into something more familiar. “How could I not be, when I make khakis look this good?”

Bradley’s gaze leaves Hangman’s face yet again to rake up and down his form, almost involuntarily, feeling the blush rise to his cheeks as he barrels through his last remaining shred of subtlety.

Hangman looks like he might have some choice teasing about that little display, but his squad is waving at him with extra beers in their hands, trying for the blonde’s attention.

“Sorry to cut and run.” Hangman tilts his head in the direction of the pool table they’ve taken over towards the back. “But I’ve got some fuckin’ new guys to put in their place.”

Bradley decidedly does not stare at his ass as he saunters away. “How is he not the FNG in this squad?”

Phoenix snorts, ignoring his whining as per usual. “Glad to see him saving your life hasn’t spared the rest of us from being subjected to your shameless sexual tension.”

“It’s just regular tension because we don’t like each other very much. You only think it’s sexual because we’re both attractive.”

Pure glee immediately takes over her wry expression. “So, you do think he’s hot.”

“Christ,” Bradley sighs, the word coming out more clipped than Phoenix probably deserves. “Yes, Tash, I have eyes.”

Eyes that can currently see the line of Hangman’s throat as it works to swallow half of his beer in one go.

“Don’t bite my head off, Bradshaw,” she chastises. “I was wary when I heard he was coming to Virginia too, but insufferable horniness aside it does seem like things have changed between you two. For the better, I’d say.”

“Sorry,” Bradley says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just don’t know what his angle is lately. Maybe he wants to feel better about being such a dick for so long. Maybe I’ll feel better when he’s done.”

Phoenix raises an eyebrow, and he tries not to balk at the contempt she manages in one minuscule expression. “Yeah, because you’ve always been your most cool-headed with him.”

Bradley makes a face. “Fine, I could probably stand to stop being a dick to him too.”

“There may still be some hope for you yet.” She tips her empty glass toward him. “Now extend that newfound graciousness in this direction and get me another beer.”

+

As nice as it is to have Phoenix on the same side of the country with him for once, Bradley still feels off-kilter.

There’s fog edging into the corners of his vision, surreal and dream-like. He’s going through the motions, operating on instinct. The only place his head is clear is in the air. In the silence of his jet, with nothing between him and endless miles of the sky but clouds and the crackle of the radio in his helmet, he can see vividly, can feel at peace.

The issue is on the ground. And it’s always worse just after a hop, just after he’s pleased to finally have his head clearing, crossing his fingers that it’ll last.

He must be obvious because Hangman lingers after getting ready for a flight of his own, leaning against the locker next to Bradley’s, arms crossed but relaxed as ever. “Y’all looked good up there.”

Bradley nods, curt. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches out between them, only muffled voices moving down the hallway outside the locker room and the plink plink plink of the dripping showers to be heard.

“You good, Bradshaw?”

“Peachy,” Bradley responds gruffly, slamming his locker door with a little more force than is probably necessary. He’d feel bad for his complete shutdown of Hangman’s attempts at friendliness, for doing the exact opposite of what he promised Phoenix he’d do if he could string together a single coherent thought.

As it stands, his brain feels like it’s been in a blender on high, so he nods goodbye to the blonde and makes his way to his car without registering a single other face he passes.

When he gets tired of aimlessly wandering around his house and only half-finishing tasks, he runs. Black New Balances pounding the pavement, lungs burning. It could be three miles or thirteen, he has no idea. It should tell him something about the state of his brain that a man who previously avoided cardio – as much as anyone in the military can actually avoid it – has no idea if he just ran a half-marathon.

It would tell him something. If he were at all interested in listening.

When he finally looks up from the cracks in the sidewalk a new problem becomes apparent; he has no idea where he is. His legs are starting to feel like jelly, putting a mark in that half-marathon column.

Bradley pulls up Uber, not even bothering to consider running back home. It’s twenty minutes out and he tries not to grumble too much about having to wait. It’s his own fault anyways.

Just when he’s looking for a way to bide his time on his phone, Hangman’s name flashes across his screen.

Why the hell is Seresin calling him?

“Hello?” Bradley asks tentatively, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“Rooster,” Hangman drawls.

“Yes?”

“What’re you up to?”

“What?”

“Currently,” Hangman says, enunciating every syllable, slowly like he thinks Bradley might be stupid. He probably has a leg to stand on; Bradley feels pretty stupid right now. “What are you doing?”

“I’m, uh,” Bradley rubs the back of his neck awkwardly even though Jake can’t see him, “in Mount Trashmore Park.”

Hangman snorts. “Doing what? Watching your brothers and sisters fly around?”

“Ran here. Waiting for an Uber back home but it’s a ways out.”

“You ran there.” It’s not even a question. His tone is clipped, dry, and flat. Bradley can practically hear the judgmental curl of his lips through the line.

He grunts. Why doesn’t he just hang up? “Yep.”

Bradley hears the other man exhale, wondering if he imagines the amusement that comes across as just a little staticky. “You know, most people run in a loop. I know you’re new to this whole cardio thing, but it makes it easier.”

“Thanks, never thought of that before,” Bradley deadpans. “Did you just call to give me unsolicited personal training advice or was there something you needed?”

“Cancel your Uber, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Bradley stares at the phone in his hand quizzically for a good thirty seconds after Hangman ends the call. Weighs his options. It’s easier not to argue, honestly, as stubborn as Bradley is, he knows Seresin can be just as much of an immovable object when he wants to be. He cancels the ride after a little deliberation, left to the muddled nonsense that’s made up his brain since the mission.

The breeze feels nice on his face, at least. The leaves always look pretty this time of year. It’s something he misses, when he’s home in California, the only downside to eternal summer sunshine.

True to his word, Hangman’s unnecessary F-150 pulls up eight minutes later.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks in lieu of a greeting after Bradley’s buckled his seatbelt, magnanimous like he thinks he’s doing Bradley a favor.

Bradley decides to ignore the fact that he kind of is.

He aims to keep the crisp air out of his voice, trying his hand at Hangman’s brand of measured casualness. “Talk about what?”

Hangman rolls his eyes. Bradley refuses to let his hackles raise, unclenching his fist where it lays next to his thigh one finger at a time.

“You’ve hated running ever since I’ve known you. I have quite literally never witnessed you run by choice.”

“It’s bad for me to start taking care of my cardiovascular health?”

The blonde sighs, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, jade gaze on the road in front of him. Bradley finds himself wondering how much energy it’s costing him, to skirt this close to compassion. “You live at least ten miles from here.”

“So?”

“This is kind of a shitty area, dude.”

Bradley shrugs. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

Hangman lets out a frustrated huff. Bradley knows he’s being deliberately obtuse but can’t find it in himself to care, so he looks out the window, counting the cookie-cutter houses as they drive by.

“Look – I – you don’t have to talk to me,” Hangman says when they pull up in front of Bradley’s little craftsman house. It's clear this is even more uncomfortable for him than it is for Bradley. “There are definitely better options. But you should talk to someone. It’s obvious, it’s been obvious, that something’s off with you.”

“My flying’s fine,” Bradley responds tightly. Great, actually. Better than ever. The only thing that feels right these days, he doesn’t say.

“Your flying isn’t what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

Bradley fights a full-body cringe. They’re treading far too close to something Bradley has been professionally avoiding since the mission. Since before, if he’s being honest. Introspection has never been where he shines.

“Thanks for the ride,” Bradley says pointedly, getting out of the car determined to remain steady on his feet in front of the other man even though his legs feel like they’d give out underneath him at any moment.

“You’re welcome, Bradshaw. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Only after Bradley shuts his front door behind him does he realize that Hangman never told him why he called in the first place.

The word maybe was beginning to annoy me, because the only thing that was fixed was that maybe would be with me forever.

- Markus Zusak, Underdog

Even at the height of their antagonism, Bradley has always been able to recognize that Hangman’s attractive. Everyone knows he’s attractive. Hangman knows he’s attractive, with his broad shoulders and a slim waist, that dimple that everyone’s eyes are drawn to whenever he wants them to be.

It’s not Hangman’s fault, not really. The guy’s magnetic; always has been. It used to grate on Bradley, the ease at which Hangman carries himself, the way he makes everything look natural – it’s never once failed in its mission to make Bradley feel inadequate.

Until now. Now, he watches pink lips curl into a smirk and all he can think of is biting them red.

He just doesn’t remember ever looking quite this much. Hangman’s always been on the periphery of his radar but lately, it’s more like Hangman’s a flame and Bradley the moth doomed to its death. Bradley makes a point not to sleep with coworkers, and it truly is a terrible idea in this case. Even though they’re on different squadrons it’d be reckless to upset this new balance they’re coming to. Not friends, exactly, but a sort of peace treaty, nonetheless.

A peace treaty that Bradley considers lighting fire to every time Hangman bends over the pool table to reach an impossible shot.

Maybe he just needs to get laid. Celibacy is clearly fucking with his head.

Because none of his internal crisis seems to matter with the way Hangman’s drawl gets a little syrupier as he straightens up so he can look down at the redhead in front of him, laughing as she meets his sarcasm with quips of her own. Red nails, a shade brighter than her hair, wrap around Hangman’s arm, inching underneath where the sleeve of his uniform strains against his bicep.

Bradley looks away. Tries to focus on Phoenix and her new backseater Cage across from him at their high top. Fails. Why did he choose to sit so close to the pool table anyway?

She’s beautiful. Her laugh is lyrical and gorgeous, but it settles uncomfortably underneath Bradley’s skin. He’s refusing to think too hard about why that is.

He knows he’s getting more and more unbearable to be around, quiet and sullen and surly for no apparent reason. He’s only had two beers but figures it’s time to go home as he ambles to the bar; before everyone gets a glimpse of the real, moody Bradley they’d probably rather not know.

“Close me out instead?” He asks when Isaac makes his way over, holding up an unopened beer in silent question.

Isaac’s eyebrows raise but he nods, taking Bradley’s proffered card without any questioning.

“Gonna head out,” Bradley tells Phoenix and Cage when he returns empty-handed.

“I want to give you a hard time for bailing so early when we have a full day off tomorrow, but I know your students were a pain in the ass today, so I guess I’ll let it slide,” Phoenix grumbles. “Plus, old men need extra beauty rest.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, tone dry, even though the smile twitching underneath his mustache carries nothing but fondness. “Back in my day, we went to bed at a reasonable hour but thanks so much for the mitigated support, Tash.”

Phoenix tilts her beer at him. “Anything for you, birdie.”

Bradley tries not to clench his jaw at her use of Hangman’s nickname for him, adding his visceral reaction to the list of things he is adamantly not-thinking-too-hard-about.

When Bradley tosses a lazy salute in goodbye over towards Hangman and Red, something unreadable flashes across those sharp green eyes but before he can make heads or tails of it, it’s gone. He’s out the door and driving home in a daze moments later anyways, hoping the couple of beers he’s had will shut his brain up long enough for him to fall asleep.

+

Bradley's cursing the country station he’s had on in his car as of late, wondering which stupid song convinced him beer was the answer to the muddled nonsense that's been making up his brain. As he stares up at the ceiling fan and its endless circles, trying to decide at what point he should just give up on going back to sleep and do something productive, he hears his phone buzz, a text from Hangman lighting up the screen.

You up?

Bradley snorts in amusement as he replies, think u have me confused with that redhead from the bar

He watches the three dots in their message thread appear and disappear a few times, brows furrowing as he sends another text, u need a ride home?

Maybe they’re not friends but Bradley probably owes him one after the whole park debacle.

Hangman calls him almost immediately after the text shows as delivered and Bradley’s so confused, he picks up on the second ring.

“You good?”

The shaky exhale across the line answers that but he hears the blonde’s voice a moment later. “Bradshaw, you know the answer to that.”

It feels like a deflection in his ears; Bradley decides not to call him on it because he's nice like that. Or because he's really too tired to be throwing stones. Glass houses and all that. “What’re you doing up? Need a ride or something?” Hangman doesn’t sound drunk, but Bradley feels the need to offer again anyways.

“Could ask you the same thing. No, went home not long after you did.”

Bradley’s a little surprised by that, trying to shrug it off before speaking again. “Sleep and I haven’t been on great terms lately.”

Another shaky exhale. “Yeah, same.”

He could just hang up. Should hang up, probably, and do breathing techniques or count sheep until his mind shuts up long enough for him to fall asleep.

What comes out of his mouth instead is, “Think I’m gonna go to CVS for snacks. Want to come?”

“It’s two in the morning.” There’s the barest hint of amusement coming across the line now and Bradley barely resists feeling too proud about it.

“The one on Booth is open 24/7.”

Hangman huffs out what could be an actual laugh or what might be an extreme form of judgment. “You would make me get out of bed for sour straws in the middle of the night.”

“Says the one that called me. You wanna come or not?”

Hangman grumbles something unintelligible before Bradley can hear the rustling of sheets, what he assumes is the other man getting out of bed. “You better be picking me up.”

+

When Hangman walks out of his house, he can see the blonde looking at him like he doesn’t fully believe he’s there, dark circles prominent underneath his usually flawless golden skin. It shouldn’t be this obvious in the dark, with only the streetlights and full moon to give Bradley enough light to see him.

He wracks his brain trying to remember if Hangman looked this gaunt earlier at Haddy’s, but he’s tired enough to acknowledge that he was a little focused on the way the other man’s khakis stretched over his ass and not so much on his face.

They drive in a comfortable silence that always feels right for this time of night, both humming along to George Strait playing on the radio. Bradley succeeds in keeping his eyes mostly on the road, if only because the pensive way Hangman's staring out the window is freaking him out a little bit.

Four seconds after being under the headache-inducing fluorescent lights of CVS, Hangman wanders off mumbling something about moisturizer that Bradley doesn’t have the mental capacity to needle him about at the moment.

Chips and Nerds gummy clusters, he repeats the other man’s request in his head, because Hangman snacks like a ten-year-old let loose without parents. He throws trail mix into his basket because he’s an adult in his thirties. Even if he is at a drugstore in the middle of the night; with his only company a weird sort of-work-friend and high schoolers whose fake IDs haven’t come in the mail yet.

He slows to a stop in the packed chips aisle, swallowing reflexively as he takes in the selection.

It’s absurd. There must be fifty different kinds of chips in here.

Bradley’s eyes flit left and right, hand halfway to the nearest bag of Doritos. It drops back by his side, fingers flexing against his worn jeans.

His throat is drying, bright colors in myriads of packaging blurring at the edges of where his vision is starting to tunnel. Fluorescent lighting flickers overhead, the floor beneath his Converse shiny and speckled with black marks with absolutely no rhyme or reason.

This is where Hangman finds him, the other man stopping short with undoubtedly overpriced moisturizer in his hands, blonde eyebrows creeping towards his hairline.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, I –” Bradley clears his throat, trying to blink the glare out of his eyes. “Wasn’t sure what kind of chips you wanted.”

Hangman plucks a bag of salt and vinegar off the shelf, seemingly at random. “These are fine.”

“Right.” He manages, words scraping against the sandpaper in his throat. “Didn’t get your candy yet, either.”

Hangman gives him a look that’s far too knowing for Bradley’s liking but thankfully doesn’t comment on it, stalking to the candy aisle while Bradley follows him like a lost puppy.

They pay the uninterested cashier who checks them out without even bothering to stop texting her boyfriend before heading back to Bradley’s car, tracing his path back to Jake’s on autopilot.

Hangman is staring straight ahead out of the windshield, measured indifference painted across his angular features. “You wanna come in? I have episodes of Bachelor in Paradise to catch up on.”

“Yeah,” Bradley croaks. “Should’ve known you’d be into that crap.”

It must sound even more of a pathetic attempt at snark than it feels because Hangman doesn’t even bother to defend his choice in TV shows, doesn’t take the obvious shot at Bradley’s usually vintage taste.

