anon, this is a terrible, horrible, very bad prompt and u should feel awful for sending it
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His parents are always back before dinner. Dad had promised to make rajma-chawal for dinner, one of his favorites. They made dinner for him when they didn’t think they’d be back before sunset. But it’s nightfall now, and he’s hungry, and alone. Mom and Dad still aren’t back.
“Where are you?” he murmurs, rising on his tiptoes so he can peer out the window into the street. It’s empty; the last person he had seen walking by hadn’t been Mom or Dad. He falls back to his feet and runs upstairs, hand on the stair guardrail. When he reaches the landing, he goes straight to Mom and Dad’s room, rounding the bed to Mom’s side, carefully avoiding stepping on her prayer rug.
He has to use the stepstool to get into the bed, curling up on Mom’s side, resting his cheek on the pillow. It smells like her, soft and floral. He buries his face in her pillow and waits, hating the silence of the house.
Where are they? They should be home by now…
They’d left him books to read and games to play while they were gone, in place of lessons, but Dad makes the games fun, and the books are boring, anyway.
He doesn’t know how long he waits for them to come home, but he doesn’t move until his stomach growls. The house is dark, because he’s not supposed to light candles without Mom or Dad watching, not after what happened last time.
Asra sits up and cups his hands in front of his chest, sticking his tongue out like Dad does when he’s in his workshop. He furrows his brow, concentrating, and he thinks, Light!
Just like Dad showed him, and the weird fox man.
A small orb flickers to life between his palms, floating up into the air, shining pale yellow. Asra laughs and claps, looking around before he realizes Mom and Dad aren’t there to see him do magic. Then he frowns and turns onto his stomach, carefully sticking his foot out and lowering himself down until he feels the stepstool.
Then he goes to the kitchen, Mr. Light bobbing along behind him, and finds the cookie jar. Cookies aren’t supposed to be eaten til after dinner, Mom always says, but he hasn’t had dinner and he’s hungry.
After he’s eaten every cookie except two (one for Mom, and one for Dad), he sits in the living room, Mr. Light hovering over his shoulder.
“They’ll come home,” he tells Mr. Light, who bobs in agreement. Asra kicks his legs, staring down at his bare feet, tongue poking at the cookie bit stuck between his teeth. After a minute, he uses his fingernail to pry it out, then licks his finger and wipes it on his pants. He looks to Mr. Light. “They’ll be back soon, I just gotta wait for them.”
Mr. Light bobs again.
Asra waits, humming and daydreaming. When he gets tired, he looks out the window again—standing on his tiptoes just to see outside—but he doesn’t see Mom or Dad. “Huh,” he says, and even though he’s not supposed to, he goes upstairs, retrieves the stepstool, and unlocks the doors. He drags the stepstool aside and goes out into the street, Mr. Light accompanying him the whole way.
The streets are empty. He knows it takes a long time to get to the palace. They’re probably just stuck, is all. They’re coming. Satisfied, Asra goes back into the house, closing the door and dragging the stepstool in front of it. He locks all three locks, then, just in case, uses the stepstool to look out the windows.
No Mom. No Dad. But that’s okay. They’ve never been so late before, but they’ll be back in the morning. They always are. Maybe they can have pancakes for breakfast? Or maybe they’ll take him to the Milovan restaurant. He won’t get a bedtime story tonight, but Dad can tell him two tomorrow night, so that’s okay.
“They’re coming home,” Asra says, grunting under the weight of the stepstool as he lifts it up. He has to half-carry it, half-drag it back up the stairs. “They’re just a little late, Mr. Light. It’s okay.”
But he doesn’t want to sleep in his bed tonight, so he brings the stepstool to Dad’s side of the bed. After changing into his favorite nightdress, Asra climbs onto Dad’s side of the bed and crawls under the covers. Dad’s pillow is softer than Mom’s, but it doesn’t smell like Dad, just cotton. So Asra climbs out of bed and grabs one of Dad’s scarves, soft red cotton trimmed with golden tassels. He wraps it around himself and gets back in bed, moving around Dad’s pillow until he’s comfortable.
