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The Giant A-Z Shitposting Pile

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Remember that time, when Dumbledore said all he saw in the mirror, were hand-knitted socks?

Remember that time, when Ron told Harry his mum loved knitting sweaters?

Remember that time, when we saw that Albus Dumbledore was ginger?

Remember that time, when Ron had an interest in Muggles, and used something Muggle?

Remember that time, when we got to know that Ron was a master at Wizarding Chess, and a good strategist?

Remember that time, when we realized Dumbledore saw Harry as a pawn all along?

Remember that time, when Hermione, Ron's friend and sweetheart, had a time-turner?

Remember that time, when Ron disappeared for a period of....time?

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".....And as the form thrashed one last time, deadly venom flew from its mouth and into his eyes. All faded to black, as my eyes burnt, the skin of...."


"Are you sure, Poppy?"

"Yes, Albus. Fawkes saved his life, but Phoenix tears can only do so much."

"Is there a chance of recovery?"

"It was direct exposure, I truly am not sure, Albus."

As the talking steered away from the theme i was interested in, I tried opening my eyes, only to find....

I couldn't see.

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After finding someone they truly love, Draco and Harry are forced to keep their relationship a secret.

That is, until Trelawney decided to stick her enormous glasses in somebody else's cup of tea.

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Sybill Trelawney.

A know-it-all with curly, frizzy hair.

Now that you mention it, that reminds me of someone....

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In a world where Voldemort hid one of his Horcruxes in The Bermuda Triangle -aka. Siren territory- and Harry is not as human as he thought he was, a love story ensues. After his meeting with his brethren, restrictions set by a certain meddling old coot are dissolved, and his life is turned upside down.

He can't speak without everyone leering at him, and develops a love for singing mushy 90's songs, constantly. With the voice of an angel (shut the fuck up, supernatural fandom), he moves to America, where he hopes to be free as a bird.

What better place than Manhattan, New York?

In where Tony is head over heels in love and even swears not to bring any tech up on their private floor (floor as in, like, level) and actually doesn't. The Avengers are confused as to why there is a dark-haired beauty with emerald eyes who sings all the time in the tower, and why the fuck he seems to be up the duff with Tony Stark.

And how does he bake such good muffins? (Blueberry muffins, even though he isn't very fond of them.)

In which Harry is confused just as much as The Avengers and constantly backs awkwardly out of rooms when they catch him singing Repo! The Genetic Opera songs with twisted words:



Didn't I smile when they came in, didn't I?

Didn't I love them terribly, didn't I?


Then Voldie took them from me,

Stole my parents,

He's to blame!

Have I failed my loved ones?

Then let the savior die!

And let the monster rise!



(Song: Let The Monster Rise, and I know, I know, I'm sorry)

Harry doesn't turn dark, but makes blueberry everything for Tony, and discusses baby names with 'Tasha. He also helps Brucey become friends with The Hulk. Helps explain things to Spandex, and even dances with him. Things are overall adorable.

Then Fudge and Death Eaters come, seeking revenge for shaking up their world. Of course, Harry does the only logical thing that comes to mind when the only spell he can do without electrocuting Tony is a solidifying spell.

















                                THROW THE BLUEBERRY MUFFINS!!!!!!!!!




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The 12th of May, 1985, The Dursley Family won a one-week trip to Norway arranged by Grunnings Drills.

The 17th of May, 1985, Harry James Potter, a five year old boy, got lost in the crowd of people celebrating the freedom of Norway.

The 1st of September, 1991, a very much Norwegian Harry Potter stepped foot in the walls of Hogwarts Castle.

Now, if you don't understand why this is hilarious, don't be put off.

I forgot to explain this:

The 17th of May, almost every year since his birth, Draco Malfoy visited his Swedish relatives, and thus could speak fluent Swedish, French and, of course, English.

You see, Norway and Sweden has had a rivalry since Sweden took over Norway before it became a free land with trolls, salmon and oil. I would know this, because I, my friends, was born in Norway.

Almost every single Norwegian joke goes like this: Once upon a time, there was a Norwegian, a Swede, and a Dane. The joke then goes on to usually a tournament/contest where the Dane doesn't really do anything special, since the last time they tried to take over was ages, though the Dane is still pictured as dumb or cowardly. The Swede is always pictured as extremely stupid, and passive/lazy. The Norwegian -of course, we're a bunch of narcissists- wins.

I don't have a rivalry with Sweden or Swedes, I was simply raised there, and am trying to show you the 'portrait'* of living in Norway. What I am about to say, is very important:

It is theoretically impossible to live in Norway for over a year and not hear, say or even think one of these jokes.

They're everywhere; the subway (which is called T-Bane, if you were for some reason wondering**), family meetings, friends, work, you cannot escape. It's like one of those really shitty punny dad jokes, for real.

After a while, you'll get used to them, and when you travel elsewhere and accidentally tell one of those jokes, people will be looking at you like, "What??"

And you've become one of us.

Now, back on track, imagine Draco and Harry yelling curses at each other in Norwegian and Swedish. If you don't know how those two sound, you might want to consider visiting YouTube for a while or maybe Google translate, and listening to Siri. (If you do visit YouTube, consider watching PewDiePie's Swedish Swearwords video*** for some basic Swedish swears.)

Before I demolish the train, tracks and all the passengers inside, just imagine that. No one else in the school except maybe Dumbledore knows Swedish or Norwegian. So they're just yelling foreign insults at each other across the room in Transfiguration, with McGonagall who can be heard yelling that they are to 'Stop at this instant, child!!' in Scottish.

I'm cackling.

If anyone decides to take on this project, give me a heads up and I'll be happy to help! It might be best to talk on the archive, as I'm here more often. Pls no hate, as I really like this idea. If you need translating of words, contact me, and I'm willing to help!

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"He what?"

I looked up from my dinner to see something I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams. Harry -Harry Potter, that is- was sitting opposite to me at the Gryffindor table. I knew that of course, but what completely and utterly flabbergasted me was that he was holding a phone! A muggle smartphone! (It even had a little bulldog on a string tied to the cover!) How was it even working?


"Who are you talking to?" I hissed, pointedly looking down as to avoid more attention. As it was, only a few Gryffindors had noticed and were looking curiously at him. Sigh, I thought, won't be long before the whole school is staring.

"Now?" he asked, ignoring my question.

His face was paling rapidly as I could hear some screaming on the other side of the line. It got us a little more attention. Uh oh, i thought. Here it comes.

"Who is it?" I asked again. Not my finest moment, I suppose, but I was curious! He made a shushing motion with his hand. "Mummy, now would you please be quiet!" He all but hissed at me. I blinked. Mummy? Like, Egyptian ones?

The line was silent for a moment before what sounded like clipped tones -I couldn't hear it properly from here- spoke something.

"'Ey, who is it?" Ronald spoke to my left, and I looked over to see that he had for once stopped eating.

I shrugged, and we both turned to look at him expectantly. He shook his head at what sounded like a question, and after rolling his eyes at himself gave a verbal answer. "No, of course not! You know I- Yes."

By now the entirety of Gryffindor and a bit of Hufflepuff were staring at us, and I couldn't help but think it was incredibly rude to answer a call in the middle of dinner, Egyptian Mummy or not.

After a deep sigh, he looked up at the head table where most of the teachers were staring at him, and Professor McGonagall looked ready to skin him and make a fluffy hat out of him.

"Okay. I'll be there in ten.", he answered shortly, and ended the call before the Egyptian Mummy could answer. He then stood up. In the middle of dinner.

I'm going to faint, I thought hysterically, looking over at the Slytherin table who were also staring, but at least most of them did it a little discreetly, and weren't openly gaping like our table.

I looked over to find Harry was now across from Headmaster Dumbledore, speaking lowly to him in dulcet tones. Professor Snape was, as always, sneering at him, while Headmaster Dumbledore was slowly nodding at what he was saying. Professor McGonagall looked less likely to skin him.

After some nodding, Headmaster Dumbledore leaned over to Professor McGonagall to say something to her, and I and the whole hall watched as Headmaster Dumbledore rose and Harry followed him out the door they'd used during the Triwizard Tournament.

And that was it. He was gone, off to Egypt to visit some enwrapped Mummy on the other side of the world with access to a telephone.

And for a long time, that was all I knew about his disappearance.

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Hermione 'brightest witch of her age', 'punched Draco Malfoy in the face', 'made Polyjuice Potion on her own when she was twelve' Granger was currently waiting in the infirmary for a book she had owl-ordered.

After twelve days searching the entirety of Diagon Alley nonstop for this specific book, she finally relented, and after heavy glamouring and an aging potion, she went into the infamous Knockturn Alley.

And she found it in the first store.

Sitting on the twenty-third shelf in Madame Noir's Bookshop, it looked fairly innocent. Only it wasn't. Not at all, actually. Hermione first heard of the book in a very dark book she just happened to find in the library after Sirius went to fetch himself a cup of coffee. It was just lying there, so who could blame her if she took a quick peek. It couldn't be that bad. And if Sirius didn't tell anyone or shoo her away when he found her nose-deep in Dark Creatures of The Ages, well.

What was one to do?

Turns out, the book was that bad. So here she was, standing in a dark and grimy bookstore in Knockturn Alley, debating with herself if she should buy the book, and get herself in even deeper.

"Can I help you?"

Hermione only barely managed to stop herself from flinching, and turned her head towards the stairway where there was a vampire. Staring at her.

She got herself out of that store quicker than any other that had gotten out alive.

Well, except the one who was quite literally thrown out through the brick wall.

But she didn't know that.

So here she was, sitting beside Harry's bed while he drew, waiting for that owl that carried Įfeans and Everything About Them by Bartholomew E. Lempicke. Except that it wasn't Harry. Not really. She knew that.

'So why are you doing this?!', a small voice in her head cried, desperately seeking to be heard, but she brushed it away. "Because I need to know what this is," she hissed to herself, "What Harry is." She looked over at him with a sigh, touching the magical barrier separating them and receiving a small electrical shock for her efforts.

"Great," she stated dryly, her voice sounding louder than it should have been in the emptiness of the white infirmary. "Now I'm talking to myself. Hermione Granger, now you've really gone and-"

A muffled Thump! interrupted her, and her head swung around so fast she actually got minor whiplash.

"Ouch! Pharaoh, wait, I'm coming! Just don't- That really hurt!" Wincing and holding a hand to her neck, she got up slowly, cringing when her neck throbbed painfully. As Hermione slowly hobbled to the infirmary window to let the brown barn owl in, her shoes made the most annoying sound when they awkwardly dragged on the vinyl floor tiles. She sighed exhaustedly as she reached her destination, opening the window and letting in a flurry of snow mixed with the fresh scent of pine.

"Okay buddy, calm down a bit," she said as she slowly followed the owl at a more languid pace, grimacing as it flapped its wings and shook off some snow from them. As the snow settled on the white vinyl to melt, she reached the owl and released it from its burden, stroking it over the head at the same time.

"What you got for me there, hmm?" Hermione cooed while shaking the heavy package gently, to get rid of the slight layer of snow covering it. It was a lighter than she had expected, so it was only logical that it would be delivered by a normal owl. Strike that, a small owl. It looked almost comical as the book was larger than the owl itself, but, hey.

Featherlight charms!

After setting out some water and food for the brown owl - it somehow managed to portray the fact that it was shocked, so she assumed that people ordering usually didn't bother. Wasn't that weird when you took in the fact that it was from, you know, Knockturn Alley, - Hermione sat down with her now a bit heavier package wrapped in white camouflage and what seemed like a fading notice-me-not charm.

Deciding to open it before she could regret it - and she knew she would, sooner or later - she quickly ripped off the offending paper and stared. Because there, right there in front of her - Hermione Granger, guys! - was one of the darkest books in history. She gulped, suddenly having a very bad feeling about this.

'So, when are the pigs scheduled to fly?', she thought, admittedly somewhat hysterically.

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, unaware of the pair of eyes staring at her interestedly. When her eyes started to prickle and her lungs started feeling like they were being squeezed, she released the breath she was holding. Explosively. Getting out a tired chuckle through a sore throat, she looked to her right, where Harry was sitting up, coloring book abandoned. Shaking her head, she waved him away, frowning when he pouted before pointedly turning his back to her.

Looking over at the digital numbers floating over his bed and sphere, she saw it was only ten minutes until Severus and Poppy came to feed him.


Might as well do something useful.

Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes - which did absolutely nothing to calm her - she opened the book to the first page, feeling for all purposes as if she was stepping onto a battlefield fighting Death Eaters. And there was no going back. If mirrors, basilisks, werewolves and merpeople were dark, this was positively oily black. She could excuse her ordering it as a rash decision, but did she want to?

Hermione was no fool. She knew that Dumbledore wasn't being honest. She knew how easy the traps to get to the Mirror in first year was. But should she break free?

What would happen? What would they do?

And more importantly, once she knew, what would she do?

This was harder than she thought it would be, but Merlin. She'd never felt so free before!

She could decide this. Only her.

Looking to the right, she came to a decision.

It may have been the right thing to do.

She may have fucked up royally.

And a field of puppies might just have burned to the ground.

But, for now, she opened her eyes.

And she read.


The Įfaheadón flower is a rare, transparent, sparkling flower that when touched possesses one to a degree. When touched, the victim gets an uncontrollable urge to touch the flower to the closest 'virgin' part. The 'virgin' part must be untouched by direct contact of another human, and is often the eye or esophagus. When the anthers of the flower touch the 'virgin' part, the flower connects with their body, and the victim immediately seeks out the tallest point within a mile, called a 'Connective Point'. When the flower connects with the body of the victim, the victim goes into a trance-like state, seeking only to find the 'Connective Point'. The 'virgin' part used in the transformation from human to Įfe will be rendered useless, and turns green with an indistinct imprint; comparable to a bruise.

When at the 'Connective Point' the victim jumps, and if the flower has connected properly and fully at that point, survives, but falls into a coma which usually lasts for a week. When in the mentioned coma, the victim's body undergoes several changes. Notable changes are the slimming of the body, lengthening of the hair and that the iris of the eye colors a vivid green.