They settle on a shockingly comfortable grey couch and Jake nods off twenty minutes into the show with his hand still in the bag of trail mix, head lolling onto Bradley’s shoulder. If Bradley’s brain finally shuts up long enough for him to fall asleep only when he can hear the even rhythm of Jake’s breathing and smell the faint spiciness from his cologne, well, that’ll be between him and no one else.

Tell me where it hurts, she’d say. Stop howling. Just calm down and show me where. But some people can’t tell where it hurts. They can’t calm down. They can’t ever stop howling.

- Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

The first thing Bradley thinks when he wakes up with a crick in his neck is that his mouth tastes horrible.

The second is that he’s not sure he’ll recover from the glimpse he catches of Hangman, tiptoeing past him from what’s presumably the bathroom to the kitchen, towel slung low around his waist and hanging on for dear life.

Jesus Christ, Bradley grumbles silently. How hard is it to put on pants when you get out of the shower and not waltz around with maybe-maybe not-friends-probably-still-just-coworkers in your living room? Some of us need our brains in the morning. To think.

“Hey – uh – sorry,” Bradley croaks, easing himself up into a sitting position and trying not to audibly groan since he’s far too old to be sleeping on peoples’ couches. Judging by Hangman’s facial expression, he’s not very successful.

Hangman has a weird look in his eyes. If Bradley didn’t know him any better, he’d think there was a softness there.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Hangman hums noncommittally. Bradley’s brain is still working at half-speed, trying to figure out how strong his coffee needs to be to combat whatever died in his mouth.

“Breakfast?” Hangman asks, shaking himself out of whatever stupor he’s in. “There’s a spare toothbrush or two in the hall bathroom, under the sink.”

“Never took you as the morning-after-breakfast type, Seresin.”

Hangman narrows his eyes, but Bradley doesn’t miss the slight flush rising to his cheekbones. “I’m a fucking gentleman. Shut up.”

Bradley grins, fighting the urge to whistle as he gets up to head towards the bathroom. He’s just glad to have recovered quicker than Hangman for once. When he gets back Hangman is thankfully wearing shorts and standing at the stove pushing egg whites and spinach onto plates with a spatula. Bradley bites down on a joke about his gym bro breakfast since Hangman’s being nice enough to make him food, settling on a stool at the kitchen island.

“Black?” Hangman tosses over his shoulder as he finishes plating.

“Huh?” Bradley asks eloquently, willing his eyes away from Hangman’s back dimples.

Hangman shoots him a look. “Black coffee fine with you? I don’t think I have milk.”

“Yeah, however,” Bradley responds. He’ll blame staying up far too late and sleeping on a couch for how slowly his brain seems to be functioning. “Thanks.”

Hangman waves it off, mumbling something that sounds like it’s nothing before setting Bradley’s food and coffee down in front of him, then circling the counter to sit next to him.

“What got you up so early?”

“Gym,” Hangman mumbles around a mouthful of omelette. It’s disgusting but Bradley’s more nauseated with himself for not being put off by it.

“You got up and worked out already?”

Hangman grins, nudging Bradley with his shoulder conspiratorially. “Yeah, some of us actually like it. Unfathomable, I know.”

“Hey I like it sometimes,” Bradley insists. Faced with Hangman’s skepticism he amends, “Okay, I mostly work out so I don’t hurt myself throwing heavy things around, not because I like it.”

Hangman looks him up and down out of the side of his eyes at that, more subtle than Bradley ever is, but noticeable enough that Bradley fights not to fidget in his seat. One second longer and Bradley’s going to start getting some real idiotic ideas, so he changes the subject. “You going to Rebound’s wedding today?”

Rebound’s an okay guy, one of the pilots on Hangman's new squad. Bradley’s known him since they were both in Pensacola for API. They get along, but Bradley gets along with almost everyone he meets. Present company excluded, at first.

He’s not particularly looking forward to the wedding for some reason. He knows Rebound tends to act single on deployment regardless of relationship status, and Bradley has never understood why you’d bother getting married if that’s not the life you want. He doesn’t know what’s worse – that Rebound might be marrying a girl only to get a boat boo the moment he steps on another aircraft carrier or that he might’ve finally grown up well before Bradley has bothered trying.

Hangman snorts, pulling Bradley out of his selfish deliberation. “Yeah, have to. Only narrowly avoided being a part of the wedding party.”

“He wanted you to be in his wedding, and you’ve known him, what, a month?” Bradley knows the flare of possessiveness that’s flashing through him is not only misplaced but also completely irrational. Rebound’s getting fucking married today, what is his problem?

Hangman blanches. “Don’t act so surprised, Bradshaw.”

Bradley swallows the sorry that wants to leave his lips. “Everyone being obsessed with you is the least surprising thing to happen this week.”

Something indecipherable flashes across Hangman’s face at that but he tries not to read into it much.

“Guess I’ll see you later,” Bradley says awkwardly when they’ve finished eating and making fun of people they work with. “Thanks for breakfast, and for letting me crash, seriously. You didn’t have to.”

“Anytime, Bradshaw,” Hangman answers, clearly not intending to say anything more.

So, they’re not talking about it, then.

+

Bradley tugs at his choker whites where they feel too tight across his collarbones, already regretting wearing them, regretting coming to this wedding at all.

His back is always stiff in a church pew. The hardwood digs into his thighs, the angle of the seat twinging his back. He doesn’t know how people do this every week. Maybe believing in God makes the seats more comfortable.

Hangman settles himself down next to Bradley with the grace of a much smaller man and Bradley tries his best not to react. He looks relaxed on the uncomfortable wood, because does he ever look uneasy? No. Probably grew up in chapels like this one, down to the dusty windows.

“Don’t know why everyone insists on getting married in a church,” Jake mumbles out of the side of his mouth like he can read Bradley’s discomfort. “Rebound isn’t even Christian.”

Bradley snorts. He agrees but is a little surprised Hangman does too. “Not a weekly attendee? Thought you would’ve practically grown up in a place like this.”

Hangman’s eyes slide sideways, disapproval of Bradley’s intelligence clear on the curl of his pink lips. “Churches in the small towns of Texas don’t usually look kindly on my interest in dick, Rooster.”

Bradley freezes.

Hangman’s brows furrow.

“Sorry – I thought you were – I mean you and that guy Matt…” Hangman trails off. “Anyways, I thought you knew. Or I didn’t think you’d care.”

It’s almost funny, seeing Hangman trip over his own words for once. Almost.

Might be if Bradley wasn’t so busy making a colossal ass of himself.

If Bradley hadn’t thought Hangman was straight for the better part of the last decade and wasn’t currently having his entire world flipped upside down, it’d be hilarious.

“No.” Bradley clears his throat. “I didn’t know, but of course it’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine.”

Hangman nods tightly, pursing his lips like it’s anything but. He’s right, on some level, but not for the reason he thinks he is.

+

Fine. The word of the day for Bradley.

The ceremony is fine. It’s all fine and cheesy and forgettable with 1 Corinthians being recited at the altar. It makes Bradley’s skin itch, the talk of the future and building a life together when he himself can barely understand what’s going on in his life day to day.

Fine despite putting his foot in his mouth with Hangman earlier. Who seems to appreciate Bradley buying him a tequila soda in silent apology (because really, Rebound, a fucking cash bar?) and sitting down at an empty table with him on the outskirts of the dance floor, anyways.

Jake repays him with a running commentary of who he thinks will end up going home together, both men with eyes on their friends and coworkers acting rowdy and generally making an ass of themselves. It’s amusing at least, even if Bradley can’t put his heart fully into it. He’s willing to put money on Jake’s predictions being dead on.

Someone convinces the band to play Taylor Swift. Bradley tries not to wince.

Jake snorts a laugh into his drink. “Not gonna laud us with Jerry Lee Lewis renditions tonight?”

“Pretty sure Big Ray & the Kool Kats wouldn’t look too kindly on me taking over just so I don’t have to hear ‘Love Story’,” Bradley responds wryly. He has no idea if that’s the band’s actual name and can’t be bothered to check.

“You would hate T-Swift, pretentious hipster,” Jake grumbles.

“I don’t but her songs always get stuck in my head for weeks on end and then-” Bradley cuts himself off when he sees Cage beelining for them, holding his breath to see if the WSO makes it all the way to them without knocking anything over.

“Hey,” Cage says as he plops down gracelessly across from them, the stunning conversationalist that he is.

Despite feeling out of it, Bradley fights a chuckle. He’s known Cage since well before he started flying with Phoenix, and in all that time his alcohol tolerance has somehow never increased. Hangman opens his mouth to say something but stops when he clocks the minute shaking of Bradley’s head, Bradley is well-versed in the face drunk Cage makes when he’s about to say something amusing and stupid.

He doesn’t disappoint. “D’you think that girl over there likes me?”

Jake squints. Bradley tries not to get sidetracked by the little crinkles around his eyes.

“Don’t make an ass of yourself, buddy,” he advises when he regains focus.

Cage’s eyes get comically large. “I would never, Rooster. You would though. Because your ass is dumb. A dumbass,” Cage slurs. He must be hanging onto the clever comebacks for tomorrow. “I might be drunk.”

“Wow, really,” Jake replies, drier than the Sahara. “We couldn’t tell.”

“But you guys don’t get it. Look at you,” Cage laments, turning directly to Jake. “Those cheekbones could cut glass. You could have any girl you want. And Rooster doesn’t love love, not like I do. He doesn’t want the white picket fence. I’m jealous. I wish I wanted to be alone forever.”

Bradley blinks.

Cage isn’t exactly right but he’s not entirely wrong, either. And Bradley shouldn’t be surprised that’s what his friend thinks of him. He’s always shied away from serious relationships, always had a hard time opening up to people enough to get them to stick around. Emotionally unavailable, more than one previous girlfriend has shouted at him in frustration.

He thinks of his mom, eyes far away and glassy for most days of every June that Bradley can remember. Thinks of the wedding ring she never could take off, the way she would always run her thumb across it without realizing it. He can still picture how stiff her smile seemed at his aunt’s wedding, can still feel the resentment that burrowed its way into his chest throughout the ceremony.

He feels defensive all of a sudden, like he has every time a partner has begged him for a shred of vulnerability, like even though he was already pushing himself it still wasn’t enough. Cage gets distracted again before he has to respond anyways, stumbling up and to another group – presumably to find someone more supportive of his quest for the love of his life.

“Need some air,” Bradley mutters to Jake, words scraping his throat like sandpaper.

He makes it outside, facing the ocean. It should calm him down, should be familiar enough to quell the anger simmering beneath his surface, bubbling up to swirl and mix with the little tinge of grief that never seems to fully go away.

Should, but doesn’t. The ocean air tastes different in Virginia. It always has.

He hates it less than being stuck somewhere like Fallon, or even Lemoore, but the humidity of the East Coast has always settled under his skin wrong, lungs fighting for their lives in a steam room.

He doesn’t have this guy in him, hasn’t for a while now. Likable Bradley: the guy that buys everyone a beer and doesn’t leave the dance floor. The person who can play Jerry Lee Lewis and sing his heart out, waltzes into a bar, smiling and happy. The person that’s easy, that gets along with everyone and rolls with the punches. He doesn’t have it in him to play the part. Not anymore.

He feels his chest tightening, bile rising.

Bradley leans over the railing, eyes fixed on grains of sand below. For a second, he’s back home in California, steps away from his childhood home, Fleetwood Mac drifting from the open windows, those old red gingham curtains flowing in the wind. His mom humming under her breath in the kitchen, wooden spoon gently folding whipped egg whites into sifted flour for the signature Carole Bradshaw angel food cake.

Jake appears at his elbow, because of course he does. Because he’s everywhere, all the time, his laugh always distant but just within Bradley’s earshot, that smirk painted on his face like he knows a secret no one else does, at the edges of Bradley’s vision. His eternal tan glowing insistently against his dress whites.

“Sorry,” Bradley grits out. “Not in the mood.”

“He’s drunk,” Jake offers, even and calm like always.

“I’m not mad at him.”

“Evidence to the contrary,” he answers, hands out in a sweeping motion displaying their location, waving over where Bradley’s gripping the railing like he’s trying to crush the wood out of sheer force of will.

“Leave it alone, Jake,” Bradley warns, closing his eyes.

“Make me.”

Seven things flicker like a movie behind Bradley’s eyelids. Maybe not deadly but definitely all sins.

When he opens his eyes Jake’s eyebrow is raised, but there’s heat fighting its way through the snark. “Gotta stop bottling it all up someday.”

Bradley turns and takes half a step closer to Jake, moving like he’s going to box him in against the railing but stopping a little short, giving the other man plenty of time to tell him to fuck off.

He doesn’t.

“You’re angry about something. Death grip on the yoke and frozen in a spin.” Jake tilts his chin defiantly but doesn’t move, eyes locked on Bradley’s, challenging.

Bradley leans in closer, crowding Jake against the railing, hands going to his waist to mar his pristine, white uniform. He slots a thigh in between Jake’s so he can watch green pupils blow dark until there’s only the thinnest line of color left.

He doesn’t say anything. Knows he doesn’t have to.

“Come on,” Jake goads, that infuriating smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Whatever you have to work out – you know I can handle it.”

“That what you need?” Bradley growls when Jake pushes against his hold, fingers tight enough to leave bruises. “Need me to hold you down and make you take it?”

“Don’t act like you don’t need it too,” Jake sasses back, fire still burning under hooded eyes. “Like you don’t need someone to help you feel like you’re in control for once.”

Figures. Of course, he’s a brat who won’t make it easy on Bradley.

He shifts his thigh against where it presses against the blonde. “How’d you get here?” Jake’s eyes flutter closed, teeth raking over his bottom lip. Bradley squeezes his waist, trying not to preen at how responsive Jake already is. “Asked you a question, sweetheart.”

“Took an Uber,” Jake breathes out, eyes reopening slowly and recentering on Bradley’s face.

Bradley doesn’t kiss him, not yet, not here. Doesn’t trust himself to stop once he starts. “Let’s go,” he says instead, hands regrettably leaving Jake’s sides so they can make their way to the parking lot without drawing too much attention.

They’re quiet in the car again, but amusement floats from Jake's side of the car as Bradley drives a little faster than normal, his braking at stoplights a touch jerkier, entire body brimming with tension.

Bradley’s self-control cracks the moment he follows Jake through his front door.

“Off,” he mutters against Jake’s skin, fingers working open the buttons of his uniform as he presses him back against the door, using his slight height advantage to tower over him and slot their lips together.

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost all that famous Bradshaw patience,” Jake pants when Bradley comes up for air.

Bradley shoots him a dark look, one hand moving to Jake’s jaw to hold him in place. “Don’t be a brat or I’ll have to show you how patient I can really be. String you out all night, bring you to the edge again and again but never let you go over.”

Jake’s head thumps back against the door at that, a high-pitched whine leaving through gritted teeth as he presses into Bradley’s grip. “Bedroom now, Bradshaw, come on.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow, hand frozen in place around Jake’s neck, thumb rubbing across his pulse point but otherwise refusing to move.

“Please,” Jake whines.

“There we go. Was that so hard, sweetheart?” Bradley finally lets up, allowing a modicum of space between the two of them.

“Sadist,” Jake tosses over his shoulder as he heads towards the bedroom, unbuttoning the rest of his uniform before Bradley can even react.

Bradley would be impressed by how fast Jake undresses, quick and efficient like only Hangman can be, if he weren’t busy taking in the strong lines of his back, the muscle rippling beneath his golden skin as he turns around to lay on the bed against the pillows.

“Fuck,” Bradley murmurs. “Perfect all over, aren’t you?”

Jake lowers his eyes at that, a flush rising up his chest. Bradley divests himself of his own clothes while Jake twists to rummage in the nightstand drawer for a condom and lube.