“Goodnight, Mr. Light,” he says, and Mr. Light bobs once again, sputtering out and leaving him in darkness again. Asra tugs Mom’s pillow closer so he smells her, and pulls the covers up over his head, a shield against the unfamiliar darkness. He doesn’t like how it feels to sleep knowing Mom and Dad aren’t there with him.
Prompt: I’ve never seen anything like the way you handled that. I’m just so moved.
Pairing: Space Husbands, with a little Sarek/Amanda thrown in there for good measure.
Requested by anonymous, thank you so much for the request!!!!! I had trouble thinking of a situation but anytime one can bring Sarek into the equation, one must, am I right?
Setting: Right after Journey to Babel
Once again, Spock found himself on the receiving end of his father’s anger. Well, since Sarek would never admit to anger, it was more that Spock found himself on the receiving end of Sarek’s perfectly logical disappointment. In either case, he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it. He never was. He could stand against any furious tide but his father’s, and this situation was decidedly more serious than most.
“A human,” Sarek said once again, standing in the center of Spock’s quarters after seemingly not hearing Spock’s request that he sit. It was illogical to repeat the words, as they had at this point established that yes, Spock was in love with a human. Was, in fact, already mentally bonded to said human. He had been worried when his parents boarded the Enterprise that they may discover the relationship that had bloomed between he and Jim, but he had hoped with all the excitement of assassination attempts and Sarek’s own brush with death, they may have been distracted enough not to notice anything odd. Unfortunately, he underestimated his parents’ powers of observation.
I want someone to write a book where Mermaids are the women thrown off ships when the sailors got afraid because having a woman on the boat is bad luck. And as they sink to the bottom, legs tied together, they change slowly until they can breathe, until they can use their tied up legs to swim. And they drown sailors in revenge, luring them in by singing in their husky voices still stinging from the salt water they breathed.
someone please write this
“Please, don’t do this!” her voice comes out hoarse, cracked. The men leer at her, their gazes cold.
“Storm is comin’ now” the captain says. He is the worst, because in his eyes there is regret. Compassion. Pity. He doesn’t want to do it. Not like the others do. But that won’t stop him.
“Told your father a ship is no place for a girl,” he says. “Told ‘im to find another vessel, told ‘im to just keep you home, if e’ had ta. But did he listen? If you want someone to blame, miss, blame him. Tha ocean is cold, cold and cruel. And she ain’t gonna let us through this without payment, without a cost.”
The wind blows his gray hair back from his face, and he nods at one of the crewman – the one who’s eyes always linger on her for too long – and he steps forward and jabs Alice in the side with a paddle from one of the rowboats. She cries out, even though she doesn’t want to, even though she wants to scream instead, scream and curse the way a lady of her standing is never meant to do. She wants to curse them all to a watery grave and watch as they suffer.
She tries to move, tries to run past them, to break the rope binding her legs at the ankles through sheer power of will. She fails.
The crewman jabs at her again, and she spits at him. The glob of saliva hits him on the face, spittle clinging to his sun-tanned skin. His crewmates laugh.
Alice realizes her mistake too late.
His eyes darken, he steps forward – and he strikes her across the face with the paddle so hard she’s twisted around, so hard she sees black and careens of the gangplank and plummets to the dark, thrashing water below.
The captain was right: the sea is cold. Colder than any hell she’s ever imagined. Colder than the time she fell face first into a deep puddle on the street in the dead of winter. She feels the ice flood her mouth, fill her lungs, turn every vein and bone bitter blue with frost. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move.
The water tosses her against the hull of the ship and she feels her skull crack against the worn wood. The world fades, and she begins to die…
She remembers the sea, through the darkness. Remembers tossing her friend Lydia into the waves at the beach, remembers their laughter as Lydia pulled her in as well. She remembers dunking her head under, feeling the rush of cold fill her up as she became lighter than she’d ever been, became part of the water.