Okay, Hermione thought. Now I kind of know what happened. That wasn't so bad. Sounded like a textbook. Textbooks are nice.

Upon wakening, the newly turned Įfe seeks out contact, often from the closest human. The Įfe may seek registering or feeding contract, as signaled by its behavior. If seeking registering contact, the Įfe will examine your clothing, stature and localization while avoiding looking at your face as it offers you a hand. If seeking feeding contact, the Įfe will turn its body towards yours, stretch out both arms, and stare pleadingly into your eyes using its allure to persuade you.

If seeking registering contact, the Įfe will smile at you upon acceptation, which is insinuated by gently gripping the hand offered. If rejected, the Įfe will cower behind its closest Registered, and if there is none, flee. The Įfe seeks to register people to know their preferences, as a survival method, or simply to put the Įfe at ease. The Įfe naturally seeks to register people they have seen or met before, as they do not remember them.

If seeking feeding contact, the Įfe will embrace you, and proceed with feeding upon acceptation. The feeding process is made by oral contact or simply embracing, depending on its hunger, and if meant to drain, intercourse. If the Įfe's victim is drained, the victim will show signs of the Įfe poison - from the Įfe's chosen body part - by their skin taking on a green hue. The feeding process usually lasts ten minutes, where the Įfe feeds on the giver's energy. If rejected, the Įfe will either try brutally fitting itself to the rejecter's liking, or commit suicide, thinking there is a fault in its allure or appearance.

She closed her eyes, feeling a whimper fighting its way out of her throat. Still, she had to finish this. For Harry. So Hermione continued.

Show caution when accepting contact from an Įfe, as they are predators, and will not hesitate to kill you if it is to their advantage. Even if you think you have established some measure of trust, they do not think as humans, and are not to be confused as one. As they are dangerous creatures with an XXXXX rating because of their allure, it is recommended to keep your Įfe in a cage, or in chains. However, most people like being accompanied by the Įfe, and thus the best choice would be a restriction collar combined with a locator spell.

No, she thought, bile rising up her throat.

If you are unaware of what a restriction collar is, it is a collar set in goblin-forged silver - as to get the spells to stick properly - which can be set so that the Įfe can only be a certain distance away from its owner, with the maximum usually being one kilometer, and the minimum being one meter. These were usually used for crups or dogs, but are perfectly fine to use on your Įfe. Restriction collars can be set to restricting your pet of choice by choking, shock, or a physical barrier. Admittedly, Įfeans are even rarer than the flower, and thus investing in one would do lots for status and image, though an Įfean-sized collar would be hard to find and rather expensive.

Oh, Merlin, I'm going to vomit, Hermione thought, realizing she probably looked like a pea at that point.

After the Įfe is turned, it loses all its memories, thus the registering. An Įfe lives to serve its mate, in return for feeding. Įfeans only seems to drain with the intent to kill, and will be stronger afterwards. The mated is found in registering, thus another reason why registering is crucial to the Įfe.

Okay, maybe not. She kept on reading.

Įfeans are sexual creatures, and needs its mate to satisfy its needs, both sexual and economical. They only have one mate, but in The Prophecy, The Lord of Lightning is pictured having two mates. It is unknown whether The Prophecy is real, and thus this cannot be proven to be possible. Įfeans have been known to have gone insane when faced with rejection from their mate.


Įfeans have double the life length of humans, and instead of a changing appearance and death, they maintain their appearance the entirety of their turned life, and shatter, or if natural expiration, simply fall apart at death. Seconds before death, the Įfe's body hardens to the point that the flesh is more compact than diamond, yet somehow very fragile, and the blood in the being simply disappears.

The Įfean race is incapable of passing on their gift to any offspring, making them - if any - human. Įfeans seem to rarely manage to produce and bear child, to the point of being infertile. Even then, there is a large chance of miscarriage or the fetus being stillborn. The estimated reason is that the poison in the Įfeheadón flower is only enough of a dose for one human, and makes the fetus not being able to absorb all energy the bearer takes.

Įfean behavior is submissive and demure. They are known to, as the saying goes, 'kiss the rod', and constantly seek approval. They need approval for the simplest of things, from falling asleep to taking a sip of their drink, and make excellent pets or lovers.

There's the vomit again, and she could almost hear her voice in her head at that point. Was this what Harry was getting after all he suffered? Okay, Hermione, where's the toilet?

The prophecy is a prophecy told by an Įfean seer, telling the tale of The Lord of Lightning, who has two mates to feed his never-ending hunger of energy. The Lightning Lord is pictured as having silky, long black hair and vivid green eyes that give off the illusion of glowing. He is told to have alabaster, spotless skin and acidic blood, given by The King of Snakes. Not much else is known of The Prophecy, as only Įfeans seem to know of it, and what is known was obtained by drugging them. As all Įfeans have long hair and spotless skin, the only thing outstanding in The Prophecy is the two mates and acidic blood. As this prophecy is not yet fulfilled, experts suspect it is fake.

Suddenly the vomit was gone, and now she couldn't breathe.

The King of Snakes?

Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her head to the right, looking at the innocent, beautiful apparent Įfe, and looked at him.

Just looked.

He was on his side, facing her, having been watching her as she read. Harry was wearing a pair of muggle sweatpants and a loose hoodie, absently playing with the hood string. His hair was up in a messy bun to stop him from tangling it, some of the long hair falling out and framing his face. Pouty red lips the color of ripe strawberries and bright green eyes that looked like they were somehow greener than before were trained on her.

She could almost imagine being in there with him, his scent of lilies, pine and sweet vanilla tickling her nose as they talked. Her eyes trailed further up, and the very dark brown hair - which was often mistaken as black, but you couldn't really see the brownness until you were really close and the light shone just right - that was a crow's nest, now fell in soft waves. And under there was something she knew all too well.

A scar.

Shaped like a bolt of...

And as Hermione tore her gaze away, from where she knew the scar hid underneath his hair, she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. And as a moment passed, he did something she would never forget. What should have been innocent and bright wasn't, and even though she knew this Bartholomew Lempicke was wrong, and that it was all in her head, it sounded like he knew.

Because he laughed.

And suddenly that urge to vomit was, quite decidedly, back again.


And thus it was that when Poppy Mary Anne Pomfrey and Severus Tobias Snape came to take care of a certain Įfe, they almost got run over by something black with a brown bush smack-dab on top of it running for all that the blur was worth, towards the 4th floor girls bathroom.

And they couldn't for the life of them figure out why one Įfean Harry James Potter was laughing himself silly on one of the infirmary beds, or why there was a book dropped on the floor, and why it seemed to be on fire.

Overall, it was a very confusing day for them.

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Somewhere, somewhen, I read that I was over-complicating things. That it was really quite simple. According to whomever that was, all I need to find was a what and who that made me happy. They told me that after that, I was set.

They promised.

But what am I to do now? Surrounded by smashing glass and bullets firing, a man bleeding out beside me. I am near naked, only wearing knickers, with nothing to protect me. There's no one coming to save me from the two men arguing in the corner of my room, and no one is helping me try to stop this man from bleeding out.

I don't know him, nor who he is - I assume he is the father to the man in the tweed suit, with a gun pointed at my head. Without me knowing, he had turned his gaze from my customer, whom I was servicing, to me. I feel a sob tearing its way out of my chest.

My hands are trying desperately to press down on the wound in the unknown man's solar plexus, and are now covered with the blood bubbling out from the shot wound. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to stop. The safety trigger makes a loud click in the quiet room, and I sob once again.

They promised.

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"But you've got to stop worrying!" She cried, clutching at his jacket. He shook her off. "It's not any of your business if I want to know what happened," he said determinately. Simon shook his head. "It's not healthy," he said. Jane nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "They'll.."

A significant glance was traded between them, while Smith frowned. "They'll what? Stop me?"

Simon shook his head. "Nah. They'll-" "They'll do the thing," Jane interrupted, as if Smith knew what that meant. He didn't.

"What thing? Is there not a name for it, or are you just fucking with me?"

Jane gasped. "Don't swear! They'll-" "Do what, the thing?" Smith asked sarcastically. "You don't understand, mate," Simon said. "We don't mention it by name, but most people know what we mean, just because it's that horrible," he explained.

Casually, as if he didn't see the way Smith's face flushed in anger, he continued. "Of course, I wouldn't expect you to know, but we-"

"Of course I wouldn't know," Smith spat, "As I've just woken up to this." He was fuming now, glaring at Jane and Simon. "I've been told that everything I remember is impossible, mostly because it happened thousands of years ago!"

Smith was seeing red now, his fists clenching and unclenching with every angry breath he took. His hands tugged on the blonde strands of hair he hid under his hat. Simon watched on apathetically, while Jane looked close to bursting out in tears.

"Mate," Simon started wearily. "It's not a pleasant sight."

Smith looked up, silently asking him to continue. Instead, Jane did.

"A co-ouple of years ago," she hiccuped, "There was th- this boy." She swallowed, her hands coming up to rub her splotchy red face. Simon took his chance, and shot in an addition. "He looked a lot like you, actually. Just a bit smaller," he added at the end, looking at Smith's whitening knuckles.

"He was friends with my sister," Jane continued, "But no matter how hard she tried, he kept worrying." "All the time," Simon solemnly agreed. "A-and eventually, the cou-uncil had to-" she gulped, and looked down. "To make him useful, they took his memories. Not entirely," Simon continued, seeing Smith's face of shock, "But they made a copy."

"They took his memories, and-" Jane stopped again. "They broadcasted them," Simon said. "Across every announcement screen." Jane nodded. "It was cruel," she whispered, "But needed."

For a couple of seconds, it was silent in the office. Then Smith seemed to explode.

"But what would that accomplish?!" He seethed. "How would that make him stop wanting-"

"To go home?" Simon arched an eyebrow. "It didn't." Jane took a couple steps toward Smith, as if trying to reassure him. "They thought it would mean he had nothing to be ashamed over," she said softly, "But the opposite happened."

"He disappeared, in a way," said Simon, softly scratching his cheek. "Stopped showing up. Eventually," he sighed, and looked at Jane. "They had to send him away again."

Smith spluttered for a couple of seconds, then exclaimed, "Are they idiots!?"

Chapter Text

Hermione huffed, blew a strand of hair out of her face, and determinately picked up her wand again. The ridges of the ivy vines strutting out from the polished wand pressed against her fingers, and eventually she had to take a deep breath to calm down. It was just so frustrating!

Hermione had been trying to get the spell right for what seemed like hours, but a quick check showed it had just been twenty minutes. Hermione frowned. That couldn't be right, now could it? She took a five-minute pause in-between every try to reflect, and the complicated incantation took ten minutes to say, with all the pauses and movements. It was more of a ritual, really, with how complicated it was.

Of course, she knew she shouldn't be doing this - this wasn't even hogwarts curriculum. It was far beyond, actually, since it was something apprentices learned in their 7th and last year. But then again, who could stop Hermione when she wanted something?

After taking a couple more deep breaths, she raised her wand and checked the instructions over again. Move your wand in a steady circle, and present the offe- Wait, what? "Fuck!"

She quickly gasped, and covered her open mouth with both her hands. For a couple seconds, she sat there, terrified that Madam Pince would throw her out.

But once again, she was in luck, and the library remained quiet after her outburst. "'Present'!" She whispered furiously. "How could I be so stupid?!" It said, right there, 'present' - unlike what she had been doing for the last half-hour, which had been pushing the offering forward. Presenting means that she had to lift it and offer it up to the altar. Hermione groaned. "Why, dear lord?"

She had just wasted half an hour of perfectly good study time, and over such a silly little mistake, too! Hermione huffed again, and tucked the persistent strand of bushy hair behind her ear. After her outburst, she almost wanted to give up - almost. Anyone who knew her, knew that Hermione never gave up. Not even when it was her fault.

So with this in mind, she picked up her wand from where she had left it. She took a deep breath. Her fingers pressed down on the ivy carvings. She was going to ace this, damn it.

Suddenly, all her papers flew away. There was a mysterious breeze that twirled them playfully around her, tugging on her hair in the same go. Hermione spluttered, and almost dropped her book in her haste to retrieve them. But the wind only kept getting stronger, and it seemed like it was only centered around her, too. Outside of her impromptu whirlwind of paper and hair, the books on bookshelves sat perfectly still and content.

Hermione was beginning to get a bit scared now. Six years in the magical world, yet she wasn't used to these things. The wind picked up even more, raging around her. Her hands shook. She looked around for any logical solution to the problem.

There were none. By now, there was as if there was a hurricane surrounding her, screaming in her ears and tearing at her clothes. He skirt was flying up, and in a desperate attempt to preserve modesty, she dropped the book to push her skirt down.

The wind stopped.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, and sank to the floor. She'd never been so relieved before, not in her entire life! She looked around, just to check that everything was the same. It was, mostly, but there was an astonishing lack of.. books. In the library.

Hermione blinked. Had the wind torn them all down? She looked down from the shelves. No, there were none in tatters on the floor. They were simply gone. Hermione groaned. She was going to get in so much trouble! After looking around a bit more, and finding there was a lack of chairs too, she stood up. A lack didn't mean there weren't any chairs, so she had just sat down in one when someone gasped.

Her head shot up. "Madam Pince, it's not what it looks like!" Her hands shot up to try to flatten her hair, which stood up like someone had zapped her with lightning. "I was just, uh-" She frantically looked around, and found a page that had been torn out. "Practicing spells!" She said, in her most cheerful voice. Then she faltered. "Uhm... I didn't tear this out."

She looked around for the book, and found it lying sadly on the floor a couple meters away. She stumbled in her haste to catch it, and was just barely caught by a spell. A.. spell. In the library. Where you weren't actually allowed to use spells, and no teacher would ever dare break that rule. Again, her head shot up. "What-"

He looked down at her. She looked back at him.