Bradley shoulders Jake’s legs apart with a little more force than is strictly necessary, probably, but the way Jake’s eyes glaze over whenever he gets manhandled makes it hard to resist. He warms up the lube in his fingers, kissing down Jake’s stomach and nipping at the Adonis belt on his hips. Jake tangles his fingers in Bradley's curls and Bradley feels his cock jerk in response.

He mouths at Jake’s cock where it curls up against his stomach, leaking precum on the stark lines of his abs, light and teasing. When he finally licks a stripe up the shaft and takes the tip into his mouth Jake groans, hips jerking.

Bradley takes as much of Jake’s cock in his mouth as he can at the same time he slides one finger in his hole, all the way to the knuckle. Jake tenses before forcibly relaxing and Bradley slides his lips over Jake again, relishing in the breathy noises leaving him without his permission as he can’t seem to decide whether he should fuck himself down onto Bradley’s finger or up into his mouth.

He hums around the length and darts his eyes up to look at Jake where he’s writhing on the pillows, head thrown back against them. He gets a good rhythm going, adding another finger and pressing down on Jake’s prostate on every other pump in to hear his whines rise another octave.

When he feels Jake’s abs start to tense, when Jake is whimpering yes and fuck and Bradley in a continuous loop, he pulls off, trying to hide his amusement at Jake’s now indignant protests.

“Bradshaw, what the fu-” Jake starts before Bradley moves up to kiss him quiet.

“Always so mouthy,” Bradley teases, moving down to nose underneath Jake’s jaw, to drag his teeth along his collarbone. “Be good and you’ll get what you want.”

He latches onto a nipple and proceeds to wind Jake up again with his fingers. Brings him to the edge one, two, three more times until Jake is a whimpering mess, tears leaking from the corners of his pretty eyes.

“Fuck me, let me come, something, anything, please.” Jake’s begging now, words starting to slur together with desperation.

“All right, princess,” Bradley coos, gently wiping tears from Jake’s cheekbones with the pad of his thumb rolling the condom onto himself with his other hand in a feat of coordination he never thought himself capable of. “I’ll give you what you need.”

Jake’s eyes are completely glazed over, staring up at Bradley hazily and unfocused. Bradley has to grip the base of his cock tightly not to come at the sight.

He could probably stand to be gentler but at this point, Bradley doesn’t give a single fuck. He lines himself up and pushes in, slowly as he can manage, groaning when he bottoms out. Jake’s hole stretching even further around his length has his eyes crossing, ears ringing and he knows he won’t last long, watching Jake having keyed him up past the boundaries of his willpower. He wraps a hand around Jake’s cock, stripping him in time with the building pace of his thrusts, Jake getting louder and louder even more rapidly than before.

Jake clenches around him as he comes with Bradley’s name on his lips, making Bradley’s eyes roll back in his head at the force of it, at the way his legs wrap around his hips as he arches in pleasure. Bradley’s own orgasm snaps through him, with Jake whimpering from overstimulation but somehow still asking for more.

He barely manages to hold his weight and avoid crushing Jake, pulling out as gently as possible and tying off the condom, tossing it into the trash can underneath the nightstand letting himself collapse next to Jake.

“You okay?” Bradley asks quietly, clarity having made him a little self-conscious about acting like a neanderthal.

Jake nods against Bradley’s chest and when Bradley leans back to look, he’s smiling up at him with his eyes closed, blissful.

Bradley eventually finds the strength to go get a washcloth and clean Jake up, throwing it in the direction of what he thinks is the hamper before pulling his boxers back on. He hopes Jake doesn’t mind him spending the night again, because the drinks from the wedding are catching up to him and his eyes are practically slipping closed already as he flops back down onto the bed.

He’s halfway asleep but he thinks he feels Jake curling into his chest before he slips under.

additional an-

mt trashmore is a real park in VB, have been informed it's in a nice area hahahah oops sorry the name is funny

cvs scene inspired by the cereal aisle scene from the hurt locker, though the intents are way different have to give the shout out because that scene is straight up brilliant

f/a-18s have a stick instead of a yoke but i'm not gonna write death grip on a stick for obvious reasons lol

thanks for reading!

#hangster #sereshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x jake hangman seresin #rooster x hangman #rooster top gun #hangman top gun #hangman angst #rooster angst #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin fic #bradley bradshaw #jake seresin #hangster angst #bradley x jake #hangman x rooster #hangaroo #tgm fic #rooster fanfic #hangman fic #hangman smut #rooster smut #rooster fic #tgm

[nooneelsecomesclose17]

Robron week - Day 2

This is really really tenous given the prompts, but I loved the idea and I think I made it fit!

I now pronounce you...

Robert couldn't believe now time flew. It felt like only yesterday that he'd met his daughter and now she was getting married. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her, Aaron outside on the excuse of checking the vintage car he'd spent months doing up for his baby girl, but Robert knew better. Aaron knew he wanted a few minutes on his own.

"Dad, you ready?"

"Been ready for hours sweetheart. You know your Dad and I got ready for our wedding in about twenty minutes."

"Which time?" He can hear the laughter in her voice, all three of their children were fascinated by their two weddings and teased them all the time.

"Haha very funny. Now come on, let me see this dress I'm paying for."

"It wasn't that much!"

"Your grandmother took you shopping, I'm sure it cost a pretty penny." He hears her footsteps at the top of the stairs and looks up. "And it's worth every single one."

She looks amazing, far too grown up for his liking. He wishes he could turn back the clock to when she was still tiny, hair in pigtails, begging him to play with her. Now she's fully grown, independent and beautiful and leaving them.

"Will I do?" She does a twirl in front of him the way she always used to, laughing as she does.

"You look beautiful. Your Dad's going to have a heart attack, you know he's not dealing with the fact you're leaving home very well. This might just tip him over the edge."

Aaron had been the one who had interrogated Euan when she'd brought him home, frightening him almost to death when he'd casually mentioned their time in prison over dessert, but in the end even he'd had to admit that they were perfect for each other.

Ana was full of dreams, regardless of any limitations and she'd ended up disappointed numerous times when she'd thought she'd failed, or things hadn't gone the way she'd hoped, but Euan seemed to balance her out, his feet firmly on the ground but fully able to keep up with Ana and her moods that he swore she got from Aaron, even if he insisted different.

"Do you think he minds that I asked you to make the speech?" He shakes his head immediately. He knew Aaron was relieved if anything, never one for public speaking, but Ana had still been worried, creeping down the stairs one night when Aaron was asleep to ask him the best way to broach the subject.

"No, course not. Anyway he's been telling me stuff to put in all week so it's just as much his speech as mine." He holds out his hand to her after checking his watch. "You ready?"

"In a minute. How did you...you and Dad, I know you started as an affair, but how did you know? That it was him you wanted?"

"Oh I don't know, it just crept on me I think. Some days it didn't matter what I had on or what I was doing, I couldn't stop thinking about him, he was there every minute, from when I woke up to when I went to sleep. You know when you've got a crush on someone and they're always in your head, and you can't shift them no matter how hard you try? It was something like that, only a hundred times more. Why?"

"I...s'pose I just wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing. You and Dad have got through everything together, I want me and Euan to be like that."

"Well maybe with a few less visits to the police station, eh?" She glares at him, looking just like Aaron. "And are you?"

"I think so. What if we're not?"

"Then your Dad and I will always be here. This is your home sweetheart, whenever you need it. But, you won't, because that lad survived dinner with your Dad, and an interrogation by your Grandma, and there's not many that can say that now is there." In fact they'd seen off more than a couple of her early boyfriends one way or another which she'd been grateful for eventually. "Right, come on, let's go make your Dad cry eh?"

He takes her arm, leading her outside, seeing Aaron polishing the front of the car. It's been a labour of love and no matter how much he'd complained about it, Robert knew he'd enjoyed every minute.

"There you are! I was beginning to think he'd taught you his escaping out of the bathroom trick." When he finally turns round Robert sees the tears start and he shakes his head a little. "Look at you."

"Dad." She's blushing and his eyes soften as he looks at Aaron. Somehow they've managed to raise three wonderful children. "Would you be really offended if we left the car here, and walked?"

Aaron looks stunned, after the fuss she'd made about it but he nods. "Whatever you want, it's your day. The two of you can drive it to the station later if you want. Your Dad will pick it up."

"I will?"

"Yes. So why the change of mind?"

"Just feel like walking. It's a nice day."

"It's freezing!" He can't help complaining. It was mid December after all. "The church heaters better be switched on!"

"Come on old man, don't want you seizing up do we." With that Aaron takes Ana's other arm and the three of them set off towards the church. When they reach it he's surprised that their other daughter, Sara, isn't waiting for them as she's bridesmaid, but there's no one in sight. "Must all be inside, can't say I blame them."

"No, they're not. Come on." With that Ana lets go of their arm and starts walking.

They end up outside the village hall and he and Aaron both stop when they see the guests gather round the exact spot where they'd got married years earlier. It's decorated with hundreds of lights and it looks like something out of a fairytale.

"What the..."

"It didn't feel right getting married in church, neither of us is religious, and besides the two of you haven't done too badly after getting married here. We decided to surprise you."

"How did you do this? I walked up to your Aunt Vic's this morning and there wasn't a single sign of any of this."

"Everyone helped. Seb was in charge, which means it's a miracle that it's all working right but anyway...surprise!"

He doesn't know what to say, and he can see Aaron doesn't either, he's just standing there, mouth open.

"Well done, munchkin, you've managed to stun them into silence." Seb ambles over, the tie of his suit already loose and his hair all over the place.

"Don't call me that! Idiot!" She manages to punch him in the arm before he darts away, her aim always good. "It's my wedding day, you're meant to be nice to me!"

"Yeah yeah." He grins at her before kissing her cheek. "Good luck...munchkin. You look amazing."

When he's gone she falters almost and Robert knows exactly what it is, nerves, a little bit of sadness that this part of life is over and a new one is beginning.

"You ready sweetheart?" Aaron's there, as always, calm and reassuring and she nods, taking his arm once more, looking at Robert to take the other. "Let's get you married then."

#robron week #rw2021 #just made it in time #the most tenuous link to the prompt ever #that's what I get for leaving it to the last minute!

[aiweirdness]

Hurricanes and How They Are Pronounced

The US National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration releases its planned hurricane names years in advance, and includes a pronunciation guide for each name. An excerpt from NOAA's 2026 Atlantic Basin Storm Name Pronunciations:

Arthur AR-thur Bertha BUR-thuh Cristobal krees-TOH-bahl Dolly DAH-lee Edouard eh-DWARD Fay fay

Whenever I see a list like this, I naturally wonder what a neural net might make of it. I'm specifically interested in the larger neural nets I've been using lately, like the GPT-3 variants, which have encountered lots of names during their internet training yet are known to produce absolutely cursed attempts at pronunciation guides.

The largest GPT-3 variant, DaVinci, was pretty good at identifying common names and providing pronunciation guides that are not too far off from how I myself would say them. Although I definitely say this one differently:

Christopher kry-STOP-oh-fuhr

But things did get stranger when I gave GPT-3 dates farther in the future. I know it's not actually predicting that the already tenuous link between spelling and pronunciation in English is going to do some pretty extreme things in the next 50 years, but that's sure what it looks like:

2051 Harry HARR-held Andrew an-DREE-uhn Lisa LISS-uh Mark mark George jar-ZHAY

2070 Wanda way-DAHN-uh Alfred im-THOHN Deirdre ED-reel Jason JAY-dree Marissa mrees-TVR-uhf Sandrina sa-NREE-tuuh Scott steed-rer Scott wess-tra

2071 Arnold ah-NAWR-dell Georgia zheh-DRO-luh Howard huh-WAR-dee Nelson NEH-suh-lihn Serena say-RUH-nuh Victor VIK-suht

I also prompted the smallest GPT-3 variant, Ada, with the list of officially planned NOAA hurricane names and pronunciations. I would definitely need most of these spelled out for me the first time I heard them.

Alan AR-toh-LAY Christine CREE-chuh-NAH Elena anda-DAW Esther ex-THAH-ah Michael MIE-le-no Ginger LEEK-yuh Darrell jlear-DAHR Gregory GREGORY Alex MDL-aye Jess MEY-sern Robert REH-sch-ei Santiago SAN-tih-uh HEAT-TAY Varsity EBAY David EBOY Joe joh-LOHS-dah Wendy lich-WAEH Oliver ORL-arkus John john-FLAN-uh John john-SPLIN-er-ahnt

I was curious, so I appended a few other names to the end of the list of hurricanes so Ada could provide me a pronunciation guide. I guess I'll be introducing myself differently from now on.

Janelle JEE-ree-uhn Shane shaan

Artificial AYR-tah-zhoo Intelligence MIL-teer-uhn

Benedict bon-TEE-ass Cumberbatch cHL-barck-Christ

Bilbo BLA-buh Baggins BAL-gin

Scrooge skhuh-RAK-tur-ee McDuck moos-DUCK

Rumplestiltskin uh-buh-THEEKS

Before I discovered I could get GPT-3 DaVinci to vary its pronunciation guides by simply advancing the date, I experimented with some other prompts. One of the more successful experiments was the one in which I told it that the storms had grown ever more intense, so the names had to grow more epic to match. If you're an AI Weirdness supporter, you can read them as bonus content. Or become a free subscriber to read new AI Weirdness posts in your inbox!

Subscribe now

#neural networks #noaa #hurricane names #pronunciation guides #cursed pronunciation guides #actually it's pronounced bon-TEE-ass

[aminiatureworld]

Give and Take

Characters: Albedo, gn!reader

Word Count: 2,111

Warnings: Injury

Premise: Everything in the world comes with a price. But should you really bear that burden alone?

In which the reader’s vision harms them.

Author’s Note: It’s Valentine’s Day weekend and I’m here to give you all the fanfic-y goodness I can! I’d like to thank lovely anon for requesting this, I hope I did your prompt justice! 

Writing this reminded me of why I hate Mount Everest. Also I realize I keep connecting Albedo to Dragonspine. Truly living up to his quests. Similarly to past prompts I injected a hospital into Monstadt because, I mean, of course a huge city will have some sort of hospital. I mean I’m sure there’s also a school and a bakery and such but there’s no point in having that as an in game mechanic. 

Version without bulletpoints on Ao3

Albedo

You supposed that you shouldn’t’ve been surprised that a mysterious and indescribable power came with a price. Honestly it wasn’t the vision’s fault that you weren’t the most aware sort of person, that you needed a warning label dropped down from the heavens to accompany the raw elemental energy you’d be handed.

At first you hadn’t really noticed it. I mean sure your hands were a bit tingly, but you’d just been handed a vision! Who would’ve thought you’d have suddenly developed the ability to control Cryo, coating your weapon with it, or simply lifting snowflakes off of your hand? It was a novel experience, and a welcome one at that.

But eventually the reality crept up on you. It was the small things at first. How your hands seemed frightfully cold all of a sudden, the odd purple hue of your fingernails that was now ever present, how you found yourself wearing gloves more and more often. But then came the red spots and the blistering, and you’d come to the sickening realization that this gift you’d been given had turned into a curse.

As the time had passed you’d come to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done about it. The world was made up of give and take, and if you wanted to continue to use your vision – something which had become essential to your life and which you weren’t even sure you could get rid of – you’d simply have to deal with the consequences. You didn’t like to bring attention to it, and though members of your closest circle knew about it you tried to ignore it as much as possible, doing what you can when possible and hiding your perpetually frostbitten hands when not.

And then you’d met Albedo. And if there was one thing you were certain of it was that you were never going to tell Albedo.

Albedo had come into your life unexpectedly, having run into you while searching for ingredients to use in his alchemy. What had started with a pleasant conversation had quickly turned into infatuation, then into love, and suddenly you’d found yourself the happiest you’d been in a long time.