‘The sea is cold,’ she remembers the captain saying. Yes, she thinks, but I am colder.
And the ocean? she realizes. The ocean is her sister.
She feels it filling her up, feels it caressing her body, enveloping her. Not killing her, but cradling her. A sister holding up her own blood, a mother, soothing her wailing child, kissing the hurt away. A goddess, hearing the prayers of her devoted believer, and answering them.
I have salt and seawater in my soul, Captain. I will show you how cold these waters can be.
She feels the edges of her body fading, feels herself stop being a me and become a we, become an us, become every drop of water and every clump of foam and every weed and every wave. Feels herself changing.
Her dress is pulled away by the waves, button by button, seam by seam. The sea strips her, soothes her skin. She feels herself swaying, feels her injuries healing. Feels herself become something more than a scared girl or a single spot of death in a pool of life, as her body flares like a fire, as her legs brush together, as they begin to fuse…
She feels herself heal, and she feels herself change.
When it is over, she is bare, but she feels no shame. Her tail twists in the water beneath her, swaying, more natural than her legs ever felt. Stronger, too. She runs her hand over the dark blue scales, the same shade as the surface in a storm. She feels herself smile.
Siren, she thinks, mermaid. Sister of the sea.
The captain was right; a ship is no place for a woman. This is the place for a woman.
And when she drags him screaming down into it, he will realize: the ocean may be cruel…but her sisters are worse.
Alice smiles again, and begins to swim after the ship fading into the distance.
“The ocean may be cruel…but her sisters are worse.”
The time when Harry and Malfoy are surprisingly domestic; And Ron nearly cannot process that :
Ron would never believe what he was seeing before his eyes.
Malfoy lived in a studio flat now, Harry had said. They had buried their old rivalry now, Harry had said. Harry was quite taken up with the blond ferret git now, he had said.
What Ron expected though, was certainly not this.
Upon stepping out of the floo into the living room, Hermione in tow, Ron’s brows began to furrow in confusion. The sight which welcomed him was a large, spacey room with sparsely furniture covering its white marble floor. The fireplace behind him cackles loudly, illuminating the huge wooden table in the middle of the room etched with meticulously designed carvings. The room was dimly lit otherwise, an open kitchen to the corner of the flat and paintings decorating the ivory coloured walls, family heirlooms floating along a corridor leading to a door which could only be the bathroom. At a side, a sofa with golden trimmings sat.
When Harry said studio flat, Ron did not expect this large, posh room with space enough to host a party. But of course, he wouldn’t expect less with Malfoy. If Malfoy was to live in a studio flat, it would be a mansion studio.
But what Ron really didn’t expect, was the sight before him. On the bed. An odd feeling welled up within Ron, as he felt his chest had ceased working to take breaths in. He felt like he was intruding into a fantasy bubble.
Because before him, Malfoy was perched in the middle a king size bed which was placed several feet off the ground on a small platform, half lying against the wall behind him. With one hand, he was flipping a book casually held in it, and the other hand…was currently wrapped protectively around the figure basically on top on him.
Ron could recognize that nest of messy dark hair anywhere, having known his best friend for a decade and said best friend’s profile always plastered on posters. What he could not begin to process, was that Harry was currently lying face down, sprawled across Malfoy, snoring softly. His face was buried deep against Malfoy’s collar bone, arms loosely clutching the body under him, in his, apparently, deep slumber. Malfoy’s chin was resting gently atop Harry’s head, eyes peering down at his book in concentration. A comfortable-looking duvet was thrown across both of their bodies, covering Harry waist down. Malfoy’s arms were left out.
What slightly unnerved Ron was, the both of them looked so cozy that it seemed like they had resumed the same position for the millionth time. Ron has no idea that this was the definition of “taken up”.
Hearing commotion, Malfoy eventually lifted his head up from his literature. He blinked at the couple before him for a moment, sighed, but not unkindly, then shifted.