"Oh." She cleared her throat, trying to look anywhere but the hot gentleman, who was definitely too old for her. "Who are you, Sir, if I may ask?" He looked amused. "Godric Gryffindor, at your service." He crouched down, and looked at her where she was, lying stupidly on the floor.

"Now who are you, miss, and what are you doing in my castle?"

Chapter Text

I've been thinking of this for weeks since I first thought of it, so here it is:

Sterek fic, Witch!Stiles, Lots of Politics

Imagine if when Claudia died, Stiles should have become a witch. Her ancestry involves one of the mightiest witch clans in the North, with a name far too unpronounceable. The only reason Stiles didn't immediately become head of clan after her death, was because he was too young.

Another problem: The moment he is head of the unpronounceable-polish-name clan, a contract is set into motion. This binding contract states that he needs to be married to the current head of another clan, all within 6 months. The problem? That 'current head of another clan' is a stuck-up, snotty, spoilt asshole, and if the contract is broken, the clans will have to go to war against each other.

The contract was made on the grounds of the unpronounceable-polish-name clan weakening with the abrupt leave of their current head, Claudia, whom married a human and cut all ties with her clan. In wild desperation, the rest of the clan formed the contract to uphold their position in the Northern clan hierarchy.

Now Stiles' ten years of delaying the contract are over: It's time to suit up in his mother's best ritual gown - which may look slightly like an Indian sari - and face the realities of being a Northern clan witch of the finest sort.

But things aren't going so smoothly, are they? He's just gotten news of his family and betrothed coming to visit in a couple of months when his best friend, Scott, gets bit by a werewolf. As he shows him the bite, Stiles immediately recognizes what it is. Scott doesn't seem too fazed with Stiles suddenly avoiding him like the plague -- they've been friends for a while, after all.

Now, get this: Stiles' mother raised him to be racist, as every Northern witch is. They're infamous for their distantness, one-track mind and cold shoulders. They're arguably the most powerful type out there, but don't often take requests, and especially not from creatures. Due to a conflict from centuries ago and the Northern type witches' obsession with everything being pure and clean, they only accept requests from humans -- most Northern take priority in requests from hunters.

But we can't have that, now can we? So Stiles struggles with overcoming his upbringing, Scott doesn't really care, Lydia befriends the resident witch immediately, and Derek feels a sudden pull to what he thinks is his mate. A pull which had previously been dormant -- always there, lurking in the back of his mind, but never truly active.

(Alternatively, it's an AU where Stiles is slightly more arrogant and way more distant than in the series, which completely eliminates Dorky!Stiles. Since a main part of this story is that he has been raised to abhor every living supernatural creature, he can also be called a seriously bigoted racist. Don't worry, though, it gets better. Think of him as more of a Lydia-type person, hmm?)

Chapter Text

When you enter a sperm bank, everyone looks at you weird. Like you're a flop, someone who needs pity - and a boyfriend. They don't care that you're perfectly happy, thank you very much, and that you just came in here because you're asexual and you want a kid.

You want an ankle biter running around the house, for some crazy reason, and you're staying far away from that one asshole sitting opposite to you in the waiting room - admittedly hot, but still an asshole - who probably wants sex from you. Never mind the fact that Hot Asshole #1 is a girl.

Chapter Text

Rikey, Frerard
Dragonlord(kinda)!Mikey and Determined!Ray.

In a world where Dragonbreeders are about as rare as blind-deaf people, shit happens. They're born in twin pairs, and have a speciality of dragons each. There are twelve known categories, so two Dragonbreeders might have the same specialty, but the dragon ultimately decides which master it wants. Dragons themselves are considered bothersome, and spawn randomly. They're about as rare as raccoons in the suburbs, and just as awesome. On YouTube you'll find lots of cute vids featuring them. They're completely useless as testing subjects due to their thick, scaly skin, so they're left mostly unbothered except for the one old hillbilly in the neighborhood with a special shotgun just for them.

Dragonbreeders generally get jobs as dragon removers. They aspire to buy big fields of land where they can raise their beloved dragons, and don't even get me started on the legalities of that. It's a fucking mess. Since they're so rare -- and also the only way to get rid of dragons, the things are fucking invincible, -- they tend to get special treatment, both bad and good.

Ray meets Mikey when he almost sits down on a little transparent dragon napping at a bus stop seat. Mikey fiercely scolds him, cradling the snuffling dragon to his chest a bit too tightly, while Ray tries to explain that he's terribly sorry and running on three hours of sleep after an intense study session. Mikey only sniffs and storms away, still squishing the dragon to death, but Ray's not very keen on stopping him.

They meet again when Ray calls SDCPR, the Society for Dragon Care, Protection and Removal, and Mikey explains why he can't go in with his brother. The little guy Ray found behind a shovel in his shed is missing a leg, which explains why he was cast out by his nest-mates. Gerard specializes in disabled dragons, while Mikey deals with the top-class pedigree dragons. Or, at least, those with the potential. They've just started business a year ago, and Mikey accepts Ray's invitation for apology IHOP. Ray's mission is to fuck him into the polished wood table so hard he leaves behind a Mikey-shaped dent.

Mikey finds himself warming up to the kind-hearted giant that is Ray, smiling when his dragons settle down in his hair as if it were a nest and how Ray gently removes them with two fingers whenever he has to move. He finds himself staring at his big, strong arms and his shoulders and his hands, fuck.

Dragonbreeders aren't entirely human -- aside from their connection to dragons, they happen to be extremely fertile. No one quite knows why, or why they haven't already outnumbered humans by far, but it might be that they mostly care about their dragons, and not their sex life. The only times where a Dragonbreeder has ever bothered to enter a romantic relationship, the other party has been very thoughtful and respectful of the other's devotion to dragons. Just like Ray. Fuck.

Women are extremely fertile to make up for this, and that paired with the male party's contributions has never failed to impregnate within the first attempt. There's another perk, though -- in rare cases, the male prostate also acts as a cervix. Males like those are even more fertile. Like the pedigree stuff wasn't already bad enough for Mikey.

He dreams of buying twenty acres of land with Gerard, and having their houses on opposite ends of the property so that they can't hear each other fucking, no matter how loud. He dreams of raising transparent little Jeremiah along with three-legged Doddle (Mikey was always better at naming them), and having Ortho light the grill with her carefully-controlled puffs of fire. That night, he dreams of Ray flipping burgers.

Mikey and Ray eventually get together, and so do Gerard and this guy named Frank that Gee apparently met in a mosh pit when Frank smashed Gerard's nose on accident and bought him a drink in apology. Ray suggested he should have gone to IHOP instead. (He'll never forget the horrified look on the waitress's face when Ray had to pull his hand out of Mikey's pants to pay the bill.) Mikey slaps his arm, and tells Frank the drink was fine.

Mikey gets pregnant by accident when he forgets the pill in addition to the condom after a too-enthusiastic barbecue. Mikey had burns on his thighs for weeks, and even Norton's magical spit couldn't heal them. That year, when Gerard and Frank have gone off to the farmers' market, Ortho decides to drink the barrels of wine they got from Grandpa Simmons and lays her eggs in the lake. They hatch with a puff of smoke when a frantic Gerard manages to pull them out of the lake a couple weeks later, but out of the four, only one dragon survives the week.

They name the dragon Puff.

Chapter Text

Frerard, Rikey
Vampire!Gerard, Housewife!Mikey, Insomniac!Frank

After months of looking for a job and sleeping on his mother's couch, Frank's savior appears in the form of Mikey Way, his old friend from college. They meet at a downtown club, and Frank's overjoyed by the news even though Mikey warns him that despite the house being huge (six bedrooms, three bathrooms - including a dining room and an actual fucking lounge, what the fuck - divided over three floors, not counting the cellar and attic), it might be a bit crowded, especially since Ray has some sort of guitar project going on and often invites his friends over to work on it. Frank assures him that it's fine, and he loves guitars anyway, what the heck.

"One more thing," Mikey hastily says when Frank's about to leave. "There's-- My brother lives with us, but you probably won't see him much. Um.." He scratches the back of his neck. "Is this a long-term thing? Not that we mind, at all," he hurries to reassure when he sees the look on Frank's face, "It's just, um. You might want to know a couple things before you move in, and it's not things I want going around."

Frank arches an eyebrow. Mikey looks down. "It's not bad, just.." He hesitates. "You'll see."

Who's Frank to say no to that?

So a couple weeks later, Frank moves in. Mikey gets him settled in a nice, open bedroom with windows facing the garden and the large pool there. "We don't actually use it much," Mikey says when faced with Frank's inquiry. "The entire house was a courtesy of the family," he says, and flashes the ring on his finger. "It's a tradition for newly married couples: grandpa didn't care who I was fucking, just that tradition be upheld."

In the middle of Frank trying to figure out if he should try to impress whoever decides to check his closets with his amazing organizing skills or just throw it in a pile like he's used to, Mikey offers a cup of coffee downstairs. They have an actual fucking coffee grinder, so hells to the yes. Mikey sits him down, tucks his cardigan tighter around his body (oh, the woes of married life) and looks at him seriously.

"About my brother -- he's a vampire."

Frank blinks, and takes a sip of his coffee. It's delicious. "Fair enough." He and his mother have always believed vampires exist -- they're rare, alright, but they're there. Mikey almost had Frank worried for a second.

Mikey looks hesitant and a bit surprised, but plows on. "He won't ever bother you, and don't worry if any of your things disappear overnight. They're probably just in a different room, or something like that -- when he gets bored at night he likes cleaning. He-- um." Mikey scratches his neck again. "It's not exactly well known, but--" He fixes his gaze on Frank. "Why do you think vampires in old stories always have big castles and lots of properties?"

Frank shrugs. "I don't know. They're old geezers with money to spend?"

Mikey rolls his eyes. "Well, yes, but something else. Think fairly straightforward."

Frank's gaze wanders, and settles on a large African vase in the corner, with seemingly no intended purpose. It's empty. "They get off on it?" Mikey grimaces. "Kinda."

"Vampires tend to prefer positions of power, no matter how small. A property to take care of and a business to run ensures that there's always something to do, and it means you influence the community and the people in it. You can call in favors and blackmail people, and it's not like you're in a rush to collect that information. A vampire is content to wait decades just for the mayor to admit that he's cheating on his wife." Mikey leans back. "It's the perfect life for a tycoon."

"But of course, Gee's never been like that. Even when we were humans, he was a wobbly little thing with the bravery of a cricket and content to live his life like a sloth. He always preferred pleasing others over pleasing himself -- he was the ultimate awkward shy kid." Mikey shrugs. "With a bit of rebellious emo thrown in on the side, too, of course."

"He got turned by accident -- he was into some pretty hard stuff, and while he was high, some guy decided to turn him, straight outta nowhere." He sighs. "I still don't know if it was 'cause the guy was high or if he needed glasses -- Gee looks a bit like a girl.

"But anyway -- Gee didn't want a castle in Transylvania, nor did he want to leave: he just wanted to continue on like before he was turned. Stay BFFs with me, pursue his dream as an anonymous cartoon artist, blah blah blah." Mikey rolls his eyes. "If he had it his way, he'd still be living with mom."

Frank decides to interrupt as politely as possible while Mikey's distracted. "And where is he now?" Mikey looks up, startled by his voice. "Oh-- he's in the basement. Sunlight," he explains at Frankie's expression. "We've got the entire cellar as sunproofed as possible. That reminds me -- Rules."

Mikey settles more comfortably into his armchair, and Frank thinks that if he leans back a bit more he might disappear forever in the folds of leather. "The general rule is that once you've been around a year, you undergo a test of sorts, and then you get to go into the actual basement alone. If not approved, you wait another year. We can't take any chances, even with all the precautions we've set up -- If someone leaves the door open, it could harm him." Mikey snuggles down into his fluffy cardigan. "Gee's fragile."

"There are two doors you have to get through to get to the basement -- first you've gotta go down a set of stairs, then a bead curtain. After that there's a door, and then another door that's locked." Frank nods. "We change the code every month. Digit code," Mikey adds.

"We might ask you to take things down to Gee occasionally -- all you'll have to do is go through the first door, and just put the thing down. Gee'll hear, and he'll come pick it up once you're gone. There are lights there, too, don't worry," Mikey reassures Frank. "They're dim, but they're there. Too bright artificial light is a bit traumatic for him, but you'll be able to see just fine."

"Another thing -- you might wake up in the middle of the night to see him staring at you. It's weird, I know - it took years to get used to, - but it's another vampire thing. The whole property and power thing comes with a convenient bonus -- if it's his property, he protects it." Mikey tilts his head. "It's a bit offensive to call you his property, but that's the easiest way to explain it. As antisocial as Gerard might be, he still has contacts. If you've broken your leg, you might wake up to enough pain medications for eight months straight or adjustments to the doors in the house."

Mikey smiles. "Gerard likes to go a bit overboard."

"But there're other perks -- if you've somehow gotten into trouble with the supernatural community - don't look at me like that, Frank, we both know you would, - he'll solve it for you. Seriously," Mikey insists when Frank raises his eyebrows. It's a pretty big thing to do that for someone.

"Ray once got in trouble with a vampire for throwing his adopted werewolf son through a window - a long story, dude, I didn't even know Ray was that strong, - and one day the threats stopped coming and there was a gift basket on our porch apologizing for the trouble. I asked Gee, but he just shrugged." Mikey frowns. "I'm beginning to suspect he murdered someone for that much influence in the community."

"Anyways -- there's not a big chance of it happening: he usually just slips soundlessly through your door, looks at you for a couple seconds, then slips back out. He won't even breathe in your direction," Mikey continues, as if Frank minds. He doesn't. He once had a boyfriend that insisted on watching over him until he fell asleep. They barely lasted for a week. "It's actually kind of cute -- a gentle little soul with a batman mug in hand, pattering around in the house at night make sure everything's okay and safe."