It didn’t feel right to tell him. You knew that Albedo already had his struggles, things that shadowed his face for a moment before he returned to his serene expression. The last thing you wanted to do was to add to those struggles. Especially not about something that simply couldn’t be fixed. You knew he’d run himself ragged looking for a cure, but it was simply the way things were. And in truth you were tired, oh so tired, and it was easier in a way accept your predicament as inevitability rather than try to fight it.

It was a cold day outside, and you silently cursed the Guild for sending you out to deal with some rogue Fatui members in Dragonspine. Already the temperature was near unbearably, adding your issues made it near fatal. Though you’d managed to deal with the Fatui it’d been a long and hard battle, filled less with strategy and more with desperation as you tried to ignore the numbness in your fingers. Your weapon felt clunky in your hand and you felt tears of frustration as you missed over and over again. By the time you’d finished the feeling had spread throughout your body, and you fell over a few times on the way home, legs stiff and unfeeling. You were dreading having to look at them.

You collapsed as soon as you stepped inside, crying out as your blistered arms hit the wooden floor. Bath, you had to get to the bath. Your legs seemed near useless, dragging behind you, feeling like dead weight. As you peeled off your slightly damp clothes the sight that met you caused your heart to shudder, and tears of fear clouded your eyes. Your skin was of a ghastly white complexion, tinged with blue at the back of your knees and near your ankles. Already you could see the heat blisters forming and you wondered whether bathing might even be worthwhile at this point, or whether it could lead to even more tissue death.

You leaned against the wall, suddenly seized with fatigue. Though you knew that you should get up, should keep moving, that sleep could be deadly, you remained as you were. You were just so tired, and so confused. Why? Why did it have to be like this? You never saw Albedo suffering like this, never saw your fellow guild members toil on, day after day, suffering from that which allowed their livelihood. Why did you suffer this way?

You realized it was incredibly useless to stew in it. After all you’d come so far, grown so much. You knew the risks and you continued to act as if there were none. Was it not expected then that you would continue to struggle? Besides it was payment. You shouldn’t expect anything to happen without something else happening, especially in cases such as these. No one would just hand you a wad of money without expectations, why should magic have a different system? Really you just needed to get up, get up and… what were you doing again?

 Right as your grasp on the situation became exceedingly tenuous the door opened.

“Sorry for arriving a bit late my dear, I hope – ”

Whatever Albedo was going to say it was replaced by the sound of something dropping, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath.

“What happened?” Albedo’s voice was sharp, filled with concern and with determination. You shook your head slightly, though even your neck felt as if was cracking with every movement.

“Nothing. I just, I…” you weren’t quite sure how to answer that, your mind felt like it was barely functioning, “…this is normal.”

“It’s certainly not normal.” Albedo dropped down besides you, slinging your arm over his shoulder – something you barely registered. “Who or what in the name of the Seven caused this?”

“Me.” You replied, still trying to focus on what was going on, to mixed up in fear and fatigue to try to spin lies. “I did this. I told you. Normal.”

“You’re being delirious.” By this point Albedo had managed to pick you up. Kicking the door all the way open he barely turned back to close it, instead running through the streets, turning towards the hospital.

“No, it’s true. It’s… my…” you began to push on the brakes but it was too far into the confession for that now “… my vision. This is my vision.” The look that Albedo gave you was pure alarm. Shaking his head he cursed under his breath.

“As soon as you’ve healed we’re talking about this.”

 You didn’t want to think how the whole scenario might’ve turned out in a world without magic. Though the healing was slow going – it took you almost a whole week of hospitalization and half of it in intensive care to finally be considered in the clear. You hadn’t been conscious the whole way, having been through various treatments and surgeries, but when you woke up in your hospital room Albedo was invariably there.

The already reticent alchemist was practically a statue. He said little to you, and what was said were little things, encouraging words, comforting little nothings. There was nothing substantial in his sentences, and you sensed that he was waiting. Whether that was for your recovery or for your confession you weren’t entirely sure.

The day that you were finally released was surprisingly warm, and your hands were slightly sweaty in their mittens. Not that it mattered. It’d been over a week since you’d last used your vision, and you were feeling as good as new. Considering what you’d just gone through that was perhaps unsurprising.

Albedo met you right as you signing the last of some paperwork. A smile was on his face, and he made no attempt to hide his affection, slinging his arm around your waist. You smiled back at him, finally happy to be done with the whole dilemma. Kissing him on the cheek – something which brought about an intense blush on his part – you let out a triumphant “I’m going home.”

“Yes my darling, you are.” Albedo replied.

The walk home turned out to be a bit of a long one. The two of you stopped for lunch, discussing this and that. After a week of practically no conversation you were bursting with random thoughts. The simple act of talking to Albedo felt divine, and you reveled in it. You also kept your hands constantly linked, although you joked that it must be a bit difficult considering your mittens. Albedo simply shook his head.

“I love when our hands are joined, no matter the context.”

Finally you two arrived home. Throwing yourself on the familiar couch you let out a sigh of relief.

“Would you like some tea?” Albedo called out.

“Yes!” You replied, before picking up a book you’d left on the coffee table. You’d missed being surrounded by familiar things.

Albedo placed the tea on the table before sitting next to you. You leaned into his shoulder picking up the tea and blowing on it slightly.

“Darling?”

“Yes?” You replied smiling at him. Albedo’s gaze was that of seemingly perfect happiness, but curiosity lurked behind that, and even more than curiosity was worried.

“I was wondering if you might not tell me more about what you said when I was carrying you to the hospital. About your vision.”

You paused for a moment. Not that you weren’t expecting this, indeed you were surprised Albedo hadn’t brought it up when you were in the hospital; though you appreciated his reticence. You’d decided during your recovery that you might as well tell him. There was no point in hiding it after what had just passed. Not that you truly believed you could.

So you told him, pausing here and there, trying to explain why you’d never told him.

“I mean it’s sort of expected, isn’t it? I was given a vision after all. Surely I must have something taken away, some burden placed on me in return?” You finished.

“Of course not.” Albedo’s tone was slightly brusque, but you sensed nothing behind it. Indeed your partner looked five seconds from passing out himself, his face having taken on a ghastly pallor. He brought his hand up to your cheek and you leaned into his palm, savoring this small moment. “I’m sorry you’ve been suffering this way.” He murmured.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this now.” You replied, voice just as soft. “I didn’t want to burden you with my plight. But I’m also sorry I hid it from you for so long.”

“That’s a bit contradictory my love.” Albedo let out a huff of a laugh. You simply shrugged, knowing that what he said was true. “I wish to help you.” He continued. “You shouldn’t have to continue to suffer like this. Your experience with your vision should be like mine; purely a blessing, without hint of a curse.” He paused, glancing away slightly, expression suddenly thoughtful.

“It’s true, what you say. Most of this world is governed by the laws of exchange. We put in coal and get out diamonds, at the price of intense heat and pressure and work. Energy only converts but it never simply converts to what you want. That is one of the first things one must understand when it comes to alchemy.”

Albedo glanced back at you. Saying nothing he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheeks, before finally pressing his lips to yours, giving you a brief, almost reverent kiss. “But that’s the wonder about magic you see.” He continued. “Magic lives outside these laws, scoffs at all the silly things the natural world must abide by. Magic is utterly self-contained, and with it comes the ability to do miraculous things, all without worrying about what one must give up. So you see, my love, there is no reason you should suffer.”

 The rest of the nice was spent peacefully, filled with soft laughter and tender kisses. When you fell asleep – cuddled up against the man you loved the most, limbs entangled here and there – you felt nothing but peace, peace and a great deal of relief. You’d trust in this world that Albedo envisioned, one without continual struggle, without endless suffering. For you knew he adored you as you adored him, and, that being true, even if there wasn’t a way for you to live a calmer, happier life, he’d make it happen.

#wasn't sure whether or not to bullet point this cause it was only one character #but since the reader specifically requested a scenario and not a fic I decided to keep format #but like I said non bullet points on ao3 #slightly angsty I know but like idk man #it's my vibe #albedo #albedo x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #scenarios #my writing #requested

[eryiss]

Ship: Freed x Laxus

Rating: Mature [References Bullying and Homophobia]

Prompt: AU Rivalry Teamup

Summary: Sent away to a delinquents academy, Freed knew life wouldn't be easy. That was proven to be the case when he met Laxus, a cocky, aggressive arse who used his fists over his words. At least, that's what he thought when they first met, but things can change over the span of a year.

Notes: This is the sixth submission for Fraxus Week, hosted by @fuckyeahfraxus. This one has a brief descrition of bullying and period typical homophobia.

Links: Event Masterlist ||| Archive of Our Own, Fanfiction

The London School for Delinquent Boys

Year 1890

Location: London, England

"We've a new boy in class today," The teacher – Mister Porland, that's what he'd called himself – said as Freed stood before the blackboard. "Freed Justine. I expect you all to behave and not cause any trouble with him."

Freed would have picked another way to be introduced if he'd been granted the choice. He would have much rather not had an introduction at all, and instead he'd slip into the back of the classroom, wave off all the questions that would be aimed at him, and try and get through the first day without any complaints. Instead, he'd been forcibly marched to the front of a class of about thirty sixteen-to-seventeen-year-old boys – all of whom had been taken from regular education and placed in a disciplinary academy – and been served up almost on a silver platter.

He had to wonder if this was a punishment in and of itself. A hazing from the teachers.

It wasn't that he was intimidated by them, of course. He'd earned his place in the school just like them, and he could more than handle himself, but he didn't care for the fuss. This was as close to jail someone of his age and social stature could undergo and, due to an enthusiast habit of reading and a slight flare for the dramatic, he'd decided prison rules might best serve him. Rule number one was to keep your head down.

A few jeers, exclamations and a patronising whistle filled the room, quickly quietened by the teacher. Freed made an effort not to pay attention to it. Animals, all of them. At least he could be safe in the knowledge that he held moral superiority over them, not that he'd state it out loud. Idiots tended not to like being told that.

Keeping his head down would be harder than he thought.

After he was allowed to take his seat, he was forced to walk through the lot of them to the back of the classroom. The jeering continued, albeit quietly, and someone tried to trip him as he walked. He ignored them, and nearly got to his seat when a particular classmate caught his eye. He wore an arrogant sneer, had a scar running down his face, and had shoulders larger and broader than a student their age ought to have.

Freed would have thought the boy attractive were it not for the look of challenge in his eyes, one Freed knew all too well. This boy was testing him, wanting to see if he would be a victim in the school or someone to be respected. To show him, Freed halted his step, made eye contact with the boy for a few moments, and then continued walking to take his seat.

A little 'hm' was the blonde's only response, but Freed paid it no mind.

Two weeks passed before the blonde actual did anything. The two weeks consisted of Freed getting used to his new surroundings, idiots trying and failing to one-up him in the hopes of looking tough in front of their idiot friends, and the blonde's presence being constant but in the distance. That changed when the blonde approached him in the dinner hall.

"Hey," The blonde grunted in greeting, storming towards Freed. His body was tense, coiled up and ready for a fight. "You think you're better than me or something?"

Freed didn't know why the blonde thought that, exactly, but his response was instant. "Better than you, yes."

He felt that was a fair way to think. The blonde had proven himself to be nothing of note intellectually, he barely spoke in lessons and when he did it was usually to make an unwarranted joke or to get an answer wrong, and he seemed quick to anger. More than once, he'd lurched at another student, looking ready for a fight he'd probably win. The fights never happened exactly, but they seemed like a constant risk. So yes, Freed did think he was better than him.

"This whole thing might 'a worked out in yer old school," The blonde growled, taking another step forward. Freed didn't flinch. "But actin' like yer hot shit and that yer smarter than everyone here ain't working. You're here like the rest of us, and you ain't better just because your pa's got money."

"I don't think I'm better than everyone here," Freed retorted, also taking a step forward. "But I am better than an idiot who can't shut up and takes his hobby by rolling around in the mud, somewhat like a little pig. My betterment was never in question."

The insult wasn't his best. The reference to the blonde's position in the rugby team tenuous at best, and Freed's supposed superiority complex might have shone through – but it annoyed the blonde, so it served its purpose.

He would have rather not been shoved in the chest, though.

Stumbling back slightly, Freed made a choice. He had been told in no uncertain terms that he wasn't to get into another fight, it was partially the reason he was there in the first place, but the blonde deserved a punching. He seemed to be something of an unofficial head-boy, and the fear of him was obvious to anyone who would look, and as such Freed felt a punch to the face was long overdue. He was a student like anyone else, and while others might want to lie down and take it, Freed didn't.

That was why he punched him. It hurt more than he thought it would.

Their fight was hardly that. It lasted less than a minute, and anger overpowered its elegance. Freed perhaps got another two punches in, and received one in return. Teachers were storming over the moment it started, and were dragging them away before it could get out of hand, but Freed felt good to hit the bastard.

"Laxus Dreyar, Freed Justine," Their head teacher yelled, voice filled with a rage that Freed felt was slightly exaggerated given the situation. "My office, now."

As Freed was dragged – literally dragged, which again was an overreaction – into the office, he was sure of three things. He'd already completely failed in his goal of not bringing any attention on himself; his father was going to find out and want him thrashed for getting into a fight again; and Laxus Dreyar had perhaps the most interesting name he'd ever heard.

---

"You heard what he did?"

"Nearly killed him."

"Apparently they're gonna kick him out."

"Nah, he's the team captain."

Freed didn't pay attention to the conversations happening around him as he ate. After three months of being in the academy, he'd learned it was best not to. Most of the people had nothing of interest to say, and the people who were interesting were the ones likely to try and start a fight with you if they knew you were listening. He'd learned that when a younger boy, Natsu, tried to punch him and Freed had ended up dumping a bowl of cereal over the man's head and temporarily strangling him with his tie. The detentions and lack of breakfasts for a week had been worth it.

In truth, he'd forged a comfortable place for himself in the school. He was known as the boy who gave Dreyar a black eye, and that title came with its perks. Mainly that most people would leave him alone. He and Dreyar had… something. He couldn't tell if it was a truce, or simply a stalemate. But either way, Freed would enjoy the calm and only reignite the fight should Laxus need another punching.

Other than that, Freed was forgettable in the school. People ignored him, he ignored them, and everyone went on as if he hadn't arrived. The school was fine – teachers were far too happy to punish, but that was to be expected – and their lessons were as good as his old schools had been. Had his parents been scammed, the tuition fee had been high?

His parents were an issue. They hadn't visited, but they were in constant communication with the head teacher, and apparently their 'donations' meant Freed was put under a spotlight by the staff. Maybe that was why they were so quick to punish: they were being paid to do so. Annoying, but it could be worse.

The food, however, was abysmal.

Mashed potatoes and sausages would be a good meal, but the potato was half cooked, and the sausages were tiny. He'd eaten as much as he could stomach within a minute, so he absently played with the food with a slight huff. The rain, as tended to happen in England, was heavily pouring and Freed knew the moment a teacher saw he'd stopped eating he would be forced into the yard for recreational activities. The eating hall was at least partially warm, and he had to admit that the conversation behind him was of interest.

"What's that got to do with anything?" One boy shrugged.

"They don't wanna piss off the rugby team, they all worship him," The other explained. "If they kick him out, everyone gets angry about it, and they fight back. They'll never do it."

"You didn't see the kid," The first dismissed. "Half dead. They've gotta do something."

"Doesn't seem like Laxus to just beat a kid up for no reason," The second argued, and Freed did have to agree. Laxus was an argumentative and aggressive man, but he did tend to stick to people his own age. Mainly those who knew how to fight back, as well. "The kid must have pissed him off."

"Romeo, nah," The first laughed, and Freed frowned. "Kid's nothing. Wouldn't bother Laxus."

Romeo. Romeo Conbolt. It took Freed a moment to put a face to the name, and when he did his fork stalled and his body tensed. He had heard the rumours of a kid being beaten half to death, of course he had, but he hadn't heard who it was. He wouldn't have cared, were it not for the fact he had seen days prior the beating Romeo had endured. Laxus hadn't been the one to beat the kid, it had been a group of six of his classmates.