To Ron’s slight horror, the ferret shut his book after marking his place in it, throwing it to a side, then used his now free hand to…begin slipping it into the head of dark hair resting on his chest. His fingers moved smoothly, tangling in the messiness. Ron looked on as Malfoy slowly caressed and massaged the scalp.
Then Malfoy began speaking, in the most gentle tone Ron had heard the git used that lacked every ounce of bitterness that he was familiar with. “Love, get up. They’re here.”
Gradually, the still figure on him began to stir. Clinging to Malfoy yet, he reached up to rub a fist into his eyes. Harry was not wearing his glasses, Ron noticed. Malfoy smiled down at him affectionately, a smile so secretive that Ron was not sure that he should be allowed to watch. Uneasiness in him remained, he watched on. Malfoy thumbed away a strand of hair which was blocking Harry’s face, cupping the cheeks in a light grasp and pressed a kiss to the scarred forehead, rousing his lover to wakefulness. Ron inhaled sharply.
Harry made a noise of confusion, but got up from his spot previously basically stuck to Malfoy. He staggered up, stepping down from the platform of the bed, which made him stand taller than Malfoy’s sitting form. A side of his face was red with imprints from being pressed to Malfoy’s shirt. Malfoy looked up at him with an almost fond, open expression on his face, soft smile still lingering. They started a what seemed like silent conversation with glances, or so Ron assumed, before Harry pointed a thumb towards the corridor. Malfoy nodded. “Go, shoo,” He said, waving a hand.
Then he turned to Ron and Hermione, acknowledging them for the first time since they got into the flat. “Sorry about that,” He said, with no intention of moving from the bed, “Poor one was working himself exhausted from doing overtime the whole week. He thought he could stay awake. I bet he can’t.” He gave a polite but slightly smug grin to Ron, and Ron suddenly found everything surreal.
/* /* /*
“Aww,” Hermione whispered beside him while they all wait for Harry to come out of the bathroom, “Aren’t they so cute?”
“Yeah,” Ron found himself agreeing, his voice faint to his own ears, “Which is exactly the issue here. What the hell was that?”
ive just seen a dude in a full suit with a pink princess backpack on walking in a straight line after his baby kid and i just wanna say, imagine harry hart and daisy
Keeping up with Daisy’s pace is harder than it should be, but the street is relatively empty and since she’s responsible enough to wait at the corners, Harry doesn’t tell her to slow down. He wishes he had the same kind of boundless energy after a full day like she does, but even if he’s still in shape, he’s past his prime.
He’d feel bad about it, but even Eggsy usually come back exhausted whenever he spends the day with her.
It’s why he went to pick her up at the kindergarten this afternoon instead. Eggsy would have gone himself and he’s probably going to be slightly pissed that Harry didn’t wake him from his nap, but he also just came back from a mission this morning. He needs the rest far more than Harry does. And that way, he’ll get to spoil his sister until bedtime without yawning every two minutes.
And if he’s honest, he likes those little moments with Daisy.
No matter how much they want it, they know that it’s not realistic of them to have a child together and it would be the greatest regret of their lives if not for the little girl. Of course, she’s Michelle’s first, but Michelle is the one insisting that Daisy calls him Uncle Harry. Once she was convinced he was more than serious about Eggsy, she’s been nothing but welcoming and has made it clear she invited him to take an active role in her daughter’s life.
He might never call Daisy his daughter out of respect for Michelle, but he knows that if he had a child of his own, it would feel exactly like this does.
He would get the same happiness as he does following the little girl in her frilly yellow dress and purple shoes. He would be just as curious as he is listening to everything she did today. And he wouldn’t care either about the fondly-weirded out looks he’s getting right now, people not used to seeing a well-dressed man in a suit with a bright pink princess backpack on.
It’s not an usual accessory for a gentleman, he’ll admit it, but it’s one he’ll wear with pride anytime.
satan au: harry hart is actually lucifer incarnate, and lee unwin already sacrificed himself to keep his family safe, so it’s only a matter of time before his son does the same. the apple never falls far from the tree, after all, and harry knows all about apples.
so he waits and waits till finally he sees his opportunity at a police station where eggsy is trapped in an interrogation room with an aura so deliciously despairing that harry’s mouth fairly waters.