He chuckles. "Who am I kidding, it's absolutely adorable. I forgot to mention it earlier, but Ray sometimes has trouble sleeping -- he's not a regular insomniac like you, but if you ever get bored, feel free to walk down to the kitchen and grab a snack. You might stumble upon Ray and Gerard are having an awesome conversation about how robots are discriminated against in the media.

"But don't worry about Gerard, seriously. It's a bit like when parents go in to check on their children -- he just wants to check that you're alright. He's a fretter," Mikey finishes in a mumble.

Frank smiles reassuringly. "It's okay, dude, I don't mind," he says, and Mikey looks so relieved, as if Frank was gonna be cool about the whole vampire thing and then freak about some guy checking in on him throughout the night. Frank went to college, what the hell.

"Oh, and there's one more thing." Mikey suddenly looks as shy as he was the first ten seconds when they'd bumped into each other at the club. He looks down at his now-empty coffee mug sadly. "There's, uh-"

"He's gotta feed?" Frank guesses correctly. Mikey looks stumped. "I- Yes. What- How did you know?"

Frank flashes a little smile. "I've got half a brain? He's a vampire, dude, it's not hard to guess." He leans back. "I'm guessing that since he's got a heart of gold and thus won't go robbing the blood bank any time soon, the price of his protection is donating a bit of blood for the better cause?"

Mikey's mouth falls open slightly. "That- yes."

Frank tilts his head. "How often? I don't mind, but you know how sickly I am. I doubt I'll be any help when I'm wheezing out a lung."

"Gee needs a liter of blood about twice a week," he stutters, still picking his composed demeanor up from the floor. "Me, Bob and Ray all cash in, but we wouldn't say no to a helping, uh, neck. He takes it Thursdays and Wednesdays, warm but not hot." Mikey frowns. "Why am I telling you that?" he mutters to himself.

"I'll help out when I can," Frank promises easily, reaching out to squeeze Mikey's hand reassuringly. "It's no bother, really."

After that, Mikey takes him down to the basement. He easily walks through the curtain of beads, opens the first door, and knocks at the door before entering the code and stepping in. He does it all so quickly and efficiently Frank barely notices when they're in Gerard's lair.

And a lair it is. The only current light in the basement is from a stained glass lamp Mikey turned on immediately once he stepped in. The warm light washes out into the darkness, and only then does Frank realize how large the basement truly is. Mikey had chattered on about it on their way down, of course, but it hadn't set in until he saw the sight himself. The light from the lamp doesn't actually reach the other end of the rectangular room, Frank notices, and as far as he can see, it's the only possible source of light in the room.

It's surprisingly drafty for a sun- and soundproofed basement, and even though it's been renovated recently -- the floor's cement, but the walls seem to have weird curtains draped along them -- Frank can't help but think it must have been a wine cellar or something similar before, judging by the size. He's broken out of his thoughts by Mikey's voice, hollering "Frank's here!" out into the darkness.

All of a sudden, the cold and the emptiness of the cellar rushes at him, and he's reminded how fragile his mortality is when a figure at the end of the lamplight's reach approaches slowly. Despite the clutter in the room -- would you look at that, there's piles of random things everywhere, Frank hadn't noticed over his rising dread, -- the figure is approaching smoothly -- that is, until it swears faintly and trips face-down. Mikey lets out an explosive sigh.

"One of the most graceful creatures on earth, and he still manages to be clumsy," he mutters, eyebrows scrunching up into a frown as he scans the darkness for the shadowy outline of his brother. "Gerard?" Mikey calls hesitantly, just as a dark figure rises up from the ground with a groan. "Jesus fuck, that hurt," is the first thing Frank heard him say, and he realizes with a start that the guy's voice is hot.

Frank blinks. He didn't even know voices could be hot. "That's blasphemy," he points out, because he's stupid when he's horny -- and about to get hornier, he realizes as the guy's face is illuminated by the little grandma lamp. Mikey was right, as always -- he does look a bit feminine. But holy fuck, he didn't even hint at his crooked lips and the sculptured nose, along with his jawline. Frank didn't even know eyebrows could be attractive, but this is apparently a day of enlightenment.

He only realizes he's spaced out when he catches Gerard raising an eyebrow at him, apparently expecting an answer. Frank blanks. Fuck. Luckily Gerard decides to pretend as if it never happened, and repeats the question without prompting. Mikey doesn't even mention it. Frank really needs to thank them for being so damn awesome. "I'm a vampire, dude, I don't care much for blasphemy."

Not a question. Right. Frank doesn't know what the fuck to say. Mikey takes over, making small talk with Gerard about Ray's project and Frank moving in and the nosy lady down the street who walks her dogs past their house just so she can get a glimpse of Gerard.

As they talk, Frank can't help but be a bit jealous of the way Mikey effortlessly has Gerard giggling -- actual giggling, who knew a vampire could giggle? Frank needs to tell his mom about this -- within seconds.

He also catches glimpses of Gerard's teeth while they politely ignore Frank's fumbling awkwardness, and holy shit. Some part of him knew they couldn't logically look like those in the movies, but these look like a Doctor Who prop. The main canines are about a centimeter longer than his other, normal teeth, and in front of them are a smaller version of the canine, that barely peeks through his normal teeth at all. As far as Frank can tell, the canines on the lower jaw are the same, just smaller.

(Here I got tired of writing actual fic and this thing is already thrice the length of the other one so we're back to not!fic)

And then Gerard catches him staring and it's really awkward and Frank's like kill me now, and they leave. The same night, Frank wakes up briefly to see Gerard standing silently at the foot of his bed with a mug in his hand. Reassured by Gerard's presence and so-called 'fretting', Frank goes back to sleep. He doesn't randomly wake up in the middle of the night again after that, but a couple weeks after moving in, his insomnia strikes again.

Instead of going down to the kitchen like Mikey said he could, Frank takes out his guitar and starts strumming as softly as he can. It's not very considerate all in all, but Mikey and Ray are down the hall on the floor below, and they said the walls were pretty thick (Mikey with a wink). He looks to the side to adjust a couple strings and almost adjusts Gerard's eyelid.

"That's good," Gerard comments, and doesn't say anything else until the sun begins to rise and he retreats back to his lair. It's only a brief "Bye," thrown over his shoulder, but it warms Frank more than any coffee can.

(And then they have this slow spiraling romance that's totally awesome and sweet and Mikey gets pregnant cause apparently that's a thing and Ray freaks out while Gerard giggles at them and Frank admires Gerard and it's really cute and fluffy)

Chapter Text

Frerard, slight Rikey, or maybe that's Bay
Wing!Fic, shy!Gerard, insistent!Frank

On Thursday, Frank wakes up with wings.

He blinks, only noticing the recent additions to his body when he brings up a hand to rub the last of sleep out of his eyes, and his wing jerks with it. He startles, and falls off Gee and the bed and tumbles down onto the floor.

He lands on his wing, and as it makes a distressing crack, there's a sharp sting in his left wing. His wing. Frank has wings.

He blinks again.

Gerard then proceeds to wake up, groaning about teacups and Frank and bears, and his back arches off the bed as soon as he notices his wings. Wings. Gerard also has wings. Frank pulls himself upright. He takes a moment to admire Gerard's wings. He can't really tell in the dark, but his wings seem to be a shade lighter than the grey sheets. Wing. Frank only sees one.

The situation is worsened by the fact that Ray then storms in, blathering on about wings and Bob and coffee. He stops when he sees Gerard's alarmed expression and his position on the bed, as well as Frank's dazed one. Ray blinks. "Oh."

They relocate in the front of the bus, still blinking sleep out of their eyes as the bus rumbles steadily under them. Frank uses the moment to admire their wings.

None are the same as his -- with a snapped primary, the heck, -- a deep mahogany with ripples of harsh, glistening bronze smeared into them. Frank nods in satisfaction. They look fucking awesome. When he shifts his wing so he can see the back of them, he notices that they're so darkly colored he has to stare at the feathers for a handful of seconds before they reveal themselves to be the darkest brown he's ever seen. The brown of the back wings only shows when the light hits them.

His also glisten the most -- looking to his side, he sees that Bob's stuck with wolfish off-white wings with darkened tips. His wingspan is huge, only thwarted by Mikey's, which is so large one of his wings are hugging Ray's. Ray. The entire wing cocoons Ray, and -- Frank didn't ever think he would say this -- make him look positively tiny.

Mikey's ruffled wings are this soft, pastel yellow, littered with light brown dots. It makes him look like an innocent little chick that should be cuddling close to the mother hen. Which he is.

He's cuddling Ray, and Ray's wings are this awesome spectrum of brown -- any shade you could ever imagine, emphasized by the fact that his almost glisten as much as Frank's.

And Gerard. Gerard has the nicest wings Frank's ever seen. They're a matte, creamy almost-yellow, and they're so soft. This he notices when he trails a hand over them and Gerard sighs weirdly and squirms. Away. Further away from him on the couch. Frank feels a little bit offended.

He frowns, leans back, and -- oh. Frank drops the frown. His wings are brown. Wing. One of his wings are brown. The other is the same warm hue that spots Mikey's wings, and Frank realizes the brothers' wings are the same colors, just differently patterned. It's heterochromia iridium for wings.

Of course, they aren't split perfectly -- the brown wing has a bit of cream yellow bleeding into it, and the other's spotted with brown at the base, -- but damn. Damn.

Frank wonders if this means they'll have join the doggy-style club.


Chapter Text

well shite I realized I hadn't written this down


So basically a group of angels, all male, land on earth and everybody freak out. There's sixteen of them, and as humans find out pretty quickly, they'll do whatever someone tells them to. They appeared on a small farm in Italy, creatures of all races, figures and ages -- but all male.

The farmer wandered out of his cottage one day, and he saw a pile of people clothed in unblemished white lying slumped on top of each other. As the old man ran closer, he realized they weren't clothed in white -- they weren't clothed at all. They had huge, blinding wings, so white not even the soil they laid upon dared sully them.

He took them inside, fetched his wife, and they stood in the doorway staring for a couple of minutes. Sixteen angels, all male, the oldest a eighty-something years old and the youngest about six. They all looked different -- their only shared trait their snow-white wings, -- and they were all ridiculously picturesque.

Once they woke hours later, in a flurry of feathers, strange languages and elbows, the farmer's wife baked a handful of pies for all of them, looking on wistfully as the six-year-old angel devoured an apple pie while the oldest reached out with a shaking hand to wipe away a smear of juice on his chin. The other angels were all chatting to each other, some stuffing their faces with the pie provided or putting their hands to better use, raising the forks and spoon with curious glances and knocking on the wooden table repeatedly. The farmer and his wife looked at each other.

When they tried to enquire about the angels' origins and intentions, the angels merely stared at them. The married old couple sighed. All they could do was provide a bed for the strangers -- until a week of staring and awkwardness later, where the six-year-old waddled up to the farmer's wife and tugged on the hem of her dress. "Mamma," he starts shyly. "Torta di mele, per favore?"

Once again, the couple looked at each other. It had only been a week since the angels' arrival, and they both remembered the six-year-old's brows furrowed in concentration whenever they spoke to each other over dinner. Things like "Pass the salt, dear," and "How were the chickens today, you think?" There hadn't been a single mention of apple pies during the week.

The other angels followed shortly after -- the oldest one was soft-spoken, saving his words for the rare muttering of consequential things, but the younger ones clearly enjoyed the couple's looks of pride when they held fast-paced conversations in Italian instead of God's language.

The couple prayed every night, thanking God for his gift to them and picking up where they last left their faith, which had been abandoned in favor of hard work and early mornings. They didn't need such things, now, the couple told each other. They had God on their side, didn't they?

And their neighbors noticed -- Mr. and Mrs. Tuprece down the hill, in their brick cottage, witnessed two cows breaking out through the fence that had been steadily rotting from the constant rain -- as there was no one repairing it, it eventually crumbled. Their chickens stopped clucking, and their crops withered. The couple had not stepped foot outside their cottage for months, in their delusion that God would keep them healthy after their sufferings and hard work, and were starving -- less so when they found out the angels didn't actually need to eat, so there was no need to feed them, too, but there is only so much food that lasts that long.

But luckily for them -- not that they would understand that any time soon -- Mrs. Tuprece decided the only reasonable answer was that the old couple had finally keeled over, and called the authorities to take away their bodies. There was no family to call -- they'd settled down on this hill decades ago, newlyweds, hoping for a future blooming as fresh and fast as the flowers in the wife's now-abandoned garden. After a miscarriage, the wife rarely left their cottage, and her husband followed suit. Even through hardships of the very worst kind, their love for each other prevailed.

But that is not what this story is about -- it is about the survivors of what followed next, because there were only two. The couple had named them Gerard and Michael, and they were unquestionably the closest of the angels.

All of the angels referred to themselves as 'brothers', but Gerard and Michael seemed so much more familiar with each other than with the other angels -- you would find them in the corner of the room, whispering to each other for hours without the company of the other angels, all without breaking skin-to-skin contact.

When the authorities arrived, a lot of things happened. No one present that day remembered in which order they happened, though Mrs. Tuprece could only watch from her yellow-brick cottage as they dragged the angels away from the elderly couple, most screaming and crying.

The oldest angel went with only a wistful sigh and a glance of weary eyes, but the six-year-old's wings had to be wrestled behind him by a police officer as they flapped frantically along with his arms. He screamed the loudest, crying till his lungs gave out. No one ever saw the old couple after that -- not even themselves, for there were no mirrors wherever they were, and they were not there together. Until the day Mrs. Tuprece would be right in her assumptions, they muttered to their empty cells about peaches and chickens and God and seraphim.

The sixteen angels were shipped to wherever -- after months spent in a government research facility, authorities had established that the angels' DNA was unreadable, they did not age, though their body could change, and their body came with a whole new set of rules. They were also apathetic, and obedient -- a perfect undercover spy, or something else.

They decided to keep half for testing, auctioning the other angels off to the highest bidder. A rich airhead in New York bought a dark-skinned twenty-something, and the six-year-old was shipped away to a palace on the other side of the world, lounging on a bed of satin and silks until his bidder decided he had something worse to do.