Freed had stopped it, of course. They were all thirteen, he was seventeen and the boy who got into a fight with the school's toughest figure, so they scarpered when he yelled at them to stop. He told the kid to go to the nurse, and saw the issue as finished with.

Had the kid used Laxus as a scapegoat? Or had it been the group of brats?

Either way, Freed was a man of principles. As much as he wouldn't mind seeing the back of Laxus and his insistence of approaching problems with his fists, it wasn't fair to have him blamed for something he hadn't done. Especially when a grown man beating a kid was something that could get him taken from the school and placed into an actual jail. That wasn't fair. He stood, and quickly started to walk towards the head teacher's office.

"Enter," The headmaster, Mister Fernandes, said once Freed had knocked on the door. Freed entered, and waited in silence. "Mister Justine. It's rare you're here voluntarily."

"I suppose so, sir," Freed agreed, ignoring the insult. "Sir, I have a complaint to make."

"Of course you do," Mister Fernandes sighed, removing a pair of spectacles, and leaning forward in his chair. "You do know that this is a disciplinary institution, and I don't act on the word of my students. If you have issues with your treatment then it's not my concern."

"I understand that sir," Freed assured him. "But my complaint is more about the treatment of another student: Laxus Dreyar."

"You needn't worry about that," Mister Fernandes dismissed the complaint, despite the fact Freed had yet to make it yet. "I know that you and he have something of a… personal vendetta against one another, and I'm sure that the rumours about what he has done have reached you. I will be following a strict set of procedures which will likely end up with him incarcerated for what he did to a younger boy. He'll be out of your hair soon, so don't concern yourself about it."

"That is not my complaint."

"If this is something to do with your silly feud then I'm really not interested by it," Mister Fernandes sighed. "As I said, he'll most likely be out of here within the month. If you can't be civil for that long then that's a bad reflection on your own character. And boys your age really should be fighting their own battles."

Freed bit back a retort, wanting to point out that the time he did try to fight his own battle he was dragged away and reprimanded. Instead, he calmed himself and spoke again with the level of respect a teacher believed they deserved.

"Laxus wasn't the person who attacked Romeo, sir," He said, and the headteacher paused. "It was a group of his classmates. Six of them, I believe."

"And you know this how?" Mister Fernandes asked.

"I walked in on them doing it, sir," Freed admitted, not flinching when the teacher looked at him with sharpened poise. "They stopped when I approached, Romeo went to the nurse's office and I expected him to tell you who actually was responsible, rather than placing the blame on Laxus. Had I known earlier what he'd done, I would have spoken to you sooner."

Mister Fernandes took a moment, thinking before sighing. "He did, actually. He gave me a list of names, before returning a day later stating that it was actually Laxus to blame, and that he'd lied initially as he was worried about the consequences."

"And you believed him?" Freed asked before he could stop himself.

"Are you questioning me, Justine?"

"No, sir."

He was.

"You're dismissed, Justine. Thank you for speaking with me," Mister Fernandes waved a hand in his direction, and Freed nodded curtly and went to walk away. "It was big of you to do this, Justine. Well done."

"It's what's expected of me, sir," Freed dismissed.

"Good man," Mister Fernandes nodded, before waving Freed off again.

Freed left, closing the door behind him. He immediately turned to the right and started walking towards the courtyard, which was still being battered by the heavy rain. As he walked, he was completely unaware that Laxus was leaning on the wall outside of the office, looking at Freed with an expression of mingled bewilderment, disbelief, and belligerent respect.

---

The idiom that the enemy of one's enemy was one's friend was a complicated one. It was limited, didn't work for all situations, and seemed to fall apart under any scrutiny. Freed had long since decided that it didn't make much sense when thought about, and yet he found himself subscribing to the idea when it fitted him.

That was the reason he found himself walking into the rugby team's changing room.

Laxus seemed to notice him approaching the moment Freed walked into the room, and stopped mid-way through changing into his kit to stare Freed down. Freed wasn't put off by the intense and lingering gaze of the man, walking towards him without hesitation. The room seemed to quieten around him, and Freed couldn't be sure if it was because of his presence in the room or because Laxus apparently changed in the back corner away from most of his team. That worked well for what Freed wanted, at least.

"The hell are you doin' here?" Laxus said, voice growly and angry sounding. He always sounded like that with Freed, but it seemed more intense today. Perhaps this how he acted before a match.

"I have a favour to ask of you," Freed stated.

"No," Laxus rebutted immediately.

"You might enjoy doing it."

"Wouldn't be a favour, it'd be an opportunity," Laxus smirked, seemingly proud of himself. Freed had to give him credit, it was somewhat clever. "So, what's the great and powerful Freed Justine need from a man like me? Lessons on how to be an idiot; that's what you keep calling me. Or is it a few tips on rolling around in the mud? Y'know, because that's all rugby is, right."

"The captain of the team you're playing," Freed began, rather than rising to the bait. "Hurt him for me."

"What?" Laxus asked, a laugh tainting the word.

"Hurt him," Freed repeated. "Kick him, punch him, give him a concussion if you're able to. Or perhaps accidentally kick him in the balls, that'd be rather nice to watch. Just do whatever you can to make him cry."

"Why?" Laxus grinned, clearly enjoying this.

"You're playing my old school's team, and he's the reason I got sent here in the first place," Freed admitted, ignoring the quirked eyebrow he got. "He deserves more pain than he gets, I suspect. I want you to remedy that."

"And why should I?" Laxus said, voice a little taunting as he continued to change into his rugby kit. Freed forced himself to ignore the strong body that was revealed to him when Laxus removed his shirt. "We ain't exactly friends, are we? Maybe I'd have more in common with him than I do with you."

"Do you need an excuse to hurt someone?" Freed asked, and Laxus held his gaze. Freed eventually relented. "I can tell you the team's weaknesses. The coach wont change tactics and so they can be exploited."

Laxus thought for a moment. "Nah, you don't need to. I'll do it."

"You will?" Freed asked. He… honestly hadn't expected that.

"Yeah," Laxus nodded. "So long as you watch. If I'm gonna put on a show, I wanna know I'm gonna have an audience."

Laxus pulled on his shirt, much to Freed's quiet disappointment, and sat on the bench before his locker. He leant against it and looked at Freed expectantly, who was looking back with confusion and disbelief. His arrival in the changing room was stupid at best – he'd seen the man who had gotten him there in the first place and old resentment bubbled up faster than Freed would have liked – and as such he had thought Laxus would dismiss him. It's what Freed would have done were the situation flipped.

"Why?" Freed asked.

"This place is shit, anyone would wanna punch the guy who put 'em here. I don't get to do it, but it'll be fun to do it to some other guy," Laxus shrugged, standing up and cracking his back when the coach called for the team to leave for their warmups. He stepped past Freed, but halted once they were all alone. "Be there, pretty-boy."

"What?" Freed stammered slightly. Had Laxus just…

"You think I don't know the reason you're here?" Laxus chuckled a little, but it lacked the edge it normally did. He lowered his eyes slightly and spoke softer than Freed was used to. "You two get caught? Or did he catch you with some other guy and squealed on ya?"

Freed shouldn't answer. He and Laxus weren't friends and admitting anything to him was stupid, but he found himself whispering, "The latter."

"Fucker," Laxus growled, equally quietly. Freed didn't know what to think of it. "Yer right, he needs a kick in the balls. I'll handle it."

"Thank you," Freed whispered.

"Don't worry about it," Laxus dismissed. "Besides, I guess I kinda owe you for stopping me from getting expelled, don't I?" Freed frowned a little. That had been half a year ago, and he didn't know that Laxus even knew of it. Laxus didn't seem to notice Freed's change in body language and continued talking with a smirk. "And, you never know, having a pretty little rich boy watching me might make me play better."

That was all Laxus said before slowly dragging a knuckle over Freed's cheek in a gesture so light but so intimate that Freed felt a shiver run over him completely. Laxus grinned at him, pushed his knuckle against Freed's lips for a split second, before leaving Freed alone in the locker room, heart racing and eyes wide.

---

"How did you know?"

"How'd I know what?"

"The real reason I'm here."

Both Freed and Laxus were sitting on the school house's roof. Laxus had been taking a drag of his cigarette when Freed had approached him and sat bedside him, and the blonde absently offered Freed one. He didn't take it, and for a few moments they had been sitting in silence before Freed had broken it.

It was the last day of the school year. Freed would be dragged back to his home, where his parents would no doubt have a list of grievances about his behaviour throughout the year. His father would make threats about how if his behaviour didn't improve immediately, he would be punished off the back of the man's belt. Nothing would come of it, of course – the elder Mister Justine stopped punishing Freed that way the moment Freed was of an age where he could fight back – but the yelling would be near consistent. It always was when Freed met with his parents now.

He wasn't going to complain. There was no point. Instead, he was going to tie off the loose ends of his school life, particularly with Laxus. Because, when it came to the beautifully, and now somewhat flirtatious man, Freed really didn't know where he stood.

"It's obvious, when you've been here for long enough," Laxus explained, puffing out a stream of smoke. "Yer not obvious, I don't mean that, but when you've been here for years you look out for the signs."

"And what were the signs?"

"You never spoke about why you're here other than saying you got into a fight. I'm guessing it was with the guy who told on ya," Laxus shrugged a little, shifting slightly so that his side was pressed against Freed. "Everyone here wears their story like a badge of honour. Getting into fights, beating kids up, stealing from places. They're all good stories and get's you a lot of credit in a place like this. The worse you were, the more respect you get," Laxus chuckled. "There's only one thing that gets you in here that you don't talk about. Yer queer, and you get found out."

"You don't talk about why you're here," Freed pointed out, and Laxus turned to look at him with a lazy smirk.

"My dad saw me with the neighbour kid," He laughed. "He wasn't even good looking, felt sorry for him really and wanted to know what it's like to kiss a guy. But dad walked in, threw a fit, and I've been here since I was thirteen."

"That's awful of him."

"Maybe, but this place ain't so bad once you get used to it," Laxus shrugged again, leaning back against the wall he was resting on. "Kinda funny, really. I'd say about a quarter of the guys are here for the same reason we are. If you know what to look out for, you can have a pretty good time."

"You could have told me," Freed laughed a little. "I've been rather bored."

"If I told ya, I wouldn't have you all to myself," Laxus grinned, and blew a puff of smoke directly into Freed's face. Freed simply quirked an eyebrow. "I've been spending the last couple of weeks showin' off to ya on the field and I think it was working pretty well. Hardly fair on me if I got you all excited only for ya to use it on some other guy."

"You're a manipulative man when you want to be, Laxus," Freed smirked, leaning just a little closer to Laxus. "But you haven't done anything yet, have you?"

"Maybe I want ya to be desperate for me," Laxus whispered, voice low and rumbling. "Maybe I'm waiting for you to make the move on me."

"If that's true, then maybe you've waited long enough."

They were close now, and Freed wanted to be closer. Laxus' hand was resting against his thigh, and Freed leant further in. He could smell the smoke on Laxus breath, see the slight dilation of the man's eyes as he grinned, and slowly brought their lips together in a slow, tentative kiss.

His first kiss. A beautifully electric, smoky kiss that set Freed's very soul on fire.

He tangled his hand into Laxus' short hair, tugging at it slightly and relishing the slight groan that he was given in return. Laxus pushed into him further, and Freed practically melted.

Eventually, when a harsh gust of wind flew over them and shook them from the spell of their kiss, they pulled apart. They were quiet for a moment, the gravity of what happened only just hitting Freed. He had just kissed the brutish, angry, brilliant man he had once expected to hate, and had felt more alive than ever before.

"You better be here next year."

"Nothing could stop me."

"That's right, pretty-boy."

They shared a smirk, and leant forward to reignite another perfect kiss.

#Fraxus Week #Fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfic #Writing #One Shot #1800's AU #Rivalry AU #Boarding School AU #Word Count: 4.2k

[kell-be-belle]

Ribbon of Sunlight

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo​

Prompt: Duvet Day/Spending the Day In Bed

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: General

Content Warnings: None

Summary:  While wintering in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier manages to convince Geralt to spend the day in bed. Much tenderness ensues.

Ao3

Geralt’s lashes fluttered against his cheeks, a contented hum worming its way up from his throat and out between his parted lips. He was beginning to rouse, but sleep still held him in its tenuous grasp, leaving him drifting aimlessly in the ether between. He gradually becomes aware of the warmth nestled beside him; of the weight spread across the expanse of his chest. The sensation of it all teeters precariously between just enough and too much. He cannot yet be bothered enough to decide on which direction it leans.     

Geralt had drawn the curtains last night, but apparently not with enough care. They remained parted just enough that a slim ribbon of sunlight stretches across his bed and splits him in twain. It glows red and molten behind his eyelids. Sleep finally relinquishes its hold, content to release Geralt to the day until the night returned once again. He rises to the surface of his consciousness like emerging from depths of a pond. The world swims before him as he opens his eyes, pupils contracting against the glimmer of the sun. For a moment, he feels disoriented by the juxtaposition of the dawning day and the lingering night. Panic flares like a spark in his chest in danger of catching alight.   

And then he is brought back, grounded by the weight over his chest.  

Jaskier’s deep, heated breaths snuffle into the hollow of Geralt’s collarbone. His auburn lashes quiver against Geralt’s skin with all the substance of butterfly wings. He has slotted himself into Geralt’s side, undoubtedly huddling into his peternatual heat in the cold of the tower room Geralt calls his own. Jaskier has an arm flung carelessly across his chest; has one leg bent up and hooked over the witcher’s thigh. Jaskier sleeps with all the banality of a child and it makes Geralt’s heart swell. 

Sleep still seemed to hold Jaskier firm and Geralt takes the opportunity to bask in the moment of stillness. He presses his nose into the crown of Jaskier’s mousy head. Jaskier smells of the almond oil he had rubbed into his hands the night before. Just as Geralt oiled his sword, Jaskier treated his hands with oils and scrubs and massage. They were the tools of his trade, afterall. Geralt even helped from time to time, carefully stretching his lithe fingers and kneading his palms. He had done so that night while the two of them lay basking in the tender afterglow of their love making. Geralt reached up and took Jaskier’s hand within his own. He pressed his nose into the curve of his palm and a kiss to the place where Jaskier’s pulse fluttered under the thin skin of his wrist. 

Jaskier began to stir then, mewling softly as he nuzzled deeper into the pit of Geralt’s clavicle. Geralt continued to rouse him with kisses. He kissed Jaskier’s fingertips and knuckles, each fold of his palm and the tendons of his wrist. Jaskier was waking in earnest now. The shape of his smile pressed against Geralt’s skin. “Oh…” He hummed in bliss. “I must say, this is probably amongst my most pleasant awakenings.” His voice was husky with sleep and it made Geralt chuckle. “You do spoil me so, dear heart. I am afraid I shall not wake again if it is not to this kind of tenderness.” 

“Then I shall tell the bandits that next invade our camp to hold off on robbing us so that I can kiss you awake.” Geralt quipped, his smile wry.  

Jaskier retaliated with a little nip to Geralt’s collar and it made a spike of pleasure jolt down his spine. “Now, now, don’t be a brat.” Jaskier breathed deeply, his chest expanding with the volume of his robust lungs. He released it in a hum of random melody. “What time is it? I feel as though I’ve been asleep for at least a decade.” 

Geralt’s eyes flickered to light spilling between the curtains. “Judging from the angle, it is well past dawn. Vesemir will have my head for missing morning training.” 

“I don’t think he should mind too much.” Jaskier replied. His fingers had started drumming in an aimless rhythm against Geralt’s chest. Ever a man in motion. Even in sleep Jaskier never truly settled, but as he awakened further Geralt could feel his energy beginning to thrum just under the surface of his skin. 