“i can make this go away,” he tells eggsy, and the charges are reversed with a snap of his fingers. eggsy follows him out slack-jawed and unprotesting, all too easy.
“i can take care of them,” harry offers at the black prince and thrashes all of dean’s men, fulfilling eggsy’s secret long-held desire to do the same, and harry is nothing but his willing instrument.
“it doesn’t have to be like this,” he informs eggsy and produces an ice-pack for eggsy’s freshly blackened eye while the door slams behind dean’s unsteady gait.
he wants eggsy to rely on him, to trust him. harry understands more than most about absent father figures.
“you’ll need all the help you can get,” harry suggests, perched on the corner of eggsy’s kingsman bed (he likes the irony of it, and no angelic guardian to oppose him on the other side either), and harry glories in every little concession eggsy gives him, every small favour, every dissolution of moral fiber that brings eggsy’s soul further into harry’s grasp.
I know you guys were wondering if I’d ever post another part of that A/B/O fic. Real life just got in the way but here it is!
Harry Hart is not an arrogant man. He can be a bit of a show off sometimes, can at times be crass but he’s not above subjecting himself to humiliation when it’s warranted.
When he opens the parcel that Eggsy no doubt dropped in his mail, the world seems to shatter around him. The child is his. He has a child and he doesn’t even know the sex, doesn’t know it’s name. He didn’t get to feel the baby kick or see that first ultrasound photo. He didn’t get to watch Eggsy grow plump and full with his child or bask in his glow.
He doesn’t know what to do, how to proceed. How does one begin to apologize for something so treturous, for subjecting the one they’re supposed to love to total isolation?
So this turned into wayyy more than I thought it would. I get the feeling I’m gonna turn this into a full fledged fic! Again, lots of angst. I’m beginning to thing that’s what I’m good at.
Eggsy hates the fact that it’s Roxy’s hand he’s holding at his first ultrasound. As much as he loves her and as much as he’s thankful for all her support, it’s not her who’s supposed to be with him.
Harry can’t even stand to look at him anymore, doesn’t even bother to try. They pass each other like ships in the night, never really acknowledging that the other is there. Eggsy tries, god does he try but betrayal reads in every one of Harry’s motions.
It’s hell at work too. He’s already one of the only Omegas working for Kingsman. Now, he’s the defective Omega who cheated on their bloody /boss/. No one is supposed to know but the Alphas of Kingsman gossip like no one he’s ever dealt with. By the sixth week of his pregnancy, he’s sure everyone knows.
Merlin keeps a cool distance, something Eggsy had expected. He’s Harry’s friend first and Eggsy’s infinitely replaceable. He clutches his stomach in shame and wants.
He heard tales of what it’s like to be pregnant. How you’re supposed to glow and be happy and share the experience with your partner. An Omega is supposed to be pampered during a pregnancy. Right now Eggsy just feels like a burden, loading down a half empty house.
“What are you going to do, Eggsy? You can’t stay in that house like this. The stress isn’t good for you and the baby.” Roxy says. “You can stay with me if you need an Alpha around. Or I’m sure your mum would be glad to look after you.”
“I’m not gonna put that on her, Rox. This is Harry’s baby and we’re gonna work it out together.”
She looks skeptical and he’s not sure of which part. Don’t they know he loves Harry? That he would never willingly hurt him let alone cheat on him. Harry doesn’t look excited like he expected, just shattered like this is the worst news he could have ever gotten.
“What’s wrong, Harry? We’re going to be a family. Like we wanted, right?” Eggsy reaches out to touch and for the first time in years, Harry pulls away.
“I can’t have children, Eggsy. I had a vasectomy years ago. There’s no way that child is mine. How – how could you do this to us?”
What if Harry just obliviated Voldemort and none of the death eaters knew it happened so Harry just went about living a normal life and Voldemort was confused as to why all these people in weird masks kept trying to talk to him
Gilderoy Lockhart Potter, you are named after a Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher, who taught me the most important skill I ever needed to know.