After a couple years, most of them were dead. The six-year-old was put out of his misery by a gun to head, placed there by one of his bidder's business competitors, and the others were just registered as deceased. Michael and Gerard watched as all the other test subjects mysteriously disappeared and the scientists gradually started treating them like new-born puppies, only appearing to check up on them and move them to safer places. Like walking on eggshells, they started sending in therapists with needles and sometimes pills, so they wouldn't notice when they were inevitably separated, too.

Chapter Text

The one where Gerard is really lame and lives in his mom's basement and buys lots of "werewolf hunting" supplies online because he genuinely believes in this, the turd, and finds a paw trail in the woods behind the playground one day and gets really excited and gets his equipment out and looks like a total creeper walking down the suburbs in full "werewolf hunter" gear and he's really acting like a ten year old and if Mikey were here he'd be embarrassed

and he finally lands on his recluse!hot!ripped!neighbor's front porch and looks up to find him scowling at him and wondering what this weird fucking kid is doing on his doorstep and frank the neighbor then takes him inside since he thinks irrationally that it might be an actual werewolf hunter and then reasons with himself that he might just be playing stupid and brings him inside anyway and tackles him even though he doesn't want to kill him and doesn't really know what he's doing but he has to ensure his silence anyway

so he tackles him to the admittedly soft, carpet-covered floor and immediately regrets it when the kid starts sobbing and makes up a story about having a crush on the kid and then not being able to restrain himself when the kid was so close and immediately feels like a fucking creeper when gerard goes all starry-eyed and immediately says it's fine and lets out a couple insecure "really?"s

and it breaks his fucking heart that no one has told the kid something like this before because even if he's creepy and lame and shit he's still good-looking if a bit anemic and frank is surprised some fuckboy didn't butter him up just to get in his pants and Frank immediately feels like a creeper again cause he's not supposed to be thinking that

and then Gerard flings himself at him and frank just bites the bullet and takes it cause there's nothing else he can do unless he wants his secret to be revealed and while Gerard starts blabbing his mouth about how mikey (who the fuck is Mikey? his babysitter?? which in that case he should now be fired) is gonna be so happy for him Frank's really just thinking about how he needs to wash his sheets and shit cause now there's gonna be another person in his house,,,, why

and he doesn't admit that he secretly likes how Gerard snuggles up to him after a full moon and how there's no need to force the kid to be silent when they're in a relationship and if he finally realizes he loves Gerard's mouth and his hands and his hair and his smile and maybe just Gerard, no one needs to know

the only way he'll ever vocalize it is to the moon, in howls

Chapter Text

Mikey!centric, genetic!mutation, traumatized!mikey, protective!gerard, bigbrother!gerard (and I mean that in both senses of the word 'big brother'), determined!ray, gerard!is actually straight for once would ya look at that

When Mikey's born, it's with a mutation. It was one of those things nobody knew why happened, or that it even could happen -- presumably. No one would tell her anything when they found out a decade later, not the doctors or the nurses or even the government agents, who surprisingly enough had time to deal with something as low-risk as this. She has a nagging notion at the back of her mind that tells her the only reason she was allowed to go home with her twelve-year-old son that day was because they couldn't logistically lock him up somewhere without explicit legal grounds.

It had been a visit to the doctor -- nothing especially concerning, but as before-mentioned, enough for a visit. They got there, and everything was looking fairly normal. Donna skimmed through a couple of old fashion magazines in the waiting room while Mikey blushed and covered his chest in typical irrational-teenager style, as if everyone in the waiting room had X-ray vision.

Gerard had come to her after school that day, saying that Mikey was acting weird and 'being a girl' about something. Donna had pinched his ear for bad-talking his brother and promptly pulled out her phone, ready to call the doctor to make an appointment and/or text Don. Gerard went back downstairs to the basement.

After a bit of prodding and a cup of coffee -- she didn't know who had started his addiction to the stuff, but she had a glaring suspicion it had something to do with that night a couple years ago, when Gerard practically pushed her into the living room as there was a crash in the basement, and she went into the kitchen to find it empty of coffee and missing five coffee mugs, -- Mikey admitted that he'd noticed some strange lumps on his chest, but he wouldn't elaborate. She knew that he wouldn't speak another word of it, and called the doctor.

When the nurse had called his name, she had simply trotted calmly after the nurse, Mikey sulking and following behind her. The doctor had greeted them, waited for the twelve-year-old to take off his shirt -- ten minutes, honestly -- and examined him. He'd taken off his glasses, stared at the wall, put them on again, and given her his analysis.

Mikey had tits. It was something Donna had to get used to, while Donald decided to ignore it until it went away. (Donna glared at him when he'd said that.) It was a statement Gerard had memorized, and one he had ready at the back of his tongue to spring at anyone he brought within a ten foot proximity of Mikey. If he even let them that close, that is.

There was nothing else irregular about him, if you ignored his uncanny sense of knowing everything about everyone -- the doctor had to persuade Mikey to let him do a full-body examination while a nurse had brought Donna a magazine from the waiting room. After he was finished once again, he told her that except for the breasts, Mikey was a hundred percent male. He even asked if she maybe had unknowingly been expecting twins, and had suffered from vanishing twin syndrome. The answer was a very decisive no.

This wouldn't have been such a bad thing, if not for the fact that Mikey was a Way, which meant boobs that grew fast, as well as big. "They're not that big," Gerard would console Mikey as he stood behind him in the changing room mirror, watching him struggle with a lacy bra their mum had brought him to try on.

Nudity wasn't even awkward between them anymore, as Mikey got a brother that would mostly keep secrets, even from their mom, and would draw him anything he wanted Gerard to draw. Gerard got to stare at tits on rare occasions, and consequently learnt how to take off bras, which came in useful.

Mikey had also condemned Gerard to an eternal existence in hell, as those were his brother's tits, which -- no. Just no. In between despairing at his uselessness at being a good older brother and banging his head on his desk because of it, though, Gerard could maybe just whisper as a thought in his head that he couldn't really be blamed. He was a straight guy, and those were some big tits, no matter what he told Mikey.

As a D-cup, binding had proved useless. Sport bras, no matter how plain, would always somehow get noticed, and even with a slip from Donna allowing him to skip gym (or at least change in a side room or something), there was the issue of his actual boobs. A C-cup would show through the thickest of knitted sweaters, and with Mikey's usual attire of a t-shirt with a hoodie over, people would notice how the fabric draped strangely around his chest. It certainly didn't help that he was the skinniest semi-guy in, like, the entire school.

His (their) days in school mostly consisted of straggling around the halls slouching strangely, walking just a tad faster whenever someone shouted the occasional slur. Gerard would follow him around like a sulking shadow with extraordinarily stringy hair whenever he had the time, which was most of the time.

After school would be spent with Gerard doing whatever the fuck it was Gerard did [see: reading comic books, drawing, general sulking] and trying not to stare at Mikey's breasts once he shucked the thick sweater and bra, bless him. Mikey did his thing, and then they went to sleep at a reasonable time to wake up fresh and early for the next day, oh boy!

(up until Gerard meets Ray and introduces him to Mikey and suddenly Chemistry is Mikey's best subject and they might proceed to fall into a small itty bitty teensy tiny whiny minuscule microscopic love affair, yikes)

Do you know how hard it is for his mother to find out her son is not straight, yet attracted to someone with boobs?

Chapter Text



Alpha!Frank, Reckless!Frank, OverlyFeminine!Gerard, Submissive!Gerard, Sleepy!Gerard, Tooth rotting fluff

When the door finally opened, it wasn't a middle-aged accountant nor an overly cheery teenager, and certainly not a stereotypically crazy scientist. It was a clean-cut thirty-something lady, dressed in a navy blouse and a pair of grey slacks, with her hair neatly tied together by a brown band to match her hair.

Despite how well put-together and clinical she looked, she wore a warm smile, settling comfortably on her face in the midst of a web of well-used smile wrinkles. "Frank Iero?" She questioned confidently, having taken a step towards them and somehow shaking his hand before he even thought to answer the question.

"This way, please," she instructed, and with a nod to Frank's parents, they were off a long corridor as the door slid closed behind them. Her high-heels clicked quietly on the weirdly clean floor. Frank snuck a few subtle (or so he thought) glances at her during their walk, and came to the conclusion he didn't hate her quite as much as he thought he would. She had a warm, relaxed air around her, impossibly confident in the long, bright halls of the clinic.

"Are you a natural-pairing activist?" She asked after they had walked a couple minutes in silence. Frank had no idea where they were going, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know, either. By now they'd had passed what must have been hundreds of identical doors, and the small numbers scripted on the walls of every corner they turned had begun to blur. He'd paid attention to the first couple of five-digit numbers, thinking they were important, but then they'd turned into another identical white hallway and he'd walked just a little bit closer to the woman assigned to show him to his match.

A match that he clearly didn't want. He must be practically radiating it if the woman (no matter how skilled) was able to pick up on it, and that reminded him that she'd asked a question exactly about that -- and that he hadn't answered. As soon as Frank came to the conclusion that he should probably answer, she drew the conclusion his silence was in the positive.

"Thought so." And then she sped up. Down through the white halls they went, and Frank's feet were beginning to hurt, even in his well-worn sneakers. He wondered how the nice woman's feet were holding up in her stiletto heels.

About ten minutes later (which shouldn't have hurt Frank's feet that much, but it was probably the straightest, most rigid floor he'd ever walked on), she stopped. By that time, Frank had already spaced out so much he kept walking for a couple seconds after she stopped. "Is this-" he pointed questioningly towards the plain door. The woman gave him a tight smile.

She left.

Frank watched her go with a sort of wistful sadness, which, come to think of it, he really shouldn't be feeling at all. As she turned the corner once again, holding her seemingly useless clipboard, Frank stood staring at the white corridor she'd vacated for a handful of seconds. It was as if the muted click-clack of her heels had stopped the second she turned the corner, as it was now utterly, unerringly silent, and it was as unnerving as anything Frank had ever felt.

He took a deep breath. The door was just one amongst many, the same cold grey as all the others. There was nothing unusual or threatening about it. Except that it held his future marital partner behind it, but he wouldn't think about that. He just didn't want to open the door.

When his parents first told him they'd gotten him a pre-selected partner, he'd basically thrown the largest tantrum he'd had since he was eight and everyone told him he couldn't go play with the super-cool new kid at school who just happened to be a Submissive. His parents were shell-shocked that A) he didn't appreciate his nice little birthday present and B) that he could still scream that loud. Said tantrum resulted in them never speaking about the short-lived red handprint on Frank's cheek and the early demise of Frank's mother's fancy new chinaware.

And he still didn't want to open the door. It's just a plain old door, he told himself, and it doesn't have to mean anything to you or your life. You can always say you weren't compatible with them. Just fucking say it's because it's a she, Jesus. If it even is a she, he thought glumly. He determinately didn't think about how his parents would freak out again if they realized he was gay, and that he would inevitably get as attached to his -- temporary, he patiently told himself -- match as he got to every cute little puppy he saw walking down the street. He just hoped his match wouldn't turn out to be as pitifully weak.

And the door opened. Just like that. While he was lost in his own thoughts he got hit by a wave of light sterilized sheet-smell, and snapped back into it to realize the door was open. He wondered if he'd opened it himself in some weird version of Alien Hand Syndrome, but then he heard a click and looked up to see a security camera with a blinking red light pointed at him. He glared nastily at it.

Apparently the people at the clinic had decided he wasn't capable of opening doors himself. God, what fucking idiots, he thought, and only got angrier when he realized the reason he was angry in the first place was because he couldn't blame them. He was such a fucking mess.

But then he got distracted by what was in the room, because that was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, Jesus. It was so small and frail and cute, and before he even knew what he was doing, he took a step into the room. Then another one. And another. And he kept walking until he reached the bed in the middle of the white, empty room, ignoring the sound of the door automatically clicking shut behind him and just staring.

Because in the middle of the pretentiously huge bed there was this thing that was completely dwarfed by the size of the bed and looked too weak to still be breathing, if anything, but it was. Small, snuffling breaths through the tiniest, most delicate features he'd ever seen, and this was just a spank-bank overload.

Which was when he realized that he should probably stop calling his match an it, and leant down to sniff for their sex before he realized, again, what the fuck he was doing. God. A fucking mess. Testosterone, but weaker than it should be. He tilted his head. Really? There was testosterone in everyone, but this was plenty strong enough to be male. It was just that compared to others, it was a bit.. weak. He leaned down again to take a deeper breath, and yeah. There it was.

Pulsing, undulating core, perfectly ripe and just agh. This was too damn much for a year, much less a single day. He needed a couple decades to deal with this, the all-consuming need to just lick, bite, to just fuck. His match snuffles in his sleep again, eyelashes fluttering, and Frank needs a fucking name right the fuck now so he can growl it when he's fucking his throat so hard he's mostly just gagging on it--

Fuck. He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks go off in the darkness. He needs to calm the fuck down, right the fuck now. He takes a deep breath and shakes his match awake.

He almost feels bad for the way his match's eyes widen in obvious fear when he sees Frank standing by his bed still looking extremely angry, and Frank quickly smooths out his expression. He doesn't even try to smile, though, because he doesn't even want to imagine how that will turn out. But even when scared, his match has just woken up, and quickly reverts to sleepy and dazed again.

But mostly confused. "..Who are you?" He mumbles sleepily, batting at the air in Frank's direction thoughtlessly. Frank catches his hand just as thoughtlessly, and watches as beautiful, hazel eyes widen again, this time in delight.

"Frank," he introduces himself, quickly pulling the smoothest voice he's got out of his fucking ass for the boy, who giggles in delight. "Gerard," Gerard says, squirming. "Are you taking me somewhere? Is it the tests again?" He pouts. "Please don't be the tests again. Can I convince you not to be here for my tests?"