Geralt cocked a brow, “Have you met Vesemir? I once forgot to bring my empty dinner plate into the kitchen and he made me run laps around the keep.”    

Jaskier snorted a laugh, “Yeah, alright, I suppose the old wolf may have punishment in store for you, but this is worth it, right?” Geralt traced his fingers over Jaskier’s back, circled around the knob of each vertebrae and the sharp cut of his shoulder blade. He shivered pleasantly in Geralt’s arms. Vesemir could punish Geralt to repair the entire Eastern curtain wall with nothing, but an ice pick and still he would choose to lay here in this morning bliss. 

“Yes.” He hummed, breathing in the bittersweet scent of his love. Savoring the press of his supple skin against the jagged edges of his many scars. “Worth it.”  

Jaskier turned his head and rested his chin upon Geralt’s chest, looking up at him beneath the curve of his lashes. They shone translucent and honeyed in the sunlight. Geralt is struck by the sight of him. How many mornings had they awoken side by side and still Geralt feels like every time he looks upon his love anew. The dimples in Jaskier’s cheek deepen, preceding the smile that soon spreads over his lips. 

Geralt’s life had been long. Geralt’s life had been hard. For decades life had been a yoke about his neck and he was only sloughing through it. The next town. The next contract. The next wound. The next glare. With Jaskier in his arms all of that melted away like frost beneath the first ray of spring sun. With that glow in his eyes and that smile on his lips all of it darkened into a dream, faded to an impression, but not a memory. With Jaskier, every day dawned as a gift and it was one Geralt felt blessed to receive.

There were not enough words in Geralt’s underused tongue that could ever articulate the way he felt about Jaskier, but fortunately there was no need for them. Where his words lacked there was still feeling. It swelled in the space between them, filled the breadth of their bed, the space of the room, the expanse of the keep. It reached as far as the shores of places they had never been and would likely never see. It could stretch across the latitude of the world itself and reach them once more here in this bed tucked into the shape of each other. 

They kissed languidly in the ribbon of sunlight that peeked between the curtains. 

Jaskier settled onto Geralt’s chest once more, breathing deeply, “You know, if you’re going to piss off Vesemir, you may as well go all out. I am feeling rather comfortable and very disinclined to move as I am sure you are, too. What say you? Shall we spend our day here?” 

Geralt chuckled, “We’ll have to leave eventually, Jaskier. You get cranky when you haven’t eaten.” Jaskier nipped his collar once more in retaliation. “Do that again and I’ll have to show you how to behave.” He growls against the shell of Jaskier’s ear, fingers tightening around the meat of his thigh. 

“Oh, you tempt me so, dear heart.” He laughs breathily, wrapping his leg tighter around Geralt’s hips. “I will heartily endure your punishment, but after we have broken our fast.” Jaskier suddenly peels back the quilt and Geralt nearly whines at the loss of his weight and warmth. The swift footed shuffle the fully nude Jaskier makes to the door is quite comical and Geralt snorts at the sight of him. Jaskier waves him off as he retrieves a basket that is sitting on the floor just inside the threshold. He continues his shuffle back to the bed and dives back under the covers. Geralt folds them quickly around him before the chill of the air can sink in. 

Triumphantly, Jaskier cradles the basket in his lap, pulling up the thatched lid and presenting the contents to Geralt. It is stuffed full of food. Hard cheese and cured links of sausage. A thick loaf of black bread and small pots of honey, jam, and butter. Dried apricots and dates and two bottles of mead. Geralt turns to Jaskier with his brow arched and the bard smiles blithely; batting his honeyed lashes innocently. Geralt rolls his eyes, but fishes out a date and pops it whole into his mouth. Jaskier beams and does the same. 

The two of them settle once more into the shape of each other. They break fast with hushed laughter and shared bites and tender kisses. It is as splendid and incandescent as the ribbon of sunlight that peeks between the curtains and wraps them together.         

#the witcher #geralt x jaskier #Geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo #prompt fill #fanfiction #I am finally getting into the groove of things and it feels so good #no beta read

[synvamp]

Freedom: Chpt 21

HAPPY FAIR GAME WEEK PEEPS! And boy oh boy do I need some cheerful pirates right now X’D

In a very tenuous link to today’s prompt: Moon, I bring you the second last chapter of pirate AU! 

This chapter: Qrow kicks ass as only Harold Damn Branwen knows how.

Story so far: Qrow Branwen is the Captain of the most chaotic-ass pirate crew ever to sail the seven seas. Captain Ebi is the (rather serious) pride of the British Navy and has been tasked to put Captain Branwen in cuffs. What happens when order meets chaos? Wild times.

Rating: M

CW: swearing, Qrow out there makin the whole world gay <3

No Pockets (AO3 link)

#fairgameweek2021 #fair game #rwby #qrow branwen #clover ebi #pirate AU #fair game pirates #fanfiction

[heroesandmasterminds]

Rayllum Birthday Bash: Day 1 - Anniversary

For most people, the one-year anniversary of the Battle of the Storm Spire was cause for celebration.

Rayla wouldn’t say she disagreed... it was just that for her and Callum, it held equal weight as the anniversary of their fall off the Storm Spire – the one that still made them shoot upright in bed screaming a year later.

Callum had woken up last night after that nightmare. Rayla had held him until they both fell asleep again.

Still, it had been a year of tenuous peace, a year with no major conflicts and definitely no wars breaking out, and that was something they would happily celebrate. Rayla straightened her tunic – moonshadow green, for the occasion, while Callum and Ezran donned Katolis red. It would be a display of unity for all the humans and elves from across the continent converging on Katolis that day.

‘You ready?’ Callum poked his head round the door. Her heart lifted at the sight of him; he’d been gone when she woke up (late) to talk to Opeli.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ she nodded to his reflection in the mirror. A little grin slipped onto her face. ‘You look good.’

Callum blushed, but he grinned back. ‘Two years ago, I’d have felt like an imposter wearing this. Now I actually like it.’

‘You are a prince. If anyone should like it, you should.’

‘I guess so,’ he laughed. ‘It helps that I feel like I’m good at being a prince, now.’

‘You always had the potential,’ said Rayla. ‘You just needed a way to unlock it.’

‘That’s where you came in,’ he replied, crossing the room and slipping his arms around her waist. She was barely still taller than he was, and she could feel an impending argument about whether horns counted on the horizon. He dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘You ready for today?’

‘For standing around making small talk?’ Rayla arched an eyebrow.

‘For the moonshadow elves.’ Callum had always been a little too good at seeing through her walls. There was a delegation coming from the Silvergrove and Rayla had been pointedly ignoring the subject all week. Ethari had done his best, but the council was still undecided on whether the Ghosting would be undone.

‘I just... I don’t know. I feel terrified of facing them, of what they might say, but at the same time there’s no way I’ll let them ruin this for me. I’m gonna try to have a good time, and that means not getting into tense situations with people I probably grew up with who have their own opinions on everything I’ve done since Zym’s egg was lost. I’ll just – avoid them. As much as possible.’

Callum looked worried. ‘Are you sure? I can guarantee there will be at least one occasion when we narrowly avoid a diplomatic incident. There will be insults and most of them will be petty and thinly veiled.’

‘This isn’t my first time doing this,’ she reminded him gently. ‘I can take it. I’m not the same person I was a year ago. If there’s anything I won’t be able to take, it’ll be the stuffiness of the dinner and the ball.’

Callum laughed. ‘I promise to introduce you to everyone interesting so you don’t die of boredom and escape with you to the festival in town as soon as possible.’

Rayla turned to kiss him. ‘You better, mage,’ she murmured against his lips.

Am I doing all the prompts at once in a spurt of productivity after leaving them for the entire month? Yes, I am.

Link to this prompt on A03 where you will also find the full series

Link to the whole collection on Wattpad

#tdp #the dragon prince #rayllum birthday bash #my fic

[white-rose-week]

White Rose Week 2019: That Day on the Airship - Prologue & Chapter 1

Hello there, and welcome to the start of my White Rose Week 2019 collection. I’ve never actually written a fanfic before, so this is going to be an adventure in more ways than one. In fact, I wasn’t even planning on participating in White Rose week until June 10th had already started. I became possessed by inexplicable urge and inspiration, so here we are. I’m in the process of creating an AO3 and FF accounts and will post these stories there once they are active. For today, this blog will be exclusively hosting my debut, provided that the kind curator deems it worth posting, of course.

I’ve decided to write my stories as a continuous set of interactions between Ruby and Weiss while on the airship en route to Atlas at the end of Volume 6, occurring before the final scene such that they can fit into the continuity as an alternate timeline regardless of where Volume 7 begins. I will be using both the audience and admin prompts to guide my writing of a single chapter each day, plus a prologue added to set the stage. I hope you enjoy!

—–

“That Day on the Airship”

by Simphonyc

—–

Prologue:

Ruby looked out the window of the airship with quiet relief as city of Argus and the one-armed robot stomping around its shoreline continued to shrink from view. The tiniest of sighs escaped her lips as the day’s events flashed through her mind. She remained fixated on the horizon, consumed by the need to know that the city was still safe for as long as she possibly could.

Just as the last skyscraper faded from the horizon, she found herself imagining a second Leviathan emerging from the sea where the first one had been slain. They had barely managed to survive one of the colossal Grimm, what if another was nearby, drawn to the fear and horror that had been flowing from the densely populated city only an hour earlier? What if Salem’s forces had planned the Leviathan’s appearance? What if it was just the vanguard, preceding a larger attack force? What if this had all been a setup? What if there was something bigger at play? What if there was something she’d overlooked?! What if—

“Ruby.”

She felt a hand fall gently on her shoulder as the unusually gentle voice of her partner reached her ears, scattering the horrible images from her mind. Ruby turned to see concerned blue eyes staring at her. Weiss held her gaze for a moment before resuming. “You sounded like you were on the verge of hyperventilating. Are you ok?” Weiss tightened her grip on Ruby’s shoulder almost imperceptibly as she spoke, actively monitoring her own breathing to ensure Ruby’s anxiety didn’t transfer to her. Weiss recently noticed that she had become remarkably sensitive to Ruby’s mood, to the point where more extreme emotions felt by the redhead would occasionally cause an active shift in her own. She felt a tenuous empathetic link to Yang and Blake as well, but the bond she’d developed with Ruby was stronger. It was the first time she’d felt a connection of that magnitude with anyone.

A hesitant smile flashed on Ruby’s face for a moment before vanishing again, too exhausted to feign emotions. “Y-yeah… Sort of… I… imagined Argus being attacked a second time and one thought led to another. It’s… it’s been a long day.” Ruby conceded as she let out another, heavier sigh.

Weiss nodded sympathetically as she slid her hand down to Ruby’s, holding it like a piece of glasswork. “It has… It really, really has…” she whispered, carefully tugging Ruby downward so the two of them could continue their conversation sitting. She had to ensure that Ruby couldn’t look outside again. She repositioned herself so her back was against the airship’s wall; her left side inches away from Ruby’s right.

Looking past Ruby, she saw Blake and Yang in a similar position, but even closer. Leaning against each other, passed out. She and Ruby hadn’t gotten all the details just yet, though they had gotten enough to know that their teammates had survived an encounter before the Leviathan had surfaced that would have left most professional huntresses physically and mentally drained.

Returning her attention to Ruby, Weiss didn’t need an empathetic link to know that her friend’s tension was fading, it was more than apparent in her posture. It was only then Weiss she realized just how heavy her eyelids were. “It’s only mid-afternoon, but I’m exhausted. I wonder if there’s a coffee machine onboard…” she mused.

“Oh my gosh, coffee would be amaaazing right now.” Ruby said, smiling hopefully, an expression Weiss unconsciously mirrored.

As long as Ruby was smiling, genuinely smiling, nothing else mattered to her.

—–

Chapter 1:

Audience Prompt: “First”

Admin Prompt: “Coffee”

Weiss continued to gaze at Ruby for only a split second longer before perking up as something occurred to her. “Actually…” She furrowed her brow as she glanced around the Atlesian aircraft. After a moment, she stood and began walking towards a door on the opposite side of the ship, pulling Ruby up with her. The idea of letting go of the girl’s hand was unthinkable. She was going to investigate, and she wasn’t about to leave Ruby alone, so her partner would have to join her, that’s all there was to it.

“The trip from Argus to Mantle is lengthy, and there’s no land between the two unless you take a significant detour by stopping in Vytal, which means the pilots must regularly have meals onboard, so there should be a place to store and prepare food…” Weiss reasoned aloud as they crossed the ship. “…And goodness knows more pilots drink coffee than not, so odds are…” She arrived at the door and pulled it open to reveal a small room with cabinets, a miniature refrigerator, a microwave, and nestled in the corner, a simple coffee maker.

Weiss barely had the time to smirk triumphantly before Ruby’s arms were around her. “Ohmygosh, Weiss, that was amazing!” She praised her partner with the same admiration she’d used when they successfully did their Ice Flower combat maneuver for the first time. Her silver eyes sparkled with joy as she took the lead, dragging Weiss into the kitchenette and rapidly opening each of the cabinets to inspect their contents.

“Bread. Granola bars. Canned soup. AH!! FOUND IT!!!” She squealed with delight as she pulled out a box of instant coffee packets. “There’s cream and sugar too!” She spun around, arms filled, to see Weiss looking at her with a quiet smile. There was something unique about that smile. Something that was just so very… Weiss. Calm yet assuring, muted yet earnest, and stunningly beautiful. Her smile was so enchanting that it took Ruby a few seconds to process that Weiss was holding a small box out to her.

Ruby audibly gasped. “Dust Scout cookies?! Atlas airships are the best! Open’em up open’em up! We’ll have some while we wait for the coffee!” Ruby bounced excitedly.

Weiss simply let out an amused giggle as she swapped her box with her partner’s. “You can start on the cookies, I’ll make the coffee.” She said as she plucked a mug from one of the cabinets and used it to fill the coffee maker with water. “Do you still take yours with cream and five sugars?” She inquired nonchalantly as she placed the empty ceramic cup beneath the machine’s spout. Ruby, who was already eating a cookie looked at Weiss in awe before hastily gulping it down.

“You remembered?!” She asked in soft disbelief.

“Of course I did.” Weiss responded modestly as she pushed a button on the coffee maker.

“But you haven’t made coffee for me since… well, since the first time you made coffee for me, which was, like, our first month at Beacon. Wow, that feels even longer ago than it actually is…” Ruby’s voice trailed off, but her smile remained.

“It was a memorable night… and a memorable cup of coffee. It was my first, and so far only time using Myrtenaster as a cooking tool.” Weiss recalled with an uncharacteristically wistful tone.

“Wait, what?!” Ruby stared in utter confusion.

“Well, we didn’t have a coffee maker in our dorm room, remember? And you were up studying long after the student lounge had closed, so I went to the bathroom, filled the mug, and then used fire dust to turn Myrtenaster into a makeshift heating rod before adding the coffee, cream, and sugar.” A faint blush reached Weiss face as she confessed to the undignified act she’d committed in her haste to impress her partner. Despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t keep herself from smiling at the memory.

“Aww, I can’t believe you did that for me!” Ruby said as she took Weiss’ hand and placed a stack of three cookies into it. “Seriously, I know you were trying to apologize that night, but you were still totally in your ice-queen-y phase. Using Myrtenaster like that… It means a lot to me.” She bashfully shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“I’d actually planned on doing it again if the coffee maker here was broken.” Weiss said, turning to the device that had just finished dispensing dark, fragrant liquid.

Ruby watched as her partner carefully poured her preferred combination of sweeteners into the mug and swirled it around with a plastic spoon, appreciating the care that was apparent in every movement. She silently accepted the mug, feeling its warmth radiating into her hands as Weiss prepared a cup for herself.