Harry had a hope. It was a small one, perhaps even subconscious. When “Obliviate” tumbled out of his mouth, half-intended, half-… something else, he was more surprised than Voldemort (but only for a moment).
Obliviation teeters on the edge of a Curse, you see, and all Curses are of semi-sentient nature. Obliviation is hungry. It is a void, a pit, and an abyss that consumes without end, and hungers for memory. The stronger that memory the more eager the spell is to consume. The more attached one was to that memory, the faster it would slip loose. That is why muggle memories of magical sights excise so cleanly, and why Gilderoy Lockhart’s method had worked for so long.
The Obliviation saw Voldemort’s mind laid bare, and hungered. Voldemort saw the blast of golden nothingness, and quailed. The only defense was to shed attachment, desire, ambition, and most of all trauma. He could not do that, not in ten thousand lifetimes and certainly not in a tenth of a second.
Gold light enveloped green, feeding on the hateful source of that Curse. Green died out. Obliviation shined around Voldemort and ate, and ate, and ate, and found a final end when the mind was void of any real ‘memory’, anything he valued or desired.
A pale, disfigured, man stumbled backward and sat down. Everything around him was loud and terrifying. He could scarcely breathe, every gasp or inhalation choking him with smoke and ash. He saw a young man with kind eyes looking down at him. “Young man – I – Young man, I think I’ve been hurt.”
“It’s alright, sir. Do you know where you are? Who you are?” Asked the green-eyed lad. So kind, so very kind.
“I- … No. No I don’t. Good lord… No I don’t!” He tried to stand, but found he was nearly frozen with chill. “What on earth is happening?”
“You’ve had a bit of a knock on the head. It’ll be alright once we get you seen to.” The young man said, helping the poor fellow to his feet. Harry had a hope, a small and nearly subconscious one, that this time Tom Riddle could start fresh. Perhaps a few people could understand that he was no more Voldemort than Mr. Lockhart was … who he was before. That the twisted thing at Kings Cross would not be anyone’s future.
What few Death Eaters were left felt their Dark Marks writhe and dissipate. The Curse that forged them forgotten, the power that bound them unraveled.
In the years after no one dared try and ‘reeducate’ their Dark Lord. His therapy went well, and carefully. He knew he had done terrible things “before”, and could not find that terribleness in himself any longer. He had made what amends he could, but whatever sins had been secret were gone forever. He never hid away, and would apologize freely, sincerely, to anyone who asked it. Over time everyone had grown used to him, though it was still a great shock when they would see him sitting at a table in Diagon Alley sharing tea with a young man with kind, green, eyes.
A witch curses a man to be a hideous, terrifying monster – only his learning to love and earn that person’s love in return will break the spell.
One day he finds an orphan in the land surrounding his home and takes the kid in. And yeah, he’s scary and horrible-looking, but like hell he’s letting a child out to fend for themselves, and he does everything he can to make sure the kid is safe, comfortable, and happy. And eventually the child stops minding that they’re staying with a monster, eventually stops thinking he’s going to eat them and gnaw on their bones.
And then one night the kid kisses their monster-dad on the cheek before bed and says “Goodnight, Dad. I love you,” thus breaking the spell.
But @twinklecupcake, how’s the kid going to react the next day when monster dad is now human dad? Monster dad is going to need to prove that it’s still him to the child.
Tbh I imagine it more like Disney and later takes on the tale, where the change is instantaneous. (As opposed to the Villeneauve version where it happens the next day.)
Still hilarious though.
“AAAAAAH, WHO ARE YOU AND WHERE’S MY DAD?”
“Kid, kid, it’s okay, it’s me! You – oh my god, you broke the spell-”
“WHAT SPELL? WHERE’S DAD?”
“Okay, kiddo, I need you to calm down–”
“*grabs the fire poker* Stay back! I know how to use this, asshole–!”
FantasyBoudicca 