And fuck, Frank wants to say he forgot about the throat-fucking and having Gerard gag on it until he's drooling and his throat just glides smoothly around Frank's cock, but Gerard's eyelashes just fluttered, Jesus. Frank clears his throat. "No need, sweetness. You're coming home with me," and tugs on Gerard's hand which has the unexpected result of him simply going with it until he's out of bed and propped against Frank's side. Frank looks down at him. "That sound okay, sugar?"

Gerard just giggles. "Sugar."

Chapter Text

And just like that, Gerard fainted on the football field ten minutes into gym class.

"What's wrong with him?" A guy hollered from the other side of the field. "Is football too scary for the fag?" His friends laughed at the extremely funny joke.

Jogging over to Gerard, the teacher frowned at the jock surrounded by his friends. "Tone it down, Johnson," she ordered lightly, "or you won't like the consequences." She turned her back on him just as he rolled his eyes.

Her frown grew further as she noticed some blood leaking out onto the grass from Gerard's nose, and that his eyes were flickering like wild under his half-closed lids. His right arm jerked a bit, and his fingers twitched. "Someone fetch the nurse!" She roared at the class, most of who were still laughing and chattering. "Right now!"

A couple other loners shifted uneasily next to her, looking at Gerard's twitching form. "Miss, should I-"

"What's the matter now? Wimp had a heart attack when he saw the sun?" Richard Johnson's friends laughed again, even nastier this time. "Must have been all that fat! Guess no one ever told him faggots shouldn't swallow everything they see!"

"Five weeks detention, Johnson, an hour every day after school!" The laughter died abruptly. "A week for every year you've made this boy's life hell," she muttered.

Richard spluttered. "This is my second year here!"

"Really?" She hollered back over her shoulder. "My mistake." She frowned as she saw the puddle growing bigger, and his twitches were noticeably more violent. She could see the whites of his eyes whenever they opened. "I want that nurse now, Johnson, unless you're lusting for six weeks," she called. "And tell her to bring the stretcher!"


When Gerard opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Mikey's frown, half obscured by his hair. "Who are you?" tumbled from his lips as easy as nothing ever had, and Mikey looked up from his homework. And frowned harder.

"What are you talking about?" Mikey looked behind him to see if there was anyone else in the room. He looked weirdly at Gerard when his search came up negative. Gerard sat up in his bed easily. "Why am I in the nursery?"

"Gerard?" Mikey said, still sitting with his homework in his lap. "You fainted in the middle of gym, remember? They said you had a seizure." His frown held strong. "Are you okay?"

Stretching, Gerard grinned at his brother. "I feel great. Who are you?"

"Mikey." Frown. "Your brother. We look the same, remember? Do you need an optometrist?"

Gerard suddenly looked a lot more interested in the conversation they were having. "Brother? I have a brother here? Tell me more about him."

Mikey just stared at him. Gerard smiled. "What do you mean, 'we look the same'? I haven't seen myself yet." He pointed at the mirror on the nightstand. "Hand it over."

Mikey rolled his eyes. "Gee, cut the crap. You've never had any form of amnesia, even when you were in a coma after that really bad cold when you were six. Mom freaked out, remember?"

"Oooh, our parents!" He jumped out of bed like he hadn't just woken up, toeing on his shoes. "You've got to introduce us. Are they nice?" He shrugged on his hoodie. "Do hand me that mirror, dear brother."

He handed it over. "Oh, I'm so pretty!" Gerard gasped. He turned the mirror from side to side, trying out different angles. He even puckered his lips a little. "This is so much better than last time. Look how long my eyelashes are!" He looked towards Mikey expectantly, like he was actually going to come up to him and look at his brother's eyelashes.

Quite the opposite, Mikey was trying not to have a breakdown. He couldn't even recognize his own brother where he stood in front of him. Gerard acted so differently now, exclaiming this and that, saying things that broke Mikey's heart to hear said so nonchalantly. For once, Gerard seemed to actually like himself and the way he was, and of course it was only once he'd seemingly lost all his memories. He even stood differently, lines and perk where there was once slouch and grump.

"G- Gerard?" Gerard turned around with a smile, then flinched when Mikey thumped his head heavily on his brother's chest. "Please tell me this is just a prank," he whisper-whimpered, voice shaky and weak for all the wrong reasons.

Gerard didn't seem to get it. "Of course not!" He giggled, and shook his head, watching in the mirror how it made his hair flick against the sides of his face. "I'm so pretty!" He leaned forward. "Mike -- your name was Mike, right? -- look how pretty I am!"

And he was off again.

Chapter Text

Would you be so kind as to point me toward the fish stalls?

- was what the note said, but the man couldn't make sense of it.

"Apologies, missus," he shrugs, scratching his head. "I'm not good with 'em letters."

Gerard's eyes flicker down. He tries to make sense of the way the man's lips shape around the words, the way his tongue gently pushes them out, but his mind draws a blank, leaving him only with confusion. Rejection. He doesn't know. But that doesn't mean Gerard knew what it was the man didn't understand.

Gerard frowns. Then draws a simple stick-figure fish with little bubbles coming out of its mouth, next to a couple of simplified coins. He adds a currency sign too, just in case the man doesn't get it.

The man squints at it for a couple seconds, then his expression clears. He shows off all his rotten, yellowed teeth in a wide grin. "Oh! That's right o'er there, missus!" Gerard sees drop from the man's mouth, and his eyes trail to where the man is pointing somewhere behind him. A large crowd has gathered there, and he thinks he sees what might be a salesman shouting next to it.

He nods politely, then is off, leaving the slightly drunken sailor behind to stare at his swishing skirts and wonder if missus was the right pronoun to use. It doesn't even occur to him to wonder why it was the stranger didn't hear the loud bellow of the stall's salesman, words pacing in an eternal circle of "Fish! Fish o'er here! Fresh fish, for only a pence each!"


The second the door closes behind him, he has already toed his shoes off, and rushes into the kitchen to hand the somewhat fresh meat over to the head cook. They sold fried fish as well, from the affiliate stall right next to them, so he bought one of both. Greasy cod has already soaked through the waxed paper it's wrapped in, and at this point he'll do anything just to get the thing out of his hand. Gerard shudders at the thought of what would happen if the oil were to get on the expensive parchment his father got for him on last year's voyage, when he went to India. Reminder to wash my hands, he notes internally with a grimace.

The width of his skirts makes getting through the doorway a tight fit, but only one chair wobbles alarmingly, and so he hands the packages over with a blinding beam. Her eyes linger on the stained waxed paper. She smiles at him, then ruffles his hair. "Thank you, Gerard," Coraline says, making sure to speak slowly so he'll be able to pick it up as it falls easily from her lips.

They both know Gerard had been clawing at the walls with boredom an hour ago when she'd initially asked him if he could drop by the market and pick up something for her, but neither of them mention it. Their temporary house, despite being located in the busier parts of town, had nothing entertaining actually in it. He smiles, and goes upstairs. Coraline shuts the door behind him.

On the way up he stops by Mikey's room, partly because his room always has warmer water, and, well. It's Mikey. Gerard raps twice on the doorframe, seeing as the door is open, and beams at Mikey too when he looks up from his studies. Mikey rolls his eyes, but beckons him closer. He jumps onto Mikey's bed with a huff, giggling when Mikey immediately drops his books to haul him in by the waist and nuzzle his neck. He murmurs something, and Gerard only catches it because he can feel the way his lips move against his neck and how his stubble scratches at the sensitive skin.

He wants to pull back to see what Mikey said, and so he does. The look of disgust on Mikey's face says it all. Greasy yucky cod, he mouths to his brother as he flops back on the bed again. Hopefully they won't be having that one for dinner. Gerard doesn't mind cod in itself, but Coraline's the only person in the house that likes it fried, battered and soaked in vinegar. Mikey seems to agree, judging by the way he joins Gerard in his mission to meld into the bed and apparently become one with it. Gerard smiles bashfully when Mikey eyes him. His bed is just so soft.

Eventually, though, he has to get up because his corset is choking him again. Mikey just nods understandingly when Gerard flaps a hand breathlessly at his waist, and moves behind him to unlace it. It's slightly more intimate than it probably should be, with the way Mikey's chin is propped on his shoulder as he undoes the laces with fast and efficient hands, every snuffling exhale blowing gently into Gerard's hair. He doesn't even need to look at the laces while he's doing it. Realizing that the efficiency is due to the moments he spends with Kristin, though, kills that fantasy before it's even taken flight. Gross.

Once the corset's off, Gerard decides the best course of action would of course be to slump backwards on top of Mikey, thus effortlessly trapping him under the weight of his dear older brother. Mikey struggles a bit, mostly for fun, but then settles. He strokes Gerard's hand and runs his fingers through his greasy hair, which- oh. OH.

Gerard jumps off Mikey and rushes out of bed, leaving his dazed brother flat on said bed, wondering where all the ruffles choking him had gone. He hears the splashing of water and looks up, towards where Gerard is vigorously scrubbing his hands clean using the bowl of water on the nightstand. Mikey rolls his eyes.

"You don't even have proper soap," he sighs, mostly to himself, pausing to repeat it when Gerard raises an eyebrow. You no don't even have _______ soap, Gerard reads, then frowns. Shakes his head. Mikey repeats, you don't even have paper soap.

Eventually Mikey has to get up - which is unfair - and write it out for Gerard. Which is okay. Serves him right, walking around with his calligraphy notes tucked in his reticule, tassels swinging this and that way. Gerard reads the quickly scrabbled note, and warning bells go off in Mikey's head at once when confronted with the sad undertone of Gerard's sigh. He shuffles closer, not taking note of Gerard's unwillingness to get up or his beagle-like sad stare.

Don't you sigh at me, Mikey writes. Shouldn't you be writing this down in one of your flash cards? When Gerard doesn't even huff at the joke, Mikey knows it's serious. Flash card jokes always set him off giggling. What happened? He tries to think of something additional, to show he's serious, but he can't come up with anything appropriate to write.

Gerard can't think of anything either.


After dinner, he doesn't stop by Mikey's room. Mikey'd begged off eating, claiming that he wasn't hungry, and that he had lots of studying to do. He goes straight to his boudoir, throwing himself down on his bed at the soonest opportunity and not knowing whether it creaks or not. Gerard can't wait for tomorrow, when Mikey will be traveling to his new school at the same time as all the other students attending there. He crouches down, rummaging under his bed for his sketchbook and pencils. He finds them at once, seeing as there's nothing else down there.

His room is freezing, and surely the walls are groaning around him, with all the wind outside. Gerard's windows keep popping open when they're pushed too hard by the wind, probably banging everywhere with their frames as they go. If he could attend, he'd be able to go with Mikey for what would then be Gerard's last year there. Mikey's room is probably warmer, seeing as it's closer to the kitchen and has a sealed window. He knows Mikey wouldn't mind if he joined him. Gerard's tutor arrives in a week. It's a new one, since Mrs. Werricest had moved on with the next available ship sailing from harbor the moment they'd lowered bridge to land.

He carefully selects his favorite pencil, and makes sure to sharpen it before he writes:

Row, row, row your boat

Through the oceans wide

Like your father, there he goes

Leaving you behind

He instantly despises himself for writing such silly poems. He doesn't even know if it rhymes.

Chapter Text

Hiya folks! This is just another one of those A/N chapters, I'm afraid.

As you can see, I've been on another clean-up spree lately, and I!!! Even!!! Changed!!! The Name!!! I don't know how to tell everyone that may be confused by the name-change, so this is my way to do it. Best before: over 30 kudos and more than said number people involved

FanFic Inspiration had been -v- for a while now, so change came along with winter. I'm going to do a little bit more clean-up, but the whole thing was inspired by trying to finish a couple stale (but good) works so!! BE HAPPY,!!

I hope you had a good day

Chapter Text

The dim candlelight lit her face brightly enough for me to see that she was rolling her eyes, at least. "Oh dear, don't ask again."

She massages her temples with her fingertips, in long, kneading circles. "His behavior is absolutely horrid. A recluse like him, and he won't even bring in any money by selling his paintings!" A sigh. "At least we have Mikey."