The two shared the first truly peaceful moment they’d had all day. For a moment, there were no Grimm, no relics, and no Salem, just each other and the pleasant aroma of coffee.

“Weiss, You’re the best teammate ever.”

Ruby’s voice was sincere, and while she truly meant what she said, she felt a twinge of sadness. She wasn’t sad because of anything that Weiss had done, or even anything that she herself had done, she was sad because the words felt incomplete. In Ruby’s mind, Weiss had transcended being a teammate some time ago, and after the peril they’d overcome in the past several hours, leaving things unsaid no longer felt like an option. Weiss was beauty, grace, and strength incarnate, and more importantly, Weiss was her best friend. Ruby couldn’t stand the thought of being away from her for another day, let alone the concept of reliving those agonizing months they spent half a world apart. She couldn’t do that again.

Mere feet away, Ruby’s words hit Weiss with an unexpected amount of weight. She felt validated, the pledge she’d made to Ruby all those nights ago in their dorm room had been fulfilled. And yet, it felt entirely inadequate. Ruby’s words weren’t inadequate. Those had value beyond anything the Schnee fortune could ever buy. What was inadequate was her own mediocre commitment to Ruby. Someone as incredible as Ruby deserved more than just the best teammate ever. Ruby deserved everything had to give, nothing less was acceptable. Weiss needed to give more to her. Weiss needed to be more to her.

Silver eyes met blue, and the two spoke in unison.

“Weiss–.”

“Ruby–.”

—–

To be continued in Chapter 2

#wrw2019 #white rose week #white rose #whiterose #rwby #fiction #weiss schnee #ruby rose #submission #day 1

[hellolittleogre]

😈 Billy/Bogue, your Jane Eyre AU, 25. Goody/Bogue, your Jane Eyre AU, 9.

Magnificent seven Jane Eyre AU, where Billy is Jane, Bouge is Mr. Rochester and Goodnight Bertha Mason.  Links to previous installments can be found here and here.  Chronologically this comes before the previous prompt I wrote in the same AU

Billy / Bouge … kiss prompt 25- as a yes

It was still with a flushed glow from the pleasant evening that Billy walked out into the park. The apple orchard was in bloom, pink and white and when the last beams of the sun filtered through, one could imagine walking among the very clouds of heaven. 

Or at least Goodnight would say so, and Billy smiled to imagine the rapturous praise he’d heap upon the flowers, absently rubbing his hand over his heart to try to soothe the ache that always came when he was thinking of Goodnight. The man should be here, with him in the sweet smelling evening, and not locked away. The bright thread of their connection felt so precious to Billy, yet still so tenuous. The threat of his departure from Thornfield loomed large and Goodnight, there were still so many things he refused to tell Billy. If Mr Bouge married, both Billy and Adele would be sent packing, and loath as he was to admit it, Thornfield felt like home. He has made friends here, with Mrs Cullen and Mr. Horne and the rest of the staff, and then of course, Goodnight. It was as much of a home Billy’s ever had and the prospect of leaving feels like tearing his heart out by the roots.

 Instead of thinking on that he tried to divert himself with the imaginary conversation he might have with Goodnight, and how he might relay this conversation later to him in person, and so almost make him wander the flowering orchard with Billy tonight. He’s sat down to light a cigarette, being forbidden to smoke in the house where Adele might see him, when over the sweet smell of flowers came the strong scent of Mr. Bouge’s cigar. He’d been wandering apparently in the same purpose of taking the air and the last bit of sunlight. 

“So there you are,” he smiled, mouth curling sardonically under the mustache when he saw Billy. “Like a fairy creature ensconced in his bower, Puck or Ganymede himself.” 

Billy smiled at the compliment, they always made him feel wrong footed somehow, but it’s not much he can say, and they are kindly meant. 

“You’ve apple flowers in your hair, my dear,” Bouge said. “They are quite flattering your complexion” and Billy supposed that’s what he gets for walking out without his hat. 

He was discreetly tucking away his cigarette as Mr. Bouge doesn’t like him to smoke. 

“I trust your sojourn away from us was agreeable?” And Billy assented but went cold as Bouge continued. “And soon of course, you will have to leave us permanently.”

“Is, is it settled then?” Billy asked in alarm. “I shall advertise immediately and meanwhile…” he had almost said, put my faith your good will to harbour me here, but he knew enough of Bouge to know that the man held no good will, only debts to be paid. To be parted from Adele, from Emma and Goodnight, he had to turn his face away to regain his composure. 

“Well, not quite settled yet,” Bouge said carelessly, “but I imagine it will be quite soon, very soon I shall be a married man, and little Adele will have to pack herself away to school, and so there will be no need for you. Does this pain you little creature? Have you grown so attached to us here at Thornfield?”

“I owe that I’m very attached to Adele, and of course Mrs. Cullen, and to the environs and to Thornfield and.. and all of its inhabitants.” It was only long practice from the Reeds and Lowood that kept Billy’s voice from breaking, and staying even.

“Even to me, who taunts you so?” Bouge asked curiously and to that Billy could at first make no answer. He enjoyed Bouge’s company, there was little doubt of that, but why he enjoyed it was harder to say. Was it the verbal sparring, the rapid back and forth and the knowledge that Bouge was level-headed and callous enough to match himself? It might even be the flattery of attention, of having to mind his every step that made Billy feel sharp and alive. 

“I shall miss our conversations,” he said cautiously, but perhaps not the taunts, he added quietly to himself, and Bouge laughed as if he had heard the silent addendum. 

“You shall be glad to know I have made provisions for you,” he said “and inquired after a new position.” Billy’s ears perked up, if they were acquaintances of Bouge it might be possible for him to once in a while see Adele or even be under the same roof as Goodnight. If he was lucky he might even spot him from the windows. 

“Oh yes,” Bouge continued in his smooth baritone, “A Mrs. O’Gall, with five sons in Bitternut Lodge, Connacth, Ireland require a tutor. You should like that I’m sure, Ireland is a capital country, though I would never go there myself.  I’m sure you will be very happy there,”

“In Ireland?” Billy asked, barely able to believe his ears, oh Ireland. “That’s too far away,” came out of his mouth before he could even control it. 

“Too far away? From what?”

From Goodnight, was Billy’s first thought but he managed to bite his lip. “From England, and and Thornfield and my relations and..”

“And from me little sprite, do I come into this calculation of distance?”

Billy bit his lip and didn’t answer, only let his eyes fall to the ground. Again he found himself backed into a conversational dead end, damned if he committed himself and equally damned if he protested to strenuously. In the end he made no reply, choosing to let Bouge believe what suited him. Just like the vast and briny Irish sea which would soon separate him from everything familiar, so a cold ocean of differences separated him from Bouge and prevented him to answer as he would like.

“It’s a long way,” he said instead.

“We shall be sure be parted forever, for to such a godforsaken place as Ireland I will never go, however good friends we have been here,” Bouge said, contemplating the smoke rising from his cigar. “And I would imagine that causing me such a blow would be quite pleasing to one so heartless as you.”

 Billy almost gasped in surprise because the jab was so sudden, and the accusation stung. He would not describe himself as heartless, in fact right now, his heart feels like a bruised pulpy fruit inside his rib cage. It is not him who has made advances at every step only to be bruisingly dismissive whenever the attention was returned.

“Such was not my intention, and to go so far would not be my choice,” he answered and Bouge smiled like a great hunting cat. 

“So you say, yet your eagerly accept the opportunity, happy to be away from me as fast as you can?”

And Billy wanted to stomp his feet. What choice did he have? To turn down Bouge’s offer might very well end him with a terminated contract and no reference, Bouge has more than once hinted that he would do it.

“I’m hurt my sweet William, so I am. I had thought that I was dearer to you than that, but now I see I’m only so much dust you can’t wait to scuff from your shoes.”

Frustration and sorrow threatened tears to his eyes and Bouge must see it, however he turned away and bowed his head, and all Billy could hope for was for the interview to end soon, to let him soothe his ravaged heart in peace.

“And for myself I shall be married to the lovely Mr. McGann, though why any man should make such a provision for himself is beyond me, but no, come here instead and sit with me. Let us talk a little together, about such pleasant things as your coming voyage and new position, as friends ought.”

They had reached their accustomed bench under the old chestnut tree, which was now a white bower of flowers in the growing dusk, Billy sitting himself down next to Mr. Bouge, and watching the stars spring out on the sky one by one, dreading how to relay this to Goodnight, his emotions turned so topsy turvy he hardly knew where he was.

“It makes me sad to send my little friend on such a wearying journey, but needs must, and why should I put myself out for you? Are you anything to me, besides a vexing creature, can you answer me that?”

And Billy had to bite his lip and shake his head, because of course he could not. Sometimes he had hoped, almost in spite of himself, and sometimes he had foolishly thought that Bouge might make him some sort of an offer, when his dark, hungry eyes had watched him in the fire light, he had thought he knew that look, thought he could not be mistaken.

“Because,” Bouge continued, “I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string in your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will snap, and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.”

“So you say sir, yet you know me so little,” Billy said finally stung, his composure breaking. “I shall never forget Thornfield Hall, and I should never wish myself parted from this place. I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:—I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,—momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,—with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind,” he paused to draw breath, realising how utterly precipitous it would be to admit open knowledge of Goodnight, and ploughed on, “and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from it forever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.” It was the most passionate he had ever been in Bouge’s company, tears hanging at the edges of his eyes.

“Where do you see the necessity?” Bouge asked, with half a smile under his mustache.

“Where?” Billy answered, incredulous. “You, sir, have placed it before me.”

“In what shape?”

“In the shape of Mr McGann; a noble and beautiful man of your own position,—your groom.”

“My groom!” Bouge laughed, “What groom? I have none!”

“But you will have,” Billy interjected, hurt and confused

“Yes;—I will!—I will!” He set his teeth.

“Then I must go:—you have said it yourself,” Billy said and flew to his feet.

“No: you must stay! I swear it—and the oath shall be kept.”

Billy was momentarily struck speechless in frustration, grief and confusion, from being snubbed and flattered in turns, and made to turn away but Bouge got to his feet and caught him easily, laughing.

“No, don’t struggle so little bird, you’ll do yourself an injury. Just be still and hear me out.” 

Billy ceased to struggle in his arms and allowed himself to be gathered in, breathless and shivering when Bouge kissed him, his mouth warm and sure. Hungry and devouring but the way his tongue stroked along the seam of Billy’s lips was still a gentle invite. When he released him Billy was panting, helplessly licking his own mouth, to chase the phantom sensation there.

“I am a free human being with an independent will,” he said, his voice shaking badly. “Which I now exert to leave you.”

He tried to push Bouge away but the man would not let him go - “And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said: “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”

Billy stared at him in utter disbelief. To make such an offer to a person in his position, penniless, friendless was not in keeping with the character he knew. “You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.” he hedged, but he stopped struggling.

“No farce,” Mr. Bouge said warmly. “But in earnest, say yes. I must have you for my own - entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes quickly!”

Billy stared at him speechless for a moment, unable to comprehend the change in circumstance and then melted into his arms, caught at last. This kiss was different, Billy succumbing to the strange pull of being possessed, his kiss a definitive yes, where his words could not suffice.

#mag7 Jane Eyre AU #kiss prompts #billy x goodnight #billy x bouge #no editing we die like men #give me a thousand kisses #DID I just copy and paste large parts of the proposal scene from jane eyre? #yes yes I did

[nooneelsecomesclose17]

Robron - 91.

Candles

He couldn’t believe it. Christmas Eve and they were in the middle of a power cut. The electricity company had no idea when it would be back on. Aaron had just given him a look when he’d given them a piece of his mind. He didn’t care. The night was ruined. He’d got it all sorted, had been planning it for ages.

It was the first Christmas that they’d had with Seb where he knew what was going on. It was only fair, they had him all year so Rebecca and Ross had him for Christmas. This year though, Robert had put his foot down, and now it was ruined.

“He’s not going to care Robert. As long as he gets up to a pile of presents in the morning he’ll be happy as anything. You’re stressing yourself out for no reason.” Aaron presses a kiss on his cheek as he passes on his way to light more candles to get them out of the pitch darkness.

“I...I promised him we’d watch Santa Claus the movie tonight.”

“Oh suddenly I’m happy about this power cut.” It was Victoria’s fault, she’d baby sat for Seb a few weeks before and she’d put the film on and now Seb was obsessed. Aaron and Liv had both tried to get him to watch something different, various Disney movies, Elf, Muppet Christmas Carol, all to no avail. No it was Dudley Moore and John Lithgow that the little boy wanted.

Every night.

Alright, it was fun watching him pull faces and gasp and all that was fun, but the two of the could probably recite the film themselves.

“How about...give us your phone.” Robert frowned but handed it over, attention captured by Seb crawling under the table in search of a toy. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Santa tracker. Should keep him amused for a bit.”

“But...Aaron, you know he’s not real right?”

“Shut up, idiot. Just show him, trust me.”

“We’re going to talk about how you know about this.” He stared at the screen, it was kind of cool and when he was a kid he would’ve loved this. The best he had was staring out of the window hoping he’d hear a shake of bells or see something fly past the window.

“Marlon. He tried it with April once. That lasted all of five minutes before she told him it was stupid ‘and obviously he’s not real Daddy’, but it might keep his attention for a bit.”

He was right it would. Seb was Santa obsessed. They’d queued up for over an hour to see quite frankly a pretty rubbish Santa in Hotten. Twice, The last day or two he’d found him staring at the fireplace for ages before he’d had to explain that even though they didn’t have a proper chimney Santa would still find him.

“Hey Seb, come over here a minute mate. Let me show you something.” He smiles up at Aaron as the little boy climbs up onto his lap. Where would he be without Aaron?

#Anonymous #the most tenuous link to candles ever #but I hope you like it #prompt fill #robron fic

[bonesandblood-sunandmoon]

Pre-Therapy Isolation

CoA prompt for Oct 2019 - “Aromanticism and Aloneness” [Call for Submissions]. Under a cut due to length. Heads up: There’s a mention of a past history of suicidal episodes, but there are zero details.

Sections: 1) Therapeutic Context, 2) Aloneness, Isolation, and Loneliness, 3) Convergence of Mental Illness & Aro-spec Identity, and 4) Disclosure.

Therapeutic Context

I have bounced around from draft to draft and tangent to tangent this past month in part because other issues have required a higher priority ranking in the mental queue. Among the various topics brought up with/by my new general practitioner [GP] during this month’s follow-up was counseling intake, which will feature a bunch of questions off a template and hopefully some relevant questions about the diagnosis I’d like to confirm (or figure out my symptoms are actually from X) over a few appointments.

(For non-regular readers, I haven’t had health insurance since undergrad ended in 2016, so there have been a few changes to the identities I tote around. The Counseling and Psychological Services [CPS] offered on-campus did include therapy, but I’m not quite a good fit with Grad students who change every semester and require reintroductions, re-explaining, and ignoring personal details when I just don’t want to bother with an LGBTQIA+ primer. My last therapy visit with CPS that wasn’t a ‘the semester started’ drop-in was in the later part of the spring semester of 2015.)

I did ask to not be paired with someone who’s never had a trans patient before because I’m just not up to walking my therapist through the bare bones of Trans 101, but I won’t really know their familiarity with LGBTQIA+ basics until the first intake appointment in November. It’s possible they might know some identities but not all of them, and I may still need to break out a little 101 even for relatively more established identities (ex. nonbinary). However, the most relevant of my letters collected for this post is the A for aro-spec (specifically quoi/greyro), which is currently the most recent personal identity (2019) and, afaik, the youngest community when it comes to awareness.