This is Pete's mom with the way matriarch yo and she tells Pete and he's like biTCh wHat so he asks Mikey and Mikey's like ye boi wanna fuck so of course they fuck but Pete can't stop thinking about it so he sneaks out of afterglow cuddles and basically breaks into the Way loft and also a couple doors when behind him he suddenly hears a shuffle so he spins around and Gerard's there in the shade behind the windows that cast light of the moonshine and really shady (literally) and they look at each other but since Gerard doesn't have any social skills and his only example was MIkEY once he becomes uncomfortable (5 sec) he walks away or at least tries bc Pete GRAbS HIn and Gerard's like aAAHHHHHHHHHHHahhHH (intake of breath) AAAAAAAAAA and has a panic attack because he doesn't like people touching him duh don't touch me im bat kween and Pete just kinda goes uuuh and Gerard goes AAAAA and Pete goes uuuhhhhh and mikey goes how dare you interrupt my sleep and walks up to gee who grabs his shirt and clings to it for dear life while Mikey talks to H in Italian and reassures him everything will be okay bella shut the fuck up my sleep and puts Gerard. Somewhere

And then he whirls around and Asian mom slaps Pete and tells him never to do that again but Pete is quietly freaking out because I forgot to tell you Mikey told Pete that Gerard told Mikey that Gerard practices vvitCHCRDft and VOOfoO and cool shit like that so he was expecting. Someone really badass and he couldn't even tell if gee really was pretty because of the sHA dE (dabs) and he really feels like he didn't get his money's worth so of course he Asian kid defies that shit

And now I really forgot what comes next and I have to pee but it definitely comes up that Gerard is super slick and actually a witch when oH hold on I think maybe gee and petzy fuck??? but idk that might have been another one I also have one where gee dIES (sniffs it's how he would have wanted to go) but dONT THINK abt ANy of THST and DONT BLIN, k and ye

And Gee's like no but y dat man tuch me and Mikey be like -v- bird face that's what ppl do and Gee's like oh but does that mean I'm horny and mikes like 0___________0 I guess and Gerard gets all wistful and whispery and goes oh mikey. I'm lonly ;_; and secret Pete in secret corner goes !!!!!! Partly bc 1. englioso 2. Hello there boner.and then wonders why he want to fuck them both but like does he?? he hasn't even seen gee's face proprly?????? and also I am copyrighting Petzy

But ye gway is a VVVVVVVVVVVITTCHHH and magically knows all languages but speaks italiano to Mikey bc it's their secret language bc they learned it as a child before their mother got whitewash d and Pete's like sry to break it to ya dude but I'm p sure there are a couple million other people who also know that lingo and Mike hufflaughs like a total asshole badass which hey that kinda makes sense and the reason Gerard's linguistic abilities came up in the first place is because thEY FUCKED (?????) or something or maybe waycest occurred but anyways petzy was there when Gerard whispered into Mikey's ear that he was loNEly in fine damn jersey English and Pete was like 1. ?????? Hermit knows two languages I call bullshit an d 2. oH that one had nothing to do with sex WHAT AUCTALY HAPPENED was later that accident Gerard told Mikey that he didn't want Pete to rape him and Mike was like 0____0 and Gerard was like mueke come on is he going to rape me and Mikey was like do you maybe wanna talk about our childhoods

And Gerard goes all predatory when he's in ~the zone~ and gets like really calm and it freaks Mikey out a bit so he stays away whenever gee needs to do a sacrifice or ritual or smthng (even tho he doesn't actually ever say a reason he hAS to) bc he just gets so calm when er he does it like he's usually so squeamish and lame and geE but now he'll cut up fucking intestines and gently squeeze out the mushy, grainy paste inside for his somethinsomething creampaste like a motherfucking voofoo priestess goddamn

And petzy sees him in the zone and his dicks like fuck yea and he walks up to him and asks him for a voodoo doll of someone and Gee's responsibly like -___- of who then and Pete's just like ;) of u ;) ;) and gee just slowly goes 0-0 and runs and Petzys like ??? butt gee still kinda thinks Pete wants to rape him which yeah I mean kinda and Pete's just asked him for a good ol' dildoll',,,,, to do things with,,


Chapter Text

And Gerard burst into the room, almost cracking his head open on the doorframe as he went. “Mikey! Mikey, look!”

He thrust something into Mikey’s face. “She’s a kitten,” Gerard preened, so reverently Mikey had to blink a couple times to assure himself that yes, it was indeed a kitten.

It was mostly black, with mittens and boots of white fuzz, along with some spots of white. To Mikey, it looked like any other kitten.

“I named her Elena,” Gerard whispered, so quietly Mikey almost didn’t hear him at all, and in that moment Mikey knew there was no way Gerard was letting the lump of sleeping fur go. Mikey sighed, and stood up to tell their mom they now had a cat.

Chapter Text

What had happened, they told him over the phone, was that Gerard had gotten himself into a situation. They wouldn't tell him what sort of situation, or how Gerard currently was. He'd gotten himself into a situation, and then he'd walked in on a situation, and then they'd had to call him.

"You were the first contact on his phone," the man tells him when he asks. Mikey thinks that makes sense. He'd always been the socialite, and to Gerard that had somehow translated into him not having any reason to go out and make some friends. Of course he'd been the first contact on his phone. Of course. When he asks the guy on the other end of the line how many contacts Gerard had on his phone aside from him, the guy had gone quiet for a while.

"Three," he eventually answers decisively. According to the man, the other three contacts were labeled Alicia, Ray Toro and Work. Mikey wants to cry a little bit.

Three contacts. Four, if you count Mikey, but still three, 'cause one of them was Work. Mikey's beautiful, beautiful brother, who'd moved out of town for the one and only shit-end job that'd accepted his application, only had three contacts. His brother, who'd set an example for Mikey by painting his nails to rebel against their parents and then screamed at a spider in the basement fifteen minutes later, crying so hard their dad had to go down and catch it for them.

His gorgeous, clever brother, who'd probably never had a girlfriend in his life, but still covered for Mikey when he snuck out to meet whoever he was dating at the time. Gerard. Mikey lets out a shaky sigh, which the guy takes as a signal to continue. He's apparently supposed to meet them tomorrow outside the building Gerard used to work at (Do you need the address?), 5 p.m, to discuss the ongoing situation with Gerard.

Mikey can't tell if they're testing him on his brother-knowledge or just rubbing salt in the huge, Gerard-shaped wound. Maybe both.


The situation, as a guy in a suit later explains to Mikey over a huge desk (God, Mikey's so fucking tired of that goddamn fucking word he wants to spell it out in trails of human shit on the ground and email a picture to them), is quite complicated. They still haven't taken him to Gerard, just led him to some fancy office and fondled him with kid-gloves for half an hour, and Mikey's getting really fucking tired of it.

"Just tell me," he grinds out, "where the fuck he is."

Asshole-in-a-grey-suit grimaces, and shifts uncomfortably in his padded velvety asshole chair. "I'm afraid it's not that easy," he interjects with a look at the three guys -- huge, muscular types in the same grey suits, just a bit simpler, all standing by the door. Mikey has an unsettlingly clear idea what they're for -- that Mikey doesn't even want to interpret. "The, ah, situation at hand is-"

"Is it drugs?" Mikey interrupts him. "I know quite a lot about drugs. Mostly because Gerard's dabbled in every single kind that doesn't involve a needle, and I had to pick him up afterwards."

A couple of guys shift uneasily at the tone of hysteria in his voice. "Alcohol? What about that? Gerard's a long-term alcoholic, and whatever's happened, I can fucking fix it as long as you let me see him!"

There's a familiar click from behind him. Mikey doesn't even flinch. "Mr. Way, please calm down. I'm sure there's a reasonable solution-"

Mikey stands up so fast his padded velvety asshole chair swings back, and one of the guys behind him swoop in to gently catch it and hold it up. "You know what? Fuck this. I didn't come here to be fucking ogled by some bullshit guys in suits. I've got better things to do, so you can go shove your situation up your fucking ass."

He turns around to leave, snagging his jacket off his very own asshole chair on the way. "No, fuck you," he spits at the bodyguard who moves to block his way, and glares at him with the Way-glare of death until he stands aside.

"Fucking bullshit," he mutters as he walks into the pouring rain outside whatever fucking building they were in. He doesn't even know why he came here. Gerard's probably gone and gotten himself shot in a drug raid, and Mikey doesn't need government assholes to go home and plan a funeral.

Gerard would've probably wanted some really pretty fucking flowers on his grave, like the ones he kept itching to draw whenever they visited their grandma. She kept them in this huge vase on her coffee table, and Gerard used to babble about how nice they were all the time when they were children. Mikey would always tune him out.

White lilies, Mikey distantly recalls, and then he starts crying. Right there in the middle of the street, in the heavy rain, like a fucking scene from The Notebook. Just without someone to dramatically kiss and confess his undying love to, because Alicia's not here, and she's not at home either. She's with her parents in New York, and Mikey couldn't go with her because Gerard was coming home over the weekend, excited to talk to his family and maybe Ray. The rain must be pouring directly onto his face because there's no way he's crying this fucking hard, and in the middle of the street, no less.

People are looking weird at him and his gross sobbing, so he turns his face down. There's no possible way the rain could be causing all the water on his face now, and it tastes salty where it drips into his mouth. That might also be the snot, though, so he doesn't pull any hasty conclusions. Mikey faintly thinks that he should maybe text Alicia and tell her about what's happened. He can't believe he's crying this hard, and over something as mundane as this, too. He just can't cope with Gerard just being gone.

Gerard was going to die all along, no matter how vampire he (used to) seem, but Mikey always imagined it being when he was this old wrinkled man, who sat in this really ugly egg-yolk yellow armchair all the time. He should have lost his childish excitement over absolutely everything he saw by then, and be reading his own comics from when he was young, chuckling over them and sharing with Mikey. He should have had grandchildren -- maybe not his own, 'cause reasons, but Mikey could always share his. That's what brothers do.

Asshole-in-a-suit places his hand on Mikey's shoulder. "Mr. Way," he begins gently. "I'd appreciate it if you came back inside to discuss the --" He stops. "To discuss your brother."

And what the hell, it's not as if Mikey has anything better to do. The funeral can wait, and so can Alicia. "His name is Gerard," he sullenly spits at the guy (albeit weakly) and follows him back inside. Gerard probably left a bunch of his stupid drawings to him, anyway.


As it turns out, the ridiculously large desk isn't for nothing but decoration, something Asshole-in-a-suit reveals when he opens a drawer and fishes out an XXL pack of tissues and slides it sympathetically towards him. Mikey's never had to do anything as embarrassing as hand his soaked parka over to the kind bodyguard he told to fuck off, so the man can hang it up to dry.

The other mild-mannered bodyguard pulls out the same chair he caught from falling so Mikey can sit down in it again, and Mikey finds he minds being treated like a hothouse flower significantly less when he's just bawled his heart out in the freezing rain. Someone turns on a heater, and the office is silent for a couple of minutes as Mikey tries to choke his sniffles in the XXL box of tissues he is increasingly grateful for.

"Your brother," Asshole-in-a-suit begins, "is not dead."

And Mikey's pulse skyrockets through the roof, along with his head as it snaps up to look at the man opposite him. He's not serious. Aside from the fact that Mikey just broke down in the middle of the street like an actual fucking baby, what the fuck, there's also all the shouting he did before he stormed out, and the guy didn't think to tell him? He's been here for an hour, and the useless fucking asshole--

Asshole-in-a-suit continues, unruffled by Mikey's inner, knife-edged wrath and how he's trying to flay him using only his eye-powers of doom. "We thought we would maybe ease the transition for you, seeing as you had obviously already come to the decision he was no longer with us, but-" he coughs.

"Anyway," he quickly continues, "we're supposed to have you sign this sheet before I continue. An absolute requirement," he assures when he sees that Mikey's brought out his death glare again. "Even if everyone in this room would rather skip this step."

Mikey signs it quickly using his least shaking arm, then crosses them both across his chest and stares at the (still no-name!!) guy across the table. Asshole-in-a-suit clears his throat uncomfortably. Mikey raises his eyebrows.

Finally -- finally -- he comes clean about it.

"Your brother seems to have been subjected to a form of radiation at a government base, and has developed strange qualities as a result. He's currently being kept in a sterilized environment, and as for the why, well." Asshole-in-a-suit sends him a pointed look. Asshole-in-a-suit is also not-so-secretly an animated speaker, Mikey thinks, and also really bad at keeping it professional. Thank god Mikey doesn't have one of those jobs, because he just wouldn't be able to pull it off.

"By the time we got to the scene, your brother was.." He winces. "Feral, I must say. He had injured dozens of people, a handful beyond recovery. It wasn't a pretty sight."

Mikey changes his mind. He doesn't want to hear this.

"What's more interesting, is that


Chapter Text



So, umm, after me dad - The Harry Potter, y'know, - lost me, and the death eaters sold me to the traders for revenge, I didn't really expect to be saved. By these people, no less. Muggles. So you can't really blame me for lashing out a bit, when they came in a big black jet, just like in the films Auntie 'Mione showed me.

Turns out, they were somehow involved with "the bad guys", and weren't really there to save me at all. Figures. But they couldn't really leave me in the middle of some Russian shady warehouse. It took me shouting out that I had a da' for them to stop talking about orphanages and paperwork, and, um, turning me hair a bit- well.

So, I'll admit that I didn't really expect to be saved by Muggles, but me da' has James and Al and Lily, so I should have. It gets busy for him. So now I'm stuck in a room with a dark-skinned pirate aptly named 'Fury'. There's a raging almost-arsehole, but he's too bloody cool for that, and a guy playing with arrows - that's just extremely creepy, by the way, and I think he's staring at me too - and a complete hottie in a tight black suit.

I gotta wonder how her curls are still intact after the battle at the Russian warehouse, but I don't really want to ask. It's already awkward. And now a big man with a cape and a loud voice - big hands too, mind you, - entered, and there's a meek scientist with some nice curls, I gotta say, and a prim red-headed business woman just strolled in.

In short, I have no idea what the fuck is happening.

They're all eyeing me shrewdly, and I have to agree, I look like a penguin in a shopping mall. Even the clean business woman fits in better, and she's a real red-head by the way, the hottie's curls are too dark and even, and I don't know what I'm saying anymore. The furious pirate is asking me where me dad is, and I try to answer with a "he's not available right now, please call back later," but it doesn't really lighten the mood, except for a low snort behind me. I don't know snorted but i have the feeling Mr. Creepy arrows is staring at me again, and there's a mirr- Yup, he's staring at me.

I would pray to Merlin, but they snapped me wand, and he hasn't answered before, so I don't really know what to do. Pray to computers, maybe? Terry Pratchett? Aaand the raging almost-asshole just turned around, and he's Tony Stark, and hot, ohgoshwherearemeheavyschoolbooks.

At least there's no McGonagall to call me up to the blackboard to demonstrate transfiguring a matchstick into a needle. I really want a glass of water, as I haven't had anything since last buying-session, and that was two days ago, but they apparently aren't that kind. The table I'm sitting at seems to be made of steel, for some reason, and me hands hurt. At least Andy's not here to yell at me for being rude. Thank- well. Morgana, I guess?



It's actually really nice here. The hottie - 'Tasha - with curls admitted she used three different hairsprays for her curls to stay intact, the meek scientist, Bruce, is pretty chill, and Tony - he told me to call him that! - is as hot as ever. I suspect he's filming me in the shower or something, 'cause he asked me how I 'turn me hair strong colors like red', and the last time I did that I was in the shower, and stubbed me toe. I just kinda wish I could see him in the shower too. Anyway, I'm writing this with the school-pack me da' sends me every month - he's apparently forgotten to stop the order, it just didn't reach me in Russia - and it's ink and a quill I'm using, and me wand's broken, so. I just hope Tony doesn't find this.



So, I just had a bet with Tony on who could down a glass of whiskey first, and he was so fucking drunk and hot, and he even seemed surprised I didn't spit out me glass. It's not stronger than the firewhiskey James gave out in the quidditch party, though. He got detention by Neville for that. For, like, five months.

Chapter Text

They found him in a back room, covered in jizz and cigarette ashes and spit, passed out with a bloody nose. They tried to ask him what his name was, but he'd just blink up at them, confused, so they assumed he didn't know the language.

They were wrong. He was born and raised here, in this warehouse, just like all the others. He wondered where all the others went. They'd stopped screaming a long time ago, and that made him happy, because that meant they'd listened to him. He told them they wouldn't be hurt as badly if they just shut up, and he hadn't seen their bruised, bleeding bodies for a while.

The S.H.I.E.L.D agents shifted nervously. They didn't feel safe around him, and they wouldn't look him in the eye. A brave medic had stepped forward and cleaned him up (so he wouldn't get all that semen in his eye, poor thing, he kept blinking) before long, but countless bandages could for some reason never cover countless bruises.

He seemed perfectly fine where he lay, on the dusty cement, but he also seemed fine in the helicopter, and then the car, and the hospital bed. He never flinched, never moved, and had even stopped blinking, until the day the interrogators came.

They asked him what he wanted, and he shook his head.

"Na..tash. A."

"Natasha?" They smiled. "Natasha who?"

He shook his head.

And Natalia Alianova Romanova, where she lay in her cold bed, spared a thought to him.

Chapter Text

"I still don't like you."

"That's okay."

Pete glares at him. He doesn't like him at all, even though he's done lots of things for Pete. Even though he got him out of that goddamn locker, and helped him wipe up the miserable spot of coffee he spilled on Gerard's carpet.

The bonfire crackles merrily - well, as merrily as a bonfire can crackle when Pete Wentz is glaring daggers at his boyfriend's best friend. And Gerard's boyfriend. Frank seems to be everyone's 'friend', no matter what type of friend.

Spare him from the countless sighs and swoons his sister always gives when they're talking about him. How exactly they end up on that topic, Pete doesn't know. "He's wonderful," she'll say. "Sometimes I'm tempted to push Gerard off a cliff just to sneak a kiss. I wouldn't, of course, but-" And, yeah, his sister's a bit of a stalker.

But no matter how wonderful and gentlemanly Iero might be, there's no way Pete's falling for it. It doesn't matter that he smiles at him in the corridors, and always offers to wash the dishes when he and Gee crashes at theirs. It doesn't matter at all, actually, 'cause Pete isn't going to fall for it.

Definitely not.

Which is, of course, why he's sitting in the 'haunted' cave with Frank Iero and a bonfire at 2AM. It isn't why he brought marshmallows - he was hungry - or why he offered to bring some foldable chairs. Just because Iero is, say, attractive - still an asshole, mind you, just an attractive asshole - doesn't mean he loves Mikey any less, and it certainly doesn't mean he's cheating on him.

Pete's thought it through a couple times, but there's nothing that implies that this might be romantic or sexual in any way. Well, aside from the fact that they're camping together in the woods in the middle of the night, since it seems they're both insomniacs or something.

There's also the fact that Iero's dating Mike's brother, which is just - yeah, no.

With Mike and Gee both out of town, he didn't have anything else to do, so why not? Yeah, Pete, why not go out into the woods alone with some guy you barely know, and might be a serial killer?

Even if he's dating your boyfriend's brother, he might be Hannibal's illegitimate love child. From a corpse. And while you're at it, bring him marshmallows, so that he'll have a dessert after brutally ripping into your rapidly cooling body.

Suffice to say, Pete's a bit paranoid.

But really, could you blame him? His phone's out of battery, and they're at least a couple kilometers away from anyone else. Though Iero seems to be the kind of serial killer that's kind enough to let you borrow his phone before he stabs you to death, that's how nice he is.

It almost seems unreal, how he's always got this giant grin plastered on his face. It crashes horribly with the darkness of what he's wearing. The darkness which had been blending in with the barely-lit cave wall behind him. Pete felt it necessary to remind him that they were not doing anything romantic, or anything that was at all platonic.

They were just your average emo guys, sitting around a bonfire awkwardly.

But even after his prickly comment, he just smiles serenely, nodding a bit. Pete wants to slap him. Is he some sort of angel or something? Sure, he knows about the whole Catholic-school thing he'd got going on, but this seems a bit much.

There's only so much a sane guy can take, right?

"Not at all, actually," Pete starts flippantly, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "So you can stop trying to act all angelic and stuff." Oh, God, what was he even saying? Iero leans his chin on his hand, and slowly says something that's probably a lot more processed than what Pete just slung out.

"I don't quite kno-" Pete snorts, and interrupts him. "What, like you never jack off?"


There's a silence in which they both agree with the first word, and ponder frantically over the others. Frank's smile is kinda frozen on his face now, stiff and unyielding. Pete swoops down to take a sip of his bright red soda so he doesn't have to look at his face.

It's amazing, actually, how long the silence lasts. It's completely silent for a good thirty seconds before Frank's mouth quirks into a weird smile, and he drawls out something to save Pete from melting into a hot puddle of embarrassment. Well, if it can be called saving.

"You know I fuck Gerard into the mattress at least once a week, right?"

Pete's shirt will never be the same color.

Chapter Text

There's a reason he likes the boys best.

Women - or girls, perhaps - are all gentle curves and soft mounds. You treat them with care, and with a little luck, you get a couple gasps out of them. They take time, and concentration. Thigh gaps, as they seem to be called now, are turning trendier, as well. Most heavy tits are pumped to the brim with silicone, and their waists are obsessively small. Even a paedophile like him thinks they're beginning to look too adolescent. It's confusing and grotesque.

One of Peter's boys, though -- they're something entirely different.

With his boys you can get as rough as can like after you've stretched him, just pounding into him six ways to Sunday. There are no breathy cute gasps, but rather harsh groans and guttural gasps. With a bitch you have to hit a combo or something, while here- here you can just focus on one spot.

You're free to pound into him and watch him unravel under your cock, looking frightened and aroused all at once. There's no plushy, warm cunt, just a tight opening and a slick hole. Unlimited access, too, if you're a bit on the long side. There're no fakers, just slim boys with freckles and honey-gold eyes.

Well, he says boys, when in reality there's only one boy. Sweet little Genim, who doles out little breathless shrieks when you pinch his tits, and spreads his legs trustingly if he knows you'll stretch him. He spreads himself open for you all the while, letting you take your time, and you're more than welcome to suck a hickey over one of his moles -- which there are thousands of, don't worry.

His hands fly haltingly up to his mouth if the climax hits him hard enough, and his fingers smear and stick to his lipgloss. He looks like he's in a trance, with his eyes out of focus and his mouth hanging open. And if you press down on his tummy while you're pounding in -- oh, what a treasure.

His head whips back, showing off his long, pale neck, and his knuckles turn white with how hard he's clenching the sheets. A high-pitched whine, sounding like he's trying to go louder but simply can't -- it's great, everything you could wish for. His knees snap together, and his back arches off wherever he was slouched.

Don't even get Peter started on spanking him -- that's another matter entirely. His fat cheeks turn so red you can barely see the light freckles, and salty droplets run down his cheeks, progressively faster the more you spank him. Eventually he's just clinging on, letting out a few broken moans every now and then.

After that you can either soak him in the bath a bit - he leans back on you trustingly, sneaking his hand down to- - or bring him straight to bed, where he'll cuddle up to you and let you do whatever you want. Of course, it's not like he has much of a choice, but he doesn't protest or react in any way if you just so happen to slip one hand down to fondle his cheeks a bit.

They're soft and smooth, and the only difference between playtime and bedtime is that he's quieter. You can make it a game, if you'd like. Whisper in your sweetheart's ear that Daddy wants him to keep quiet, and maybe line him up for some slow strokes of fucking. He'll steady himself with one of his feminine hands against your side, holding himself grounded and silent with the feeling of your muscles rippling under skin as you fuck him hot and tight.

And, in the end, you'll fall asleep. Half-heartedly cleaned his tears and your cum with some tissues from the bedside drawer, and thrown the comforter over you. You're the big spoon, and he curls up in an adorable little ball. Sometimes he cries, sometimes he doesn't. Nevertheless, he's always completely silent, and the only sign that he's sobbing his heart out is the spasms of his waist underneath your grip.

And sometimes you'll yell at him him when morning comes, or hit him a bit. Sometimes you'll be absolutely silent, depriving him of the only contact keeping him a somewhat sane pet. He'll beg, and he'll cry, and you'll forgive him. And eventually you'll bring him to bed again, and the cycle starts all over again, with minor differences.

And that - his sweet little Genim and all his different shades - is why he loves his boys the most.

Chapter Text

They brought another one in from the Wastes yesterday.

He came in coughing and retching, holding his hand in front of his eyes. Whether it was because of the hospital lights or the Wastesand, I'm not sure. All I knows is he arrived last week, but was only processed now, and needs intense medical care.

He resists it. The Wastesand has taken his mind, and his organs with it. His eyes are ruined, and he's covered in first-degree burns. The sun burns hot, they say, bakes the poor people. I think that's what happened - the sun baked his brain to mush in the dish that was his skull, and what we're seeing now is a result of prolonged heatstroke and dehydration.

I'm glad he was assigned to me, though. For starters, it means they trust me more now that I've finished Course 16 of my studies, enough to give me my very own patient. Well - I'm supervised by one of the Third Star emissaries, and Lin helps me out every so often. But I'm mostly alone. I also have Greg, a psychologist, as is standard for all patients that have been rescued from the Wastes. They have had, and will have, hour-long appointments every TU13 and TH14.

After hours, Greg often comes up to me and tells me Gerard isn't doing well. That's his name, by the way. It's the most improper name I've heard here, but we didn't have anything else on record (or anything at all), so that's his official name, now. But anyway - Greg says he's not well, that he cries all the time and that he misses the people he knew in the waste.

That last one confuses me the most. Why would he miss anyone from the Wastes? Everyone out there is corrupted by the sun and sand, and live on filtered urine that kills their kidneys anyway. I can't imagine why he'd want to go back there.

He's also a threat to himself. I left his room briefly to restock his prescriptions, and when I came back, he'd smashed a vase and was frantically digging around for something in the shards. He cut his hand up horribly. I had to stitch some of the deeper cuts, and when I asked him what he was looking for he wouldn't answer me. I can't imagine what he thought he'd find in a vase filled with plastic flowers.

He also tried to asphyxiate himself, I think. We're not really clear on what happened, since there was no one in his room at the time, but he seems to have tied several cloths together and made a simple U-shaped "rope" hanging from the vents and such things.

We found him dangling soon after, as the alarm for a broken gas pipe had gone in his room. Officials had to come haul him down and transport him to the Emergency Ward. Emissaries from the eastern Points watched as they rushed him through the door, and I can't imagine they're very pleased with us. They spent so much electricity on the defibrillators for him.

How have you been? I heard Sill was expecting, but not how far along she is. Is the baby going to be born soon? Have you chosen a name for them? Something shorter than Sill, hopefully, and not so bothersome to write! Both her and Greg are very unlucky - I can't imagine having such a long name! My hand aches just thinking about writing their names out. I hope the new arrival has a nice, short name, like the one you gifted me. (Thank you for that, by the way. One of my colleagues is named Founts - Founts. I gag.)

Write quickly, please, for I am excitedly awaiting your reply.

Your son, Da

Chapter Text

It started on a Thursday, when Jamia sent him a picture with the caption jesus christ my hand is down my pants already. The attached image was one of those random things Frank had no idea how she found, like bees loosening screws and world record orgies, only this time it was a apparently of a model, taken with an actual quality camera.

Even Frank could tell it was probably taken by a professional. A couple touches here and there, artistic choices that made the picture worth taking. Nothing fancy he could see, just a black-and-white filter, but as Frank inevitably stared at it, he started noticing more things.

The way the bed was impeccably made behind them, indicating this was before the implied taking. A trench coat and a pair of shoes, on a chair and half-hidden behind the bed respectively. They weren't theirs - from what Frank could see at the bottom of the picture, the model's feet were wrapped up in high heels and, uh.

His eyes were easily caught on the model's face - surprisingly, considering the circumstances, - which could be described as innocent, just not with him wearing that. In context it was coy, daring,

Lace lingerie and non-stuffed bra and, yeah, that was kinda weird. Frank wasn't really into all that genderbend-y stuff, but.

He couldn't tell what shade his nipples were through the filter, but there they were, peeking out from the rim of the frilly bralette (which was made of lace and two pieces of string - clearly it was meant for décor rather than function).

Chapter Text

It's the 21st of December, and Gerard's not thinking about anything.

He hasn't gotten laid in months.

Sure, sure, his right hand is nice and all, very firm, but a helping hand would be better. Even just a cuddle, or a spooning session is sorely missed, and Gerard looks down at his work and is not very productive and thinks about nothing.

There's a crash from his bedroom. He gets up with a groan and goes to check what awaits him there. Adventure! Who doesn't want to hang up the same framed Akira poster that won't stay up on his damn wall five times a day?

He enters the bedroom.

Frank's in there, not for the first time, but he's bleeding and sobbing and lying naked on the floor covered only by two massive wings that jut out from his shoulder blades, and at least one of those things have got to be new.

He's covered, actually, head to toe dressed in scarlet, and he looks up at Gerard pleadingly. His arm is raised vaguely in front of his chest, and it lingers there, like he wants to but doesn't feel safe enough to put it down, and something there breaks Gerard's heart.

It's the sight of blood dripping from Frank's lady of sorrows that finally spurs him into action. He's gonna walk over to the cabinet in the bathroom, get - bandages? what?? - , wrap Frank back up nicely and pretend he never opened his gift before Christmas.

Except when he takes a step into the room, Frank's entire being jerks, wings and all, and Gerard pauses. Frank looks terrified, his left arm hovering over his face where he raised it in defense. And when Gerard tries to think of why, why Frank's so afraid, what Gerard did to him the last time they saw each other, he finds he can't remember anything at all.