Aloneness, Isolation, and Loneliness

On a literal, physical level, the prospect of going to therapy doesn’t really fit with being alone (“having no one else present”) or aloneness (“a disposition toward being alone”). But it edges along a nebulous mixture of talking about being alone, geographic isolation, and possible loneliness or isolation. The bridge connecting this nebulous alone/isolation idea with being aro-spec and facing intake for counseling:

Talking about being alone. It’s going to be a smidge related to context for past events, but it’s like a cloud on the horizon that I’m trying to ignore when it comes to talking about the future and/or future goals. I’m going to have to admit that it’s currently unwise to live on my own to someone’s face, so I don’t want that to be a goal of our sessions. Like, I’m really going to have to admit that my symptoms have gotten bad enough in the past that I would rather plan on having a roommate than risk being a danger to myself again.

The geographic isolation specific to living in a rural area that’s not exactly the intended ‘local’ area for the closest LGBTQIA+ resources and communities, especially if you get a-spec specific. It can range from some resources not being applicable when you live in a different county to inconvenient differences in meetups (it’s great to only have a 5 minute walk to a coffee shop for a casual meetup for the locals, but if I live over an hour’s drive away, I expect something a little more substantial to justify the driving and need enough advanced notice to actually drive there).

It doesn’t really feel like loneliness, but it doesn’t quite seem like a type of isolation, and it’s just this mixed feeling that I’m not going to have a choice but to be a teaching moment because I’m going to be the first aro-spec patient for this therapist. True, I have no way of knowing how many other aros are in this area, but unfortunately, I have no way of knowing if I’m the only aro-spec person around. It feels unbalanced and isolating that I can’t just walk in as an individual, and I now have to be careful as an ambassador of sorts.

Convergence of Mental Illness & Aro-spec Identity

Based on a quick search of Arocalypse, I wouldn’t go so far as to say this is a unique feeling to me, but that greyro pov post included revealing my connection between my mental health and feeling like I’ve become aro-spec. (Link covers why I’d rather not directly link to the post in question, namely personal growth. With a dash of embarrassment.) And yes, I said that I feel like I’ve become aro-spec instead of feeling like it’s been a static identity that I’ve always had.

I think the life events I went through - most strongly noticed after surviving suicidal shit - were the equivalent of the body prioritizing heating the core instead of the extremities in extreme cold. The vital to living parts of me made it through.

My ability to correctly interpret romantic attraction when signaled in media? It’s not impossible, but it’s usually particularly scripted examples. My ability to correctly interpret romantic attraction signaled in other people? I still have a chance at getting that right, but it’s not guaranteed. My ability to correctly interpret romantic attraction when I might be experiencing it? Nope, that didn’t make it through. It’s like a fixed red-blue-purple color array that’s suddenly showing orange. It’s like looking down at your phone one day and realizing everything’s been switched to a language you only know a limited amount of (for me, Spanish). It’s like trying to wrap your head around imaginary numbers after you thought you were keeping up in Algebra II.

At this point, romantic attraction is a rather distant memory and feels like it happened to a different person. I’ve made peace with not knowing if I’m orange or red-orange, and I could stumble through figuring out more words in Spanish, but I don’t think proper management of my symptoms will “restore” what’s been lost. No amount of talk therapy is going to unlock those memories, and the right medication isn’t going to lift the fog of confusion. Maybe red-orange is close enough to red to count (non-normative romance factoring into maybe, sometimes experiencing something close to romantic attraction a la greyro), but I don’t want to pretend I know what i means.

Disclosure

I don’t want a therapist to get sidetracked by “fixing” me because I’m alright chilling out here on the aro spectrum. Maybe I’ll be able to live on my own at some point, or maybe I’ll have a roommate. Maybe the stars will align and I’ll find someone who’s alright with me being red-orange and mostly confused as long as we figure out each other’s love language(s), so to speak. Maybe I’ll have a collection of friends, but I won’t ever really partner with someone. I’m not sure. Those questions are too complicated and too far off into the future for me to answer when I’ve got to douse the embers my brain decided to light in its resident dumpster before they grow into a full fledged fire.

However, based on my experience with CPS, I need to be prepared for questions about my relationship status. Their intake process included screening for domestic violence, if my memory serves me right (single = skip that section), but I also remember a soft inquiry into who might be involved in my support network where it was relevant to establish that I had friends but no romantic partners to warrant referring to my significant other. Just based on the preliminary paperwork that’s a copy of what I had to fill out for GP, there’s a section for choosing from their offered gender and sexuality options [includes Other and lines to write in responses].

I didn’t really feel like getting into a ton of detail with GP, but it feels different when it comes to counseling and eventually a psychiatrist consult. If I’m going to compile a bullet point list of my identities, offer brief explanations, and point towards aro resources, I’d rather get that all out of the way in the beginning. Once it’s all on the table, I don’t have to dance around topics or play the rephrasing game where I avoid coming out part way through an answer. Maybe me offering up AUREA can make it a little easier for the next patient who’s aro.

Maybe I don’t want to ignore or downplay my connection to an online aro community, as tenuous as it may be at times, because I feel a little less alone. I don’t have to frame changes in romantic orientation as being broken. I have an alternative narrative for being the heartless monster who’s a bit too cold and less than human. I don’t have to take the negative impression that an inability to romantically love someone (or an unclear answer) means that any sexual attraction, desire, or activities amount to manipulative ‘using’ as truth. (The social connection to a community can be used to whack a self-isolating brain.)

Ultimately, prepare for disclosure, so I don’t feel caught off guard or forget differences in how resources define a word and how I relate to it. I can play it by ear during the intake process, and if I don’t actually want to disclose to the therapist, I don’t have to.

#My writing #therapy #aro spectrum

[itsclydebitches]

What if super serious silliness ensued and OZPIN was the one who started it?!

I’m a terrible prompt filler who jumped ahead in the list, but I was stuck in the airport today and wanted to write some of that silliness :D

Updated list of to-be filled prompts here 

On a particularly dreary, November morning Ozpin once watched a colleague of his pick up a vase and throw it across the room where it shattered, irreparable. The blue and white piece had been a gift from a friend two-hundred years dead, nothing more than an antique—by an unknown artist, no less—to everyone but him. His colleague apologized of course and Ozpin forgave him. Of course. Tempers had been high that day, their struggle great, and in the end he was pleased that this new friend had taken his grief out on a mere object, rather than on himself.

Still, such forgiveness didn’t stop him from clearing his then office of all other beloved mementos. As the years dragged and things like fire, grimm, or frayed tempers continued to destroy Ozpin’s tenuous links to his past, he’d eventually cleared them all away, stored in safe, secret places for him to visit when time allowed. His office became barren and if people thought that was a reflection of a cold and callous nature? Very well. Ozpin rarely had the luxury of proving them wrong. 

Today, his office held precisely four pieces of furniture: his desk, his chair, an additional chair brought out only for students… and an old-fashioned calendar hanging on the wall.

People commented on it frequently. After all, if you were going for a minimalist approach, why break it with a calendar of all things? Especially in the age where everyone kept schedules on their scrolls? The fact that it wasn’t even a particularly nice calendar seemed to throw people the most. Not that there was anything wrong with those sold in the Beacon gift shop, sporting landscape photos of the architecture and surrounding grounds, the occasional, generic headshot of a four student team. It just didn’t quite fit with the rest of Ozpin’s aesthetic.

He always smiled at those who questioned the choice, shrugged, and asked, “Why not?”

‘Why not?’ was a perfectly wonderful phrase. It left little room for further interrogation. In truth, Ozpin had grown fond of that calendar, if only because it added a spot of light to what had otherwise become a dreary room. That calendar, he thought fondly, also had the dubious pleasure of being the bane of Glynda’s existence.

“Sweet fucking dust.”

Ozpin bit hard into his lower lip, kindly not responding to her unusual choice of words. Every morning Glynda arrived with plans, notes, and any disasters that had sprung up during the night, everything a Headmaster might need to begin his day. Every morning she also took a black pen from her pocket and carefully marked another X on the calendar, right before leaving. This ensured that Glynda was always the first to see when Beacon traditions swung back around, those events helpfully written in green at the beginning of the year by her suspiciously eager boss.

Today there was just one notation, a massive exclamation point taking up the whole height of the box. Across the room, Ozpin watched Glynda’s face twitch in horror.

“Problem?” he asked. The look she shot him made it that much harder to swallow his laugh.

She didn’t respond. Glynda merely marched back to the elevator, wooden, her pallor suggesting she was a woman walking to her death. Ozpin might not have the comfort of his decorations anymore, but this calendar provided an equal—if vastly different—kind of camaraderie.

“We’ll be fine!” he called, lifting his mug in a toast just as the doors closed. Only then did Ozpin allow himself to laugh at his poor headmistresses’ plight.

Beacon’s prank week had just begun.  

***

“The alarms,” Bart said decisively, staring out the lounge window where Glynda was berating a group of students. Their shit-eating grins were visible even from this distance—as were the hundreds of utensils they’d stuck into the yard, spelling out a term not to be repeated in polite company. Bart made sure to get numerous pics of it on his scroll. “A hundred dust-infused alarm clocks hidden across the school, each set to go off at a different time during the course of the week? Simple, and yet utterly maddening. It took me forever to find that last one hidden under the floorboards of my classroom. I sometimes still think I can hear that incessant beeping…”

Peter shook his head, elbowing Bart out of the way so he could get a better look. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, old friend. The greatest prank goes to whoever set those boarbatusks loose!”

Peach set her novel aside, eyebrows raising. “Someone released grimm. Into Beacon. As a prank?”

“Ah yes. That was before you joined us.” Peter flapped a hand in her general direction. “Just young ones, my dear, just young ones. Besides, anyone here can dispatch a boarbatusk in moments! As my first year grimm studies class always demonstrates with aplomb. No, no, Pamela. The joke was in what was painted on their backs.”

Bart zipped there and back for more coffee. “We dispatched a one, a two, and a four,” he said, fingers flipping upwards with each number.

“And the three?”

“No three,” Peter chuckled. “Though we didn’t know that at the time. Looking for the supposedly illusive beast drove poor Glynda to… well.”

The three of them watched her herd the students off to class. All of them shook their heads as they went, hands raised in the universal gesture of innocence. It was a time honored tradition that any and all pranks performed during this week were to remain anonymous—and the students did a remarkable job of putting aside their pride in the name of turning their headmistress’s hair a premature gray. To this day no one knew exactly who orchestrated the alarm fiasco, let alone who managed to capture, wrangle, and set loose three boarbatusks at dawn without ever being caught out of bed. Pull aside any Beacon graduate and they’d just shake their head. Not me, good sir. I would never participate in such juvenile behavior.

Yeah. Right.

Together they watched as Glynda cut her arm sharply through the air, hundreds of forks, knives, spoons (and the occasional spork) flying in a vaguely threatening arc back towards the kitchen. With the grounds clear of creative profanity, their gaze bore down on Glynda as she briefly hung her head in her hands.  

“Poor woman,” Bart said.

“We should really do something to help her,” Peter agreed.

Peach nodded. “We are instructors after all.”

None of them moved. After a moment Bart pulled his scroll back up and started flipping through the photos. “You two want copies?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, man.”

***

“It wasn’t me,” Sage squeaked, backing up and finding that there was nowhere left to go. In her peripheral vision she spotted her team scrambling around the corner, effectively abandoning her, and she made a mental note to murder them all later. Slowly.

Glynda’s hand tightened around her riding crop. The squeak of leather was overly loud in the otherwise silent hall. “Mr. Sekoni says otherwise.”

Sage’s mouth dropped. “Florian is a liar! Er—I mean—I got the same note, ma’am. See?” Careful that she didn’t get blasted back into the wall, Sage removed the slip of paper from her bag. The message was printed on some sort of thick, fancy card-stock and smelled vaguely of old books. Sage’s note said the same thing that Florian’s had, and theirs presumably matched the rest of the school. As far as Sage could tell, whoever had pulled this prank together made sure to include a note for themselves, making it pretty much impossible to tell who’d started it. Six hours in and no one had broken their innocent act.

Whoever they were, Sage was pretty sure she loved them.

“It was slipped under our door this morning,” she whispered. “I swear.”

“And you just decided to follow these instructions, did you?”

“…Yeah. Sorry, ma’am.”

With a growl Glynda snatched the note and stalked away, no doubt off to interrogate the next unfortunate student. Sage watched her go, wobbling slightly in her black heels. She still wasn’t used to walking around in these things. The purple cape made out of her neighbor’s blanket though? Kinda made Sage feel badass.

As their headmistress stalked away four more students dressed as Glynda Goodwitch scurried to press themselves against the wall. She cast disgusted looks at their outfits and Sage, dust help her, giggled.

It was a little funny. Professor Goodwitch would realize that eventually.

Maybe.

Sage cocked her head, fixing her white blouse. What had she been doing?

Oh yeah. Murder.

***

Ozpin considered the problem before him. “It’s the sleeves,” he said, shaking his head like these students had personally offended him. Snickers turned into full-blown laughter as Ozpin retrieved four rubber-bands from his desk drawer, slipping each onto the brothers’ wrists. It helped create a puff in their sleeves and Ozpin nodded, satisfied with the result. “There, much better. Just don’t let them cut off your circulation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you will cease doing one another’s homework.”

The twins exchanged glances. “…Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” Ozpin’s smile was back. “Now take your excellent outfits and get to class. You have history this morning, yes? Better hurry. You know how Doctor Oobleck is about lateness…”

That was more than enough to set the boys in motion. They snuck into the elevator just as Glynda walked out of it—pulling at their skirts and fluffing up their newly detailed sleeves. They gave her a salute, using a ruler and wooden spoon in lieu of riding crops.

Kids now safely out of her reach, Glynda turned her wrath on Ozpin instead. “Don’t you dare encourage them in this.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry in the least. “They did such a good job on those costumes though. Surely you’re flattered…?”

“Flattered!” Glynda went to the calendar and viciously marked off the previous day. “In twenty-four hours I have cleaned up the front grounds—twice—been bombarded with calls from people wishing to buy Beacon because someone listed us on some advertising site for, and I quote, ‘The special one time price of five lien!’—” Behind her Ozpin choked. “I have dealt with a school-wide sleepover in the dining hall at 3:00am, the fifty pizzas that someone ordered to arrive during my class, and have had the supposed pleasure of watching everyone on campus attempt to mimic my wardrobe. Even Bart is dressing up now. And it’s only been one day!”

Ozpin knew from long experience that it was best to just let Glynda rant herself out. He made appropriate, sympathetic noises whenever she paused for breath and hid his humor behind many long sips of coffee. By the time she’d shared all pertinent info—including a comprehensive list of everyone who’d attended the sleepover, something Ozpin planned to “lose” very quickly—Glynda was marginally less red in the face and Ozpin had given his word that he wouldn’t suddenly show up in heels and a purple lined cape.

…though he’d had his fingers crossed behind his back when he said as much. Ozpin liked to keep his options open.

Because yes, it was a time honored, Beacon tradition that during prank week no one gave up who’d crafted, planned, and executed any of the madness. It was a gesture of solidarity… and easy enough to do. Given that only a handful of pranks over the years had actually originated from the student body. The rest…

Ozpin chuckled. Glynda gone, he seated himself before his laptop and pulled up his plans for today. Setting up those utensils and delivering instructions to every student’s room had been easy enough, especially with his speed. Fifty pizzas? Hardly put a dent in his fortune and his students always needed to eat. The sleepover had just been a rumor taking on a life of its own—beautifully—and Ozpin had listed Beacon for sale on a total whim during lunch. Really, Glynda should have been suspicious given that whoever uploaded the listing had access to her private scroll number.

He’d never meant to pick on Glynda specifically… but now that he’d started, it seemed rather a shame to stop.

“What now, what now,” Ozpin murmured, toying with his options. It wouldn’t do to be too hasty.

His eyes strayed to his calendar and yes, Ozpin smiled. After all, there were still six days left in the week.

#rwby #rwbyfic #ozpin #glynda #in which I craft more stupidity #Anonymous